Truth Will Out (4 page)

In the kitchen Biddy was stirring the leek and tomato soup, which would precede a chicken and bacon pie. Her mind, however, was busy replaying the incident of the intruder. Something about it jarred but she couldn’t put a finger on it. The whole story seemed odd. Why should anyone send a dim lad like Jem to deliver a few brochures or leaflets or whatever they were? All the way from Hastings to Folkestone? And why had he come creeping in over the fence instead of coming straight to the front door? Perhaps he was fantasizing, making out that he was spy on a secret mission. Boys liked to do things like that, she imagined, and although he looked older he might have been a bit backward. A bit childish, even . . . She tested the soup, pushed the saucepan to the back of the stove and replaced the lid. As she did so the nagging worry became clearer. How had the young man known that if the women folk were lying about Lionel being in bed with a fever, there was a chance he was in London and would return by train? In other words, why had he waited for him at the station to hand over his package?

Biddy wiped down the table, trying to remember what she had planned for the evening meal, to follow the soup. Stepping into the larder she surveyed the shelves in the hope that something would jog her memory. She believed that so far nobody had noticed that she was becoming very forgetful and had decided to keep a little notebook somewhere so that she could make notes and refer to it, but so far she had forgotten to buy the notebook.

Seeing some cold chicken she smiled. Chicken and bacon pie! Of course. As she carried it from the larder and set it on the table, Alice came into the kitchen in search of her gardening gloves.

Biddy pounced. ‘You’re always losing them, Alice. You should return them to the potting shed after you use them.’ It made her feel better to know that someone else, someone
younger
, also had a faulty memory. Before Alice could reply she went on, ‘Funny “how d’you do” this morning, wasn’t it? I can’t rest easy in my mind. That strange young man and—’

‘It was odd, true, but Mr Brent seemed to understand it all. You should forget about it. We all should. I’m not letting it bother me.’ She opened the dresser drawer and found the gloves. ‘I thought I’d give Maude a hand. She’s trying to tidy up the roses, which have gone a bit straggly.’

‘But how did he know he should wait at the station? We didn’t mention it.’

‘Whoever sent him must have known he works in London some days. He was set on earning that shilling and can’t have been as daft as we thought.’

‘But we said Lionel was ill in bed.’

Alice grinned. ‘We’re obviously terribly bad liars! Quite a compliment in a way. Anyway, who cares? I’m quite looking forward to a week here alone. I mean, just the two of us. We can get up later than usual and—’

‘I expect we’ll find plenty to do,’ Biddy told her firmly. ‘We could sort out the linen – maybe even turn some of the worn sheets sides to middle. The days will drag if we do nothing.’

‘I hate sewing! I’m paid to be a companion.’

‘You can’t be a companion to someone who’s not here and they’re hardly going to pay you for a week for sitting around!’

‘I didn’t ask them to go away. I’d go with them if they wanted me to go on earning my money.’

Confused by the logic, Biddy ignored this line of reasoning.

Alice investigated the contents of the saucepan and, brightening, reverted to her vision of their week alone. ‘We could get out that old croquet set,’ she suggested, ‘and have a game on the lawn!’ She noticed the cold chicken. ‘Let me guess – chicken pie!’

‘Chicken and bacon pie. There’s not quite enough chicken.’

‘Mmm! Lovely.’

Biddy smiled at her warmly. Going in search of the butter, lard and flour distracted her, and she pushed her doubts aside and concentrated on the job in hand. She cut the butter and lard into the flour then broke it up into smaller pieces with her fingers. She lined a pie dish with the pastry, reserving enough to cover it, then broke up the chicken and a lump of cold ham and added them to the dish along with a small chopped onion and two diced carrots.

She said, ‘We’ll have to be careful when they’re away, always to keep the outside doors closed – and locked – in case the mystery man comes back.’ She glanced surreptitiously at Alice to see if she would also consider the idea sensible.

‘He won’t,’ she said confidently. ‘Why should he come back?’

‘I don’t know. He might know we’re on our own.’

‘But if Mr Brent is at Hastings in the hotel, why would they send someone here?’

‘Ah!’ Flummoxed by this obvious question, Biddy felt horribly foolish and was again reminded uncomfortably of how woolly her mind had become. ‘You’re right,’ she mumbled, embarrassed. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight.’

