Authors: Pamela Oldfield
‘I know, but she likes to believe it’s just a matter of time and maybe . . .’ She shrugged. ‘And the money’s useful.’
‘I don’t deny that, Judith, but it’s false pretences. Write to her today and ask her to settle the account – just a nominal sum because I haven’t been looking for him. Run off a copy of the death certificate and send it with the letter.’
‘I did that two weeks ago.’
‘Send another one. Make it sound final. I’m going to be tied up with the Matlowe business again and I can’t be sidetracked by Mrs Montini and her whims.’ When he saw her expression he said, ‘Do the letter!’
‘Yes, Mr Watson!’ She only called him this when she was piqued.
He sipped his tea, reading eagerly but without discovering anything worthwhile until two pages from the end of the police report.
‘Judith, listen to this. Eight months after the disappearance, a body was found near here – close to the water’s edge in an area near Phyllis Court and . . .’
‘Phyllis Court? Should I know her?’ Judith tossed her head so that her auburn hair fluttered in its newly cut bob. Her husband liked it but her cousin had so far failed to notice it.
‘Don’t be flippant!’ He grinned across the desk at her. ‘Near the area
where the Phyllis House stand is erected
.’
‘Erected each year just for the regatta? Is that what we’re talking about?’
‘Exactly. The body of a young woman resembling Leonora Matlowe! Young, nice features and with blonde hair. The husband, Neil, had gone missing by then so they asked Georgina Matlowe if she would identify the body and she agreed.’
Judith stared at him, shocked. ‘How is it we knew nothing about this?’
‘I’m coming to that!’ He read aloud from the notes. ‘Mrs Matlowe immediately identified the body as that of her daughter-in-law and broke down in tears with the words: “Thank God this is over!”’
‘So how did she die? And when?’
‘Don’t hurry me, Judith.’
‘Sorry!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Fools rush in! I know!’
He read on. ‘
The body was originally adjudged to be that of Leonora Matlowe until the post-mortem was undertaken by Mr Eric Spencer. His examination produced the following evidence. The woman had been strangled and then thrown into the Thames. She had been in the water for up to two days
. . .’ He glanced up. ‘So why did Georgina Matlowe identify her? The body wouldn’t have changed much in a couple of days.’ He read on in silence, then added, ‘She was almost the same age, give or take a year, and had blonde hair . . . and was pretty.’
‘Height, etc.?’
‘Two inches shorter – but hard to tell that when a body is horizontal on a mortuary slab – and the same slim build.’ He tapped his pencil on the desk while he considered the facts. ‘I suppose Mrs Matlowe made a genuine mistake. It’s possible she wanted it to be Leonora so the uncertainty would be at an end.’
‘Ah! But if the police suspected her son, earlier on, of course, then the discovery of the body would bring the police nearer to finding the truth.’ Judith narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. ‘She wouldn’t have wanted that, surely.’
‘Unless it would help pinpoint the real killer. If Leonora had gone to stay with friends one of those might have done it.’
‘Fine friends they’d be!’ Judith tossed her head again but her cousin still failed to notice the bob.
‘Or she might,’ he said slowly, ‘have booked into a hotel under an assumed name and then fallen in with someone who eventually murdered her. Is that likely?’
Judith hesitated. ‘Anything’s possible.’
‘But it wasn’t Leonora! It was someone else. A woman called Eliza Broughton.’ Donald began to pace the small room, still clutching the police reports. ‘All we can do with this information is wonder why Georgina Matlowe was so quick to identify the wrong person. If, for instance, she suspected that Neil had killed his wife, surely her instincts would be to deny that the corpse resembled Leonora. To put them off discovering the truth.’
Judith nodded. ‘And if she didn’t suspect her son, she would be still thinking that Leonora might be with Neil . . . that they had found each other . . . and that they didn’t want Georgina to know.’
‘Maybe we’re missing something.’
‘Why don’t you go for one of your walks, Donald? It often clears your head.’
‘I think I will – and I’ll try and have a word with the Matlowes’ new governess. Someone on the inside would be invaluable.’
Minutes later he left the office, and she watched him from the window as he strode purposefully along, his mind no doubt filled with exciting possibilities. ‘You’ll get there in the end,’ she muttered and turned her thoughts to the composition of poor Mrs Montini’s final letter.
