Authors: Pamela Oldfield
‘I haven’t lost interest but it’s a bit lonely on my own. I know you have to be here, there and everywhere for your photographs but that leaves me with no one to talk to.’
He shrugged. ‘Bring a friend with you.’
Davina brightened. ‘What a good idea. I’ll try and think of someone.’
‘They are sure to put on a splendid show for the King and Queen.’ He regarded her hopefully.
‘I wonder if Princess Mary will come with them.’
‘Anything’s possible. Which day are they coming?’
‘On the Saturday. I suppose they want to be there for the prizegiving and the end of regatta celebrations. Can we beat the opposition this year, do you think? First it was the Belgians and now the Australians!’
‘We can try! So you’ll come this year?’
‘Probably. I’ll ask Mary if she’ll come with us. I’m sure she would if we could get tickets for the Enclosure – then we could watch from the Grandstand.’ Davina crossed her fingers. This was a familiar argument.
He was already shaking his head. ‘You know that’s out of the question. The only people who get into either are the stewards, rowers, their families and invited guests. A very select group!’
‘And photographers aren’t select enough!’ She grinned at him. ‘Never mind, Ted. I’d still like to come with you. I might need a new hat, though!’
He laughed. ‘I thought you’d say that!’
‘And . . .?’
‘A new hat? Why not!’
He had only been gone five minutes when someone rang the front door bell. The daily help was not due until ten o’clock so Davina hurried to answer it and found a man she vaguely recognized on the doorstep.
‘Mrs Barnes?’ He smiled. ‘I wonder if you remember me?’ He handed her a card.
Davina took it but she looked more closely at him and recognized him. One blue eye was slightly darker than the other. She tried to recall his name without referring to the card.
‘Donald Watson!’ she said and a smile of triumph spread over her face, lighting up her plain features.
‘At your service!’
‘Private Investigator
extraordinaire
!’
‘Indeed.’ He smiled at the compliment.
She had no idea what he could want but she opened the door to allow him to come in. ‘My husband is in the dark room so I dare not interrupt him but we can have a cup of tea, if you’d like that, while we wait for him.’
He followed her into the lounge and Davina felt the first flutter of excitement. Was Mr Watson on another case? It was six or more years – maybe eight – since he had been involved with the Matlowes and although that had been a harrowing business at the time, life had seemed rather tame when it ended.
Without thinking, she asked, ‘Have they found Mrs Matlowe – Leonora, I mean? I still live in hope.’
‘Not to my knowledge.’ He opened the buttons of his jacket and sat down.
Surely not the same grey suit, she thought, surprised. He had become quite well-known at the time of the young mother’s disappearance and Davina would have expected him to look a little more affluent by now.
As if reading her thoughts he grinned and at once looked much younger. Not that she knew his age but she prided herself on being able to make an informed guess and thought thirty was quite likely.
He said, ‘This is my “looking inconspicuous” suit. It doesn’t pay to look too upper class – no offence meant – when you need to blend into the background. I look on this faithful old suit as my private investigator’s uniform!’
Flustered, she retreated and came back with a tray of tea for one, explaining that they had only just finished breakfast.
He glanced out of the French windows at the hedge that separated the Barnes’ garden from that of the Matlowes. ‘It doesn’t seem long ago that we were all trying to make sense of what happened next door.’
‘And failing dismally!’ Davina rolled her eyes. ‘And here you are again. I’m wondering why.’ Receiving no reply, she went on. ‘So they really haven’t found Leonora?’
‘I do have news,’ he said cautiously, ‘but if you don’t mind I’ll wait for your husband to join us and tell you both at the same time. But how are things with you and the neighbours? Everything peaceable?’
Needled that she was not going to learn anything before Edward did, Davina smiled sweetly and took her time pouring the tea. ‘How many sugars? Two, isn’t it?’ She handed him cup and saucer. ‘Your mother keeping well? I remember she had a nasty turn when you were last here.’
‘I’m afraid she had another turn for the worse and she died two years ago.’
‘Oh, Mr Watson! I’m so sorry. A peaceful passing, I hope.’
He nodded. ‘She died in her sleep without pain.’
‘That’s what we all hope for, Mr Watson.’ Unable to wait any longer with her own news she said, ‘We have a new governess next door. The previous one only lasted a few weeks. I’m hardly on speaking terms with Georgina Matlowe but that’s just because she goes out of her way to avoid her neighbours.’
