Jigsaw (3 page)

‘How did you get on at the library?' he asked Rona, who was leaning against a counter watching him as she sipped her customary vodka.

‘I unearthed some nuggets that might be worth following up. One thing I'd like to look at while we're there is the parish church; some Royalists barricaded themselves in it during the Civil War.'

‘Have you decided how you'll plan the series?'

‘A few ideas. Nothing more.' She watched him slurp a generous amount of wine into the sauce.

‘Pity it's not Marsborough celebrating its eight-hundredth. You'll be wearing a track up and down, and it must be a good two and a half hours' drive.'

‘I've been thinking about that,' she admitted. ‘I think I'll spend a couple of nights a week there, at least in the early stages.'

He turned to look at her, wooden spoon in hand. ‘Planning to desert me, are you?'

‘Not at all; you spend Monday and Tuesday nights at Farthings, and I'll be home on Wednesday. You won't notice the difference, and it would only be for about four weeks, while I do the initial research. After that, the odd day-trip should suffice.'

He grunted, turning back to the cooker. ‘Have you booked us in anywhere for tomorrow?'

‘Yes, the Tavistock, right in the centre of town.'

‘Hope it's not too noisy.'

She laughed. ‘Don't be such an old fuddy-duddy. It's only for one night.'

‘Is that where you'll base yourself?'

‘At that price? Hardly; I'll find a B&B.' She sniffed appreciatively. ‘That smells good.'

‘It will be,' he said complacently. ‘Now make yourself useful and lay the table. It's nearly ready.'

‘Yes, Chef.' She reached up and kissed the back of his neck.

‘And don't interfere with the cook, or he won't be responsible for the consequences.'

‘Promises, promises!' she said, and went to do as he asked.

F
or the last few weeks, since she'd been feeling unwell, the events of a few years ago had been preying on her mind, and, for the first time, Edna Rosebury began to question whether she'd been right to keep silent.

At the time, it had seemed that passing on what she'd seen would simply have caused trouble and benefited no one. What was done was done, and nothing she could have said would have changed anything. But the niggling doubts that she'd suppressed were now resurfacing to torment her.

With both hands on the arms of her chair, she eased herself upright and stood for a moment, stretching her back. It did her no good to sit still for too long; her old joints seized up and made walking painful. And if she couldn't walk, she reflected, life wouldn't be worth living. It had been one of her passions all her life, and with her great friend Maisie she had over the years covered most of the county, its hills, its moorlands and its valleys. But Maisie had been dead these ten years or more. Now, most of her walking was done late at night, when there was no one around to approach her, to ask if she was all right and if she'd like them to see her home.

She loved the old town when it was sleeping, when the only movement apart from her own was the sleek shadow of a cat on its nightly prowl, the only sound the occasional hoot of an owl from the trees in the churchyard. Sometimes, in the warm summer nights, she'd come upon a couple of young lovers huddled in a doorway, oblivious of her presence, and would be touched by a fleeting sadness. True, she had never known a man's love, but her life had been filled with children, generation after generation of them, whom she had taught at Sunday School and who, for the most part, had kept in touch and later sent their own children into her care.

And it was, of course, on one of these nightly rambles that she had seen . . . She clamped her mind shut on the unwelcome memory. Had Maisie still been around at the time, she would have had someone with whom to discuss it, and together they might have reached a different decision. But it was too late to worry about that.

The stiffness having eased, she made her way across the room and, supporting herself on the sill, stood at her window looking out across the square. With the church, the post office and the pub, it was the heart of the old town, virtually untouched by the modernity that intruded on the outskirts, and the view from this house where she'd been born hadn't changed over the years. The pub sign, with its familiar face, long dark hair and goatee beard, had been her weather guide for over sixty years, since she could gauge by the angle of its swing the direction and strength of the wind. Glancing at it now, she wondered, as she often did, if anyone else appreciated the poignancy of its name – the King's Head – when, over four hundred years ago, the king depicted on the sign had lost his.

