Jigsaw Page 3

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

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

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘It is indeed. How very convenient!’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Let’s not anticipate problems,’ Rona said lightly.

  Parsonage Place led off to their left, a stone post barring all but pedestrian access. On their right stretched a terrace of some dozen houses, each double-fronted, with a small lawn in front of it and a neatly painted gate. On their left, a low wall ran the length of the road, and parking places were marked out on the tarmac in front of it. Most of them were occupied. Over the wall they could see the church and, farther along, a garden that must belong to the vicarage. The main entrance to the road was indeed at the far end, and it seemed to be from there that the houses were numbered.

  They walked the length of the terrace, noting the individual touches that distinguished almost identical houses. Some front doors were glazed, some painted in bright colours. One garden had been paved over, with a terracotta pot in pride of place. Others displayed varying degrees of care, some of the grass being in need of a cut.

  Number two, almost at the end, had a solid wooden door and its garden was simply lawn, with no flowerbeds. Rona’s knock was answered at once, by a woman about her age with dark, straight hair and a sweet smile. She held out her hand.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Parish?’ she said. ‘I’m Nuala Banks. Do come—’ She broke off as she caught sight of Gus. ‘Oh, I’m sorry – would you mind leaving him outside? Unfortunately my son’s allergic to dogs. Perhaps you could tie his lead to the gate?’

  ‘Of course.’ Max did so, but Rona felt a shaft of disappointment; it seemed she wouldn’t have Gus’s company during her visits to Buckford.

  They found themselves in a narrow hallway, with stairs rising in front of them. There were a couple of doors on the right and one on the left, while beyond the stairs the passage continued to what was presumably the kitchen. Nuala Banks opened the left-hand door and showed them into a long room that extended the depth of the house. The far end doubled as a dining room, and through the French windows they could see a garden with a swing and climbing frame.

  ‘Please sit down.’ As they did so, she turned to Rona. ‘Mr Breen said you’d be coming for a couple of nights a week?’ she began hesitantly.

  ‘Yes, just for a month in the first instance. I don’t know if he told you, but I’m a journalist, and I’m planning to write some articles about Buckford. Since we live in Marsborough, it seems sensible to spend some days up here while I’m doing my initial research. And I should explain that Rona Parish is my professional name, which, admittedly, I use most of the time, though officially I suppose I’m Mrs Allerdyce.’

  Nuala Banks nodded. ‘I think I’ve heard of you,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I’ve read something of yours?’

  Rona avoided Max’s eye, knowing he disliked the publicity which, earlier in the year, had catapulted her into the headlines. She said obliquely, ‘I write for Chiltern Life.’

  ‘Then I must have seen it at the dentist. But I owe you an explanation, too: you’ll be my first paying guest, so this is by way of an experiment.’ Her eyes dropped. ‘My husband left me three years ago, and things have been a bit straitened lately. When you said you were looking for somewhere, Mr Breen kindly thought it might help.’

  Nuala Banks had been more honest in her explanation than she had, Rona thought ruefully. ‘I’m so sorry. You have a little boy, you said?’

  ‘Yes, Will. He’s ten. My father lives with us, too. Since his accident, he can’t go upstairs, so he has the room across the hall as a bedsitter. That’s why, though we have only three bedrooms upstairs, there’s one spare. Perhaps you’d like to see it?’

  They followed her up the steep staircase to the first floor, where she opened the door to one of the front rooms.

  ‘It’s a bit basic,’ Nuala said apologetically. ‘All Dad’s furniture moved downstairs with him. Still, the washbasin’s handy. We have only the one bathroom, I’m afraid, though there’s a loo and shower room downstairs.’

  ‘It looks very comfortable,’ Rona said. The room was large and square, with a double bed under an old-fashioned candlewick spread. The only other items of furniture were a wardrobe, a dressing-table with a frilled valance, and an armchair. She walked to the window and leaned on the sill. Over to the left she could see the church set in its grounds, while immediately opposite, at the end of a long, rambling garden, was the han
dsome stone house they’d assumed to be the vicarage. Nearer the wall, about a third of the way down the garden, an overgrown summerhouse nestled against the hedge.

  ‘There’s a clock radio by the bed,’ Nuala was saying, ‘and if you’d like television, you could borrow the small portable from the kitchen.’