‘So how did you hear about the governess?’
‘I see Mrs Brannigan once a month at our sewing circle and she keeps me up to date. The children talk to her through the hedge.’ She frowned. ‘I must say that Georgina Matlowe has rather withdrawn from the rest of us. Dropped out of the ladies’ luncheon group soon after it happened but still plays bridge . . . But the strangest thing is that she no longer attends church and she used to be a regular churchgoer, come rain or shine.’
He shrugged. ‘Tragedy takes people in different ways,’ he offered. ‘I knew a young woman once who came home from work to find both her parents dead.’
‘Good Lord! Had they been murdered?’
‘No. The coroner’s verdict was that the father collapsed and died of a heart attack and then the wife found him some time later and died of shock. But the daughter, poor soul, went into a convent for a few months and is still there years later.’
‘Poor soul indeed. But I daresay she . . .’ There were footsteps on the stairs. ‘Ah, here comes Ted.’
As soon as Edward was seated, their visitor began. ‘As you know I was engaged by Neil Matlowe’s family when Leonora went missing, to try to discover her whereabouts, and this was during and after the police investigation. Neither of us found any clues. There was no sign of her in America, either, and at some stage everyone lost hope and the investigation was ended.’
Edward said, ‘You all did your best. It was nearly three years before the police finally gave up on the case.’
Donald Watson nodded. ‘No one is blaming anyone on that score. But I have learned that something did come to light about eighteen months ago. The Prestons – that is Leonora’s American family – discovered that Neil Matlowe had been found dead four years ago – killed in a car crash in Nebraska of all places.’
Husband and wife exchanged shocked glances.
She said, ‘In a car crash? Oh, the poor man!’ She turned to her husband. ‘We liked Neil, didn’t we, dear? Rather dominated by his mother, of course, but when he was offered the chance to go to America, he jumped at it – and met Leonora. He really wasn’t the sort of person to die in a car crash!’
Her husband said, ‘In Nebraska?’
Donald Watson nodded. ‘It seemed he’d been living under an assumed name – with a woman named Bella Williams. She told the police that he had confessed to her that he was on the run because when he’d left England he was afraid he’d be framed for a murder he didn’t commit . . .’
‘Be framed?’ Davina stared at him. ‘By whom?’
Ignoring the interruption he went on. ‘But Bella Williams didn’t believe he was the sort to murder anyone and she never would believe it.’
There was a short silence.
Davina said, ‘So he’s dead! Has been for years. That’s terrible!’
Her husband shook his head. ‘We never thought there had been a murder. Never. This Bella woman was right. Neil Matlowe wasn’t violent.’
‘Quite the opposite!’ said Davina. ‘I thought him very nicely brought up. Good manners. Quietly spoken. A gentle soul. I think the vivacious Leonora must have been quite a tonic for him!’
Edward nodded. ‘As you know, we understood that Leonora had run away after a series of rows with her mother-in-law. When he also left we didn’t know what to think.’
Davina said, ‘We supposed he had gone to find his wife who must have been quite distraught . . . But we told you all this at the time, Mr Watson. It must be in your reports.’ She frowned. ‘Do you think they’ll ever find her?’
‘I’m afraid not. I’ve been engaged to look again into what happened.’
‘Look again? By whom?’ Ted leaned forward in his chair.
‘By Leonora’s younger brother, Richard Preston. He was sixteen when it happened so now he must be about twenty-three.’
‘Good Lord!’ She looked at her husband. ‘Did we know Leonora had a brother?’
‘I don’t think we did.’
Donald Watson continued. ‘The Prestons never recovered from the loss of their daughter, apparently. The mother took to drink . . .’
Davina said, ‘They often do!’
Edward turned to her. ‘How would you know?’
Ignoring the reproof in his voice she said, ‘I think I might do something like that. Desperate measures . . .’
‘You don’t know what you’d do!’
‘I most assuredly wouldn’t go into a convent!’ she told him scathingly.
Hastily Donald Watson went on. ‘The father, Arnold Preston, has developed a serious lung condition and the doctors aren’t hopeful. The son wants to solve the mystery for his parents’ sakes as well as for his own.’
