Faithful unto Death

Chapter One

Simone Hollingsworth disappeared on Thursday, June 6. You could have said she had a wonderful day for it. A warm breeze was circulating beneath a sky so clear and bright it was almost colourless. The hedges were thick with blossom and in the fields rabbits and hares were larking about from sheer joie de vivre, as is the way of very young creatures who have not yet twigged what the world has in for them.

The first sign in St. Chad’s Lane that all was not quite as it should be was observed by Mrs. Molfrey, tottering past the house next door on her way to post a letter. Sarah Lawson was struggling to open the Hollingsworths’ gate inwards with her foot while holding in her arms a large cardboard box.

“Let me help you,” said Mrs. Molfrey.

“I can manage if you could keep this open.”

“It looks jolly heavy,” said Mrs. Molfrey, referring to the box. She eased back the wrought and gilded iron. “What on earth’s in it?”

“Some Kilner jars for my stall at the fete.”

They walked along the lane, Sarah courteously moving at a quarter of her usual pace, for Mrs. Molfrey was very old. The clock on the flint and stone church tower struck three.

“Simone invited me for tea as well but she seems to have gone out. I found these on the patio steps.”

“How odd. That’s not like her at all.”

“Can’t say I’m sorry.” Sarah hefted the box up in her arms with a groan. “Once you’re in there it’s goodbye to the next hour at least.”

“I expect the poor girl’s lonely.”

“Whose fault’s that?”

They paused outside Bay Tree Cottage where Sarah lived. Here there was no need for Mrs. Molfrey to do the honours, for the gate was permanently hanging off its hinges. This slovenly departure from the approved norm was accepted with a resigned shrug by the village. Sarah was known to be artistic so naturally allowances had to be made.

“Simone can’t have gone far without wheels. And she’s bound to be back soon. It’s bell-ringing practice at five.”

“Oh, that’s the latest thing, is it?” Sarah laughed. “I suppose there’s nothing else left.”

“Did she stick at your course?”

“No.” Sarah put the box down and produced a key from her skirt pocket. “Came for a few weeks then lost interest.”

Mrs. Molfrey posted her letter and turned homewards, silently reflecting that, as far as Simone was concerned, there was indeed not much left for her to play with.

The Hollingsworths had moved into Nightingales just over a year ago. Unlike most newcomers who were invariably anxious to understand, appreciate and embrace every aspect of village life before the removal vans were out of sight, Alan Hollingsworth had never shown the slightest interest in either the place or the people. He could be glimpsed only when climbing into his black and silver Audi convertible, waving goodbye to his wife and crunching off down the drive. Or, long hours later—for he had his own business and worked extremely hard—driving smoothly back up again and kissing her hullo.

Simone always appeared in the doorway the moment the car door slammed as if she had been poised in some concealed lookout, determined that the man of the house should not go unwelcomed or unreceived for a single second. When kissed, she would stand on tiptoe with one leg flicked up behind her like an actress in a forties movie.

Unlike her husband, Mrs. Hollingsworth, having time on her hands, had made an effort to become involved in local activities. It had to be acknowledged that these were pretty limited. There was the Women’s Institute, the Embroidery Group, the Bowls Club, a Homemade Wine Circle and, for the truly desperate, the Parish Council. The vicar’s wife chaired that.

Mrs. Hollingsworth had gone along to the Institute on a couple of occasions and had sat through a talk on corn dollies and an illustrated lecture on the botanic discoveries of John Tradescant. She had applauded the winner of the most interesting apron competition and enjoyed a slice of Madeira cake. Asked several mildly probing questions about her past and present circumstances, she had replied with a sort of willing vagueness that managed to be both unsatisfactory and unobjectionable. At the third meeting (Intrigue Your Friends With A Tudor Posset) she was seen to sigh a little and was, regretfully, unable to stay for tea and a lemon curd butterfly.

Bowls came next. Colonel Wymmes-Forsyth, the club secretary, watched, goggle-eyed and half fainting with horror, as her four-inch heels, narrow as wine glass stems, stabbed and mangled their way across his exquisitely striped green. She was dissuaded without too much difficulty (everyone was so ancient) from joining.

The wine circle and parish meetings, which took place in the evenings, knew her not. Neither did the embroiderers’ group although Cubby Dawlish put a delightfully illustrated little notice as to their times of meeting through Nightingales’ letter box.

It was thought that either shyness or a sense of decorum led her to ignore the simplest and most pleasurable way of getting to know people, that is, a visit to the Goat and Whistle. Most new immigrants were in there at the drop of an optic. They asked for a pint of the landlord’s best then, foot on the bar rail, would hesitantly broach a subject or drop an agreeable remark into an already established conversation, trying to make friends.

Invariably warmly welcomed, they would return home confirmed in the belief that it was only in the country that people really had time for you. Most remained happily unaware that it was merely the stultifying boredom of seeing the same old faces day in day out that promoted such keen interest. They did not even notice when they, in their turn, became stultifyingly bored.

Bell-ringing, as has already been mentioned, was Mrs. Hollingsworth’s latest humour. To date she had attended half a dozen sessions without apparently exhausting her interest. But she was not always prompt and so, when she hadn’t arrived at half past five, no one was either surprised or concerned.

The vicar, the Reverend Bream, listened with half an ear for her approach whilst tidying a pile of church guides desktop published by his wife. Priced modestly at fifty pence, they were very popular with visitors, at least half of whom put something, if rarely the full amount, in the box.

Mrs. Molfrey wandered in, apologising for her lateness and doing a quick head count.

“She’s not come back then, Simone?” After she had explained the background to this remark, the vicar decided to wait no further and they all hove to.

The practice was for a funeral the following day. Usually requiring nothing more than a somnolent ongoing toll, the bereaved on this occasion had requested a rendering of Oranges and Lemons, a childhood favourite of the dear departed. It was not a peal with which the Fawcett Green campanologists were familiar. But the vicar, who knew it well, had written it out on cards. This was their third run through. Substituting now for their absent colleague, the Reverend Bream swung rhythmically. Arms stretched, he took deep regular breaths, while the heels of his elastic-sided black boots rose and fell and the coarse red, white and blue hemp slipped through his fingers.

Next to him little Mrs. Molfrey shot up into the air, her ringlets flying and unlaced tennis shoes hanging off her feet before descending gravely to the worn flagstones. The team rang for half an hour then, as was usual, repaired to the vestry for refreshments.

Avis Jennings, the doctor’s wife, put the kettle on an old electric boiling ring. The vicar broke the seal on a pack of arrowroot biscuits. No one liked these much but Mrs. Bream insisted on supplying them, having read somewhere that arrowroot was not only nutritious but calming to the nerves.

Just before Christmas, Avis had introduced a box of homemade hazelnut clusters. Someone, no doubt over-stimulated by excess protein, had let this slip. A definite coldness emanated from the vicarage and, as a result, Avis Jennings was left off the church flower rota for three months.

Mugs of well-sugared tea were now handed out. Everyone sat, in varying degrees of comfort, among coils of chicken wire and green Oasis, choirboys’ surplices, the Sunday School’s paints and brushes, Bible storybooks and towering piles of dusty hymnals.

The vicar took a sip of tea, far too strong for his liking, and turned the conversation once more to Mrs. Hollingswofth’s absence.

“Have you seen her at all today, Elfrida?”

“No, I haven’t,” said Mrs. Molfrey in a squeezed-up voice for she was bending over threading some tape through the eyelet of her plimsolls.

“What about you, dear heart?”

Cubby Dawlish turned very pink and tugged at his brief white beard, more of a sparkly frill really, which ran neatly from one earlobe to the other. Then he cleared his throat shyly before also admitting ignorance of Mrs. Hollingsworth’s whereabouts. “But I don’t think she could have gone far. I’m sure I would have noticed if Charlie’s taxi had turned up. I’ve been outside nearly all day.”

Cubby also lived next door to Alan and Simone Hollingsworth in a grace and favour residence placed discreetly among the fruit trees in Mrs. Molfrey’s orchard. In lieu of rent and in gratitude for her kindness, he spent a great deal of time working in the garden.

“I’m not sure,” began the vicar, urging his plate of pallid soporifics to little effect, “if there’s a lot of point in her coming tomorrow. She’s not really familiar with the peal and we don’t want anyone dropping a clanger.”

Mrs. Molfrey gave a whoop of pleasure at this felicity, slapping her thin haunches and releasing puffs of dust from her rusty chenille skirt.

“Especially,” added the Reverend Bream sternly, “at a funeral.”

