The Case of the Missing Morris Dancer Read online

  ‘And why hasn’t a fine man like yourself married, Mr Tudor Evans?’ asked Eustelle with a cheeky grin and a wink in her daughter’s direction.

  Tudor studied his shoes as he replied, ‘Never found a woman prepared to look past this horror of a face of mine and see the man inside, I suppose.’

  Eustelle sucked her teeth. Loudly. ‘Got to want to be seen, ain’t you,’ she said sagely, then added, ‘and where’s the toilet in this place?’

  Tudor’s head shot up and he gave Eustelle directions. ‘Top up?’ he asked, turning his attention to Annie. She nodded. ‘Nice woman your mam,’ he observed, pouring steadily. ‘Speaks her mind. Always best.’

  ‘Really?’ replied Annie. ‘I find it gets me into all sorts of trouble. Usually with Mavis.’

  Tudor smiled to himself, seemingly preoccupied for a moment as he picked up a gleaming glass and began to polish it. A little buzzer broke his reverie. ‘Ah, tidy. Grub’s up. I’ll just go and get it. Now would you and your mam like to sit up here at the bar to eat, or go to a proper table.’ He waved his arm at the empty pub. ‘You’ll be pressed to find a spot, but maybe I can squeeze you in somewhere.’

  With a plate of aromatic faggots, fluffy potatoes and suitably mushy peas, all topped with glistening gravy in front of them atop a little table near the fireplace, Annie and her mother oh-ed and ah-eh their way through a delicious meal.

  ‘See,’ said Annie, licking her lips as her mother finished her last two mouthfuls, ‘didn’t need the hot sauce, did it?’

  ‘Honest, child, you’d swear I force-fed you hot sauce against your will.’

  ‘You do, Eustelle. You put it on everything you ever serve me.’

  ‘And what do you do with the bottles I give you to use at home then? Pour it down the drain? No, you put it on your food like a good girl.’

  Annie nodded. ‘Yes, I do, Eustelle. I’m a good girl. Like you said, it’s what keeps me as thin as a rake, and able to eat what I want.’

  ‘Keeps the metabolism ticking over, child,’ said Eustelle, patting her daughter’s hand as though she were five years old.

  ‘You lovely ladies alright over by here, are you?’ Annie thought Tudor looked apprehensive as he approached the women, and wondered why.

  ‘Perfect, ta very much, Tudor,’ replied Annie brightly. ‘Eustelle and me both loved the faggots. You’ve got an earner there, I’d say. Better than everything we’ve eaten over at the Chellingworth Arms, in’t that right, Eustelle?’ She couldn’t work out her mother’s expression at all, which annoyed her because she’d just taken a course in reading body language, and facial expressions had been the test where she’d got the highest score. But her mother might as well have had a sack over her head for all that Annie could work out what she was thinking as she stroked her daughter’s hand and smiled.

  ‘You alright?’ she felt compelled to ask.

  Eustelle nodded her head slowly as she replied, ‘A mother never knows when it’ll happen, she can only be sure it will. And here we are.’

  ‘What’s up? Come on, Eustelle, you’re beginning to give me a turn.’ Annie’s voice conveyed the anxiety she felt.

  ‘Never better, child, but I am lookin’ forward to seein’ your father soon. Three weeks is a long time to be away.’

  That must be it, thought Annie.

  ‘You’ll all be at the wedding?’ asked Tudor sharply.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Annie with a grin. ‘Eustelle’s got a particular hat she wants to wear on Saturday, and Dad’s bringing it with him when he comes on the train. Then they’ll stay with me until Monday and get the train back to London together.’

  Annie thought Tudor looked pleased at her answer for some reason. He then noticed some people had come through the door and said, ‘If you’ll excuse me, I appear to have some other customers to serve. Why don’t you look at the menu to see if there’s anything sweet you fancy. The spotted dick with custard is very good, and, yes, it’s made right here.’

  Tudor left the Parker women to tend to his new customers and Eustelle leaned in to her daughter’s ear. ‘He’s lovely, Annie. Grab him with both hands, child, and don’t let go. This is it, child. This is it.’

