The Twisted Way (29 page)

Felicity bridled. ‘Of course,’ she retorted. ‘I hope you are too!’ They glared at each other and attempted to sum each other up. Robbie smiled and struggled to smother a grin. Well, that is a promising partnership, he told himself. They are a couple of right old battleaxes.

Felicity agreed to meet in Marianne’s cottage the next day to discuss bridge tactics, a meeting that proved more interesting than Felicity had thought possible. Marianne Fright, nee Bridgman, had been an evacuee and remembered Tom Hands quite well. She even produced some old photographs she had taken as a child with her precious Brownie camera. There was one of Tom holding Janet Merryweather’s hand on her wedding day. It was not very clear but she could make out some of his features, including the deep dimple in his chin. Felicity was riveted. She held the photograph up to the light and studied it carefully.

Marianne was a strange woman. To Felicity’s surprise she looked presentable in her wedding photograph which had been placed in a good solid silver frame that took pride of place on the top of an old mahogany upright piano at one end of the lounge. The woodwork was in need of a dab of good beeswax polish and some effective treatment for woodworm but was a good-looking piece of furniture. Marianne had been slim and waiflike on her wedding day, almost pretty with thick dark hair that tumbled around her shoulders. She was wearing a suit tailored in the ‘new look’ style so fashionable just after the war with a flounce on the short jacket which circled her then neat waist. The skirt was flared and reached to her ankles. Her shoes were neat with high heels and sported pale ribbon bows. The photograph was black and white so that the finer details that would have been enhanced through colour were lost which Felicity thought was a pity. Marianne’s husband she decided looked a real country yokel. He was small and wiry and had the air of a man who was out of place in his dark suit and neat tie. He would not have interested me, ugh, she thought. Marianne was welcome to him.

Marianne’s hair was now thin and white, and her shiny pink scalp glistened through thin strands of hair in the front. She had brushed it upwards and sprayed it with some thickening agent which had made little impression upon it. A wig would not be amiss, Felicity thought. Marianne’s once pretty green eyes were faded too, her eyebrows and eyelashes were almost non-existent and she wore incongruous horrid thick brown rimmed glasses which Felicity guessed were cheap. It was hard to equate this grumpy old woman with the young girl in the photograph. Her old red woollen jumper was faded and badly felted in places and she had an unpleasant habit of running her fingers over the ruffed up areas and picking off the bumps of wool, which she dropped with careless abandon on to the already dusty floor.

They sipped good Indian tea, a brand Felicity approved, and ate elegant chocolate thins which she was amazed Marianne could afford. Marianne told Felicity that she had as an evacuee been billeted with the local butcher, a shop long since gone, forced out by the arrival of the supermarkets in Everton. After her parents were killed in the Blitz she had stayed on in Enderly as nobody else in her family had wanted her. She worked for a while in the shop before marrying a local farm labourer, Bert Fright, in her teens.

‘He was a rough old farm chap, really, but kind hearted and I needed someone to take care of me. I didn’t love him, at least not at first but I missed him when he died.’

Felicity proved to be a good listener and Marianne enjoyed telling her about her past in her high pitched and slightly cracked old voice.

And what a ‘fright’ she looks now, Felicity thought spitefully and smiled to herself at the pun.

They agreed on their bridge conventions and Felicity realized she had quite enjoyed herself talking to Marianne. She had liked even more finding out something about Tom Hands. It was a starting point anyway.

‘Tom Hands, oh yes I remember now,’ Marianne had said just before Felicity returned to Primrose House to partake of a second cup of tea and the usual sandwiches with Janet.

‘He lived with your aunt’s mother and then briefly with your aunt and her first husband James but James Anderson did not want him. He was quite nasty to the boy by all accounts. Tom left suddenly and I heard he was adopted by a couple in Brinton but I’m not sure what happened to him after that. I believe Janet Lacey did try and find him some years later, or so a friend who worked for her in the house at that time told me. She did not have any luck.’