It took a lot more than this to subdue Mrs. Molfrey who chortled again and nudged Cubby so hard he almost overbalanced. Reaching out to save himself, he knocked over a watering can and blushed even more deeply than before.

“I’ll call round after I’ve locked up,” said the Reverend Bream. “If she hasn’t returned, no doubt Alan will have some sort of explanation.”

“I wouldn’t trouble,” said Avis Jennings. “He’s a workaholic. Never back before eight, Simone said. And that’s early.”

“It’s no trouble,” said the vicar. “I have to call on old Mrs. Carter and they’re practically on the way.”

Nightingales was one of three houses set a little way back from St. Chad’s Lane, in an area not quite large or clearly defined enough for the post office to designate it a close. On the left of the Hollingsworths’ was a 1930s pebble dash, complete with glass door panels in harsh, fruit-gum colours. Patchily stained bits of wood had been fixed to the walls in an alternating series of Y shapes and inverted chevrons. These were, in the opinion of Avis Jennings who came from the North, neither use nor ornament. A polished wooden shingle read “The Larches” though not a single arboreal specimen supported the bold claim.

On the other side of Nightingales were Mrs. Molfrey’s twin cottages discreetly transformed into one. Only thirty years older than the hideous mock Tudor, Arcadia exuded a stable and serene charm. The gardens were exuberant, fruitful and very lovely.

The Hollingsworths’ residence was totally out of place in this small enclosure. “A Desirable Executive Country Dwelling” according to the pre-sale literature, it had been built in 1989 by an enterprising money man with a nose for a snip. He had bought the row of three decrepit workman’s hovels previously standing there, demolished them and erected the type of building usually only seen fraternising with a group of select fellows on camera-ridden, landscaped grounds behind fully charged high-wire fences.

The village had protested fiercely once the scale and pomposity of the entrepreneur’s vision was revealed but to no effect. Bribery in the planning offices was suspected.

Alan’s car was parked a few feet from the double garage. The gravel was all swirly and churned about as if he had driven up to the house in a great hurry, skidded and slammed on the brakes. The gates were wide open. Walking up to the front door, the vicar lifted the tail of a brass mermaid and rapped firmly several times.

No one came. The Reverend Bream hesitated, wondering what to do next. He waited, enjoying the scent from clusters of white nicotiana flowering in fat Italian pots. Then he rapped again.

Afterwards the vicar was to say that he sensed, even at that early stage, that there was something very wrong. But the truth was, within seconds he had got bored and would have simply given up had it not been for the car, so plainly visible a few feet away.

As the unexpected silence continued, curiosity overcame him. Not thinking for a moment how such behaviour might strike the casual passer-by—he had never known embarrassment in his life—the vicar crossed over to the sitting-room windows and, cupping his hands against the early evening sunlight, peered in.

A lush room. Peach walls and hangings, clotted cream carpet, pretty puffed-up silk sofas and armchairs. Gilt and ormolu and crystal. Masses of flowers and several table lamps, none of which were switched on. No human life at all.

A creaking sound some short distance away caught his attention. The door of a shed was being closed in the garden of The Larches. Discreet footsteps tiptoed away. The Reverend Bream guessed it to be the master of the house. Like everyone else, he was familiar with the Brockleys’ sly, concealing ways. Not for them the frank enjoyment of a bit of a gossip in the village shop or a good stare over the fence. Whilst being passionately interested in everyone else’s business, they presented a united front of absolute indifference. Metaphorically they would cover their eyes and ears and mouths in self-righteous repulsion should even the merest morsel of titillation drift their way. Mrs. Bream said they reminded her of the three wise monkeys. She could be very unChristian at times.

Naughtily, the vicar called out, “Good evening, Mr. Brockley!” Then, as the footsteps hastened away, he went back to the mermaid and knocked again.

Inside the house, to be precise in the kitchen doorway, the quarry stood, motionless, head resting on the painted white wooden frame. On the point of entering the hall when his visitor first knocked, Alan Hollingsworth had frozen on the spot, staring at the panel of thick, wavily patterned glass through which the vicar’s distorted figure could be seen but not recognised.

Alan closed his eyes and moaned silently. The seconds passed, marked by the soft whirring of a grandmother clock in the dining room and the strained beating of his heart. He cursed himself for not putting the car away. Weeks—no, years passed. Whoever it was still stood there.

The ridiculousness of his position and the impossibility of maintaining it indefinitely filled him with humiliation and distress. He knew that, even if whoever it was out there gave up, someone else would sooner or later take their place. Villages were like that. People were always calling round collecting or stuffing leaflets through the letter box or asking you to sign petitions. Even though he had remained pointedly uninvolved in the day-to-day life of Fawcett Green, no one escaped entirely. Eventually neighbours, receiving neither sight nor sound of the inhabitants of Nightingales, would start to wonder if they were still in situ. If they were “all right.” Someone might even call the police. A cold sweat broke over Alan’s face and vile-tasting liquid surged into his throat.

The tapping started again.

Telling himself that the first time would be the worst and the quicker he got it over the better, he turned his head and called, “Coming.”

The vicar fixed an expression of concern to his face. An expression he had no trouble whatsoever maintaining when the door was finally opened, for Hollingsworth looked quite dreadful. His face was pale, the skin sheened with moisture as if he had just completed a vigorous workout. His eyes stared wildly and he was frowning; struggling to remember where he had seen the man facing him before. His tangled hair stood on end as if he had been tugging at it. When he spoke his voice was loud and he seemed to have trouble breathing normally. This resulted in his sentences being oddly punctuated.

“Ah Vicar it’s. You.”

Agreeing politely that it was indeed him, the Reverend Bream took Hollingsworth’s involuntary step backwards as an invitation to enter and was on the hall carpet in a twinkling. He asked if all was well.

“We were a little worried when Simone didn’t come to practice,” he elaborated. “And I’m really calling to tell her not to bother about the funeral tomorrow.”

“Funeral?”

“Two o’clock.” The vicar became increasingly concerned. The man looked almost demented. “Are you quite well, Mr. Hollingsworth? You look as if you’ve had rather a shock.”

“No, no. Everything’s.” The rest of the sentence seemed either to escape or defeat him. He glanced aside, rather longingly, it seemed to the vicar, at the now wide open front door. But the Reverend Bream, faced with an obviously deeply distressed parishioner, was nothing if not aware of his duty.

“May I?” he inquired and, without waiting for a reply, sailed into the Viennese pastry of a living room. He lowered his ample rear on to a heap of heart-shaped satin cushions, slid off and replaced himself more securely. He then turned a determinedly benign smile on Hollingsworth who had reluctantly followed him in.

“Now, Alan,” said the vicar, “if I may call you that?” His kindly glance was momentarily distracted by the sight of a splendid silver tray holding two cut-glass decanters and several bottles including a Jack Daniels, nearly full, and a Bushmills, half empty. There was no way, on his stipend, the vicar could afford either of these splendid beverages. He heaved himself upright again saying, “You look as if you could do with a drink. Perhaps I could—”

“Simone’s. Don’t worry I’ll pass. The message.”

“She isn’t here then?”

“No. Her mother.” Hollingsworth shook his head and made a despairing gesture with his palms upturned.

“I’m so sorry.” The vicar gave up all hope of the Jack Daniels. Even lusting after it now struck him as slightly improper. “I do hope it’s nothing serious.”

“A stroke.” Alan said this without thinking but immediately recognised it as an invention of genius. Unlike other illnesses, where one either got better or worse, strokes could incapacitate indefinitely, engendering a more or less permanent need for attention. So if the worse came to the worst. The very, very worst ...

“Oh dear.” The vicar reprised his condolences and made a move to leave. For the first time since he had answered the door, Hollingsworth’s face relaxed slightly. Relief would be too strong a word. Just a small decrease in wariness and tension.

“Does she live far away?” asked the Reverend Bream.

“Wales,” said Alan. “The Midlands.”

“That’s not so bad,” said the vicar. “Perhaps you’ll be able—”

“I don’t. Think so business.”

“Of course.” The Reverend Bream nodded understandingly while trying to recall what Hollingsworth’s business actually was. Something to do with computers. The vicar’s brain turned to custard at the very thought. One of his flock had recently presented St. Chad’s with a second-hand machine on to which had been transferred every scrap of data relating to parish matters. Now the vicar could not even find his verger’s phone number. He had thought the dark night of the soul a mere metaphysical concept until pitched into its shadows by the demon Amstrad.

Now, with one foot on the front step, the thought struck him that Evadne, once advised of this present set-up, would chide him for not extending a supper invitation. He mumbled something along the lines of “cold collation” and “stretching to three.”