  ‘Gordon Bennett! Pull yourself together, Eustelle,’ was all Annie could manage before she dragged her phone out of her handbag and answered the call she could see was coming in from Christine. ‘Chrissy’s on the phone. Why don’t you order me some afters and I’ll talk to her?’

  She turned on her seat to be able to concentrate on the call, which also allowed her to see Tudor in full ‘landlord’ mode. She had to admit, he was good at it.

  Putting the phone to her ear Annie said, ‘Hi Chrissy.’

  ‘Annie, don’t speak, just listen,’ said Christine breathlessly. ‘Alexander and I are in Brighton. As I said we’ve come to try to find something a bit special for the happy couple. Anyway, we’ve been poking about in the antique shops in The Lanes and I think I’ve found them!’

  ‘What?’ asked Annie.

  ‘The stuff. The Anwen Morris artefacts. I’m sure I’ve found them. I’ve taken some photos and I’m sending them to you. Can you find someone there to take a look at them and tell us if this is really the stuff that’s gone missing?’

  ‘Yes, I’m with Tudor. And Eustelle. At the pub. I can show Tudor. He’ll know.’

  ‘Are you alright, Annie? You sound a bit … off.’

  Annie held the phone in front of her face and cursed at it silently. Returning it to its rightful position she spoke as evenly as she could, ‘I’m fine, thank you. We’ve just enjoyed a lovely lunch of local faggots and we’re about to have spotted dick. With custard. But I’ll show Tudor the photos and phone you right back. Where are you exactly?’

  ‘Outside the shop with the swag, so hurry up ’cause it’s cold down here and I need something inside me to warm me up.’

  Annie grinned. ‘You mean like a nice cup of tea, I s’pose?’

  ‘Hardy-har-har, Annie. Yes, a nice cup of tea, and some fish and chips,’ replied Christine acerbically. ‘I’ll hang up so you can do your thing there.’

  Christine did as she’d said, and a moment later, when Tudor had served the two customers at the bar, Annie beckoned him over and showed him the photographs.

  Tudor took forever. At least, that’s how it felt to Annie. She fidgeted on her seat as he gave the photographs a good deal of attention.

  Eventually he said, ‘No. Not ours. Very similar, but they’re from North Wales. I know these pieces. They come from a team up there that originated in the flint mines. They packed it in – oh, it must be twenty years ago now. That would be how these are out there on the market. Mind you, I tell you what, if your friend could find out what they want for them, we might be in the market for some kit with a bit of history if our stuff’s gone forever. Could you ask her?’

  ‘You’re sure they aren’t the Anwen pieces?’ Annie knew her disappointment showed in her voice.

  ‘Positive.’ Tudor’s face told her he was, and she trusted his judgment.

  ‘I’ll give her a ring and tell her, and ask about the price too. Won’t be a tick.’ As Tudor wandered off to tend to his bar, Annie passed the disappointing news to Christine.

  ‘Two grand,’ she mouthed and gestured to Tudor.

  He mugged a belly laugh, then shook his head mouthing, ‘No way.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money for a few old sticks and some bells,’ observed Eustelle as Annie hung up and tucked her phone back into her handbag.

  ‘Maybe that’s why this lot have gone missing, along with the elusive Aubrey Morris,’ said Annie, grinning as she noticed a bowl mounded with spotted dick and glistening with sunshine-yellow custard. Her tummy rumbled.

  FOURTEEN

  Mavis’s morning visit to Aubrey Morris’s old teacher had been fascinating. And a little worrying. Mrs Iris Lewis was now a widow, well into her eighties and had a penchant for budgerigars. Her small cottage was filled with cages of all shapes and sizes, inside whi
ch lived, and chirped, her feathered companions. Mavis could see quite clearly that the creatures were delightfully colored, beautifully marked and certainly well cared for. The cages were clean, and the house had no overwhelming odor because of their presence, but the incessant noise they made grated on Mavis’s ears from the moment she set foot in the claustrophobic sitting room until she left. The birds irked her, and she found herself becoming cross with their owner, which annoyed her even more. Her unflappable demeanor was lost to her, and that in itself was cause for concern.

