Cherringham--The Gentleman Vanishes Read online

  Once downstairs, Alfie was ushered into a small bright dining room, where he decided to celebrate the change in the weather with a full English breakfast. It would have been impossible for the plate to contain any more food: a perfectly poached egg, bacon, sausage, grilled tomatoes, baked beans, potato scone and a mysterious mound of what he took at first sight to be Puy lentils. After prodding at it suspiciously, he realised it must be haggis. Even a London-born McAlister should surely be able to cope with Scotland’s national dish, he thought, taking a tentative mouthful which proved to be very tasty. He scarcely had room for the wholemeal toast with farm butter and thick-cut marmalade, but he persevered, washing it down with freshly squeezed orange juice and English breakfast tea.

  Then he put on his coat, which had dried out overnight in the warm bathroom, and got directions to Jasmine Cottage. This was the home of Miss Margaret Redwood and Miss Clarissa Hopkins, Aunt Augusta’s best friends and the executors of her will.

  In the bright sunshine, the Drunken Horse looked quaint rather than dilapidated. The golden limestone of the village buildings positively glowed. Alfie strolled along grass verges, passing well-kept cottage gardens and unkempt cottage gardens, an enticing tearoom, and an Indian restaurant called From Bombay to Bunburry.

  Eventually, he reached Jasmine Cottage, a neat two-storey building with a low stone wall round its sloping front garden. He climbed up the three stone steps to a white wooden gate and paused.

  Oscar had been dismissive of the Misses Redwood and Hopkins.

  “They’ll be stone deaf,” he said, “half blind and completely round the twist. They won’t have the faintest idea who you are and they’ll probably have you arrested for soliciting.”

  But there was no help for it. They had the keys to Aunt Augusta’s cottage. Taking a deep breath, he rang the bell, which made a pleasant old-fashioned ding-dong sound.

  There was the sound of brisk footsteps approaching, certainly not the footsteps of a frail old lady. The door opened to reveal a small, birdlike, white-haired woman wearing oversized glasses.

  She peered at him for a second, then shrieked “Alfie!” in delight, flinging her arms round him. “He’s here! Alfie’s here!” she called back into the house.

  “How did you know it was me?” he asked.

  “Oh, we Googled you,” she explained. “And I must say, you’re even more handsome than your photographs.”

  Alfie was spared the embarrassment of trying to respond to this by the arrival of a taller, plumper woman with permed sandy coloured hair.

  “Oh, Alfie,” she said, taking his hand in both of hers. “It’s lovely to meet you, but I wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.”

  Alfie had the oddest impression of the sugary smell of Bunburry fudge. He must be having the nasal equivalent of a hallucination.

  “Come in, come in,” urged the birdlike woman. “Something to drink? Perhaps a small — “

  “A small tea,” said the taller woman firmly and Alfie thought her companion looked a trifle downcast.

  “Thanks, but I’ve just finished a very substantial breakfast,” he said. “I couldn’t manage anything else just yet.”

  “You’ll want to see the cottage,” said the taller woman. “I’ll just go and get the keys.”

  “Thank you,” said Alfie as she disappeared into the interior. “Miss Redwood? Miss Hopkins?”

  “Oh, heavens, Alfie, you can’t be formal with us,” said the smaller woman. “And just for the record, we’ve decided to call ourselves Ms. More modern, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” said Alfie. “Very.”

  The taller woman re-emerged with two sets of keys, which she handed to him. “These are yours now,” she said.

  “Thank you, Ms Hopkins? Ms Redwood?”

  The taller woman gave the smaller one a reproachful look. “I rather thought you might have made the introductions, dear,” she said, then turned to Alfie. “This is Marge, and I’m Liz. Would you prefer to go to the cottage by yourself?”

  Alfie realised he definitely didn’t. It felt somehow intrusive, just walking into Aunt Augusta’s former home. Her closest friends, who would have visited her there constantly, were exactly the right people to show him round.

  “Would you mind coming with me?” he asked. “Unless you’re busy, of course.”

  Marge waved away the suggestion that they might have other things to do. “Anything we can do to help, Alfie, you only have to ask.”

  Alfie felt a twinge of guilt. Like the barmaid the previous evening, they were being sympathetic because they thought he had lost someone close. Aunt Augusta might be on a neighbouring branch of the family tree, but he felt no closer to her than he had to the other passengers on last night’s train.

  Liz brought out their jackets and they escorted Alfie through the village, Marge giving a running commentary on the occupants of every property. “And that’s Rakesh Choudhury’s cottage — he has the Indian restaurant.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen it,” said Alfie. “Is it any good?”

  “Lovely,” said Liz. “He does all sorts of cooking. Goan, Bengali, Kashmiri. He just called it Bombay for the alliteration.”

  “I keep telling him it should be Mumbai,” said Marge.

  “That’s cultural imperialism, dear. He’s entitled to call it what he likes.”