  ‘I think I can manage two nights a week without one,’ Rona smiled, turning from the window. ‘I spend most evenings working, anyway. What would be useful, though, would be a small table for my laptop and an upright chair, if that’s possible.’

  ‘Of course – no problem.’

  ‘Well, if you’re prepared to take me on, I’d be more than happy to come.’

  ‘We haven’t mentioned finances,’ Nuala began tentatively, ‘but I’ve not really had time to—’

  ‘If it would help, I could pay for the whole week,’ Rona offered, and as Nuala started to protest, she went on quickly, ‘You’ll be holding it for me even when I’m not here, which means you can’t let it to anyone else.’

  ‘I wouldn’t even consider it,’ Nuala said firmly. ‘As I said, this is a new venture, and no one’s likely to be queuing up.’

  ‘If you’re sure then. Incidentally, will it be bed and breakfast, or would an evening meal be available? If not, it doesn’t matter; I’m sure I could eat at the pub.’

  Nuala lifted her shoulders helplessly. ‘Again, this has all happened so quickly, I’ve not thought it through. But you’d be welcome to eat with us, if that would help?’

  ‘It’d be fine, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to impose on your family life, but as I said, I’d spend the evenings working in my room so I shouldn’t get in your way. As to your charges, why don’t we leave it till you’ve had a chance to discuss them with someone?’

  Nuala Banks looked relieved. ‘That would be great, thanks. I’ll let you know in a day or two. Have you any idea when we can expect you?’

  Rona glanced at Max. ‘It won’t be this coming week – I’ve a few things to sort out. How about a week on Monday, which will be – what? – the sixteenth? It’ll always be Monday and Tuesday nights that—’

  She broke off as a voice from downstairs called loudly, ‘Mum? There’s a dog tied to the gate. Did you know?’

  They smiled at each other and moved out on to the landing, looking down at the boy who stood with a foot on the bottom stair. He had his mother’s dark hair and eyes and was dressed in some kind of camouflage outfit.

  ‘Jungle warfare,’ Nuala Banks explained softly. Then, raising her voice, ‘This is Mr and Mrs Allerdyce, Will, and the dog belongs to them. Mrs Allerdyce will be staying with us for a couple of nights a week, though she’ll leave the dog at home. Say hello to her.’

  ‘Hi,’ the boy said, suddenly shy.

  ‘Hello, Will. And it’s Rona, if that’s OK?’

  He nodded, standing aside for them as they came downstairs. Rona handed Nuala her card, and it was agreed that the terms should be decided by telephone over the next few days.

  They were halfway down the path when Max turned back to ask about a parking space across the road.

  ‘Officially there’s one per house, and three set aside for visitors, but not everyone has a car. There shouldn’t be a problem.’

  With the final detail settled, they untied the patently relieved Gus and made their way back to the pub for lunch.

  ‘Apparently that woman who did the school archives lives in Marsborough,’ Rona said, spearing a rogue tomato.

  ‘Fate!’ Max returned, with his mouth full.

  ‘I’ll look her up in the phone book when we get back.’

  ‘What do you want to do this afternoon?’

  ‘We never got our mooch, did we? And we certainly owe Gus a walk, after the indignity of being tied to the gate.’

  ‘Talking of Gus, I suppose you want me to dog-sit while you’re up here.’

  Rona shrugged. ‘I’d much prefer to have him with me, but it seems we’ve no choice.’

  Someone had left a copy of the local paper at the next table and, having finished his lunch, Max reached across for it.

  ‘Anything that could be useful?’ Rona enquired idly.

  ‘Typical local rag, by the look of it. Death and disaster on every page.’

  ‘Literally?’

  ‘Well, you know, the usual spate of burglaries and muggings and people dropping dead at their Golden Wedding party. That kind of thing.’

  ‘No murders?’ Rona asked lightly, and Max shot her a glance.

  ‘Not that I can see, thank God.’

  ‘There was quite a well-publicized one some years back. Lindsey mentioned it, and I came across it in the library archives.’

  ‘Came across it, or specifically looked for it?’

  Rona smiled. ‘A bit of both,’ she admitted. ‘No need to be apprehensive, though; this time it was all cut and dried and the murderer’s safely behind bars. Rather a sad case, actually. A drunk driver killed a child, got a light sentence, and was murdered by the child’s father on his release.’

  ‘So the court favoured the drunk driver over the bereaved father?’

