Truth Will Out (7 page)

‘I’d forgotten about him!’ cried Alice. ‘Biddy’s right. He was really scruffy and sort of belligerent, wasn’t he?’ She turned to Biddy. ‘Did he say what his name was?’

‘Belligerent? But he didn’t actually threaten us, Alice. He was odd, that’s all, and he seemed to know Lionel, but Lord knows how.’ Biddy shook her head. ‘Gone missing! It’s incredible. It was supposed to be a holiday.’

The sergeant asked a few more questions, made occasional scribbled notes but he seemed fairly disinterested, Biddy thought. Not on his patch so why should he care?

The policeman finally nodded. ‘Well, I’ll be on my way.’

Alice said, ‘You haven’t written much down yet.’

‘I’m not investigating the case, Miss. Just been asked to see if he’s here.’

He gave them a mock salute and they watched him in silence as he collected his bicycle.

When he’d gone Biddy said, ‘I can hardly believe this is happening!’

Alice slipped an arm through hers. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she told her, without much conviction. ‘Don’t upset yourself, Biddy. I promise you it will be all right.’

Maude sat on the edge of the bed and tried to breathe slowly, in and out, in and out . . . She had talked to a Constable Wickens until her head was spinning but had refused the idea of a sleeping pill because she was terrified by what she might be told when she woke up. She needed to be alert. If Lionel were to be found injured or had finally made his way to a hospital, she wanted to be able to go there at once. If, as she still hoped, Lionel was going to return to the hotel in one piece, she wanted to be awake, to throw her arms around him and hold him close. She clung to the idea of amnesia as the least worrying explanation. She yearned to be back at home with Aunt Biddy and Alice but it made more sense to wait here. The Hastings police seemed to know what they were doing – at least she hoped they did.

There was a knock on the door and she felt a cold rush of fear. ‘Not bad news,’ she whispered. ‘Please God, not bad news.’

It was Mrs Cobb. ‘My dear, I’ve brought you a light snack. On Sundays we always have a big Sunday lunch and then high tea. Some people call it supper. We don’t mind. You must try to eat.’ She set the tray on the small table. ‘I’ll send Penny up later to bring your sweet course and take your empty plate.’

Mrs Cobb was kind, thought Maude, and meant well but how was she supposed to eat anything? Her throat was dry and she felt slightly sick. She said, ‘Thank you. I will try but . . .’

‘I know, dear. You’ve lost your appetite but you need to keep up your strength. You don’t want your husband to come back to a wilting flower!’ She laughed to show this was a small joke. ‘At moments of crisis you should always eat something to help the body’s defences. They need to rally against the shock, you see. And I’ve decided to go ahead with our little
soirée
after supper. We owe it to our other guests and—’

‘Oh yes! You mustn’t let us spoil things for everyone else.’

‘Of course not but I hope you’ll come down if you feel up to it. Everyone is wishing you well and you’d be very welcome. It might be easier than sitting here alone.’

Maude nodded without committing herself and looked at the tray.

Mrs Cobb said quickly, ‘A slice of my own home-made onion tart with salad and thin brown bread and butter. And then we have strawberry sponge with cream. I’ll send some up in ten minutes. I’ll leave you to it, Mrs Brent and . . .’ She held up crossed fingers. ‘Don’t give up hope. I feel sure fate will be kind.’ She closed the door carefully and Maude listened to her departing footsteps.

A kind fate. Was that was she was hoping for? Maude picked up a piece of lettuce and put it back on the plate. In a kind of daze she spread the serviette across her lap and picked up the knife and fork. She shook her head, put the knife and fork down and picked up a small triangle of brown bread. Somehow she chewed it up and swallowed it. Then she picked the onion tart up in her fingers and took a large bite. It was delicious. She swallowed, almost choking with eagerness, and bit into it again as though she had not eaten for a week. Still using her fingers, she stuffed salad in to her mouth, chewed, swallowed, then more tart and more salad, forcing it all down.

Before long the plate was empty and she sat back exhausted, but yes, she must be honest, she did feel a little better. She had helped the body’s defences.
Thank you, Mrs Cobb
, she thought. She sat back as unexpected tears streamed down her face. Struggling to defeat a growing feeling of hysteria, Maude waited numbly for the strawberry sponge to appear.