This was a good snippet of information and Felicity rubbed her hands together with glee, bade her new friend ‘Goodbye, see you next Tuesday,’ and returned to Primrose House with a distinct spring in her step. Things were looking up. It would not be long now before she found Tom Hands, if he was still alive, and then she would see.

The next Tuesday found an enthusiastic group of bridge players in the small back room of the Green Man. Enderly Club had been launched and Robbie thought the outlook was promising. He hoped that Felicity would not be too much of a thorn in his side and that he would be luckier than the hapless Jack Headley. Time alone would tell.

Felicity was delighted to discover that Tom Hands had been adopted. She decided to approach the local authorities first 
in order to try and trace him, but she didn’t think they 
would be helpful because they would need Tom Hands’ permission before they were able to tell anyone his whereabouts. She felt an increasing and urgent desire to trace this usurper and possible heir to some of her aunt’s fortune, albeit a small part. If necessary she would hire a private detective to help her, that might be the best way. She could use Aunt Janet’s credit card. There had been no queries so far about her illicit expenditure. A direct debit arrangement to pay the monthly bills was in hand and Janet’s current account balance had so far proved to be adequate. Felicity kept a close eye on the bank statements. She laughed out loud and an almost demonic screech issued from her mouth as she considered the situation. That little piece of plastic and its easy-to-remember pin number, following the introduction of chip and pin, had certainly changed her life. The post was easy to divert to her hands when it arrived; ‘We must not worry poor Auntie,’ she had said to Joyce, and dear Auntie had willingly signed any cheques: she assumed they were for food and household bills. It was difficult now for her to check the figures; she became confused and so long as there were not any serious problems she was happy for her niece to help her pay the bills. So far so good Felicity told herself. She hoped that nosy financial adviser would not interfere. He was making a fortune out of Auntie’s investments anyway so she thought he wouldn’t want to lose such a lucrative account by rocking the boat and complaining about the now too helpful niece. At least she hoped not.

Felicity had noticed a small detective agency in Brinton and the next time that Robbie took her to do her aunt’s shopping she planned to visit them in order to make some enquiries about their fees and perhaps make an appointment. She was sure that there must be some records somewhere and the sooner she got her hands on those the happier she would be. If Tom Hands was alive she could track him down. She would be glad to devise a plan to get rid of him and her skewed mind whirled with anticipation and pleasure. The pursuit to increase her share of Janet’s will had turned into an enjoyable pastime. She may not be able to get rid of some of the contenders but she would do her best to ensure her share of the money was substantial.

In the meantime she was enjoying playing bridge with Marianne. Patsy Croft and John Elk only had eyes for each other and Felicity hoped that there would soon be a wedding to which she would be invited, along with some of the other bridge club members. She appreciated the sense of companionship that the bridge club afforded her, something that had not interested her in the past. A wedding would be another welcome diversion to enliven her dreary existence in Primrose House. There would more likely than not be a good spread of food as well as interesting company. Her mouth watered as usual when she thought about good food. She could use her aunt’s credit card to buy something nice for them. She would enjoy that. New friends and a bridge club, hmmm, things were improving and she was feeling happier than she had for many years. Making friends and being accepted into a group without antagonism was a new experience for her. She had mellowed and was a less aggressive individual than she had been when she played in the bridge club in Canada and that was, she had begun to understand, the key to her current success.

Patsy and John continued to grow closer; Robbie and John were enjoying a good partnership and Patsy was happy to play with Margaret Jones, a pleasant woman in her early fifties. She liked her but unfortunately Margaret did remind her of the teacher who had accompanied the Brinton Comprehensive School Band party to Germany when she was a teenager. Her experience on that holiday of a liaison with one of the young German band members had left her scarred mentally and physically and she was only just, after so many years and thanks to John Elk, recovering from the trauma that had been inflicted upon her by the young German boy who had raped her. It had been her own silly fault. In her innocence she had been willing to participate in a sexual experience, But with a swift and brutal act he had forced her out of her girlish romantic dreams into the harsh reality of a liaison with a violent insensitive boy. He had delighted in her degradation, enjoyed her humiliation, laughed about her with his friends, and almost destroyed her capacity to love or enjoy sex with any man. Time was mellowing her perception of the incident but there was still some way to go before she could put the whole scenario into a reasonable perspective. She was developing feelings for John of which she had not realised that she was now capable. She had tried for too long to bury any attraction that she might have developed for any members of the opposite sex. They were all, in her opinion, disgusting. It was the easiest way to forget the shame and dismay that had been foisted on her. There was still a slight barrier to overcome but perhaps she would manage that soon. She was experiencing an exhilarating longing for John’s gangly arms to hold her close to his thin and angular frame that was so very like her own.

