Читать книгу Missing: Presumed Dead - James Hawkins - Страница 9

Chapter Three _____________________________

A fragrant blast of humid air rolled softly over Bliss as Daphne opened the door in response to his knock.

“It’s the stuffing,” she explained as he drank in the perfume with a deeply satisfying inhalation. “Fresh thyme and parsley from the garden,” she added. “Please come in.”

Daphne had exchanged her polka-dot day dress for a stately paisley one, with the frilliest of white aprons which fluttered as she gave a little shudder. “It’s chilly for June – more like October or Oslo. You’ll have to fight your way through,” she added, inching her way back down the cluttered hallway.

“Are you moving?” he asked, confronted by an upended double bed; an ancient mahogany sideboard that no-one would describe as an antique; several precariously balanced stacks of books, and a stuffed goat.

She turned, her forehead crinkled in confusion, “Moving? ... Oh no … Charity auction next Saturday – Women’s Institute.” He stopped at the goat and slid his hand along the polished hairless back.

“It used to be in the butcher’s,” she said, seeing the inquisitive look on his face. “All the children used to sit on him while their mothers waited in line. That back’s been polished by thousands of bums over the years, mine included, but the kids today wouldn’t find it fun; they only want noisy toys that shake the daylights out of them and have hundreds of buttons.” Pausing in remembrance, she gave the goat an affectionate pat. “It seems silly now, but sitting on that moth-eaten old thing was quite a treat in my day.”

“I nearly didn’t find you,” said Bliss, moving on and squeezing into the dining room that seemed equally crammed.

“Jumble-sale ... Girl Guides,” Daphne indicated with a sweep, suggesting that some of the clutter was not her responsibility, though not indicating precisely which.

“I was wondering if you might get lost. It’s fairly isolated out here, no through traffic, and there’s only the fields behind.”

“Is that where you saw the lights?” he asked, taking in the view out of the back window and seeing the fresh green ripples of a cornfield lapping at the edge of her neatly cultivated vegetable garden.

“Yes – you can still see where the corn’s been battered down if you know just where to look.” She pointed, he strained but couldn’t see anything. “Anyway,” she said, turning away, “I never said they’d made circles, Chief Inspector. Dowding made that up.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. He was only teasing.”

“He goes too far at times does that one.”

Bliss looked around for something to change the subject and seized on the piano. “What a beautiful instrument. Do you play?”

“Very badly – I had loads of lessons as a child but lacked dedication. What about you?”

“A little. But I’ve never played one like this.” He brushed his hand over the surface, “Just look at that veneer;” reverently lifted the lid and took in a sharp breath of awe, “And the keys – real ivory;” gently touched a few notes, “Perfect!”

“Quite a beauty, isn’t it? Coincidentally, it came from the Dauntsey house. I bought it at an auction twenty odd years ago, and it still had the original receipt tucked inside. The old Colonel had bought it in 1903.” She paused with a vague expression.“Or was it 1905? Lift up the lid, Chief Inspector, I think it’s still in there.”

The receipt was there as predicted. “1903,” Bliss said, reading it off the faded handwritten paper. “You were right the first time.” Then he sat down and started playing.

“Mozart?” she queried, recognising the theme.

“Uh-hum,” he nodded.

She closed her eyes in rapture. “Oh that’s so beautiful. You could make love to this.” Her eyes popped open. “Oh now I’ve shocked you.”

“No – not at all.”

“There was a time, Chief Inspector ...” she cut herself off and listened for a while, her mind awash with romantic memories that softened her face and brought a touch of dampness to her eyes. “You do know that God only invented Mozart to make the rest of us feel incompetent, don’t you?” she said.

“That’s very clever, Daphne,” he laughed.

“Yes, it is – I only wish I’d been the first to say it.” Then she slipped into the kitchen, mouthing, “Keep playing.”

“So, where is Mrs. Bliss?” she called as he finished the piece.

“There’s no Mrs. Bliss – not at the moment anyway.”

“There’s hope for me yet then,” she said popping her head round the door and giving him a lascivious wink that threw him off guard. “Oh don’t look so nervous, Chief Inspector,” she laughed, “I’ve no illusions about my eligibility in that direction.”

