Person or Persons Unknown (3 page)

As Tom began to pour the drinks, Avril came to her feet. ‘Well, now you're all here, I'd better go and dish up.'

‘Hang on a minute,' Tom protested mildly. ‘Let them get their breath back and enjoy their drinks.'

‘I did say twelve thirty,' Avril reminded them sharply, reluctantly sitting down again.

Rona glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes to one. ‘Sorry, but we're not pressed for time, are we?'

‘Of course not!' Tom replied emphatically.

Avril threw him a venomous glance. ‘Then don't blame me if the beef's overdone.'

There was a short silence. Oh God, God, God! Rona thought desperately. They'd not been here five minutes and already there was trouble brewing.

She addressed herself to Lindsey. ‘What have you been doing since I last saw you?'

Lindsey sipped her drink with a self-satisfied air. ‘Oh, wining, dining and so on.'

‘New fella?'

‘New fella.'

‘You've met someone?' Tom asked eagerly.

‘I told you, Pops. He's a colleague from work.'

‘Married?' demanded Avril sharply.

Lindsey shrugged and did not reply. Rona avoided Max's eye.

‘Well, at least it's not that Hugh,' Avril continued. ‘Thank goodness you finally saw sense over him.'

Lindsey's hand tightened on her glass, and Rona's heart ached in sympathy. ‘What's his name, your new man?' she asked brightly.

‘Jonathan Hurst.'

‘Are we going to meet him?'

‘Probably, in due course.'

‘Bring him to supper, if you like.'

‘Thanks,' Lindsey said gratefully, adding with a grin, ‘When Max is home, of course!'

‘That goes without saying!'

Rona loathed cooking, and on his evenings at home, Max was in sole charge of the cuisine.

Avril stood up again. ‘Right, you've got two minutes to finish your drinks, then lunch will be on the table.'

She left the room and Rona took a quick sip of her vodka.

‘Don't rush it,' Tom said quietly. ‘If necessary, you can take it through with you.'

‘Thanks, Pops.' She glanced across at him, unprepared for the lurch her heart gave as their eyes met and held. God, she thought in confusion, he's really unhappy! Somehow, that aspect hadn't occurred to her. How long had he been feeling like this? And had Catherine Bishop anything to do with it? For the moment she didn't care. She simply wanted to jump up and put her arms round him.

‘Ready for carving, Tom,' Avril called, and with a heavy heart Rona went through with the rest of them for Sunday lunch.

R
ona's thoughts continued to circle round her father and Catherine Bishop for the rest of the weekend.

Up in her study on Monday morning, she took out the scrapbooks detailing the schools' histories, telling herself it was time to stop procrastinating and complete the article on education. Weeks ago, she remembered, Mrs Bishop had left a message about something that might interest her, but, thrown off-balance by the unexpected sighting, Rona had never returned the call. Should she do so now? Would meeting her shed any light on the situation with her father?

Before her resolve could weaken, she checked the number and lifted the phone.

‘Mrs Bishop,' she said quickly, when the quiet, remembered voice sounded in her ear. ‘It's Rona Parish. I'm – sorry I've taken so long to get back to you. I believe you wanted to speak to me?'

There was a fractional pause, then: ‘How nice to hear from you, Miss Parish. Yes, I did come across something. It mightn't be of interest, but I remembered your saying it was the offbeat rather than the factual that you were looking for.'

‘That's right.' Rona moistened dry lips. Should she suggest—?

‘If it's convenient, perhaps you could call round and have a look at it?'

How stilted they sounded! Rona thought despairingly, as she accepted the invitation.

‘And do bring your delightful dog with you,' Catherine Bishop added, a smile in her voice.

Gus had broken the ice last time, Rona remembered. Perhaps he would again.

It was arranged that she should call at the bungalow the following morning, but the moment she rang off, misgivings swamped her. Suppose Mrs Bishop started talking about Pops? Should she admit to having seen them?