  ‘“Cold-blooded” and “premeditated” figured a lot in the reporting, which I suppose is fair comment. He must have been dreaming it up all the time the driver was inside.’

  ‘And now his wife has neither her child nor her husband.’

  They were both silent for a moment, then Max tossed the paper back on to the chair.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go and have that walk.’

  Marsborough, developed during the eighteenth century, had the spacious elegance of Bath or Cheltenham. Buckford, several hundred years older, was quite different. According to the tourist brochure, there was an Old Town and a New Town, though as Rona remarked, they merged into one another and it was hard to tell where each started and ended.

  ‘For instance,’ she said, ‘the square we’ve just left is, it says here, at the heart of the old town, bordered by St Giles’s Church, the King’s Head pub and an ancient building now housing the post office. But more modern houses have been slotted in, haven’t they, such as the vicarage and the terrace in Parsonage Place, which I’d guess are both Victorian.’

  Beyond the square there was less ambiguity, and they found a maze of narrow streets and alleyways, hidden courtyards, and worn stone steps leading from one level to another. In many cases, the owners of the buildings had renovated their properties and, though careful to preserve their old-world charm, had turned them into boutiques, galleries and coffee shops.

  Max and Rona wandered through the streets, pausing to look at an ancient well, two buildings that met across a narrow alley, the Counting House and the town hall. Another square, with a stone cross in the centre, was the site of the weekly market, and sprawled down one side of it was St Stephen’s Primary School – presumably, as Rona remarked to Max, the one where Catherine Bishop had taught. The original building was unprepossessing, of dark stone and with small, high windows, but new classrooms had been built in the playground, with, doubtless, all the modern equipment education now demanded. St Stephen’s Church, its original sponsor, had, according to the guide book, collapsed back in the nineteenth century and the public library now stood on the site.

  ‘And here we are, back in the twenty-first century,’ Max commented, as they emerged from the cobbles to find themselves facing a glassed-in shopping mall. ‘Something to suit all tastes, I suppose.’

  ‘I think it melds together rather well,’ Rona said. ‘After all, building went on continuously over the centuries, so the changes were gradual. Our hotel dates from the 1920s, and even that’s old hat now.’

  ‘There’s certainly enough here to keep you busy,’ Max said. ‘You won’t forget you’ve a home to come back to, will you?’

  ‘No chance of that,’ Rona assured him, squeezing his arm, and added with a twinkle, ‘I’d miss Gus too much!’

  Beth Spencer stood at the window of her sitting room, watching her two sons racing rou
nd the garden. Saturday afternoon, and all over the town – the world, she thought wildly – families would be together, gardening, shopping, going to the cinema, spending what the newspapers called ‘quality time’ together. If she went out, she’d see fathers everywhere, pushing prams or carrying toddlers on their shoulders. That was why she stayed home on Saturdays.

  Would life ever get back to normal? she wondered. Even when Alan was eventually released, could they take up where they’d left off? When he’d been found guilty, she had wanted to scoop up the boys – her precious, remaining children – and flee the country. She couldn’t, of course. For one thing, the prison was here in Buckford, and Alan needed her as never before. For another, Harry had just joined Josh at the college, which, to her surprised gratitude, had been endlessly supportive of both them and her. And even more importantly, if she’d run away, everyone would have assumed she believed Alan was guilty, which was not and never had been the case.

  Admittedly, Lottie’s death had put an almost unbearable strain on their marriage, and instead of bringing them closer, seemed to have forced them apart. It was chiefly her fault, Beth acknowledged; because Charlotte had been with her father when she was killed, Beth had held Alan responsible, thereby adding to his own burden of guilt. Ironically, it had taken the death of Barry Pollard and Alan’s conviction for his murder that had brought them close again.

  Briefly, she wondered how preparations for the appeal were going. The trouble, as her solicitor had explained, was the weight of evidence against him – his undeniable motive, his presence at the murder scene, and – most damning of all – their own kitchen knife, smeared with the man’s blood and hidden in their garage.

  She put her hands to her head, fingers clutching her scalp. She must stop reliving it, or she’d go crazy. Tomorrow was a visiting day, and she must be her outwardly bright, optimistic self. All three of them depended on her for that.

  She turned from the window, and her eyes fell on the framed photograph that had been in all the papers: Lottie on her fourth birthday, with the whole of life before her. How could they have known, as they snapped her laughing at them, that her life was already almost over?