“Is this you?” he asked, hastily snatching a silver-framed portrait of an attractive young woman off the sideboard.

“Uh-huh,” she nodded. “I haven’t always been a Mrs. Mop. I used to clean up quite nicely, didn’t I?” Then she ducked modestly back into the kitchen.

She still has the same entrancing eyes he realised and, feeling her distance offered some protection, called, “Actually you haven’t changed all that much.”

She stuck her head back round the door, “You wouldn’t say that if you saw me in my birthday suit … the ravages of gravity, ” she added, before disappearing again.

Bliss looked closer at the fifty-year-old image. “Very attractive,” he breathed, then noticed the inscription. “It say’s Ophelia on here,” he began, in a questioning tone.

“Oh really,” she replied, staying in the kitchen.

He wandered into the kitchen, picture in hand. “Ophelia Lovelace,” it says here. “Paris – September 1947.”

Daphne closely studied the saucepan of gravy atop the stove and stirred it firmly.

“Ophelia?” he inquired, noticing the pink glow to her cheeks, wondering if it were the heat from the Aga cooker.

She didn’t look up from the pot. “The truth is my name is Ophelia – Ophelia Daphne Lovelace. I’m afraid we all lie a little at times, Chief Inspector.”

“That’s not a lie. You can call yourself whatever you want.”

She wasn’t listening, her eyes and mind seemed focused on the pan. “I loathed Ophelia,” she began with surprising vehemence. “Who’d want to be named after a week-willed nincompoop of a girl who drowned herself just because some bloke dumped her?”

“Suicide,” mused Bliss. “Was she a relative?”

Daphne laughed, “No – Hamlet – Shakespeare. Ophelia was the wilting lily who jumped in the river when she thought Hamlet didn’t love her anymore.” Then, sticking her hands assertively on her hips, she spun on him, demanding, “Do I look like an Ophelia to you, Chief Inspector?”

“No,” he laughed. “You look like a Daphne, but I wish you’d call me Dave – off duty anyway.”

“I don’t think I could – you’re cast in the mould of a chief inspector. It suits you. There’s a lot in a name you know. I actually think that some people become famous because of their names. Can you imagine what might have happened if Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill had been called Randy Longbottom – see, you’re laughing already – I mean, who’s going to sacrifice themselves for somebody called Randy or Matt?”

“ ... or Dave,” he suggested.

“Oh no. There’s something very noble about David: King David, David and Goliath, David Lloyd George – Yes,” she added with an admiring glance, “David is very noble.”

“I don’t know about that,” he replied, feeling a blush of warmth from the stove.

Daphne gave him an inquisitive look. “I couldn’t help noticing, in the churchyard, you looked distracted, as though you had something on your mind.”

The shooting of Mandy Richards, he remembered instantly, then worked desperately hard to keep the memory from clouding his face again. “Just the death of the Old Major,” he lied, “There’s something very puzzling about the case. I feel as though I’ve sneaked into a play halfway through the first act and can’t pick up the plot because I’ve missed some crucial bit of the action.”

Daphne wasn’t convinced, “And the ghost that’s bothering you?”

“Just an old memory, graveyards have a way of bringing back old memories for me.”

“They do for everyone – that’s the whole idea of graveyards surely. If we just wanted to dispose of our dead we’d take them to the dump ... Come on,” she said, brightening her tone and gathering the dishes together. “Stuffed pork chops with young broad beans, the tiniest new potatoes and a nice tender savoy. All out of my own garden – apart from the chops.”

“Wherever did you learn to cook like this?”

“My mother, of course, and in France. I lived there for a while.”

“Hence the portrait.”

“Yes,” she nodded, with a longing glance at the picture in his hand. “Hence the portrait.”

“Wine?” offered Daphne as Bliss seated himself at the head of the table. “This is rather a splendid Puligny Montrachet – I’m assuming you like a red with a bit of heart.”

“Oh, yes. Very much. But can you afford ...”

“Don’t worry, Chief Inspector. Like I said, I haven’t always been a cleaning lady; I’m not short of a few bob ... Bon appetit.”

“You were going to tell me about the Major,” he said, digging in.