  Marge ignored this and pointed out a small house across the road. “That’s the Fairchilds’ place — Amelia and Henry. You’ll meet them in next to no time because they run the supermarket. They took it over from Amelia’s parents about eighteen months ago.”

  “Maybe not run quite as efficiently as it was in the past,” murmured Liz.

  They rounded a corner and Alfie saw the tattered banner he had seen the previous day, still only suspended at one end.

  “Oh, goodness,” said Marge. “Still, I suppose they have to leave it. It could be evidence.”

  “Evidence?” asked Alfie with interest. “Evidence of what?”

  “Well, on Tuesday night — “ began Marge.

  But Liz broke in: “Alfie, I hope you find everything satisfactory in the cottage. We’ve left virtually everything as it was, but your aunt told us she wanted her clothes given to the charity shop. And there were a few small items she wanted to go to particular people.”

  “Sorry?” said Alfie, confused. “I thought she died in her sleep.” How could she have told Marge and Liz anything?

  “Yes, it was very peaceful. Definitely the way to go,” said Marge. Then she gave a gurgling laugh. “Ah, I see what you mean! Don’t worry, Alfie, we didn’t get a message from the Great Beyond.”

  “Marge, dear,” said Liz reprovingly. “This isn’t really a subject for levity.”

  “But can you imagine Gussie turning up at a séance? No, Alfie, you wouldn’t catch Gussie sitting around just in case a medium asked if there was anybody there. She’ll be in the nearest celestial cocktail bar, chatting up the waiters, and smoking hand-rolled Cuban cigars.”

  “Really?” said Alfie faintly.

  “Really,” said Marge. “No playing a harp on a cloud for Gussie. She doesn’t do boring.”

  Liz caught Alfie by the sleeve to stop him walking on. “Here we are,” she said. “Windermere Cottage.”

  The cottage was long and low, flanked by bushes, with a bright purple door and bright purple window frames. Three carriage lights hung on the solid stone walls.

  Alfie unlocked the front door, politely let Liz and Marge enter first, and then followed them inside. He failed to stifle his exclamation of horror. The parlour walls were covered in a psychedelic nightmare of pink, purple, black and white swirls. If he looked at them much longer, they would induce a migraine. He was suddenly reminded of reading Oscar Wilde’s supposed last words (although the biographer was at pains to stress he had actually said them several weeks earlier): “My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has to go.”

  “Gussie loved the Seventies,” said Mar
ge. “Would you like to see the bedroom?”

  “Not just yet,” said Alfie, sinking on to a black leather sofa.

  “I’ll make you a cup of tea,” said Liz. “That’s always good for shock. We got you a few basics, just to start you off.”

  “Or perhaps you’d prefer a gin?” suggested Marge, heading for a glass-fronted drinks cabinet in the corner of the room.

  Resistance was futile. They were determined to ply him with some sort of liquid, whether he wanted it or not. “Tea will be perfect,” said Alfie, and with an approving nod, Liz headed for the kitchen.

  “Anyway,” said Marge, sitting on one of two vast black leather armchairs, “Gussie always liked to give the impression that she was completely ditzy, but she had a mind like a steel trap. When we got her will, she had added a codicil saying we had to take away her clothes and various other bits of personal paraphernalia so that you could move straight in. Then there were a few small bequests, mainly little bits of jewellery. There’s still plenty of it left, though.” She gave him a keen look through her oversized glasses. “According to Google, there isn’t a Mrs McAlister, but maybe there’s a girlfriend who might like some Georg Jensen silver?”

  Alfie shook his head. “I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment.”

  There. That had been easy enough to say. Perhaps they thought he was looking round for the next one, after leaving a swathe of broken hearts in his wake. While instead it was his heart that was broken.

  Liz returned with the tea tray. “You won’t notice the wallpaper after a while,” she said. “It grows on you.”

  This conjured up a terrifying image of being engulfed by multicoloured circles.

  “Milk?” she asked and poured him a mug of tea. Then she offered him a plate which held half a dozen beige squares.

  “Is this what I think it is?” he asked.

  “I suppose that depends on what you think it is,” said Marge.

  Alfie took a piece, bit into it. “The best fudge in the Cotswolds,” he murmured, his eyes closed. “You know, my mother introduced me to it. I thought it was the most wonderful thing I had ever tasted.” His tongue slid along his teeth. “And I still do.”

  “That’s nice to hear,” said Liz. “Of course, I’ve never altered the recipe.”

  Alfie’s eyes snapped open. “You made this?” She nodded. “And back when I was eight?” She nodded again.

  “How old are you now, Alfie?” asked Marge.

  “Forty-two” he said.

  “Liz, you would just have started out,” she said. “Remember how you went round getting everybody’s recipes? You never thought they were completely successful, did you? And you just kept experimenting and experimenting until you got it the way you wanted.”

  “There,” said Liz. “My life’s achievement, making fudge. Not like you and your start-up company, Alfie. I’m afraid you’ll find Bunburry very quiet compared to London. Not much happens here.”