Constable Wickens left the Romilees and returned to the Hastings police station. He stood in front of his superior’s desk, trying as usual to look older than he was, and hoping to make sense of his handwritten notes.

‘Er . . . The Hursts passed the missing man going out as they came back. He said he was going to–to buy his wife something which he described as “a surprise” but wife claims there was no birthday due and no other special date.’

‘Special date? Like what?’

‘Er . . . like a wedding anniversary or the anniversary of the first day they met . . .’

‘First day they . . . Heaven help us!’

Constable Wickens continued, ‘Or anything of that kind. Mrs Cobb is the co-owner with her brother and says the missing man is, quote, “quite charming and they are obviously very fond of each other”, close quote.’

‘So he hasn’t done a runner with another woman?’

‘No, Guv. Not very likely. Mrs Cobb’s brother, Derek Jayson, says he hardly saw Brent except to say, quote, “How do and have a nice stay,” close quote. Miss Penelope Trew, maid, says missing man was, quote, “a bit of a dish and spoke quite la-de-dah and must . . . no, might give them a decent tip,” unqu—’

‘For Christ’s sake, Wickens, forget the ruddy quote-unquotes! Just get on with it. I’ve got a home to go to.’

‘Right, sir. Sorry, Guv. A young boy, Billy Hurst, and his father—’

‘The Hursts? You’ve already said them.’

‘Have I? Oh, right then . . . The wife, Maude Brent, says it’s out of character for him to go missing, never done anything like it before, can’t think of any reason for his disappearance and plumps for possible amnesia . . .’

The sergeant yawned. ‘Any known enemies? Money troubles?’

‘No enemies; she’s got money from her family, he works in her smart art gallery in London where she is part-owner. The Barlowe Gallery. She wants to go home to Folkestone.’

‘Anyone left at their home in Folkestone?’

‘An aunt and a paid companion.’

He looked at the wall clock. ‘Hurry it up, Wickens.’

‘Mrs Brent says there was an odd chap hanging about. Might get more from the Folkestone follow-up. Jem, his name was, this odd chap.’

‘Jem. Right. We’ll see what Folkestone have found out. I’ll give them a call. Probably all a waste of time. Storm in a blasted teapot! Probably got drunk and fallen asleep somewhere and scared to come back to the missus! Let’s face it – he hasn’t been gone twenty-four hours yet. Anyway, get off home, Wickens, and tomorrow be in on time. You were late yesterday and twice last month. It’s not good enough. You’ve had your last warning!’

‘Yes, Guv. I will.’ He made his escape.

The following morning Maude was asked to attend the police station as there was still no sign of Lionel and they were now taking more interest in the case. She had spent a wretched evening downstairs, attending the amateur
soirée
and trying to appear composed. People were too kind to her and her longing to be at home with Aunt Biddy and Alice was almost a physical pain. She was, however, tempted to stay on in the area where her husband had disappeared and where all the efforts to trace him would be undertaken.

Fear for his safety ate into her like a disease, crippling her mind and making it impossible to sleep. Mrs Cobb had called in a doctor who wanted to sedate her but the idea terrified her and he gave up. Instead he offered a soothing syrup, which she took dutifully at intervals but which did absolutely nothing – or so she imagined. After a sleepless night she felt dull and exhausted but she ate a little breakfast and just before midday she allowed herself to be taken to the police station in Derek Jayson’s new Ford motor. He went in with her, on his sister’s instructions, and promised to be waiting for her when the interview was over.

Maude found herself seated in a small airless room, sitting on an uncomfortable straight-backed chair, sipping a cup of over-sweet tea.

Constable Wickens was nowhere to be seen but an older man entered the room, smiled and introduced himself as Detective Constable Fleet. He had a world-weary manner but he inspired more confidence in Maude than his younger colleague had. He read silently through a sheet of notes and then looked up.

‘We’ll find him, Mrs Brent. Don’t worry. It’s just a matter of time. I’m going to run through what we have so far and you must add anything you think relevant or correct anything you think is wrong.’

Maude nodded without speaking. She had promised herself she would not cry. She would hold herself together and would not invite pity or compassion. Finding Lionel was all important and breaking down would help no-one. She sipped her tea and listened attentively.