She pushed back her chair and went to switch on the cafetière. Then, a mug of coffee in her hand, she moved to the window and looked down on the small paved garden behind the house. In the plots on either side, a drift of leaves, brittle after the long, dry summer, had been dislodged by last night's wind and lay scattered on the grass. In their own, however, it was Rona rather than nature who set the pace, the only signs of the changing seasons the succession of flowers she planted in the tubs.

With a sigh she turned from the window and went back to her desk.

In the event, the article was not as onerous as she'd anticipated; she'd made copious notes while up in Buckford, and reading them brought back vivid memories of her visits to the schools, some of which dated from the sixteenth century. Material from Mrs Bishop's scrapbooks, which she had permission to use, helped to lighten the content, giving a human angle to the progression of education in the town.

By the time Max phoned that evening, the article was virtually finished. All that remained was to include, if she so wished, whatever Mrs Bishop had to show her.

‘And that's the end of the exercise?' Max asked, when she reported on her day's work.

‘Not quite; I'll have to go back with Andy for the last batch of photos. We've done the comparison bit – then and now. This time, I want original buildings that have remained virtually unchanged. And when all that's wrapped up,' she added, ‘I'll have to decide what to do next.'

‘Any ideas?'

‘Not really, but Barnie has some thoughts. I'll have another chat with him.'

Barnie Trent was the features editor at
Chiltern Life
, a glossy monthly
for which Rona occasionally wrote freelance. He and his wife were also personal friends.

‘That reminds me,' Max said. ‘I bumped into him in Guild Street at lunch time. They're expecting Mel and the children at the weekend.'

‘Really? He didn't mention it last week.'

‘It blew up suddenly; Mitch is being sent to the Gulf, and as he'll be away for a couple of months, it was decided Melissa and the kids should come over here. Also, the shorter distance will make it easier for him to fly back for the odd weekend.'

‘Dinah will be ecstatic to have them for so long.'

‘No doubt, but Barnie's anticipating some disturbed nights. The baby's still not sleeping through.'

Rona laughed. ‘He'll survive,' she said.

Rona herself didn't sleep well that night – an unusual occurrence for her. Her mind circled continuously round Mrs Bishop and their coming meeting, dreading an awkwardness between them that hadn't been present at their first meeting. Any hint of embarrassment on her part would be a clear indication of her suspicions regarding her father, and, as she kept reminding herself, apart from that one glimpse of them together, she had nothing on which to base them. Nothing, that is, except the worsening atmosphere between her parents.

With an exclamation of impatience she sat up, punched her pillow into shape and, lying down again, firmly closed her eyes.
Che sera, sera
, she told herself philosophically, and finally went to sleep.

Whether or not Gus remembered his last visit three months earlier, he again went bounding down the path ahead of her, and, when Catherine Bishop opened the door, licked the hand she held out to him. As Rona had hoped, it helped to break the ice, and they were able to greet each other without the reserve she'd been dreading.

The morning was overcast and a cool wind ruled out sitting on the patio as they had before. Instead, Catherine invited her to take a seat in the room she'd only walked through on her last visit, and, alone for a minute, Rona looked about her. Like Catherine herself, it had an air of understated elegance: the wood of the spindly-legged chairs and bureau glowed warmly, the sofa and easy chairs were deep and comfortable. Two silver-framed photographs stood on the mantelpiece, one a man's head and shoulders, the other of a bride and groom, and the prints on the walls, cool and shimmering with light, were by some of the lesser-known Impressionists. Beyond the patio doors lay the remembered garden, still a blaze of colour. Rona drew a cautious breath of relief. So far, so good.

Gus settled himself at her feet as Catherine brought in a tray of coffee. In the intervening months, though she'd been constantly in Rona's thoughts, precise details of her appearance had become blurred, but seeing her again, Rona once more experienced that feeling of calm – which, she thought with a flash of unwelcome intuition, must be so restful for her father in contrast to her mother's spikiness.

Catherine poured the coffee and handed a cup to Rona.

‘You've had a difficult time since we last met, haven't you?' she observed. ‘I'm sorry your Buckford assignment proved so traumatic, but at least you put right a grave injustice.'