Much to his relief, for he had spotted the game pie in the larder at tea time and thought it a very small one, Hollingsworth immediately declined.

“Freezer. Full,” he said and closed the door before his visitor was properly outside.

Walking away, the Reverend Bream turned and looked behind him. Alan Hollingsworth was resting against the wavy glass panel. As the vicar watched, the dark shape, its outline shimmering as if beneath deep water, gradually started to slip and slide downwards until, within a matter of seconds, the man was slumped on the floor.

“The vicar’s just called at Nightingales.”

Iris Brockley, her nostrils satisfactorily filled with the rich smell of Windowlene, bent a frilled net curtain rigid with starch to the side and took a discreet step backwards. When it came to surveillance, Iris could have given tips to the FBI.

“Does he have a collecting tin?”

“No.”

“That’s all right then.”

Iris lifted her husband’s cup and wiped the saucer where the spoon had made a mark, wiped the spoon, wiped the plastic tray hooked over the arm of his chair and replaced the flowered, gold-rimmed crockery. Then she perched on the edge of the pale green Dralon stool attached to the knee-high telephone table. The darker green piping pressed into the back of her plump thighs.

“I wonder what he wanted.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t begin to comprehend.”

“I hope there’s nothing wrong, Reg.”

“Won’t be our business if there is.” Mr. Brockley closed the Daily Express, smoothed it front and back with the palm of his hand, folded it into a precise half and placed it in a bamboo rack by his feet.

“Have you finished with that?” Springing up when her husband nodded, Iris snatched the newspaper out again and disappeared to the kitchen.

Reg closed his eyes, waiting for the thwack of the pedal bin’s lid as it hit the wall and the clang as it fell back. When this had been followed by a cry of, “Get back into your basket please, madam!” he drained his tea, unclipped a pen from his breast pocket and opened the Radio Times. All of his movements were cramped. Completed almost before they began.

When Iris returned he was drawing three neat rings round their evening’s viewing: Question Time, May To December and The Travel Show. Not that the Brockleys ever went anywhere. Leafy Bucks was good enough for them, thank you very much. But they enjoyed programmes about foreign climes, especially when the unfortunate tourists were stranded, struck down by some exotic virus, mugged or, best of all, asphyxiated in poorly ventilated hotel rooms.

Having replaced the magazine, Reg now stepped out through the French windows as he did every evening about this time in clement weather. He would perambulate around the garden, returning on the dot for the six o’clock news and the arrival, also on the dot (bar her late night) of their daughter Brenda.

It was a lovely evening. The soft, sweet air pressed against Reg’s plump cheeks and stiff little moustache. All he needed was a cherrywood pipe and copper-coloured spaniel and he could have stepped straight into a Metroland poster.

Next door’s clematis was climbing exuberantly over the trellis and trailing down the Brockleys’ side. Reg and Iris had had many weighty discussions about this beautiful plant but refrained from any direct comment. This would mean “getting involved,” which was out of the question. A comment about the weather, a tut or two regarding the increase in village vandalism, a brief, insincere compliment with respect to each other’s floral landscapes, this was the limit of the Hollingsworth/Brockley discourse.

A handle turned a few feet away and someone stepped on to the patio. From the weight of the footsteps, Reg guessed it must be Alan. Although present first, Reg immediately cast himself in the role of invisible eavesdropper. He stood very still, breathing silently through his mouth and hoping he wouldn’t need to swallow.

Hollingsworth started to call Nelson, the cat, in a voice that struck Reg as rather strange and croaky. As if he had a cold.

Reg tiptoed back into the house to pass this snippet of information on to Iris. She was as intrigued as he, for it was well known that Alan had paid the creature no mind since the day it arrived. It was Simone who had taken pity on the tabby kitten, found abandoned nearly a year ago. She who fed and brushed it, who cooed and whistled softly to persuade it home at the end of the day. The Brockleys were still discussing this unusual state of affairs when Brenda arrived.

As the dark brown Mini Metro slid past the kitchen window to park beneath the car port roof of corrugated plastic, Iris donned her frilly apron, got an M & S Welsh rarebit out of the freezer and switched on the microwave.

Iris and pre-prepared meals had been made for each other. Acutely aware of her duty as a wife and mother to put hot, appetising food on the table at regular intervals, she had struggled throughout her married life to do so. She washed superior cuts of meat (never offal) and gutted fish until the water ran clear. She forced herself to make pastry even though the fat got under her nails and no amount of scrubbing ever convinced her they did not always remain ever so slightly greasy.

Now, as she slid the little aluminium tray from its temptingly illustrated sleeve, she thought how very reassuring frozen comestibles were. Constrained beneath a glittery crust of sterile crystals, they did not leak or smell or ask to be in any way humanly dealt with but were quickly transformed, as if by magic, into comforting, tasty nourishment. Iris sliced a tomato for freshness and put the kettle on.

Brenda entered the house and ran swiftly upstairs. Her routine never varied. She would hang her coat in the wardrobe, tidy her hair then wash her hands. Shona, a white poodle tucked away in a wicker basket between the washing machine and the fridge, started to whine with happiness the moment this recognisable procedure began. As the toilet flushed, Iris warmed the pot and by the time her daughter came into the kitchen everything was ready.

Brenda ate very daintily. Small portions chewed with her lips closed as she had been taught from early childhood. Mr. Brockley regarded his offspring’s neat maroon skirt and jacket and white blouse with pride and thought how smart she looked. Her short brown hair was brushed neatly away from her face and a red and gold pin in her left lapel displayed her full name. Reg, who had never flown, thought she looked like an air hostess.

He and his wife often discussed their daughter’s future with respectful seriousness. A business career was all well and good but they were full of hopes that she would, fairly soon, marry a nice, respectable man. Living nearby she could then, at judiciously spaced intervals, present them with two nice, well-behaved grandchildren. They called it settling down though a disinterested observer might have got the impression that Brenda was already so firmly settled it would take a ton of dynamite to move her.

She was sitting now, little finger eloquently crooked, sipping tea and answering the customary questions about her day in copious detail. Brenda knew how much her mother—and father, too, now that he had retired—anticipated this daily exposure to the hurly burly of high finance.

“Then to top it all Hazel Grantley, from Accounts, chimed in. As she always does, given half a chance. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, ‘that interest was miscalculated. Machines don’t make mistakes.’ ” Brenda licked the tip of her finger and dotted up a final crumb of toast. “No one gets on with her.”

“You said.”

“Including her husband.” Brenda spoke with some satisfaction. Like many unhappy single people she relished tales of marital discord. “Then Janine, who was really upset by this time, came back with ‘Why not? They’re only human.’ Of course everyone laughed, upon which what should she do but burst into tears? And all this with a customer at the counter. I don’t know what Mr. Marchbanks would have said.”

“Wasn’t he there then?” inquired Iris.

“Dentist. Then no sooner had all this blown over when Jacqui Willing’s pen walked.”

“As per usual,” said Iris knowledgeably.

“Trish Travers from Personnel said she’d seen it in the toilet. Jacqui said she wasn’t so old she had to keep running in there every five minutes. Unlike some.” Brenda, having wrung every possible drop of drama from her day at the Coalport and National Building Society, now dabbed at the corners of her small mouth with an embroidered napkin.

Reg and Iris exchanged glances of arch complicity. Without conferring on the matter, neither had mentioned the unusual state of affairs next door, both believing the most toothsome morsel should be left till last. Now, as Brenda checked the time on her diamanté cocktail watch against the gingham plate on the kitchen wall, Reg cleared his throat and Iris underlined the importance of the moment by taking her pinny off. Brenda looked surprised when they both sat down at the table.

“Something’s happened next door, dear.”

“Next door?” Brenda was stacking her cup and saucer and plate together ready to take to the sink. There was a sudden clatter as they all rattled on the Formica.

Iris said, “Careful.”

“What sort of thing?” Brenda’s voice was dry. She gave a scrapy little cough before continuing, “Everything looked as usual when I drove by.”

“Mrs. Hollingsworth’s not there.”

“Simone?” Brenda started looking round the room. Darting glances accompanied by quick jerky movements of the head, like a bird looking for food. “Who told you that?”

To the Brockleys’ surprise their daughter got up, crossed over to the sink and turned on the hot tap. Brenda never washed up or even helped to clear away. It was not expected. There was the unspoken assumption that her contribution to the household’s expenses, or “keep” as Iris put it, not only covered her food but relieved her of all domestic duties. Apart from cleaning her room which no one could get into as it was permanently locked.

“I’ll do those, dear.”

“It’s all right.”

“At least put some gloves on.”