After a thoughtful silence Edward said, ‘So you’re here in your official capacity as a private investigator to rake over the coals, so to speak, and hopefully turn up new clues.’
‘Something like that.’
‘I doubt if we can help you, Mr Watson, much as we’d like to.’
His wife nodded. ‘The Brannigans might know something . . . or you could talk to the governess. Her name’s Marianne something. French, I think. She looks French anyway – dark hair, brown eyes.’
‘Lefevre,’ said Edward. ‘Marianne Lefevre. But she’s new. She wouldn’t know anything, would she? She probably doesn’t even know what happened – although she must wonder where the twins’ parents are.’
Donald Watson agreed, adding, ‘I’d be grateful if you would both keep your eyes and ears open for any bits of gossip or rumours. You know the drill from last time.’ He glanced again at his watch.
Edward said slowly, ‘So this time are we supposed to think there might have been foul play? A murder, even. Are the police involved again? Can we expect a visit from them?’
‘Not at this early stage but if anything suspicious surfaces . . .’
Davina placed a hand over her heart and lowered her voice. ‘You should talk to Mr Blunt, their gardener. He’s been with the Matlowes for donkey’s years. If anyone had to dig a grave, for instance . . .’
Her husband tutted. ‘A grave? For heaven’s sake, Davina! Your imagination is running away with you. All this poor brother wants is to find his sister – if she’s still alive. Which no doubt she is . . . even though she might have remarried.’
‘Which she can’t because she’s still Mrs Neil Matlowe!’ Her tone was triumphant.
Donald Watson raised his eyebrows.
‘Oh no! She isn’t, is she!’ she amended. ‘Now that Neil has died in a car crash . . . She’s a widow! If she knows he’s dead, that is.’ Seeing her husband’s warning look she stumbled to a halt.
The private investigator stood up. ‘It’s all very confused, Mrs Barnes, but these are questions I hope to answer. My brief is not to solve a crime but to find Leonora Preston, wherever she is. I’ve warned young Mr Preston that after all this time I am not very hopeful. I don’t want to give him false hope. I shall notify the police, naturally, before I start stomping all over their “patch”, as they call it. Only courteous to let them know I’m snooping around again. But if I unearth anything suspicious I shall pass it on to them.’
Davina said, ‘This younger brother – what is he like?’
Donald Watson shrugged. ‘Very young and sounds somehow earnest. A slightly heroic cast, if you know what I mean. Determined to right a wrong. That sort of thing.’
Davina nodded. ‘Riding to the rescue of his sister!’
‘Exactly.’
They both got up to see him out.
Edward said, ‘Let us know how things go, and if we can help, we will. Same telephone number, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘No glamorous new office?’
‘I fear not!’
Minutes later they stood together watching him walk away.
Davina’s eyes had narrowed, her husband noted with a sinking heart. She said, ‘Maybe it wasn’t an accident – Neil’s car crash, I mean. Maybe he killed his wife and the guilt drove him to suicide! He could have driven into something deliberately.’
‘And pigs could fly, Davina!’ He sighed loudly. ‘Make us another pot of tea, dear – it will calm you down.’
Two days later, as Donald Watson waited at the reception desk in Henley’s police station, Detective Sergeant Ackrow walked past, paused and turned back.
‘Watson! Is that you?’
‘It is indeed and I was just asking for you.’
The Detective Sergeant rolled his eyes. ‘What have I done to deserve this unexpected pleasure?’ Glancing at the clock on the wall he said, ‘I’m due at a meeting in half an hour but I can spare you a few minutes if it’s urgent.’
‘It’s urgent enough.’
‘Come through here then.’ He was a large man, large frame, large hands and feet and a large square face. His voice matched his size, and when he raised his voice, everyone sat up a little straighter. DS Ackrow led his visitor to a small room where they normally interrogated suspects. A gloomy room with sparse furniture and a single light bulb overhead from which dangled a sticky fly paper.
‘It’s about the Matlowe case,’ Donald explained, as they sat down. ‘And please spare me that look!’
‘What look?’
‘The one I recognize from seven years ago! There have been some new developments. I’ve had . . .’
‘Why do I know I’m not going to be happy about whatever this is!’ A look of resignation settled over the detective’s face, making him look lugubrious.
‘I’ve had contact with a young man named Richard Preston who is the—’
‘Preston? That rings a bell!’ He looked puzzled.