Robbie kept a close eye on Felicity. He was interested to hear her chat to Marianne one evening about someone she was trying to trace. It was impossible to make sense of all of the conversation but he was suspicious that she was searching for him. He heard the name Tom and something about a detective agency in Brinton. Why she would want to trace him after all this time he could not imagine. He wondered if his name was mentioned in Janet’s will and Felicity had found a copy. That could be the only feasible explanation. He was not interested in inheriting any of Janet’s money; he was comfortable and had more than enough to live on through his investments, but greedy Felicity might be anxious to remove him from the frame. Emitting a deep sigh he thought about money, something that was without doubt the root of so much evil, and Felicity was evil incarnate. The lust for money could rip families apart and provide a motive for murder. Janet would not leave him more than a very small legacy, if anything, but if his name had been mentioned in her will he would need to watch his back.

Felicity approached the local authority in order to trace Tom Hands. As anticipated her efforts fell on stony ground.

‘I cannot possibly give you any information without tracing and asking the permission of the gentleman in question,’ she was told firmly and sharply by a woman at Everton Town Hall where the records were kept. ‘After all this time it could be difficult to find him, he could be dead,’ she continued unhelpfully. The woman, Mrs Crabb, looked at Felicity suspiciously over the top of pale pink half moon spectacles. What she saw she did not like. ‘Why are you anxious to trace this man anyway?’ she asked in an antagonistic tone.

‘Well’, Felicity lied, ‘I have reason to believe he is a long-lost relative and I am anxious to discover if he is still alive.’

Pull the other one, Mrs Crabb’s sceptical expression indicated. ‘Sorry, can’t help,’ she said shortly, which was quite uncharacteristic of her, and she dismissed the irate Felicity with a swift wave of a chubby arm.

Pompous old bag, Felicity thought. She would be within her rights to insist that the woman was more helpful, or at least pleasant, when dealing with the public, but it was not worth making a fuss. Instead she made her way diffidently to Richard West’s Private Detective Agency in a small back street in Brinton. It would cost her money, or rather it would cost Aunt Janet some money, but she may get a swifter result than messing about with the local authority staff if that Mrs Crabb was typical of the type of person they employed.

Richard West’s office was small and dingy. A thin young girl with a strong Russetshire accent sat behind a scratched and battered old desk filing the tips of long bright red painted fingernails. Her ragged short hair was coloured a pale beige blonde and her clothes were not the kind Felicity associated with a secretary. A bare midriff bulged over scruffy jeans, exposing a small silver ring which pierced her navel, and her skimpy lace blouse’s once fashionable ragged edges were crinkled and discoloured with brown spots of tea or coffee.

‘Yeah, what do you want?’ she said in an apparent attempt to be pleasant. A cup of weak cold coffee with blobs of congealed milk on the surface stood on the desk in front of her together with a half-eaten unsavoury-looking cheese sandwich, and a part knitted jumper rested on top of some files. It was not an inspiring scene.

‘I am here to see Mr West,’ Felicity answered in a firm tone. ‘I have an appointment at 2.30 pm.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ the girl said in an insolent voice. She looked out of the corner of green slanted eyes at a desk diary she retrieved from under a pile of letters, pulled it towards her with a languid hand and opened it with a studied reluctance. ‘Ms Felicity Brown is it?’ she drawled. Felicity nodded. ‘I will ring through and tell him you are here.’