“Was I? Oh yes, well I’m not sure if I have anything terribly useful to offer.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Difficult to say,” she started vaguely. “Time distorts time.” She looked at him across the table, “Is everything alright?”

“Absolutely delicious – this stuffing ... mmm.” He let a rapturous mask slide over his face then picked up where she’d left off. “Time – the Major – When?”

She gave it some thought but seemed at a loss, shaking her head. “In thirty years time you’ll probably be wondering who died first, Kennedy or Diana. I won’t be around then, so that’s something I won’t have to worry about.”

“But Major Dauntsey. Can you narrow it down? Was it this year or last?”

“Good God, Chief Inspector, my memory’s not that bad. No, I’m trying to remember whether it was before the Suez Crisis or after.”

“But that was in the 1950s – before I was born ... I think.”

“Oh – so it would have been. Yes, I suppose that does seem a long time to you.”

Bliss had frozen, a piece of pork chop hung expectantly in the air in front of his face. “Are you saying you haven’t seen him for forty-odd years?”

Daphne, failing to register the note of astonishment in Bliss’s question answered nonchalantly. “The Major sort of kept out of the way after the war. Not that we saw much of him before the war to be honest. He wasn’t usually allowed to play with us riff-raff. I sometimes caught a glimpse of him peering out at life through the hedge up at the big house, and he’d be at church on Sunday mornings during the school holidays but otherwise ...” Her words faded as she failed to come up with any other memories. “We always thought he was a bit of a nancy-boy if you know what I mean – just rumours really – probably because he had a sort of upper crust nasal whine and a silly hairstyle.”

“Nancy-boy?” questioned Bliss, “Do you mean ...?”

Daphne was nodding. “Just rumours. He was at Oxford, or Cambridge, and got sent down for it we heard, not that it meant much to us, not that we cared. Although Rupert was about my age, he lived on a different planet. Anyway, he scotched the rumours a few years later when he walked into the lounge at the Mitre Hotel in full uniform, puffed out his chest and announced he was about to marry Doreen Mason, as she was then, and we were all invited.”

“You were there?”

“Oh yes.”

“When was this?”

“A few weeks before D-Day. Everyone scheduled to go was given twenty-four leave, and it just so happened that my twenty-four hours coincided with Rupert’s.”

“Do you mean you were going on D-Day as well?”

“It hardly seems possible now, does it?”

His voice rose with incredulity. “But that was more than fifty years ago.”

“Was it really?” her face blanked as she looked into the past. “Yes, I suppose it was ... You can see what I mean about time distorting time. Anyway, a group of my friends were giving me a send off in the Mitre when Rupert marches in with his invite. We all thought, ‘Why not?’ We all knew Doreen anyway – everyone knew Doreen.”

Something in the way she spoke of Doreen suggested an element of unseemliness and he quietly tucked the thought away as the basis for a supplementary question.

“They had the reception at the big house,” continued Daphne, the memories flooding back. “I’d never been in there before, I don’t think any of us had. I’d never seen furnishings like it – the sort of things you’d find in a stately home or a museum. Massive ancestral portraits; fig-leaved statues; settees you could hide under; and the carpets – we had linoleum and a lot of people thought we were posh, but the big house had carpets everywhere, even on the walls. Persians and Afghans, although I didn’t know it at the time. Back then I wouldn’t have known a Wilton from a Woolworth’s Boxing Day special. Doreen was flitting around in her new home with the excitement of a bluebottle who’s landed in a dung heap. ‘Look at this!’ she’d scream, or ‘Look at this!’ jumping from one enormous painting to the next, or from one statue to another ...” Daphne paused as a smile spread over her face. “I recall one statue, probably a copy of Michelangelo’s David – Oh, there’s another noble David for you – anyway, it didn’t have a fig leaf, and we all giggled and dared each other to touch its thingy ...”

“Did you?” Bliss teased.

