Then she spoke. She had gone round to the summerhouse for her lesson in Muslim ethics as usual. She admitted for the first time that these sessions were held in the Fitzgeralds’ summerhouse, where the Fitzgeralds had given shelter to a refugee. ‘She was not there. Of course I was surprised. There was a note on her side table.’ Maude fiddled in her jacket pocket, to produce a sheet of lined paper, possibly torn from a notebook. Without speaking, she handed it over to Justin. The note simply read:
I must leave here. Thank you. Blessings.
Justin scowled at the message in puzzlement. ‘She’s gone? Left the village? Why so sudden? Is it a question of rent?’
Maude shook her head. ‘Has she just run off? Or was she abducted and forced to write this note? The more I think about it, the more worried I become.’
The phone rang. Justin picked it up.
‘Can I speak to Mr Haddock, please?’
‘Justin Haydock speaking, but I’m not in a buying mood. What do you want?’ He preferred the name Haydock, which was what he always used on his TV scripts. And not only there. Since his boyhood days, he had hated being called after a fish.
‘So sorry, Mr Haydock. We are not trying to sell you anything. We just happen to be in your area. We wondered if we could offer you a free modern-design kitchen. It comes—’
‘Sorry, no, I do not want a free kitchen. Bugger off!’ He put the phone down.
Maude looked enquiringly at him. ‘Should we call the police?’ she asked.
‘It’s probably perfectly innocent. Maybe she quarrelled with Deirdre Fitzgerald – she wouldn’t be the first to do so. Should we go and see the Fitzgeralds? They must know something about this. The girl didn’t even sign her name.’
‘I still think we should phone the police. She was not the sort of girl simply to disappear.’
‘You say that, but she has simply disappeared. Let’s go and see the Fitzgeralds first, then if there’s no joy we’ll phone the police. If they haven’t done so themselves.’
So they went together down Ivy Lane and used the formidable iron knocker on the front door of Righteous House. After a long pause, Guy Fitzgerald opened the door a little way. He nodded, with no change of facial expression. ‘Might we come in and have a word with you, Guy?’ said Justin.
‘What about?’
‘About the young woman who was staying in your summerhouse.’
‘She’s taken off – done a flit.’ He had a wheeze in his throat.
‘Precisely. That’s what we need to talk about.’
Seemingly with reluctance, Guy opened the door wider, and with a gesture invited them in. He was wearing some kind of green knitted waistcoat under an old jacket with brass buttons. Maude and Justin came into a house of gloom, where heavily framed engravings hung on walls covered with a heavy green wallpaper selected for its funereal qualities. They followed Guy’s bent back into a sitting room at the rear of the house, where most of the space was taken up by a table and a number of chairs upholstered with a material of a green similar both to the wallpaper and Guy’s waistcoat.
In one of these chairs sat Deirdre, close to an empty fireplace. Deirdre Fitzgerald appeared to be dressed in a number of garments, among which a beige wool shawl predominated. There was also a harsh-looking skirt, possibly woven by a long-dead Fitzgerald, which hung down to meet Deirdre’s button-up black shoes. They underwent the routines of greeting, at the end of which Deirdre said brightly, ‘I expect you would like some sherry.’ She had a small plump face with a sharp down-pointing nose which made her thin mouth almost invisible. Whereas her husband had clearly descended from a rather sturdy ape, Deirdre’s ancestry appeared to be more on the flightless bird line.
‘No, thanks,’ said Justin. He never drank sherry.
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Maude. She sat down on the nearest chair to look about her, smiling vaguely, in the manner of one who enjoyed green. Neither of the Fitzgeralds made any move towards a distant sherry bottle, let alone considering uncorking it. Guy was leaning against the wall by the door, his arms folded, mainly staring at the floor.
‘I see you have noticed the portrait of my mother,’ said Deirdre, nodding and smiling towards the oil hanging prominently above the fireplace, as if the woman it depicted was still alive. ‘You will notice she bears a strong resemblance to Lily Langtry, the Edwardian beauty. Everyone remarked on the resemblance. She went on a cruise to the Norwegian fjords once and was applauded all the way.’
‘The Haddocks have come about Om What’s-Her-Name, dear,’ said Guy, prompting her.
‘It’s a shame they never met my mother,’ said Deirdre, smiling forgivingly at Justin. ‘At one time she was notorious for her affair with Solly Joel, the South African millionaire. He gave her an invaluable diamond which I could show you. We Hawkes were of aristocratic descent, a little haughty, I’ll give you that, but fine people.’ She repeated the phrase for reassurance. ‘Fine people. Numbering among us an admiral and not a few poets. Colly Cibber? You probably have never heard of him but he remains a famous name. I have to say that Guy’s folk were of much humbler stock.’
‘We won’t go into that just now, dear, since it is not germane to the subject,’ said Guy heavily, ‘although my father’s father was a friend of the architect who designed the Titanic and its sister ship. These good people have come to enquire about the black girl.’
‘Well, she’s gone and that’s about it,’ said Deirdre. ‘I permitted her to stay in our summerhouse out of the charity of my heart, and she left without a word of thanks. She was probably an illegal immigrant. You know what these people are like.’
‘I know what Om Haldar was like,’ said Maude with spirit. ‘She was like a well-bred young woman, sweet-natured and considerate.’
‘But you cannot deny she has left without a word of gratitude,’ said Deirdre.
‘Yes, “done a runner”, in fact,’ said Guy, chuckling as he backed up his wife.
‘I do wish you would not use these slang terms, dear,’ said Deirdre. ‘They don’t suit you.’
‘Might we look in your summerhouse?’ Justin asked, turning to Guy. ‘Just in case she has left a clue behind.’
‘Er, I have had a look myself. Nothing. Nothing at all.’
Maude was already making for the door. ‘Still, if we could just have a peep …’
‘Of course. I’ll come with you.’ He slowly unfolded his arms, as if to demonstrate a lack of eagerness.
‘I too have had a search,’ said Deirdre, with some severity, twisting in her chair. ‘I wanted to see if anything had been stolen. I remember my mother telling me that an aunt of hers, who lived in Cheyne Row, quite close to the Carlyles, had her house broken into and all her silver stolen.’
‘You kept your silver in the summerhouse?’ asked Justin, deliberately misunderstanding her. They made their way across the immaculate lawn, Justin, Maude and Guy.
‘She was rather a liar,’ said Guy. ‘Devious, you know.’
‘That was not my impression. My impression was of a fine young character,’ said Maude. ‘Solitary, yes, and guarded. But there was a warmth about her somehow which I felt enhanced my life.’
Guy raised an eyebrow but gave no reply. Possibly the random enhancement of life was