Georgina sat in the corner armchair of her sister’s service flat and watched with barely disguised irritation as the twins and the two other children raced round a circle of chairs, waiting for the music to stop. Even as a child herself, Georgina had never liked games that involved pushing, shoving or screaming. When Ivan had suggested Musical Chairs, she had groaned aloud but her sister, always a bit of a hoyden in Georgina’s opinion, had clapped her hands with delight, organized the chairs and rushed to seat herself at the ancient but well-tuned piano.
Ivan, confined to a wheelchair, watched with excitement. He was thin and pale with huge brown eyes and his head was shaved. Sickly was the word for him, Georgina thought, regarding him uneasily. She felt a frisson of compassion but it was followed by one of satisfaction that her own grandchildren were hale and hearty.
Screams erupted as ‘John Brown’s Body’ came to an abrupt stop and the excited children scrambled for the remaining chairs. Ida turned from the piano, laughing, to find Edie was without a seat.
‘Never mind, dear,’ Ida cried. ‘You can come and stand by me but first I must take away another chair! Oh, this is getting so exciting!’ She caught Georgina’s eye and winked then turned back to the piano. ‘What shall I play next?’ she asked Edie.
‘Pop Goes the Weasel.’
‘Pop Goes the Weasel? Right you are! Your wish is my command!’
Georgina did her best to ignore her surroundings and thought instead about the cook’s complaint regarding the butcher, who apparently made too many mistakes with the orders, and her suggestion they change to another butcher. It sounded sensible but Georgina was reluctant to take advice from one of the servants. She thought longingly about the days when she was younger and she and her husband entertained friends to dinner. Somehow everything had seemed to work like clockwork without all these aggravating problems – unless it was a case of distance lending enchantment to the view.
She watched Emmie rushing red-faced around the last chair. It was a pity they took after their mother in looks and not their father – it was a permanent reminder of something she preferred to forget – but hopefully they might grow out of it. She took a surreptitious glance at the clock. Not that it would help, to know the time, but a little of her sister’s company went a long way.
When the game ended Ida produced five small jigsaws and gave the children one each. ‘Now we’re going to have a little competition. The person who finishes the jigsaw first is the winner,’ she told the children, who had settled obediently around the table while Ivan was wheeled close enough. ‘Look on the box the jigsaws come in and you will see your picture – that’s the way. Yours is a train, Edie, Emmie’s is a bus. Let me see . . . Ivan, yours is a boat with white sails . . .’
‘I like boats!’ he said.
‘That’s good then, dear.’ She patted his shoulder.
Emmie, flushed with victory from the Musical Chairs asked, ‘Is there a prize?’
Georgina stiffened. ‘You shouldn’t ask, Emmie. It’s not polite.’ A little too forward, like her mother. She sighed.
‘A nice red apple is the prize,’ Ida told her, smiling. ‘Now is everyone ready? Ready, steady, start!’
Ida then beckoned Georgina into the kitchen where Ivan’s mother had provided a platter of paste sandwiches, a plate of butterfly cakes and a yellow jelly. ‘She has a dentist’s appointment, poor woman. She suffers with her teeth.’
Ida indicated a chair by the kitchen table and her sister sat down warily, aware that Ida was watching her with that concerned look on her face.
Ida said, ‘You look very tired, Georgie. Is it all getting too much for you? Bringing up the girls, I mean.’
‘I hate being called Georgie. You know I do.’ She also hated being told she looked tired because immediately she
felt
tired.
‘Sorry, sorry! But you do look a bit pasty. You’re probably overdoing things. You should have kept Nanny. I did my best to persuade you.’
‘It was none of your business . . . and anyway, it was for her own good. She was getting on in years, for heaven’s sake!’
‘But she was all they had left, with both parents gone.’
‘They had me, didn’t they? Really, Ida!’ She pursed her lips. ‘The last thing two lively children need is a faded old woman who spent her time talking about their vanished mother. She claimed it was to keep Leonora fresh in their minds but I know better. She did it to spite me; to encourage the girls to compare me with their mother!’
‘Oh what nonsense! Why on earth should she try to disparage you?’
‘You weren’t there, Ida. You cannot possibly understand what went on.’