“So ...” Brenda plunged her hands into a pyramid of iridescent bubbles and started clashing cutlery about before rephrasing her question. “Where did you hear that?”

“No one actually told us,” said Iris. Catching her husband’s eye, she was unable to conceal her anxiety. Brenda had gone very pale except for a bright flush across her cheekbones and was now sloshing about in the sink so vigorously that the sudsy water was splashing over the edge. “It was just something Daddy ... um ...”

“Deduced.”

“Yes, deduced.”

“You see, Brenda ...” Reg frowned at the rigidly upright back and furiously working elbows. “Couldn’t you stop that for a second?”

“I’m listening.”

“There was a bell-ringing practice late this afternoon—and very unusual chimes they were too—but Simone couldn’t have turned up because I happened to be in the front garden when they finished and she didn’t come home.”

“Then the vicar—”

“All right, Iris.”

“Sorry, dear.”

“The Reverend Bream called at the house shortly after this and I think it reasonable to infer that he was inquiring about her absence. Not only was it a very long time indeed before the door was opened but he was no sooner in the place than out again. And then—”

“This is the best bit.”

“Alan came out into the back garden calling the cat.”

“Well, he’d have to, wouldn’t he? If she wasn’t there to do it.” Brenda pulled the plug and dried her hands very vigorously on the tea towel. “I think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

Reg and Iris stared at each other in disappointment and dismay. There had been many an occasion when a mountain if not indeed a whole cloud-capped range had been made of detail not nearly so rich in dramatic potential. And Brenda had been the first to relish such discussions. But now she simply flung the cloth down, clicked her tongue in the direction of the dog and left the room. Shona, full of joy but with more sense than to express it by barking, leapt from her basket and trotted after. There was a breathing space when the Brockleys could hear the bell on the dog collar tinkling as her lead was attached. Then the front door slammed and they were gone.

Reg and Iris rushed to the picture window in the lounge and watched as the pair made their way down the drive. The poodle dancing and prancing, ecstatically exercising her vocal cords; Brenda walking carefully with neat, even steps. They hesitated briefly outside Nightingales before walking on into St. Chad’s Lane.

Reg and Iris returned to the kitchen. Iris picked up the tea towel—a nice view of Powys Castle—prised open a turquoise plastic peg and hung the towel up next to her rubber gloves.

Her husband said, “What’s got into her tonight?”

“Nerves, Reg. I blame these high-powered meetings. Remember how you used to come home?”

Heather Gibbs gave Arcadia a good seeing-to every Friday. Two hours, twelve pounds. Generous in comparison with the usual but, as Heather’s mum pointed out, if you’re batty as an egg whisk you’re going to have to cough up just that little bit extra.

Mrs. Molfrey sat in her faded petit-point wing chair, feet up on a beaded footstool, and watched Heather with deep satisfaction. When the girl had first turned up some months ago now, clomping into the sitting room on shoes like great blocks of wood and bawling her head off, Mrs. Molfrey had trembled on behalf of her delicate glasses and fragile ornaments. But Heather, though lumberingly uneconomical in her movements, handled every one of these treasured artefacts with the most gentle and precise movements.

At the moment she was carefully going over an ornately carved, many-mirrored overmantel with a feather duster. Mrs. Molfrey’s satisfaction deepened when she glimpsed, through a gap in the sitting-room door, her gleaming kitchen. Aware from a certain amount of static from the shiny pink box on her concave chest and the liveliness of Heather’s lips that she was being spoken to, Mrs. Molfrey switched on her deaf aid. She waited till the girl was looking elsewhere for she felt it was rather rude to have switched it off in the first place.

“So I said, what time do you call this and he only said ‘nookie time’ didn’t he? In front of me mam and the kids and everything.”

“Who was this, Heather?”

“Kevin’s dad. He’s never off the nest. Know what I mean?”

“Which dad is that?” asked Mrs. Molfrey, for she had still not disentangled Heather’s assorted progeny let alone grasped the ramifications of an extended family that seemed to cover half Bucks county.

“Barry. The one with the Harley Davidson.”

“Ah. The musician.”

Heather didn’t bother to put her right. It wasn’t worth it. She’d have forgotten by next time. And really Heather only chatted to be polite. Given a choice she’d as soon bring her Walkman and a tape of Barry Manilow. But the old lady must crave a bit of conversation what with only the old geezer in the caravan for company. He cooked for her every day too. Sweet really.

Now, giving a final polish to an emerald glass lustre, Heather asked Mrs. Molfrey if she was ready for her cuppa. This was Heather’s last chore. She would leave the tea and a piece of cake on the little piecrust table by Mrs. Molfrey’s chair.

Mrs. Molfrey always asked Heather if she would like to join her but Heather had only done this once. The tea was disgusting. A funny colour and a worse smell. And there wasn’t any other sort. Just looking at it, thought Heather, was enough to make you heave. Like dried up black worms all mixed up with yellow flowers.

Now, as she put the kettle on in the kitchen, Heather heard the thocketer, thocketer of a 500cc engine and saw, through the kitchen window, a Honda scooter bouncing gently over the grassy approach to the back of the house.

“It’s Becky,” she called through to the other room.

“She’ll be bringing my hair,” called back Mrs. Molfrey. “Chuck another spoon in the pot. And dig out the cake tin. There’s a WI lemon drizzle.”

Becky Latimer, a sweet-faced young woman with a lightly freckled skin, smooth and brown as a hen’s egg, lifted the latch and walked into the kitchen. She carried a wig block under one arm and a customised plastic carrier on which a crossed brush and comb surmounted the words “Becky’s Mobile Maison.”

“All done for you, Mrs. Molfrey.” She smiled at the old lady. “How’s the world treating you today?”

“You’ll stay for tea, Becky?” Mrs. Molfrey laid an arrangement of knobby bones covered loosely by gingery spotted skin urgently on the girl’s arm.

“Course I will,” said Becky who was already running twenty minutes late. “Just a quick one.”

As Heather brought out Mrs. Molfrey’s tray, Becky brought up Simone Hollingsworth’s name, asking Mrs. Molfrey if she had seen anything of the woman. “Only I was giving her a cut and blow dry yesterday half three and when I turned up she’d gone out. She didn’t cancel or ring or anything. It’s not like her at all.”

“I heard she was looking after a sick relative,” said Mrs. Molfrey, “and had to dash off. No doubt it put the appointment right out of her mind.”

“Yes, it would,” said Becky with some relief. She was trying to build up her business and had feared that Mrs. Hollingsworth had become dissatisfied with her work. Simone was a demanding client and her soft, white-gold hair was far from easy to handle. Unlike most of Becky’s customers she wanted something different every week, if only in some small detail. When Becky arrived there would often be a Vogue or Tatler lying open on the sitting-room table and her young heart would sink as she was shown some elaborately styled or brilliantly cut coiffure and asked to copy it. Still, so far, fingers crossed, she seemed to have done OK.

While these thoughts had been passing through Becky’s mind, Heather had taken the cling film off the cake, cut it in slices and poured a second cup of tea. Now, having put her outdoor coat on, she stopped in the middle of saying goodbye and said instead, “Hey, Becks. You talking about Mrs. H from Nightingales?”

“That’s right.”

“She was on the market bus.”

“On the bus?”

“That’s right, Mrs. Molfrey.”

“But she never goes anywhere.”

“Well, she went to Causton.”

“Was that the two thirty?” asked Becky.

“No, half twelve. Got off outside Gateways. And I’ll tell you another funny thing. She hadn’t got no case nor nothing. Just a handbag.”

“You’d think,” said Becky, “if she was visiting this sick relative she’d have got off at the stop near the railway station.”

“It’s a right mystery,” said Heather. She swung round and her full skirt floated about her, describing a wide circle.

There really should be a shipping warning when people like Heather entered one’s natural orbit, thought Mrs. Molfrey. She closed her eyes and prayed.

“Ah well,” said Heather, now safely on the threshold. “Ta-ra again.”

“Could you knock on Cubby’s caravan as you go by, please?” asked Mrs. Molfrey. ‘Tell him the lemon drizzle’s up.”

Becky sipped a little of the tea which she disliked quite as much as Heather.

“Isn’t that extraordinary, Becky?” said Mrs. Molfrey, inhaling the jasmine fragrance with a sigh of pleasure. “Going off to care for someone who’s ill with no more than a handbag. You’d think at least they’d take a little Benger’s. Or some beef jelly.”

“P’raps Mr. Hollingsworth’s going to drive over later.”

“Perhaps. What I can’t understand,” continued Mrs. Molfrey, “is why she took the bus. It takes nearly an hour to cover the distance Charlie’s taxi does in fifteen minutes.”

