The Boat House (8 page)

‘
Bateau
.’

‘So dog is
chien
and boat is
bateau
.’ Emmie gave her sister a smug look.

Edie tossed her head. ‘It’s silly!’

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘It is . . . Oh look! The swans are coming over. They want some bread!’

They both looked at Marianne who shook her head.

‘The bread’s all gone,’ she told them. ‘You gave it all to the ducks.’ Seizing the moment she said, ‘Bread is called
pain
in France.’ She pronounced it correctly, as
pan.

Emmie frowned. ‘Like saucepan?’

While Marianne tried to explain, a man approached them and Edie cried out with delight. ‘It’s the lollipop man!’

Marianne turned to find a pleasant-looking man holding out a small white card, which she accepted cautiously.

‘Donald Watson – Private Investigator,’ she read aloud.

‘It’s the lollipop man! We met him when we were out with Hattie.’ Edie beamed at him hopefully.

Emmie, reading her sister’s expression, said, ‘We aren’t in the park now. There aren’t any lollipops here.’

Marianne looked up from the card and said evenly, ‘I assume this meeting is not a coincidence, Mr Watson.’

‘No. I’d very much like to talk to you some time, somewhere convenient. If you would contact me. I’ve written my office number on the back. We would need to be discreet.’

‘Discreet? Oh dear . . .’ The suddenness of his appearance had made her wary. ‘I’ll have to . . . to consider it.’

Edie said, ‘Is your wife coming today? We’ve seen a boat and the man steered the boat with his pole and made the boat go a bit wobbly and the lady said, “Do watch what you’re doing, darling!” and his name was Tommy but we don’t know her name.’

Emmie, not to be outdone, said, ‘We’re learning French words to please Grandmother. Boat is
bateau.
’

He smiled at Marianne. ‘Your girls are amazing.’

Emmie said, ‘Marianne is not our mother. We told you. She’s our governess . . .’

‘. . . because our mother has run away and our father has died and we don’t even remember them . . .’

‘. . . but we had a nanny once who was ever so old and Grandmother had to get rid of her. We don’t remember her.’

A silence fell between them.

Marianne, disconcerted, said, ‘A potted biography!’

Emmie looked at Donald. ‘We need some bread for the swans.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t have any.’ To Marianne he said, ‘A nanny?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Do you know her name?’

‘If I ever did know it, I’ve forgotten it. It might come back to me.’

He lowered his voice. ‘It really is rather important that we talk, Miss Lefevre. If you would be kind enough to get in touch.’ He said, ‘Goodbye,’ to the twins and walked quickly away.

Emmie, disappointed, said, ‘He’s not as nice as I thought he was.’

The swans had grown tired of waiting and now swam away and Marianne decided they must bring the French lesson to an end and walk home.

Donald Watson – Private Investigator.

What on earth could he want with her? she wondered.

As soon as they arrived back at the house, Georgina sent the children into the schoolroom with instructions for Marianne that they should sit down quietly and learn a piece of poetry.

‘They are hopelessly overexcited,’ she told the governess. ‘My foolish sister has that effect on them, I’m afraid. She has the same effect on me! I want the twins to calm down completely before they start to eat their lunch.’

‘Certainly. I’ll find a suitable poem – unless you have something particular in mind.’

Georgina frowned. ‘I’ll leave that to you. That’s your job, not mine.’

‘Then perhaps “
One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, knock at the
. . .”’

‘Yes, I know it. That will do very well. I shall be . . .
busy
for the next hour or so and am not to be disturbed.’

Hurrying along to her special room, Georgina let herself in and locked the door behind her. Leaning back against the door she closed her eyes and let out a long sigh of relief. She was safe for the moment. She stayed with her back to the door as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom.

‘That wretched woman!’ she murmured. How was it, she wondered, that Ida always managed to catch her wrong-footed in some way, so that a few hours in her company left her nerves jangling. Here, alone in the darkness, she could find some peace of mind. Here, she could talk to her son without fear of interruption.

‘Neil,’ she whispered. ‘It’s Mother. I’m back.’ Her son had died in a foreign country but Georgina had no doubt that his spirit had returned to Henley-on-Thames where he belonged; where he was welcomed with open arms; where he was still needed.