To her relief Alice didn’t laugh at her mistake. Instead she said, ‘So we’ll have nothing to worry about.’

She whisked out of the kitchen into the garden to help Maude and left Biddy to complete the pie and turn on the oven. As she placed a gauze cover over the pie while the oven heated up, she visualized the complete meal set out on the dining table, and the usual sense of security returned. With a smile on her face, she began to hum a favourite hymn.

The Barlowe Gallery was situated in Wentnock Street in London and at quarter to nine the following Saturday it was still closed. Opening times on Saturday were from ten thirty a.m. until seven p.m. but Lionel was already there. His secretary, Jane Dyer, would be in some time around half past nine. She had replaced Mrs Breck, who had retired eighteen months ago after twenty-one years of loyal service. Miss Dyer claimed to have studied art history and was reasonably knowledgeable but, due to her shy manner, lacked her predecessor’s easy way with the clients. Lionel, although secretly disappointed, did appreciate her office skills. She managed all the paperwork with clinical attention to detail and nothing was ever mislaid or unaccounted for. She could be trusted to fetch things from the safe when necessary and, although her tea making could never match that of Mrs Breck, she was willing to run the occasional errand, which Mrs Breck had considered beneath her dignity. Jane Dyer also performed well on the telephone and several buyers had commented on her efficiency and pleasant manner.

His hope had been that she would blossom as the years went on but at twenty-one she still lacked confidence. She lived at home with her widowed mother – a strict churchgoer who had brought up her daughter with Victorian values that many young women were beginning to abandon. She dressed primly and wore no make-up but she was slim, pretty and eager to please and he felt she gave the gallery a certain elegance. In fact, on the few occasions when she was absent, it felt rather dull without her. Glancing at the clock, he saw that he had twenty minutes before she was due to arrive, and set about attending to various matters that he felt needed last-minute attention before setting off for their holiday in Hastings. He telephoned Barlowe and then rang an artist who lived in St Leonards, and arranged to meet him during their holiday – meeting for lunch in the Romilees Hotel on the third day, to be confirmed. His wife had understood that he couldn’t resist the chance to kill two birds with one stone. Time was money.

He then unwrapped a painting that had been delivered the previous day just as they were closing. The artist was new to them but he was hopeful. Lionel set the painting up on a spare easel and stood back to study it. It was a watercolour of boats at anchor in Folkestone harbour and he knew from experience that it would find a buyer within a week or so. There was something about the sea that touched people. In this particular painting the sea was calm and the boats seemed to rock gently. It was a tranquil scene and would appeal, he imagined, to people with fraught lives. Normally, once a picture had sold from a new artist the gallery would commission further pictures . . .

He heard a key in the street door and glanced up, pleasantly surprised. Miss Dyer was five minutes early. Smiling broadly, he crossed the room to let her in.

Startled, she cried, ‘Mr Brent! I thought you were going on holiday today. I didn’t expect to see you here – not that I’m objecting.’ She blushed faintly.

‘We are off to Hastings, Miss Dyer, but it will probably be later in the afternoon before we arrive there. I wanted to check up on a few things here before I go. A couple of phone calls . . . Would you be a dear and make me a cup of tea?’

‘Of course, Mr Brent, and would you like a butterfly cake with it? My mother made them and I brought two in but you can have Mr Barlowe’s and he needn’t know.’

He thanked her with a conspiratorial wink and she hurried away to the kitchen, beaming broadly.

TWO

T
he Romilees Hotel was situated on high ground opposite the pier from where some of the rooms enjoyed a sea view. It boasted ten bedrooms, three of which were single and one of which was a family room with three beds. The rooms were named after flowers and the one that had been booked in the name of Brent was the Rose Room, which meant that the eiderdown was of pink silk, the wallpaper design was pink and silver stripes and the matching lampshades were edged with pink fringing. It was one of the rooms with a sea view.

Penny and Meg worked together in the room, stripping the bed and remaking it for the couple who were due to arrive in the afternoon.

‘Mr and Mrs Brent,’ Meg informed her colleague. ‘He’s something in London, I think. Arty. A bit posh so might get a decent tip out of them. They’re coming about four.’

‘How “arty” exactly?’ Penny pushed a stray lock of frizzy ginger hair back under her white linen cap. ‘You mean he paints pictures?’