“Well, can’t be to save money, Mrs. Molfrey.” Becky glanced at her watch. “Sorry, I have to go now. I’m running a bit late.”

“Dear child,” cried Mrs. Molfrey. “Why didn’t you say?”

For the next couple of days Fawcett Green attempted to observe the owner of Nightingales in what it regarded as a discreet manner. This involved slowing up, often to a marked degree, when passing the house and looking in the windows. Listening keenly for the laser whir and soft metal clunk of the garage door being opened or closed. Or strolling down Mrs. Molfrey’s back garden and casually glancing over the fence. But in every instance Fawcett Green was unlucky. The object of their interest did not show himself.

It was plain, however, that Simone had not returned, which left a male person living on his own. Naturally it was thought, for there is nothing more conservative than an English village, that such a man must be in need of assistance. Immediately this need was diagnosed, a support group rallied to satisfy it.

The group did its best. An apple pie, some fresh eggs and a jar of green tomato chutney were placed on the doorstep of Nightingales and stayed there until they were aggrievedly taken back. A message slipped through the letter box offering to collect and return any necessary washing was also ignored. As was a note asking if any shopping was required and an offer to cut the hedge. Umbrage was well and truly taken when it was discovered that a boxful of convenience foods had been ordered by telephone and delivered by Ostlers, the village store.

After this the frustrated Samaritans, acknowledging that you just couldn’t help some people, gave up any direct approach. A sharp eye was still kept, though, and the village noted, not without some satisfaction, that only twenty-four hours after Mrs. Hollingsworth’s departure, things started to take a definite turn for the worse.

On Friday the curtains remained closed till lunchtime. On Saturday and Sunday they were not opened all day. Determined to regard such moral laxity as a cry for help, the team renewed its efforts by tapping on the front door and, when this was ignored, repeating the procedure at the rear, in both cases with negative results.

When the milkman called for payment, there were three full pints on the step. He rapped the knocker several times and shouted, “Milk-oh!” through the letter box. Eventually the door opened a fraction, a ten pound note was pressed into his hand and the words “Don’t leave any more” were breathed through the opening on whisky-soured breath.

Naturally this was all round the place in no time. Later, further verification of Alan Hollingsworth’s debauched state was provided when a stream of bottles descended from his wheelie bin into the masticating maw of Causton Borough Council’s refuse lorry. Avis Jennings said it sounded as if someone was disposing of a greenhouse. The vicar, put in the picture by his spouse, thought of all that Jack Daniels consumed in lonely isolation and wondered if he should once more attempt to offer solace.

In the Goat and Whistle the regulars discussed Simone’s absence among themselves. No one believed the “illness in the family” story. The landlord, no doubt chagrined that not a single swallow of Hollingsworth’s river of forgetfulness had been purchased at his establishment, was especially scathing.

“A load of old cock,” he said, pulling a Beamish for a puce-complexioned man in a Tattershall check waistcoat. “She’s buggered off to get a bit of life for herself. And I for one don’t blame her.”

There was a rumble of assent. Neglect a pretty wife, was the general theory, and you’re asking for trouble. Not everyone agreed. An advocaat and lemonade snowball thought that, far from being neglected, Mrs. H was kept on such a short leash that boredom and frustration had driven her to snap it. This was also not universally acceptable.

“You work your fingers to the bone for ’em,” said the Beamish, “buy them everything they want and where does it get you? Bloody nowhere.”

A female with arms like Popeye and a leering, pockmarked face threw darts with savage accuracy. She pointed out how totally pathetic it was that men let themselves go the minute they didn’t have some poor drudge of a woman running round after them.

“I can think of one party who won’t be heartbroken,” said the snowball very quietly. She winked and tapped her nose which was tiny, soft and porous like a mildewed strawberry. “After what Hollingsworth done to him.”

“Cruel, that was.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d run off with her hisself.”

“Nah. He’s got other fish to fry.”

Everyone turned and looked down the room to where a solitary drinker sat nursing a half of bitter. He didn’t look as if he was about to start dancing on the ceiling. More as if he was expecting it to fall on him any minute. He’d hardly spoken since he came into the bar and now, draining his glass, Gray Patterson got up and left without a word.

It had actually been in the Goat and Whistle that Gray had met his “other fish.” At the time he had not appreciated just how unlikely such a contingency was. She had visited the pub no more than twice in the five years since she had moved to the village. On this, the second occasion, Sarah Lawson had dropped in for a box of matches, the village store having run out.

He knew who she was of course—in such a small place everyone knew everyone else by sight—and a little about her. She taught parttime in adult education, had hardly any money, her house was falling down. She made models out of clay and also worked with stained glass. It was rare to walk past Bay Tree Cottage without hearing music, powerful operatic bawling that Fawcett Green accepted with a resigned shrug, for artists were known to need a creative ambience.

Gray was intrigued by Sarah’s looks and the way she dressed. By her gravity and by the fact that she appeared genuinely not to give a damn as to what anyone thought either of her or her way of life. And so, following her out of the Goat and Whistle and catching up in St. Chad’s Lane, he introduced himself.

“Oh, I know who you are,” responded Sarah. “From the front page of the Causton Echo.”

“You make me sound notorious.”

“Doesn’t take much in a place this size.”

“You mustn’t believe everything you read in the papers.”

“Sounds like a useful, if slightly patronising, tip.”

“Sorry.”

A bad start. They walked on in silence while Gray sought to repair the damage. He had more sense than to attempt a personal compliment which he felt would be judged both clumsy and impertinent. But he could, in all honesty, praise her garden.

“Every time I come down this way I admire it.”

“I can’t imagine why.” She had a calm, clear voice. “It’s an absolute shambles.”

“The balance, I think. You seem to have something of everything but not too much of anything.”

“Can’t take credit for that. My father created and cared for it. Almost to the last day of his life.”

“Ah, yes.” He remembered hearing that the house had belonged to her parents. “Did they bequeath any advice on horticultural matters? I could do with a few tips.”

“Start with clean healthy soil. Feed it properly. Plant only top quality stuff. And if ugly or poisonous things turn up, yank them out and burn them.”

“Not a bad recipe for life when you come to think of it.”

Sarah gave him a sharp, interested look. How bright her eyes were! Unflecked, shining, brilliant blue. Gray was still surreptitiously studying her severe, elegant profile when they arrived at Bay Tree Cottage.

Sarah dragged the unhinged gate to one side.

“Could I come in for a minute?”

“What for?”

“Oh.” Though he had spoken on impulse and half anticipated a refusal, Gray found himself already standing on the path. “Just a talk.”

“No.”

“I’d like to get to know you.”

“Why?”

“Because ...” Gray felt rather at a loss. Most women would not ask that question. They would know why. And yet he could see she was being neither faux naif nor coy.

“Don’t you ever fill conversations out, Sarah?” He stepped back on to the verge. Lifted the gate into its previous position. “Qualify, elaborate, make excuses, crack jokes? Hand out recipes?”

“Not really. What’s the point?”

“I hate unanswerable questions.”

“And I feel they’re the only sort worth asking.” She smiled then but to herself, shutting him out. “So you see we shall never get on.”

“I could change. I’m a flexible man.”

“Goodbye, Gray.”

He loved the way she spoke his name. A slight slurring of the R. Not an impediment, and certainly not a lisp; more a rough gliding over. It was irresistible.

He called out, “Would you like me to mend this?”

“Certainly not. Took years to get it to that state. Anyway,” she turned on the step and stared amusedly back at him, “if I want it mending I can mend it myself.”

All that had taken place nearly three months ago. He had not given up. He had run into her “by accident on purpose” a few times and fallen into yet more amiable conversation. Once, out walking his dog, he had let the leash slip and had to rescue the animal from Sarah’s vegetable patch. Unfortunately he chose a Wednesday for this ingenuous ploy, which turned out to be her working day. He had appeared a couple of times with some flowers or fruit from his own garden. The offerings had been graciously accepted, with thanks, and the door shut firmly in his face.

He asked one or two people discreet questions about her then, afraid she might get to hear about this, stopped. In any case he discovered very little. Her parents had only bought the house when they retired. It wasn’t as if she had grown up in the village. In fact, people seemed to know hardly any more about her than he did himself.

If she had appeared actively to resent his attentions then naturally he would have ceased to make them. But in a dry, detached manner she seemed prepared to put up with it all. Gray’s guess was that she regarded him as some sort of mild divertissement.