Ida held up her hands in mock surrender. ‘Please yourself, dear, but the fact remains, you do look very tired. I’d hate you to have a heart attack or something. Then where would the twins be?’ Swiftly changing the subject, she prattled on. ‘I thought the jigsaws would keep them busy for a while, because I need to talk to you about this man who called last week. Has he been in touch with you? His name is Richard Preston.’
Georgina frowned. ‘Richard? I don’t think I know the name but . . . something at the back of my . . .’ She blinked suddenly. ‘Preston? That was Leonora’s maiden name, but it can’t . . . Are you sure it was Preston?’ Her eyes widened fearfully. ‘Leonora’s father was quite ill last time I heard from them. The usual Christmas card. I don’t know why they bother – I never send them one. Preston. It must be a coincidence.’
Please God let it be a coincidence
, she prayed silently.
‘Oh no, Georgie, this wasn’t the father. It was a young man.’
‘I don’t understand.’ She stared at her sister. Keep calm, she told herself. Count to ten. Do not let her see that you are upset.
But Ida, tying a ribbon around the birthday cake, wasn’t looking at her. ‘It was Leonora’s brother. Her younger brother. In fact her only brother.’
Georgina felt her heart beat faster. ‘Leonora’s brother called on you? Here? He’s in England?’ Her voice faltered as the shock set in.
‘No, no, not here in person,’ Ida explained, arranging seven small candles on Ivan’s birthday cake. ‘Poor little lad. Just to think that he will die before his . . .’
‘Ida! For heaven’s sake, don’t tell me this is all starting again. The trouble about Leonora. This younger brother . . .’
‘He’s only in his early twenties and sounded very nice. Polite. Respectful. No, he’s not here yet but he explained what he wanted. I thought he would have called you already. He’ll get in touch, I’m sure, so you’ll meet him.’
‘What . . . what does he want with us?’ Georgina leaned forward, one hand on her heart.
Ida stood back and admired the cake. ‘I made it for Ivan specially. It’s a lemon sponge because he doesn’t like fruit cake. His mother said this is his favourite. My little present to him.’ She tilted it towards Georgina. ‘See – his name and “Happy Birthday”. And I made a lucky dip for them. Just a few sweeties. Sugar mice and lollipops. Blue wrapping paper for the boys and pink for the girls.’
Georgina was taking deep breaths and now she forced herself to sit a little straighter. ‘So . . . young Richard Preston. You were telling me, Ida?’
‘He telephoned. Said he was only sixteen when his sister disappeared and now he’s older he wants to find her before his father dies – to set his mind at rest. Or if not to find her, to learn what happened to her.’ Ida glanced up at her sister. ‘He hardly mentioned his mother, which was odd.’
Georgina steadied her voice before speaking. ‘I understand she took to drink – with the grief. That was the last I heard. It was all so dreadful.’
‘And you didn’t keep in contact with the Prestons? I never understood that. I thought surely you would want to know if Leonora had returned home safely.’
Georgina did not like the way the conversation was going. She felt an implied criticism in her sister’s questions. She said sharply, ‘You have no idea, Ida, what that family put me through.’
‘Meaning Leonora.’
‘Meaning the family. Her parents wrote a very unpleasant letter after she . . . after Leonora walked out. They seemed to suggest that I was somehow to blame! Their daughter ruined my son’s life and also mine. She . . . she abandoned her children.
My grandchildren.
Did the parents offer any condolences for her behaviour? Not a word!’
‘But in your shoes I . . .’
‘You were never in my shoes,’ Georgina snapped, ‘so you cannot understand. No, I did not want to keep in touch with the family. Leonora was jealous because Neil and I . . .’ She tried to swallow but her throat was dry. ‘She wanted to be the only woman in his life. Some women are like that. Selfish. It was because of her that I lost Neil. If he hadn’t insisted on trying to find her when she didn’t want to be found he might still be alive. The car crash . . .’
‘You poor thing. I know how you must have felt.’
Georgina’s eyes glittered. ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Ida! I’ve just explained at length that you could not possibly know how I felt. You’ve never had a child!’ She felt herself starting to tremble and made an effort to calm down.
Ida was now whisking cream to add to the jelly, which she felt looked too plain for a special birthday party. She said, ‘Richard Preston wanted to know what I thought had happened to send Leonora off like that. He said she was so in love with Neil – he couldn’t believe she would have left him so suddenly. Or ever! She said it was a match made in heaven and the family adored Neil. Richard said he knows his sister would never have left her husband and children.’