As she watched, Gordon Breen emerged from his front door, crossed his garden to the gate in the fence, and let himself into the churchyard. She glanced at her watch. Just after eleven. Nuala would have finished cleaning by now, and would shortly be coming across to check on her. She was a good girl and Edna was fond of her, but she did so wish she wouldn't fuss.

She was turning from the window when a couple on the pavement outside caught her eye, bent over a map of some sort while their dog sniffed interestedly at a lamp post. Tourists, no doubt. She moved aside as the woman glanced in her direction, unwilling to be caught studying them, and after a moment they crossed the road and went through the gateway into the church grounds. They were in luck; Gordon was always ready to answer questions about his beloved church and its history.

Smiling to herself, Edna returned to her chair and prepared to await her niece's arrival.

‘How old do you think it is?' Rona asked, as they walked up the long, curved path to the church.

Max shrugged. ‘Eight hundred years, if the town's anything to go by, though some parts will be older than others.'

‘Amazing to think it's stood here, virtually unscathed, throughout wars, famines and pestilence.'

‘Pestilence?' Max repeated with a laugh. ‘Where did you dig that up?'

‘Plague, then.'

‘Whatever, but I bet you we'll find that it's locked.'

They crossed the tiled porch and Rona lifted the latch on the heavy oak door, which swung inwards.

‘I should have taken you up on that,' she told him.

An odour redolent of churches everywhere met their nostrils, compounded of polish and musty old hymn books and strongly scented flowers. Sunshine was streaming through stained-glass windows and lying in pools of crimson and blue on the black and white tiled floor. Rona stared about her at the arched ceiling, the glowing wood of ancient pews, the brilliant colours of the glass.

‘It's beautiful!' she murmured, awestruck, and turned quickly as a voice behind her answered, ‘Thank you!'

A grey-haired man in sports jacket and flannels, wearing a dog collar, came forward with a smile, his hand held out. ‘Always good to hear unsolicited praise,' he said. ‘You're most welcome to St Giles's. I'm Gordon Breen, the vicar. Do feel free to look round.'

‘Is it all right to bring the dog in?' Rona asked tentatively.

‘Of course. Hello, old fellow.' The vicar bent to pat Gus, who waved his tail ingratiatingly.

‘We were wondering how old the church is,' Max said.

‘The first building on the site was wooden, and burned down in the fourteenth century. They lost no time in starting on this one, though not everything you see is that old, by any means. There've been various alterations over the years, some more sympathetic than others.' He nodded towards a table laden with pamphlets. ‘There's a booklet over there, if you're interested.'

‘Didn't Royalist soldiers take refuge here during the Civil War?'

‘They did. We have one of Cromwell's cannon balls in the vestry, if you'd like to take a look at it.'

‘Thank you, we should. I'm Rona Parish, by the way, and this is my husband. The reason we're here is that I'm planning to write a series of articles on Buckford, to coincide with next year's anniversary. I hope you'll let me interview you at some stage on parts of the church's history that aren't in the guide book – scandal among the clergy, and so on?'

He laughed. ‘Plenty of scope there! Seriously, though, you'll have stiff competition. I've already been approached more than once.'

‘I'm sure, but I want to concentrate on unusual or little-known facts. Each article will have a different theme – the town itself, then its churches, schools, and so on.' She smiled. ‘You haven't such a thing as a Fount of All Knowledge, have you? Someone who knows all there is to know about the place, and would be willing to talk to me?'

‘Oh, we've several of those. Old Miss Rosebury, across the square, has lived here all her life. I'm sure she'd be delighted to have a new audience for her stories. As to the schools, Catherine Bishop would have been your best bet, but she retired and moved away. She was head teacher of the local primary, which, under one guise or another, dates back several centuries. She actually compiled an archive on it – a kind of scrapbook crammed with all kinds of weird and wonderful facts. It was such a success, she was asked to do one for the grammar school and the college as well.'

‘She sounds ideal. Have you any idea where she went?'

‘All I remember is that her mother was an invalid and Catherine left to look after her. I could probably find out her address.'