‘I s’pose so.’

They smoothed the pillow slips and hauled the eiderdown from the chair over which it had been draped.

Meg glanced up at the wall above the bed. ‘I wonder what he’ll think of that?’ The picture showed a bowl of blowsy roses from which a few petals had fallen on to a highly polished table. The colours were brighter than might be expected and the picture frame was of intricately carved wood.

‘What’s wrong with it? I like it. It’s lovely.’

Meg shrugged. ‘It’s a bit like the lid of a box of chocolates.’

They arranged the eiderdown and stood back to approve their work and give the room a final inspection before the beady-eyed owner made her rounds.

Meg gathered up dusters and polish and put them in the bucket. ‘We went to see the show on the pier last night. Didn’t see you there.’

‘We didn’t go after all. Tom felt a bit upset because he had another run in with the chap next door to him – the funny one who hardly ever went to school.’

‘Jem, you mean. When he did go he was in my class.’

‘Not often, then. Anyway he disappeared for two days last week and his mother worried herself to death about him.’ Penny ran a critical finger along the window sill, frowned at the dust she had accumulated and wiped it on her apron. ‘When he came back again my Tom saw him out the front. Stupid like, he started teasing him and called him “Runaway” to his face and then had to run away himself because Jem went after him and grabbed him round the throat!’

Meg stared at her. ‘He never did!’

‘I tell you, he did! He threatened to strangle Tom with his bare hands! His mother was screaming at him to let go. Jem’s mother, not Tom’s. Rider, that’s their name. Funny crowd.’ She regarded herself in the mirror, adjusted her cap and smiled at Meg. ‘Good, was it? The show?’

‘Not bad. It was just sketches and suchlike. A comedian – Alfie Parks – and some dancers . . . and a magician. Wahoo the Wonderful Wizard. That’s what he called himself.’

‘And was he?’

‘What? Was he wonderful?’ Meg considered the question. ‘I s’pose so. He pulled a rabbit out of his hat and things like that. We were near the back so we couldn’t see all that well but he did tricks. Mind you, my Alan knew how it was done. Some of it. You draw attention to something with one hand while you do something else with the other. I forget what it’s called.’

Penny checked that the wardrobe was empty and knelt down to look under the bed. The chamber pot had not been used, thank goodness, and no-one had left a sock or a stocking. She had once found an earring, which she had handed in, and a ten-shilling note, which she had quickly tucked into her apron pocket. No such luck this time. She said, ‘I bet the magician had dark hair. They always do. It’s to make them look sort of mysterious and dangerous.’ She clambered to her feet. ‘You think about it.’

‘He
was
dark, actually.’ Meg frowned. ‘But my Alan’s dark-haired and he’s not mysterious and dangerous.’

‘I mean magicians, silly, not ordinary people! It goes with the black top hat and the black cloak. It looks sinister.’

‘And the black wand! He had this magic wand . . .’

They headed towards the door, taking the brooms and other cleaning equipment with them.

On the way Penny gathered up the discarded sheets and pillowslips. She said, ‘Mind you, my dad’s got dark hair and he can be dangerous. Ask my brother. Dad clips him round the ear every time he says “bugger”.’ She mouthed the last word.

‘Lots of men say that.’

‘Not a boy of ten! My mum says he learned it at school . . . But s’pose a magician hasn’t got dark hair? Then what?’

‘Probably wears a wig.’ She sighed. ‘Right. What’s next?’ She pulled out a list and glanced at it. ‘The Daffodil Room.’

They went out, closing the door behind them.

Much later the same day, Biddy settled Primmy in her basket with a biscuit, turned off the lights in the kitchen and checked for the second time that the doors and downstairs windows were locked. Alice waited halfway up the stairs.

She said, ‘It’s funny without them. Sort of creepy.’

‘Oh, don’t talk so daft, Alice!’ Biddy began to haul herself up the stairs, relying heavily on the banisters. ‘How can it be creepy with two people in it if it’s not creepy with four people?’

‘I don’t know but it is.’ As Biddy came up, Alice moved up to make room for her and reached the landing first. ‘That top stair always creaks,’ she said accusingly.

‘Don’t look at me.’ Biddy puffed as she hauled herself up, hand over hand. ‘They’re not my stairs.’