  All in all she only had to share the small space with Mrs Lewis and her pets for about half an hour, but it felt a good deal longer to Mavis, who was aware of every moment as it dragged by – accompanied by theoretically cheerful chirping.

  Finally escaping to the peace and quiet of the village green, Mavis regrouped. She felt the best way to tackle her temper was to walk it off, so she marched as fast as her short but sturdy legs would carry her. When she let herself in through the front door of the Dower House she was slightly breathless, pink in the face and quite returned to her normal self, which was a relief. Mavis prided herself on her ability to deal with any amount of pressure in a cool and professional manner. Her matron, when she’d been training, had drilled into her that the most critical ability any nurse could possess was to be able to act calmly in any and all circumstances, especially those which, to others, constituted an emergency. Mavis had taken that to heart, and was well able to because, by the time she decided to become a nurse, she was a woman of almost thirty with two small boys at home – not some flibbertigibbet of a young girl wanting a job where she might be able to snare a doctor for herself. No, Mavis had taken up nursing because she’d realized she had a calling for it and, since her earliest days, she’d put her natural self-possession to good use.

  ‘You look utterly discombobulated. What’s wrong, dear?’ said Althea as Mavis entered the comfortable sitting room.

  ‘Mrs Iris Lewis has birds. Very noisy, annoying birds,’ said Mavis simply, as she plopped herself onto a comfy old sofa that beckoned to envelop her with great posies of country garden flowers in faded pinks, blues and greens.

  Althea nodded. ‘I’d forgotten about that. Yes. Always was a keen birder, when she could get about. Does she still have dozens of them in every nook and cranny?’

  ‘Aye.’ Mavis knew she sounded cross. ‘I must say I didn’t care for it. The noise they made was quite … unsettling.’

  Althea held her silence for a moment then said, ‘The woman who ran the nursing home where your poor, dear mother passed away kept birds, didn’t she? I seem to recall you mentioned something about them being in her office? Sometimes our poor brains make some peculiar connections.’

  Mavis sighed and nodded. ‘Now isn’t that queer? I’d quite forgotten about those birds in that woman’s office. You’re right, dear. She did have some.’ She paused for a moment, then added, ‘I wonder if it’s the mind that plays tricks on us, or the other way about.’

  Breaking into her friend’s reverie Althea asked, ‘Anything helpful regarding Aubrey?’

  Straightening her small shoulders Mavis replied, ‘I think, though I cannot be sure, that Mrs Lewis’s memory for times long gone is better than for a fortnight ago, so I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. She told me that Aubrey, albeit a quiet boy, was always seen about the place with a girl. A quiet girl. Not from the village itself. “A farmer’s girl” was what she called her. No name. Couldn’t manage that. But a description. Short for her age, long brownish hair, always in two plaits, poorly maintained clothing. Otherwise, nothing. It made me think – if we were to go back to Aubrey’s house, do you think we might now be able to look at his possessions and find something that might lead us to a girl with whom he had a close friendship at infant’s school which, according to Mrs Iris Lewis at least, continued when they went off to the senior school?’

  Althea gave the matter some thought. ‘I think we could. Now Carol has unlocked the computers we can have a look there, though if it was a school-aged thing, we might look for more prosaic methods of keeping in touch, or mementos. We’re talking about fifteen, twenty years ago, aren’t we, dear? Bit of a long shot, I’d say.’

  Mavis nodded. ‘It is. But we’ve nothing more to go on. It’s up to you, Althea. You’re the client now.’

  Althea’s cornflower eyes twinkled. ‘Indeed I am. And the client says we should have lunch then head off to Aubrey’s house again. I’ll let Ian know he’ll be driving us. What’s the time?’

  Mavis regarded her watch, which was pinned to her chest – a habit retained from her nursing days. ‘Lunchtime,’ she said smiling.

  ‘Just as well, because I am rather peckish,’ noted Althea. ‘Lunch, McFli,’ she added rising from her seat. McFli launched himself off the sofa and twirled three times yapping with excitement. Smiling down at her furry companion Althea said, ‘And I bet you’re peckish too, aren’t you, boy?’