‘If you could, it would be fantastic. I wonder – but we've already taken up enough of your time. I'm sure you have things to do.'

‘As it happens, Saturday's my day off. I only came in to see if our cleaner had finished.'

‘Then we're imposing on your free day,' Max apologized.

‘Not at all. If I can help in any way, I'll be delighted.' He turned back to Rona. ‘You were going to ask something?'

‘It's just that we live in Marsborough, which is rather a long way to commute. It seems more sensible to stay up here for a couple of nights a week, just while I'm gathering material, and I wondered if you could recommend any where?'

‘Oh dear, I'm afraid I don't—' He broke off, frowning and rubbing his chin. ‘On second thoughts, though, perhaps I could, though I'd have to check first. How long are you here?'

‘We're staying overnight at the Tavistock and driving back tomorrow.'

‘Oh, I should be able to let you know by lunchtime. I'll leave a message if you're not there.'

‘Thank you, that's very kind.'

‘Actually, if it comes off, it might benefit others as well. Now, if you'll excuse me I should be getting back; my wife wants me to look at some new curtains for my study, though I'm not convinced I need them. Stay as long as you like,' he added. ‘We usually have church welcomers on hand, but Mr Talbot, whose shift this is, is on holiday. I look forward to meeting you again, Mrs Parish.'

He shook hands with them both, and left them to their wandering.

‘You'll have to disabuse him of that,' Max commented drily. ‘Ms Parish or Mrs Allerdyce, he can take his pick.'

‘I hadn't thought of that; the hotel won't know who he means.'

Max laughed. ‘They'll look at us in a new light. In the meantime, I suggest we move on. Our time is limited and you want a look at the school, don't you? You'll have plenty of time to prowl round here later.'

‘He might expect us at tomorrow's service,' Rona said tentatively.

‘No harm in expecting,' Max returned, and held the door open for her.

Buckford College was one of the oldest schools in the country, and renowned worldwide. It was situated a couple of miles north-west of the town, in grounds of several acres that prevented much of the building being seen from the road. In the distance, a game of cricket was in progress.

‘No question of just wandering in there,' Max commented. ‘Very definitely by appointment only, I'd say. So where next?'

‘Let's go back to the hotel, leave the car, and forewarn the receptionist about the vicar phoning. Then we can mooch around till lunchtime. Gus could do with a walk, and I'd like to explore some of those old courtyards and alleyways. I bet they all have a tale to tell.'

In fact, by the time they'd found a slot in the hotel car park and reached the reception desk, Rona was just in time to take the call herself. As she crossed the foyer, she heard the girl say, ‘Parish? I don't think—' and hurried forward with a vaguely explanatory smile to take the phone from her.

‘Mrs Parish? Gordon Breen here. I'm glad I caught you; I've spoken to the young woman concerned, and she'll be happy to talk to you about the possibility of letting her spare room. Her name is Mrs Nuala Banks, and the address is Two Parsonage Place. If you've a pen handy, I'll give you her phone number.'

Rona fumbled in her bag and wrote it down. ‘Thanks so much, Mr Breen, it really is most kind of you.'

‘Well, as I said, it might work to everyone's advantage. I hope you'll find it suitable. Oh, and before I forget, my wife tells me Catherine Bishop moved to Marsborough. Isn't that where you live?'

‘It is indeed. How very convenient!'

‘I hope you manage to track her down. And let me know when you'd like to interview me; I'm usually around.'

Rona guided Max outside again, taking out her mobile as she went. ‘A Mrs Nuala Banks. I'll ring her now, and perhaps we can go round straight away.'

‘Never one for letting the grass grow, are you?' Max said resignedly.

Nuala Banks agreed to the suggestion and gave directions to the house, a five-minute walk from the hotel. As they'd guessed from its name, Parsonage Place lay behind the church, approached via a footpath that ran between it and the pub.

‘Very handy,' Max commented, as they picked their way over the uneven cobbles, ‘but I trust there's another entry for motor vehicles. I don't want you parking in some multi-storey and having to walk down here at night.'