But then, six weeks ago, everything had changed. He had brought along a small tray of seedlings, hellebores which she appeared not to have. She took the tray, smiled and asked him in. He stayed about half an hour. Her manner, Gray had to admit, was rather perfunctory. Still, he was over the threshold. That was the main thing.

On that occasion and on most of the ones that followed they spoke mainly of mundane matters. Gray, who had a mercurial temperament at the best of times, quickly became downcast. He told himself these were early days but couldn’t help feeling that he was merely marking time. He tried to get her to talk about herself or her work but without success. Once, greatly daring, he asked if she had been married. A flinty reticence descended. Eventually she admitted to having lived with someone once for a year or two but preferred being on her own.

She would never go anywhere with him. In spite of his dire financial state, Gray had asked her out for dinner. And, when this offer was refused, to a movie or the theatre with much the same result. Once or twice they had been for a drink at the Goat and Whistle but mainly they just sat talking in the garden.

This present Saturday morning they were discussing—who wasn’t?—the Hollingsworths. Gray was sitting on a rather battered sofa sipping a small cup of bitter Javanese coffee. Sarah was looking at her watch.

“My theory,” said Gray, “for what it’s worth, is that she has hied her to a nunnery.”

“Simone?”

“Having finally realised how meretricious are the sybaritic luxuries of this sinful world.”

“That’ll be the day.”

“Have you been in their sitting room?”

“Yes.”

“The perfect setting for a poule du luxe, wouldn’t you say?”

“What makes you think I’d know?” Sarah shook her watch and held it to her ear.

“I can just see Mrs. H, gold-sandalled feet on a fluffy pink footstool, Malibu plus ice and a little parasol on her onyx side table eating chocolate truffles, varnishing her toenails and reading Jackie Collins.”

“She wasn’t that dextrous on my course.”

“A sugared almond on legs.”

“What were you doing at Nightingales anyway?” Sarah came over, collected his cup and saucer, stacked it on top of her own and took them to the kitchen. “Delivering the ass’s milk?”

“We were friends, him and me. Well, sort of.”

“I knew you were business partners.” Standing in the doorway she gave him a strange look. Interested, curious but without a trace of sympathy. “It was on the—”

“Front page of the Causton Echo.”

“That’s right.”

“I trusted him.” Gray shrugged. “The more fool me. When money comes through the door, friendship, it seems, buggers off through the window.”

“Did you really beat him up?”

“Yes.”

“And you lost everything?”

“Not quite. I haven’t lost my negative equity—around fifty at the last reckoning. Or my debts. Or my dog—she’s still hanging round. So let’s look on the bright side.”

“You’re taking it better than I would.”

“I’m suing the bastard for all he’s got. That’s how I’m taking it.”

Sarah put on some music, “Di,’ cor mio” from Alcina, and started to peel a damp muslin cloth away from a mass of clay on a marble slab. A narrow elongated male head with a long nose and a thin-lipped, down-turned mouth emerged. It was eyeless and appeared mutilated to Gray even though he knew the piece was in the process not of being destroyed but created.

Gray picked up his jacket and prepared to leave as he always did when he sensed his time was up. He was determined not to push his luck. As it was, he had a very strong feeling that the minute he was off the premises she forgot his very existence.

He turned at the door. Bending closely over the table, Sarah pressed her thumb hard into the clay, moved it slightly, took her hands away.

Suddenly, although it was merely an empty socket, intelligence sprang into being, informing the face. Giving it life. And Gray wondered how, with one simple movement, such a thing could be.

As this conversation took place, something else was happening which, though not directly connected with the Hollingsworth mystery, nevertheless prompted a response that drew the attention of a slightly wider world to Simone’s disappearance.

Ostlers, the village store (Prop: Nigel Boast) was situated in the main street of Fawcett Green. This ran, like the bar on a capital T, across the top end of St. Chad’s Lane. A note on the door informed children that their presence was welcome one at a time.

This stern directive had cut down petty pilfering considerably but there was still a certain amount of leakage. Mr. Boast, who watched his young customers as would a hawk a fledgling dove, could not understand this. It never occurred to him or Doreen, his “good lady wife,” that the culprits might be grown up.

The shop was very Tudory. The price tickets were written in Olde English, as was the notice behind the till: Pray Do Not Ask For Credit As Ye Refusal Oft Offends. Originally all the s’s had been f’s which was, as Mr. Boast tirelessly explained, authentically correct. But no one was impressed by this conceit. Customers kept winking and asking for “a pound of foffages” and “fome tomato foup” so, after a while, Nigel and Doreen reluctantly reverted to more contemporary Elizabethan.

Cubby Dawlish, who was encouraged by Mrs. Molfrey to sell surplus produce from her garden to eke out his pension, came in around half past ten with several pounds of broad beans. Handing over the laden wooden tray, Cubby forbore to haggle over the going rate, even though he was aware the eventual mark-up would probably be three times as much.

While the beans were being weighed, Cubby looked about him at the whitewashed walls and wooden beams. The latter, though artificial, were nothing like as false as the beam in Mr. Boast’s eye as he offered ten pence a pound, there being a glut at the moment. There was always a glut. Or an unexpected surplus. Cubby sometimes thought if he came in during the depths of winter with freshly picked raspberries some miraculously cheap source of such a delicacy would only that second have franchised itself to Ostlers.

While putting the coins in his pocket and commenting pleasantly on the sweet and balmy weather, he was asked, in his capacity as a very near neighbour, if he knew how Mrs. Hollingsworth’s mother was prospering after her stroke.

Cubby begged the shopkeeper’s pardon and, when the question had been repeated, asked if it was in fact the case that Mrs. Hollingsworth’s “sick relative” was, in fact, her mother.

“Verily,” replied Mr. Boast who often slipped into high Tudor, especially after a session with the Civil War Society. “Alan told the vicar in person.”

After declining to spend his earnings on some reduced Jamaica ginger cake, Cubby made his way back to Arcadia where his first task was to make a cup of banana-flavoured mineral-enriched Vita Life for Elfrida’s elevenses. Whilst getting out the remains of the lemon drizzle, he passed on this snippet of information. She stared at him for a long moment in complete surprise.

“This is most disturbing, Cubby.”

“Why is that, my love?”

“Simone doesn’t have a mother.”

“Doesn’t ...” He stood, a scoop of the vitamin supplement tilted near the opalescent beaker.

“You’re spilling some.”

“Sorry.” He sprinkled in the rest of the powder. “How do you know?”

“It’s all over the draining board.”

“I mean,” Cubby blew the spillage into the sink, “about Mrs. Hollingsworth senior.”

“Simone told me herself. I was in the greenhouse a few weeks ago dividing some narcissi and she came wandering by. You know what she was like, poor girl. Always looking for something to do.” Mrs. Molfrey spoke in the uncomprehending tones of someone who had so far been vouchsafed eighty-three years and had not found them nearly long enough to pack in all that she wanted to do.

“More to make conversation, I suspect, than out of real interest, she asked what I was about. When I explained, she said narcissi had always been her mother’s favourite. And that she—Simone, that is—had ordered a wreath, a harp I think it was, made entirely of Pheasant’s Eye, on the occasion of her mother’s funeral.”

“How extraordinary.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I should have thought a harp entirely suitable under the circumstances.”

“I meant—”

But Elfrida was retreating to her favourite armchair. Cubby followed, carrying her drink and his own, a mid-morning pick-me-up of elderflower cordial, freshly squeezed lemon and English clover honey.

“So,” said Elfrida as she rested her thin, trembly shanks against the embroidered unicorns and dragons and roses with golden thorns, “Alan Hollingsworth has been deliberately lying. Hmm.”

Cubby put the beaker carefully into Elfrida’s hand, gently pressing her fingers round the glass, then sat down himself in a large, Chinese basket chair. He knew what was coming and the pointlessness of attempting any diversion.

“This would explain why she went the long way round on the bus and took no luggage. After all, even for the briefest of visits, one hurls some cologne and a few unmentionables into a Gladstone. There was no journey, as such, at all. She was simply going into Causton, either to shop or meet someone. So where is she now?” Elfrida paused for breath and a swig of her drink. “It’s all very slippery-snakery.”

“But not necessarily sinister, dear.” Cubby hesitated, unsure how to continue. The truth of the matter was that this sort of situation was not unfamiliar. Ever since he had persuaded Elfrida to buy a television set almost five years ago she had been passionately addicted to all programmes, whether fictional or no, which had even the most slender connection with crime. Her dearest wish was to assist the police with their inquiries and if she had so far failed to do so it was certainly not for want of trying. Cubby had had great difficulty, after Elfrida’s last foray, in saving her from an assault charge.