Opening her eyes, she looked slowly round the room with a sigh of pleasurable relief. Crossing to the altar, she felt in the hidden drawer for the matches and lit the two black candles with a hand that trembled. Watching the small wicks flicker into light, she was comforted, and already she felt some of her anxiety slip away. A faint smile touched her face as she knelt carefully, resting her knees on the hassock that had once belonged to her mother. She knew every detail of the faded embroidery – every stitch that Ellen Matlowe had applied all those years ago.

‘I’m back, Mother,’ she whispered through her clasped hands. ‘I’ve been with Ida and she’s given me a terrible headache, as usual.’

She always waited for a whispered reply, faint as a breeze but audible. It never came but Georgina understood that it was just a matter of time. Ida had never been close to her mother, and Georgina had always known she was the favourite.

She said, ‘I’m home, Herbert,’ and smiled for her dead husband. He had always told her how pretty she looked when she smiled. ‘It’s like the sun bursting through the clouds!’ he had said one day – the day he had proposed marriage and she had accepted.

Now, she bowed her head. If Herbert came to her now he would find her very changed, she thought. She was no longer young and beautiful, happy and serene. Now she was growing old, her life had become fearful and full of agonizing regrets – the days too long, the nights filled with terrible dreams.

‘Dear Lord, hear my prayers.’

Dutifully she began the short series of prayers to which she felt He was entitled. The Lord came first and she spoke to him with cautious reverence. Afterwards she would relax her vigilance and talk to Neil.

Further down river, below Henley Bridge, Donald Watson found what he was looking for – the boatyard. It was an unpretentious enclosure containing about thirteen boats of various shapes and sizes but this would soon change, he knew. From past experience he understood that as the time for the regatta drew near, more boats, mainly punts, would be taken in for a final check before the big day. The event lasted from the first Wednesday in July until the Saturday.

He parked his motor car and took his time, strolling towards the low buildings that were either repair shops, stores or offices. He whistled cheerfully as he made his way across the rough ground – patches of thin grass surrounded by stony ground and stretches of mud baked hard by the sun – not wishing to give the impression that he was ‘nosing around’ or that he had no right to be there. Trespassers were never welcome.

All around him men were working on boats – painting, sawing, polishing, caulking and otherwise intent on their labours. No one gave him more than a curious glance but Donald felt reasonably at ease among them because his earliest memories were of hours spent as a boy in his uncle’s workshop where he worked in his spare time on an almost derelict dinghy. Strangely the work never ended and the boat was never declared seaworthy. His aunt insisted that her husband simply wanted somewhere to hide away when she started to nag him.

‘Can I help you?’

Donald turned, smiling. It was more a challenge than an offer of assistance but he knew better than to alienate anyone. ‘Good morning! Is the boss around?’

‘Might be, might not.’ The man, thought Donald, might fairly be described as ‘grizzled’.

From somewhere the sound of wood being planed carried on the breeze and with it the unmistakable tang of wood shavings and sawdust.

Donald said, ‘Is it still Leo Croom? It’s a long time since I was last here.’

‘It’s Mr Croom, yes. He’s in the office.’ He pointed a calloused finger. ‘A bit older and a bit crustier, if you get my meaning! Doesn’t like being bothered.’

With that he turned sharply on his heel and walked away.

Donald muttered, ‘Thanks for the warning,’ and made his way to the squat building that served as the boatyard’s office.

Before he could knock on the door it opened and a man in his fifties stepped out, a disgruntled look on his face.

‘Mr Croom! I don’t know if you remember me but . . .’

Leo Croom eyed Donald sourly. ‘I do and I’m busy so make an appointment with my secretary.’

‘I won’t take up much of your time but . . .’

‘I know you won’t because I’m due somewhere in ten minutes and it’ll take me twenty to get there! Excuse me.’

Donald was not at all rebuffed by this rejection but gave a polite nod of understanding. In his opinion secretaries were often a very fruitful source of information so he opened the door of the office and made his presence known.

Miss Batt, turning from the filing cabinet, stared at him as if she had seen a ghost. ‘Donald Watson!’ she said at last. ‘Gracious me!’