“I think I’ll refuse to answer that question on the grounds I may incriminate myself,” she laughed, then carried on, still with a smile. “You should have seen the food. We’d had five years of rationing, and I’d never seen so much food. There was a huge baron of beef and a mound of smoked salmon – I didn’t know what it was, I’d only heard rumours. And they had a wedding cake – it was real cake! Most people had a measly Victoria sponge stuck under a beautifully iced tin that could be used for any number of weddings, but they had real cake with real cherries and real sultanas. And champagne, not the fizzy sugar water with plastic corks you get at weddings today. Real champagne.” Pausing to pick up the Parisian portrait, she stared into it and sighed wistfully. “Champagne – that was my life at one time. Difficult to imagine it now. La vie en rose. I sometimes wonder if it was real.”

“Was it real?”

“Who knows, Chief Inspector?” she replied, laying her head back in the chair, letting her eyes drift over the ceiling as if searching for images of her past. “Maybe I’ve just read too many novels and watched too many movies ... Anyway,” she pulled her thoughts back to Major Dauntsey’s wedding day. “The strangest thing was the old Colonel himself. Doreen wasn’t what you would call a good catch in anybody’s book, in fact she had something of a reputation, if you get my meaning, but the Colonel treated her as if she were a princess.”

“So, she was a sort of Cinderella.”

Daphne gave herself time to digest the thought along with a forkful of beans. “I would have difficulty imagining Doreen as a Cinderella figure,” she said after careful consideration. “Put it this way: If you try to imagine Cinderella in the nude she always has the naughty bits air-brushed, whereas Doreen Mason ... well, from what I can gather, half the boys in the town wouldn’t have needed any imagination.”

“So what did she see in the Major?”

“It wasn’t his looks, that’s for sure.”

“His money?”

Daphne let her raised eyebrows do the talking.

“Well, what did he look like?” continued Bliss. “Mrs. Dauntsey didn’t have a photo. I found that a bit strange.”

“I don’t ...” She paused and picked up the wine bottle. “More?” she asked but didn’t wait for a response before pouring. “If Rupert Dauntsey was a bit of a poor specimen before he went to war, when he came back ...” she shook her head in sorrow, “I didn’t recognise him – no-one did.” A chill shuddered through her. “Half his face was blown off; he’d lost an arm and the one he was left with wasn’t a lot of use. He looked like a horror movie monster.”

“Couldn’t they do anything for him – plastic surgery?”

“Today they could, but not then. It was wartime. Doctors used to pray that men with injuries like his would die quickly, that way they wouldn’t have to face their inadequacies. Can you imagine unwinding the bandages, holding up a mirror and saying, ‘Congratulations, this is your new face – scary isn’t it?’”

“It must be a bit like seeing a ghost.”

“Like the one you saw in the churchyard?”

“Mandy Richards,” he said inwardly, and suddenly found himself falling into a black hole. “Stop! Stop! You’re going to hit something,” he was shouting inside.

Dark images of the dead young woman were swirling through a dirty fog and he tried telling himself, “There’s nothing there. Stop this! Stop this! You can stop this. Change the picture. Re-focus your mind. It wasn’t your fault.” But he was still racing onwards into the blackness, his heart pounding to keep up, and beads of sweat bursting out of his brow.

“Is there something the matter, Chief Inspector?” A voice from outside broke through the blue haze. Daphne’s voice.

“Get a grip on yourself,” he told himself.

“Are you alright?”

Alright – Alright. What’s alright? Somebody’s blown Mandy Richard’s heart out with a shotgun – IS THAT ALRIGHT?

That was eighteen years ago.

No, it was only yesterday ... for her parents; her husband-to-be; her brother; it’s still yesterday. It will always be yesterday. How can you move forward when Mandy can’t? Mandy’s still dead. It’s still a week before her wedding for her. Still the day she went to get her savings out of the bank to pay for her honeymoon. Still the most joyous, expectant day of her life – and still the very last day of her life.

“Chief Inspector,” a note of serious concern in Daphne’s voice got through the images of Mandy and shook him back to the present.

“Oh – Sorry. I was miles away,” he said, disentangling himself from the nightmarish memories.

“I thought you were having a panic attack,” she said, scooping the empty crockery toward her, chattering away as if nothing had happened. “I get them sometimes. Shakes you up a bit. Makes you want to run, but you can’t get away from your own ghosts.”

“I was just thinking about the Major’s ghost ...” he lied again.