It had all come about after she had seen an Identikit portrait on Crimewatch and became convinced that the miscreant, who had held up a building society with a sawn-off shotgun, was none other than Fawcett Green’s relief Christmas postman. She had been dissuaded with great difficulty from contacting the authorities and had agreed only on the condition that Cubby be present at the cottage from that day onwards at delivery time.

Once, he had been a few minutes late. Elfrida, quaking with panic, had armed herself with a broom handle. When the postman attempted to insert tidings of comfort and joy into the letter box, she had thrust the handle violently back. Emerging from his caravan, Cubby had discovered the poor man staggering blindly round the garden, bent double in agony.

“The quinces are ripening up well,” Cubby said now, very firmly. “Would you like me to make some lemon and japonica jelly?”

The attempt was futile as he knew it must be. Being firm with Elfrida was like speaking to someone in a completely alien language. She could hear that your voice had got rather louder than usual (providing her box was switched on) and that you were standing four square in a very sturdy sort of way. She just didn’t understand your problem.

“All this talk of jelly is by the by,” said Elfrida. “The point at issue surely is what we are going to do about Simone.”

“I don’t see why we have to get involved at all.”

“Bosh! Show some gumption, Dawlish.”

“What do you think we ought to do then?” asked Cubby, anticipating and dreading the reply.

“It’s plain as a pikestaff.”

“I was afraid it would be,” he sighed and put his cup down. “Righto. I’ll bike over to Ferne Bassett and—”

“Forget Ferne Bassett!” cried Elfrida. “Ferne Bassett is small potatoes. We’re almost certainly describing a serious crime here. Mark my words, that man has done away with his wife. And with calumny of such magnitude there’s little point in pussyfooting around with the infantry. It’s not the local boys in blue we’re after. It’s the top brass.”

“But Elfie—”

“On the blower hotsy totsy, Dawlish, and order a Hackney carriage.”

At the sound of the taxi drawing up, Brenda Brockley’s heart pounded. Ignoring her parents’ disapproving glances she rushed to see what was happening and immediately afterwards rushed straight upstairs, thus avoiding any discussion or lecture on her odd behaviour.

She locked her door and went over to her pretty little writing desk which was placed in the large bay window. The chair on which she sat was pretty too. It had a tall, narrow back: two upright slats and a crossbar made of varnished papier-mâché inlaid with mother-of-pearl. An amber silk cushion patterned with silver fleur-de-lis was tied to the seat with narrow velvet ribbons. Facing her, on the sill, was a vase of deep red carnations.

These two pieces of furniture were deliberately different from anything else in the room. It was not that Brenda thought the other things boring or tasteless—though they were—but that she recognised their absolute unsuitability to play even the most humble part in a scene in which her grand illusion would be allowed to hold full sway.

She took a tiny gold key from a box covered with shells, unlocked the desk and rolled back the lid. From the interior she removed a large, shagreen-covered book labelled with the word Diary and filled with unlined pages of creamy yellow paper. Just inside the front cover was Sellotaped a photograph of Alan Hollingsworth which she had obtained in the spring of the previous year.

One Sunday afternoon when Reg and Iris were out buying a large supply of Paraquat from their nearest garden centre, Brenda, fortified by a schooner of sweet sherry, had approached the Hollingsworths over the larch lap divide. Explaining that she had just one shot left and Shona seemed to have quite lost interest, Brenda asked if she could take their picture. Somewhat surprised, they agreed.

Brenda adjusted the viewfinder with great care and got exactly the snap she wanted. A clear head and shoulders of Alan and no sign of Simone.

Brenda would have liked to have framed the photo. It deserved a beautiful silver one like those she had seen in antique shops; all flowing acanthus leaves and arabesques of lilies. But she was afraid that one day she would forget to lock it away in her desk. And that such a time might coincide with one or the other of her parents popping their heads in while she was having a meal or in the bath, to sneak a quick look round.

She wrote in her diary only at the weekends when there were enough hours to do it justice. Sometimes, and this was more exciting by far, she actually spoke to Alan. The smaller window in her room overlooked the forecourt of Nightingales and, when he was due to arrive home, she would open it with trembling fingers, lean out and call, “Good evening.”

Brenda had pondered to an agonising degree as to how frequent these greetings should be and had finally decided on a ratio of one to ten. More frequently and she feared he would guess that her appearance was not accidental. Less and the fear was that she would be unable to bear the waiting.

The occasions of her calling out were carefully marked by an asterisk in her shagreen book with a special pen, the sort used at Christmas for labelling parcels. Filled with powerfully smelling runny liquid, it dried shining silver like a snail’s track.

Once a month she and Alan actually conversed. These stomach-churning encounters were marked with a golden pen of the same type with the asterisk surmounted by a red felt-tipped drawing of a heart.

The conversations could only be brought about by a certain amount of artificial loitering which involved hanging around the front garden sniffing the roses and pretending to weed or playing outside in the lane with her dog. As Alan closed the garage door, Brenda, nauseous, her skin prickling with nerves, would toss a casual “Hullo” in his direction.

He replied of course but the ensuing conversations were necessarily brief. How many responses were there after all to a suggestion that today had been uncertain/awful/wonderful/changeable? Or that the news didn’t seem to get any better. She would follow through with, “And how are things at Nightingales?”

Alan would then assure her that things were fine. Although he only rarely asked how matters at The Larches were faring, Brenda was never unprepared.

Recognising that her replies must not only be short and lighthearted but, hopefully, amusing, she would practise them right up to the last minute, a throwaway almost negligent style being her aim.

There was no one to whom she could sing her love. At work, where her shyness was mistaken for slyness, she had no friends. And the thought of telling her parents was utterly appalling. Even thinking of it chilled her bones. They had always seemed to Brenda antiseptically unaware that such a thing as romance existed. She had never heard a sound smacking even remotely of eroticism from their bedroom. The only rhythmical vibration occurred when the alarm clock went off. Sometimes, regarding the straining hospital corners on the chaste, single beds, Brenda wondered if she was a changeling found under a gooseberry bush.

Like everyone else in the village, but to an intensely more passionate degree, Brenda’s thoughts were engaged in the matter and manner of Simone’s disappearance. Plainly she had been forcibly abducted. Or lured away, perhaps by a false message purporting to come from her husband. Obviously no woman lucky enough to be married to Alan Hollingsworth would leave home voluntarily.

It might be thought that Alan’s newly unyoked state would fill Brenda with wild hope and delight but such was not the case. It was the stable impenetrability of the Hollingsworths’ lives that held Brenda’s dreams together. Now that background had been torn apart the whole tapestry seemed about to unravel. She dreaded what the future might hold. Overwhelmingly paramount was the fear that, if Simone did not return, Alan might decide that Nightingales held so many unhappy memories he could no longer bear to go on living there.

For the first time she found herself regretting her parents’ reclusive existence, her mother’s finicky revulsion against any sort of close relationship. If only she had been the sort to run around with a dish of something sustaining. And what then would be more natural than that her daughter should call to collect the empties.

Brenda had even, shaking in her shoes at the thought of such audacity, imagined going round alone. Alan hadn’t been out for two days now and must surely be in dire need of assistance. In her imagination she placed a wicker basket on his table and lifted a snowy cloth to reveal French bread and rosy apples, a honey pot shaped like a beehive, crisp frilly lettuce and a wedge of cheese wrapped in waxed paper. Finally, a long-necked dark green bottle of wine.

Alan would be sitting, sad and solitary, staring at the wall. She would need to speak two or three times before he became aware of her presence. It might even prove necessary to touch his arm.

Brenda sighed and returned to a worrying present. She unscrewed the cap from her fountain pen, mottled tortoise-shell with a gold nib. It had been bought especially and at great cost for inscribing her private thoughts and was never used for anything else.

She pondered her first line carefully, for the text was sacrosanct. Nothing was ever altered or crossed out. She would have regarded such mutilations as ill-omened.

A movement in next door’s garden caught her eye. Alan! First sighting since he had been so cruelly abandoned. He had his back to the house and was carrying a spade. As Brenda gazed hungrily down, he pushed it into a large, wet patch of earth near the patio.

Brenda had sat, just so, looking down and longing, on hundreds of occasions. She believed herself to have exceptional sensitivity as far as Alan was concerned and was sure that, should he happen to look up, she could lower her eyes and turn away in time. Certainly she always had till now.

But then something happened which gave the lie to such confidence. He thrust the spade down hard by a clump of day lilies, withdrew it then turned away, apparently in some disgust. As he did so he raised his head and stared straight at Brenda’s window. Caught out, all she could do was stare straight back.