‘Your husband, Lionel Brent, failed to return from a shopping expedition yesterday and this is totally out of character so you are naturally worried. He hasn’t yet been absent for twenty-four hours but if he doesn’t return shortly we will have to take further steps.’

He looked up and she nodded.

‘So far the only possible clue to his disappearance is a young man by the name of Jem who came to your house – that is
Fairways
, in Folkestone. Can you tell me anything else about him?’

Maude sat back and clasped her hands to prevent them from trembling. ‘He said he had something for Lionel and wouldn’t give it to anyone else. We sent him away because my husband was at work in London—’

‘The Barlowe Gallery?’

‘Yes. When Lionel came home he said the man had been waiting for him at the railway station and had given the envelope to him.’

‘So you saw the contents of the envelope?’

‘No. But it was some printed material about events that were taking place in Hastings in August and they were for the wrong dates because we were going now, in June.’

‘So you didn’t see the enclosures.’

‘No, because Lionel had thrown them into the rubbish bin on the station.’

Immediately his expression changed. ‘Let’s get this straight, Mrs Brent.’ He leaned forward and the world-weary manner had sharpened. ‘If he threw the contents into the bin on the station platform, then he must have been given the envelope
on
the platform so presumably this Jem character didn’t wait for him outside the ticket barrier. And yet your husband said they were simply publicity flyers for entertainment venues in Hastings. Didn’t you think that a bit odd?’

Maude stared at him. ‘Not at the time but I do now.’ Thinking back she tried to recall anything else Lionel had told her.

He went on. ‘Your husband thought the contents so important he remained on the platform and opened the envelope! He didn’t know they were the wrong dates so I would have expected him to open them when he got home.’

He drummed his fingers on the table and Maude felt a shiver of apprehension. This was so unexpected and yet, at the time, she had never given it a second thought.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Does your husband have any enemies, Mrs Brent, or anyone who dislikes him? A rejected artist, perhaps, who was angry at your husband’s decision not to accept his painting? Would he tell you that sort of thing?’

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘He hates me to be worried about anything unpleasant. If he thought he was shielding me from some unpleasantness then I dare say he might have kept it to himself.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Are you saying . . . Are you suggesting that someone has deliberately hurt my husband?’

‘We can’t rule anything out. This Jem – if he really did come from the Romilees as you were led to believe, the owners will know about it. We’ll check that later and have a word with him. There might have been something else in the envelope – something your husband didn’t want you to see. Maybe a threat. Does your husband gamble? Would you know if he does? Could he be in debt?’

Maude felt her heart thudding behind her ribs. Hardly able to speak, she cried, ‘You think someone’s hurt him! You do!’

‘We think it’s a possibility. On the other hand, sometimes people want to disappear. They have good reasons. Something in their past maybe catches up with them and they need to get away. Go on the run, as we say.’

With a shaking hand Maude reached for her tea and took a mouthful. It was almost cold but it eased the dryness in her throat. She said, ‘You make him sound like a criminal! He isn’t. He’s a good, honest, gentle man.’

‘I’m sure he is but you do understand, I hope, that we have to think of the worst that could have happened. We have to face up to reality and in our opinion there are secrets that everyone hides.’

‘Not Lionel! Never! I know him better than you do.’

He regarded her unhappily. ‘Mrs Brent, please tell me what
you
imagine may have happened. You must have some inkling.’

‘I think he’s lost his memory or . . . been in an accident . . . or he’s trapped somewhere . . .’A new idea came to her. ‘He might have been stranded by the tide somewhere by the cliffs or hurt his ankle in a fall and no-one can hear his calls for help. Something good. I mean, not good exactly, but nothing criminal or bad or . . .’

‘Does he swim, Mrs Brent? The tides here can be . . .’

‘The tides? Oh, don’t say such a thing! He hasn’t drowned. No, I won’t even think it.’ She put a hand to her heart and took a deep breath.
No hysterics. Calm yourself, Maude
. She said, ‘No, Lionel doesn’t swim . . . as far as I know.’

‘Does he suffer from depression? Has he ever suffered from it?’

‘No! Quite the opposite.’ She regarded him desperately. ‘I’m sure he will . . . reappear. He’ll make his way home and that’s where I want to be. Can’t I go back to Folkestone, Mr – I mean—’