  Too much had happened lately. A quiet backwater was exactly what he needed.

  “Although,” said Marge, coming over and pouring out her own tea, “something happened just a few days ago. Which I was about to tell you earlier when Liz so rudely interrupted.”

  “You know exactly why I did that, dear,” said Liz mildly.

  “Yes, and you were quite right,” said Marge. “I forgot all about poor Anthony. Anyway, it was all very dramatic.”

  Liz gave a faint tut.

  “Which was quite apt, since he was the director of our amateur dramatics production. We’re doing The Mousetrap, you know, the Agatha Christie murder mystery play. Well, of course you must know it — since it’s been playing in London for years and years.”

  Alfie kept his expression studiously polite. “Yes,” he said neutrally, “I’ve seen it.”

  He had taken Vivian, one day when they had decided to play at being tourists, doing all the things Londoners never did, marvelling at the Crown Jewels in the Tower, getting a bird’s-eye view of the city from the London Eye, visiting Madame Tussaud’s. He had taken a photograph of Vivian striking a pose among the A-list celebrities, more gorgeous than all of them put together. It was still on his phone, and he couldn’t bear to look at it.

  Marge was chattering on. “ — although I can’t see how we can do it after all, now we’ve lost our director.”

  “I don’t think Alfie’s quite following,” murmured Liz. “You’re telling it in quite a convoluted way.”

  “Of course he’s following,” said Marge. “Aren’t you, Alfie?”

  “I think so,” Alfie lied. “So Anthony’s directing your play?”

  “Let me tell it, dear,” said Liz to Marge. “No, Alfie, James Fry was the director of our play. Poor Anthony is his cousin — he works in Bunburry Blooms, the flower shop we were passing when Marge was about to tell you, in quite a loud voice, about James getting killed. Not tactful, dear.”

  “Killed?” Alfie put down his mug of tea and leaned forward on the sofa. This wasn’t a word he had expected to hear in Bunburry.

  “He was putting up the banner for our play,” sighed Liz. “He must have fallen off the ladder, and unfortunately his scarf got caught on a hook as he fell. A terrible accident.”

  Marge pushed her glasses back up her nose. “If it was an accident.”

  Alfie’s mug of tea lay forgotten. “You don’t mean — murder?” he said eagerly.

  “You can tell he’s a city boy, can’t you?” said Marge. “You may get murders in London, Alfie, but you certainly don’t get them in Bunburry.”

  People were people wherever they were, thought Alfie. And some people were murderers. There were several psychology research papers he could cite to this effect.

  “There may have been some money worries,” said Liz. “He was an insurance broker whose business may not have been going as well as he hoped. There’s speculation that he took his own life.”

  “Well, whatever happened, it still leaves us without a director,” said Marge.

  “I’m sure it will all get sorted out this evening,” said Liz. She turned to Alfie. “I don’t want to drag you away from your new home, but we’re all meeting in the Drunken Horse at eight o’clock tonight to discuss where we go from here. You’d be very welcome to join us, and we can introduce you to a few people. “

  “It’s a date,” said Alfie. “That’s where I’ll be anyway — I’m booked in there tonight as well.” And depending on what Aunt Augusta’s bedroom looked like, he might stay in the Drunken Horse indefinitely.

  “We’ll leave you to explore,” said Liz. “Come along, Marge.”

  They worked well as a team, thought Alfie. It was almost a pity there wasn’t a murder. He could imagine the ladies as a pair of Miss Marples, nice cop and nicer cop, Marge chattering on to lull the suspect into a false sense of security while Liz sat quietly, instantly picking up the smallest clue.

  He walked them to the door, then bent down and kissed each of them on the cheek. “It’s been wonderful to meet you both,” he said. “Thanks for everything.”

  He watched them disappear down the narrow street, chatting earnestly to one another, and found himself looking forward to meeting up with them again in the evening. He might have been less keen if he had been able to hear their conversation.

  *

  “He doesn’t have a girlfriend, you know,” said Marge. “I swear, if I was twenty years younger and he wasn’t practically family … He’d better watch out, or some cougar will gobble him up.”

  “Not many cougars in the Cotswolds, I don’t think,” said Liz. “Gloucestershire Old Spot Pigs, maybe. And the occasional llama.”

  Marge patted her arm. “Not a real cougar. A cougar is an older lady who goes after a younger man.”

  “Oh dear,” said Liz. “That doesn’t sound very suitable.”

  “No, it doesn’t, does it?” said Marge. “What we need is someone younger. Someone single. Preferably someone good looking. Now, who do we know who fits the bill?”
r />   “We mustn’t meddle, dear,” said Liz. But she was smiling.

  “A small dinner party, do you think? Just the four of us? Will I ring, or will you?”

  “I suppose I should,” said Liz. “She’s my great-niece, after all.”

  End of the reading sample

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