Their eyes met as they had done so often in her dreams. But in real life it was all very different. His glance was dark and unfriendly, almost a glare, and struck her like an arrow. He made a forceful movement with his free hand and, for one terrible moment, Brenda thought he was threatening her with his fist. Then he flung the spade down with a great clatter on the patio slabs and strode back into the house.

Brenda was devastated. What must he think? What must any person think going about their business, with every reason to presume themselves unobserved, only to discover they were being spied on? No wonder he was angry. Brenda felt shattered, as if they had had a lover’s quarrel.

She closed her book, replaced the cap on her chunky pen and blew her nose loudly. It would do no good to cry. Nor was their any point in abandoning herself to morbid self-scrutiny. Quarrels were made to be mended. And it would be up to her to find a way to do it.

“I had to get all worked up to come.” Mrs. Molfrey tossed back her shoulder-length blonde ringlets with such vigour that her hat nearly fell off. “I hope I have not been misinformed as to your rank and station.”

Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby tried to hold in place the mask of courteous inquiry invariably assumed when presented with an unsolicited visit from a member of the public but it was hard, very hard indeed, not to stare.

An excessively raddled old lady sat facing him. She appeared lost inside a voluminous girlish dress with puffed sleeves. It was made from what appeared to be furnishing fabric: glazed chintz, patterned with blowsy cabbage roses. She also wore white lace gloves and rather muddy, elastic-sided shoes with holes punched into the ivory leather. Her face was so thickly layered with pink and white cosmetics that when severely frowning or expressing emotion with any degree of vivacity motes of it became detached and drifted in the air like perfumed dandruff. Her eyelids were the harsh and dazzling blue once called Electric. If Mary Pickford were still alive, thought Barnaby, this must be pretty much what she would look like.

“They tried to palm me off in your front office with a constable. In his shirt sleeves.” Mrs. Molfrey lowered eyelashes so black and stiffly curled they could have been coated with pitch. “But I insisted on speaking to someone of the highest authority.”

Sergeant Troy had passed through reception during Mrs. Molfrey’s argumentative discourse. Sussing the situation, he had popped her in the lift, whisked her up to the third floor and left her on Barnaby’s Welcome mat. Whether his bag carrier had been motivated by sportish malice or the suspicion that an entertaining diversion was required, the Chief Inspector had yet to discover.

“So what seems to be the problem, Mrs. Molfrey?” asked Barnaby aware, as soon as the words were out, that he had assumed an avuncular, almost condescending manner. Attempting equilibrium he added, more formally, “How can I help you?”

“It is I who can help you,” replied Mrs. Molfrey, tugging off her left glove. “My neighbour has disappeared. I thought you would want to know.”

“His name?”

“Her name. He’s still on the spot. And thereby, if you ask me, hangs a very long tale.”

Barnaby, who had anticipated that what Mrs. Molfrey had to say would be as dotty and uncoordinated as her appearance was pleased to be proved wrong. Even if elaborately presented and quirkily phrased, her meaning seemed crystal clear.

“It’s Simone Hollingsworth,” began Mrs. Molfrey. She paused for a few moments, frowning severely at an anti-theft poster and dislodging a few more flakes of pastel pargeting. “Aren’t you going to write it down?”

“Not at the moment, Mrs. Molfrey. Please continue.”

“She vanished last Thursday. Into thin air, as the saying is, though I’ve never understood why. Surely if a person is to be concealed the air would have to be extremely thick. Rather like the old pea-soupers.”

“If you could—”

“Don’t chip in, there’s a good fellow. When I’ve finished I’ll give some sort of signal. Wave my handkerchief. Or shout.”

Barnaby closed his eyes.

“I became suspicious the very first evening. I remember it precisely and I’ll tell you why. The sunset, from which I usually derive considerable refreshment, was a great disappointment. A dreadful common colour, like tinned salmon. Cubby was feeding my onions—renowned, I might add, for their splendour—and I was rootling around with my little hoe anticipating a word or two with Simone. She would usually come out around that time to call her cat and we would exchange pleasantries, the latest bit of village gossip from her side of the fence whereas I would discuss the progress of my plants, curse all winged and crawling predators and inveigh against the weather, the way keen gardeners do.”

Barnaby nodded. He, too, was a keen gardener and had been known to inveigh against the weather in his time in a manner so robust it caused his wife to slam the French windows with such vigour the panes rattled.

“But who should emerge instead but Alan—that is Mr. Hollingsworth—calling ‘Nelson, Nelson’ as if he had ever cared tuppence for the poor creature and rattling a box of crunchy stuff.” Mrs. Molfrey leaned forwards. “And that’s not all.”

These last few words had a throbbing undertow bordering on the melodramatic. Barnaby recognised the note; he had heard it many times. It nearly always indicated a possibly genuine concern for the welfare of a fellow human plus an inability to believe that that welfare was not at risk, usually for the most lurid and sinister of reasons.

“I had already discovered three more disturbing pieces to this mysterious jigsaw. On the afternoon of the day Mrs. Hollingsworth vanished, Sarah Lawson, our artist in residence so to speak, had been invited to tea. Half an hour later Maison Becky also turned up on her flying bicycle plus all the coiffure folderols for a pre-arranged hair appointment. But Simone had taken the twelve-thirty omnibus to Causton without letting either of them know!”

Mrs. Molfrey, who had ticked off these peaks of high drama on gnarled fingers tipped with brilliant vermilion nails, now concluded, “Nothing could be more out of character.”

The process wherein a slightly unusual or vaguely inexplicable occurrence was fancifully expanded into an event of Grand Guignol-like style and content was also very familiar. Barnaby controlled his impatience.

“But if you find all that baffling,” Mrs. Molfrey paused and looked at the Chief Inspector in such keen and collusive anticipation that he did not have the heart to disappoint her. An expression of mild curiosity briefly possessed his craggy features. “Wait till you hear le mot juste.” She leaned forward, severely mangling, in her excitement, a large raffia bag on her knees. “Questioned by the vicar, who was naturally concerned at finding himself one campanologist short for the funeral, Alan Hollingsworth said his wife had gone to visit her mother. Hah!”

Uncertain whether this was a forceful expression of disbelief or the shout that signalled he was now free to chip in, Barnaby cleared his throat and, when no reprimand was forthcoming, said, “Was this something out of the ordinary then, Mrs. Molfrey?”

“You could say that. She’s been dead for seven years.”

“Then it was plainly an excuse made up on the spur of the moment,” said the Chief Inspector. “People don’t always tell the truth about their personal affairs. Why should they?”

“I do,” said Mrs. Molfrey with the simplicity of a child.

There was no answer to this and Barnaby wisely did not attempt one.

“Don’t you think,” continued Mrs. Molfrey, “it all sounds rather,” she searched her mind for an adjective which would adequately sum up the dark and terrible complexities of the matter in hand, “Sicilian?”

Barnaby thought it sounded about as Sicilian as a stick of Blackpool rock. “Would you expect to hear from Mrs. Hollingsworth if she’s away for any length of time?”

“Probably not. She was an acquaintance rather than a friend. But that does not mean one is not concerned.”

“Indeed. And have you discussed this with anyone else?”

“Only Cubby—my innamorato.” The Chief Inspector kept his face straight by a supreme effort of will. “He feels it’s really none of our business but then he’s getting on a bit for any sort of arsy-varsy. Fruit-bottling, making faggots and appliqué embroidery—that’s all he’s good for. Typical male. That’s a nasty cough you’ve got there, Inspector.”

“No, no.” Barnaby wiped his eyes. “I’m fine.”

He got up then and Mrs. Molfrey got up too, pushing on the tubular steel arms of her chair for leverage and looking crisply about her.

“Thank you for coming, Mrs.—”

“Don’t I get a form to fill in?”

“Just leave the Hollingsworths’ address with the desk sergeant.”

“They do on The Bill.”

“I can assure you, Mrs. Molfrey, the matter will be looked into.” He’d get a call put through to the village beat officer. Get him to ask around discreetly. She sounded reasonably compos mentis but might well have got completely the wrong end of the stick. The last thing the station needed was complaints of wrongful accusation.

Barnaby came round from behind his desk to open the door. As he did so, Mrs. Molfrey held out her hand. The Chief Inspector enclosed the tiny, withered claw utterly in the spread of his palm. She was very small, the wavy brim of her picture hat level with the tip of his tie. Her raspberry smeared lips parted in a smile of great sweetness as she looked up at him through those preposterous eyelashes and said, “I’m sure we shall work very well together.”

After she had left, he sat shaking his head for a moment in amused disbelief then took the stop off his calls. Immediately the phone rang and the workaday world engulfed him.