“No – that’s was the old Colonel,” she cut in. “It’s Colonel Dauntsey who’s supposed to ride around the churchyard on his chariot. Some reckon he’s still trying to get back to his regiment. He was invalided out after the first war – chlorine gas poisoning – and some say he was miserable as sin until the second one came along. But when they wouldn’t let him go, he pined. I heard he died soon after Rupert was brought home – suicide some reckon, although it was never proved.

“Suicide?”

“So they say,” she said, scuttling into the kitchen with the dirty crockery.

Still trying to escape the memories of Mandy Richards, Bliss got up and weaved his way around the clutter, mentally apportioning artefacts to Daphne and the Girl Guides as he went. Then he poked behind a tall umbrella stand, thinking – Girl Guides, and came upon a parchment citation in a plain wooden frame.

“What’s this?” he called.

She peeked round the door and her face fell. “Oh dear. I meant to put that away.”

He read from the citation, only half comprehending, “His Majesty King George VI ... Order of The British Empire ... Miss Ophelia Daphne Lovelace.”

He looked up. “The O.B.E?” he questioned disbelievingly. “You’ve got the O.B.E.”

Stepping in front of him she plucked the frame off the wall and slid it behind the sideboard, “Like I said, I should have put it away – I don’t know why I leave it out ... silly pride I suppose ... It’s nothing really.”

“Daphne. The O.B.E. is not ‘nothing.’ How did you get it?”

“You don’t want to hear that,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.

“On the contrary.”

She hesitated, hovering indecisively by the kitchen door, clearly torn between disclosing her past and fetching the next course. “Like I said,” she said eventually, seeming to plump for disclosure. “I haven’t always been a cleaning lady.”

“Obviously.”

She gave him a sharp look. “No, not obviously. Quite a few cleaning ladies have been recognised for their services over the years. Just think of the mess we’d be in without them.

“You’re avoiding the question, Daphne.”

“Yes, I suppose I am ... I don’t want to appear rude but ...” she started to drift into the kitchen, “I’m sure you understand.”

He didn’t understand, had no idea why someone with such an important honour should be reluctant to discuss it, but she forestalled further questioning with a call from the kitchen.

“Treacle sponge and custard alright for desert?” she enquired breezily, letting him know that the subject of the O.B.E. was closed. “You’ve no idea how much I’ve enjoyed having someone to cook for,” she continued, bustling in with a silver tray, not waiting for his reply. “As you get older, you realise why people go through all the trouble of having children,” setting down the tray and not giving him a chance to resurrect the question of the award. “Treacle pudding for one just isn’t worth the effort, and those tinned things are awful.”

Happy childhood memories flooded back as Bliss surveyed the steaming little mountain of sponge with liquid gold dribbling down its sides. “You don’t have children then?”

Daphne took on a puzzled look as if the birth of a child was something that had to be calculated. “I lost the only one I had.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh no, it’s not quite what you think,” she said, getting quickly up from the table and making a dash back to the kitchen, muttering that she had forgotten the custard.

“Were you married?” he asked on her return.

“I’d better put the coffee on,” she said, hurriedly slipping back out. “Not every story has a happy ending, Chief Inspector,” she called from the emotional safety of the kitchen. “He wasn’t what you would call a good man.”

“And there was no one else?”

She was back, shaking her head, “If you don’t learn from experience, how do you learn?”

The splash of a car’s headlights fell across the dining room window as they finished the coffee a little later.

“I wonder who that could be?” she said, stretching to peer past him out of the window.

“I’d better be going – it’s late,” he said, pushing back his chair.

“Would you come again tomorrow evening?”

“I can’t,” he started, saw the instant look of dismay on her face, and gave her a reassuring smile. “I’d love to really, the dinner was wonderful and I’ve enjoyed your company, but I have to go up to London in the afternoon to pick up a few things and see a man about a dog – a horse to be exact. I’ll be back on Wednesday morning.”

“Wednesday evening then.”

“Alright – as long as nothing crops up. But only if you let me take you out to dinner one night – somewhere really posh, we could even have champagne.”

Her eyes flashed with excitement, “Would you?”

“I’d love to.”

“That would be wonderful. I’ve got an outfit picked out already.”