‘I can’t deny it,’ he laughed. ‘And you look as young as ever!’

‘Now then, Mr Watson.’ She wagged a finger at him but blushed as she did so. ‘And it’s Mrs Warner now.’

‘Well, congratulations! I envy Mr Warner.’

Pleased by the compliments, which nonetheless flustered her, she drew herself up, pushed her spectacles up and sat down at her desk. ‘How can I help you, Mr Watson?’ she asked with an attempt at formality, indicating a chair.

Donald sat down and quickly explained that he needed to make an appointment with the boss. ‘They are reopening the file on Mrs Leonora Matlowe. Do you remember? She went missing about seven years ago.’

‘The young American woman?’

‘That’s her.’

‘So she didn’t turn up?’

He shook his head. ‘No sign of her but now I need to refer to the old files in case we missed anything. Leonora’s younger brother is coming to England, determined to find out what happened to his sister. He’s employing me to help him simply because I’m familiar with the original investigation.’

‘And because you’re good at what you do.’

He tried a modest smile but was secretly flattered. ‘We’ll see if there’s anything new to discover,’ he said.

Minutes later an appointment had been arranged for him to talk with Leo Croom and Donald rose as though to take his leave. However, he hesitated. ‘I don’t suppose you’d know what happened to the punt the Matlowes once owned. I’d like to know if they purchased it from here. It seems to have disappeared over the intervening years since the young woman went missing. There may or may not be a connection.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘You think maybe she took the punt out and was drowned? Something like that?’

‘Who knows? Something certainly happened to her.’

‘And you want “private” information?’ She looked at him sternly but there was a twinkle in her eye. ‘You’ll get me into trouble, Mr Watson!’

He nodded. ‘You’re quite right – and that would never do!’

She regarded him earnestly. ‘I recall all the excitement although I was only seventeen, but everyone was talking about it. A real mystery, wasn’t it?’ She glanced towards the door to make sure they were alone. ‘Do you have
any
idea what happened to her? I mean, maybe the police
do
know something but can’t prove it so you all have to say nothing . . . because the police seemed to think it might be the husband who . . .’ She frowned then lowered her voice. ‘He might have killed her and just pretended she’d run off.’

Ah! Light dawned for Donald. Mrs Warner wanted something in exchange for the information about the Matlowes’ boat, which was fair enough. ‘Mrs Matlowe said something to the police about a quarrel the husband and wife had had the night before she disappeared and I daresay that made them suspect him. There was never any other evidence that he might have harmed his wife but . . . mud sticks.’

She was rising to her feet now and his hopes rose. He said, ‘This young man – the brother – has come over from America and wants to know the facts. I think he wants to prove to his parents that his sister didn’t just abandon the children willingly.’

‘I suppose that if they find out she is definitely dead they can start to grieve. It must be dreadful to go on hoping year after year!’ She was now opening the top drawer of one of the filing cabinets and riffling through the various files.

At last she drew one out and opened it. ‘The Matlowes purchased one of our punts in 1898 – that’s fourteen years ago. Paid for by cheque in the name of Herbert Matlowe.’

Donald made a quick note as she turned over another sheet.

‘They have never sold it back to us . . . nor have they advertised it for sale on our notice board.’ She closed the file and returned it. ‘Not much help, is it?’

‘You never know what might come in useful.’ He smiled. ‘You’ve been a real brick! Thank you.’

He said his goodbyes and had reached the door when she said, ‘They say that Mrs Matlowe hated the punt. She was terrified of the river. One of her uncles drowned in a boating accident when she was a child and she never forgot it.’

He stared at her. ‘That’s news to me.’

‘And you’re the investigator!’ She grinned.

‘If I ever need another colleague . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished.

She shrugged. ‘Working here you pick up all sorts of things. People gossip. Especially river people. They love tittle-tattle.’ Changing the subject she asked, ‘Will you be watching the regatta this year or are you too busy?’

‘We might snatch a few hours’ free time. It would be something to see the King and Queen go down the river.’

She wished him well with his investigation and he strolled back to his motor car in high spirits. Thank the Lord, he thought, as he swung the starting handle, for the Miss Batts of this world. Sorry! Make that the Mrs Warners.