‘Yes,' Rona murmured inadequately. Not wanting to pursue that line, she added quickly, ‘I feel very guilty, keeping your scrapbooks for so long.' She bent to take them out of her briefcase and laid them beside her on the sofa. ‘Thank you so much for lending them to me. They were fascinating.'

‘I'm glad they proved useful. I'm really enjoying the articles, by the way; the complete set will be an invaluable collection.'

She offered Rona a plate of biscuits. ‘The reason I wanted to see you,' she continued, reseating herself, ‘was because I came across some papers at the back of my desk. They'd been lent to me when I was compiling the College history, and must have been overlooked when I returned the rest. I thought you might find them interesting.'

She smiled, savouring the moment. ‘Forty-five years ago, Middle School held a mock election and pupils were required to write their own manifestos. One of them was by a certain James Latymer, aged thirteen.'

Rona put down her coffee cup. ‘Really? Talk about coming events casting their shadows! I remember now, he was mentioned among famous old boys in the brochure. I should have interviewed him at the time, about education in his day.'

‘Presumably you still could.'

Rona nodded. ‘Oddly enough,' she went on, ‘my husband has been commissioned to paint his portrait. He's working on it at the moment.'

‘Now that
is
a coincidence. I'd forgotten he was an artist.'

Rona didn't recall ever having mentioned it. Had Pops? She said quickly, ‘Yes, he has quite a broad range – landscapes, still life, portraits. He also gives evening classes, and teaches at the art school one day a week.'

‘A busy schedule,' Catherine said smilingly. As soon as she'd spoken, she'd realized her gaffe, recalling too late that it had been Tom who'd mentioned his son-in-law's profession. ‘I must look out for his work. What's his name again?'

‘Max Allerdyce. He designed the latest set of postage stamps, but it's not been issued yet.'

‘Versatile, as you said! Does he give exhibitions?'

‘From time to time, yes.'

‘I'm particularly interested,' Catherine went on diffidently, ‘because I belong to an art appreciation society. Every so often we embark on a special project, selecting an artist, past or present, and studying his life and works in depth. We visit galleries, his birthplace if relevant, and any other places connected with his painting, accompanied by an expert on that artist. Is there any chance at all we might approach your husband?'

Rona smiled, shaking her head. ‘I'm afraid not, it's just not Max's thing. He's been asked several times in various connections, and always turned it down.'

‘Ah well, it's our loss. Have you actually met James Latymer?'

‘No. Max says he's pleasant enough, for a politician!'

‘It might be amusing to show him the manifesto, and ask if his priorities have changed.'

‘A leading question, certainly, but I can't see him answering it!'

Catherine went to the bureau and took out several dog-eared sheets of lined paper, which she handed to Rona. The writing was a forward-sloping scrawl, and there were some succinct comments in red ink in the margin.

‘I suppose you'd need his permission to quote from it?'

‘No question.' Rona was scanning the top sheet. ‘Apart from common courtesy, it's his copyright.' She flicked a glance at the sheet beneath. ‘May I take it home with me?'

‘Of course, but I'll need it back eventually; I shall have to return it to the College with suitable apologies.'

Which, Rona thought, would involve her in another visit – unless she opted out and posted it back.

As she was leaving a few minutes later, Catherine remarked, ‘I met your sister in town. Did she tell you?'

‘She mentioned it, yes.'

‘I'd no idea you had a twin, and naturally I mistook her for you. I felt very foolish.'

‘No need to, lots of people do.'

‘Actually, as soon as I spoke to her, I began to have doubts. You're not quite identical, are you?'

‘Not to people who know us, though if we try, we can create quite a bit of confusion!'

‘I can well believe it!' Catherine said.

She stood at the door as Rona and the dog went down the path and got into the car, returning her wave as she drove away. Then she closed the door and returned to the sitting room, staring down at the tray of coffee cups as she thought over the visit. She'd hoped to learn, by some process of osmosis, whether or not Rona had seen her with Tom that evening, but she still couldn't be sure. Either she hadn't, or she was playing Catherine at her own game. And Catherine realized, despairingly, that she'd been hoping the outcome of this meeting would help her decide what to do.