  McFli wagged his tiny tail in agreement, and the three friends made their way to the dining room where Mavis knew Cook would serve them soup and cold cuts, as usual. She wondered what the pickle of the day would be – the only variant on the lunchtime menu at the Dower House.

  FIFTEEN

  Settling herself into her car after a delicious lunch of thickly cut home-baked ham, crusty bread and some ill-advised piccalilli, Carol Hill pulled out of the tight parking space with caution and took the main road back toward Anwen-by-Wye. Once she reached what she thought was the general area she kept a beady eye open for any hint there was a turning of some sort for what she hoped was the Morris farm.

  She knew she was making the man in the Land Rover behind her angry, but she also knew she had to drive at a snail’s pace. Eventually she spotted a weathered wooden stump that said ‘Morris’, just in time for her to indicate twice and swing off the main road. The Land Rover’s horn hooted as the driver revved the engine and roared off. She imagined a fist being shaken and some choice words being uttered. Probably in Welsh.

  Driving up the hillside Carol wished she was in a Land Rover herself; she took her time and finally crested the hill, spotting a large whitewashed house with black trim ahead of her. The slate roof was dark with rain, there wasn’t a window without a curtain drawn across it and, to all intents and purposes, the place looked as though no one had lived there for donkey’s years. Carol’s tummy tightened. Was this wise?

  Crunching to a halt outside the house she sat for a moment before unlocking her seatbelt. Pulling her phone out of her handbag she checked for a signal. One bar flickered, then disappeared. Drat!

  The thought of grinding back down the rutted lane without having even tried to achieve anything forced Carol to extricate herself from the car, pull up her hood to protect herself from the sleety rain and march to the front door with an air of more determination than she truly felt. There wasn’t a bell, just an old-fashioned painted, iron knocker, so she hammered it as loudly as she could. Glancing around as she waited for a response she took in her immediate surroundings: a little way down the other side of the hill was a higgledy piggledy collection of what appeared to be animal barns, as well as one clearly identifiable hay barn. Dry-stone walls made a patchwork of the receding hillside and the road below was lost in the wintry shower. To her right, a little way off behind the house, were a few more stone buildings with good roofs – probably places where humans worked, Carol surmised. An upbringing in the countryside meant she could imagine the purposes for everything she saw except one building, which she could hardly see because it was so far off. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to build anything so far from the farmhouse.

  Carol knocked again and jumped when the door was opened almost immediately. The creaking it made told her it wasn’t the usual means of access used for the house. As the door opened Carol noticed two things: the inside of the house was gloomily dark, and someone had recently boiled a cauliflower … or maybe a dozen.

  The almost-bald head of an elderly
man peering around the door was all she could see. She reckoned he must be in his mid-eighties, so probably Aubrey’s grandfather’s brother. Guessing it was the right thing to do she greeted him in Welsh.

  ‘Helo. Sut ydych chi? Ai Mr Morris ydych chi?’ Be polite and check he’s the right man, Carol told herself.

  ‘Ie. Pam? Saesnes ydych chi?’ The old man’s voice was as thin as his hair and cracked as he spoke, suggesting he didn’t talk much.

  ‘Nac ydw, Cymraes ydw i.’

  ‘Might say you’re Welsh, but talk Welsh like the English, you do,’ the old man all but squeaked.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Carol. It seemed appropriate to apologize. ‘I was looking for Mr Morris.’ She smiled as widely as she could.

  ‘Like I said, why?’

  ‘I am trying to find a member of his family who has gone missing.’ Best to be forthright.

  The man’s shoulder and arm appeared. He was wearing what Carol would have thought of as a jumper fit only for the dustbin – it was more darned and un-darned holes than knitted garment, and it sagged over an open-necked shirt that must, at one time, have been white. She felt grubby just looking at him.

  ‘No one’s missing,’ he snapped, and began to close the door. Carol was too quick for him and inserted her foot so he’d have to be thoroughly ungentlemanly to shut it all the way. It turned out he was, and pushed the heavy door hard against her.

  ‘Ow! That hurt,’ said Carol, keeping her foot where it was.

  ‘Your own fault,’ said the man, a glint in his rheumy eyes.