The Boat House Read online

  Edward pushed the last triangle of toast around the plate to collect the last of the egg yolk. Waste not, want not – that was his excuse for his lower-class habits. He said, ‘Don’t look at me, dear. It’s second- or third-hand information. The governess tells the Brannigans and Mrs B tells you and you tell me! Anyway, the last time I tried to tell that woman anything, she made it clear she considered me an interfering old fool.’

  ‘Oh, Ted! She didn’t say any such thing! You do exaggerate.’

  ‘She may not have said it but she certainly implied as much.’ He adopted Georgina’s prim tone. ‘“Thank you, Mr Barnes, but we have everything under control.”’

  Davina shrugged, acknowledging the point he made. ‘I suppose after the scandal the poor soul is desperate for privacy. The servants are forbidden to chat to anyone and she seems to have no real friends . . . and those poor twins! They must be lonely.’

  ‘How can they be lonely – they have each other. They’re twins, Davina.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘The new governess seems quite pleasant. Her six weeks must be up so we can presume she is being taken on permanently.’

  Davina smiled. ‘So you have noticed her. Attractive, isn’t she? What my uncle used to call a “looker”. I expect she has been told “No Followers”! I wonder what her status is – a childless widow, perhaps. Or a spinster who has been looking after an aged parent . . .’

  ‘More to the point, what does she know about what happened? I can’t imagine Mrs Matlowe being very frank about the children’s history.’

  Davina glanced at the rows of photographs on the piano. It was a very small sample of her husband’s favourite images – Derby Day, Ascot, Cowes Regatta, and, of course, their own Henley Royal.

  She smiled. Their own wedding photographs, taken by a local man, had long since been relegated to the back row but she let it pass. She knew how large a part professional photography played in her husband’s life and she was immensely proud of him. However, one photograph in the front row, framed in ornate silver, and taken from a higher angle, was nothing to do with society events. It showed a vivacious young woman in what was obviously the Matlowes’ garden. Slim, beautiful and fashionably dressed, she was holding two very young infants, one in each arm, and glancing up at her husband with a proud smile.

  ‘I do wish that, wherever she is, the young Mrs Matlowe had a copy of that picture.’ Davina sighed.

  Edward sighed too. ‘You never give up on that, do you?’

  ‘I know I don’t, but . . . wherever she is she must long for something to remember them by.’

  He shrugged. ‘I wasn’t supposed to be taking photographs of them so how could I give her a copy? I couldn’t explain it without admitting I was snooping! From a bedroom window. Not at all gentlemanly. We both know I made a mistake.’

  ‘I know, dear, but Leonora Matlowe looked so wonderfully happy then – before it all turned sour.’

  ‘She ran off, Davina, and left them, so I don’t know why you persist in thinking she misses them.’

  ‘She probably ran off because the children’s grandmother hated her and made no secret of it. A beautiful woman and an American at that . . . Mrs Matlowe was jealous of her daughter-in-law.’

  ‘She should have been pleased for her son.’

  ‘Well, she wasn’t. It was all a dreadful shock for her. Fancy missing your own son’s wedding! A second cup of tea, dear?’

  Edward shook his head, pushing his plate away. ‘I could have made a mint of money out of that photograph if you hadn’t made such a fuss. The police appealed for relevant images but there were none as good as that.’

  ‘But then everyone would have known that you spied on them! What would our friends have thought?’

  ‘It’s what press photographers do, Davina,’ he said irritably. ‘It’s what’s known as a candid shot.’ He pushed back his chair.

  His wife jumped to her feet. ‘Oh do stop, Ted. We’ve been over and over it. I just pray that the young couple found each other again somehow . . . somewhere.’ She looked wistful. ‘But then they would have come back for the twins, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘I know exactly what you want, Davina. You want the big reconciliation with the grandmother and the young people and beaming children . . . and all the trimmings! Probably an orchestra playing in the background! I’m afraid life isn’t like that.’ He shook his head. ‘There can never be a happy ending, dear. The police suspected Neil of foul play – and him disappearing the way he did certainly makes him look guilty.’

  ‘Poor Neil. He seemed such a nice young man. I can’t imagine him doing anything bad. Certainly not killing the mother of his own children – a woman he obviously adored.’

  ‘Mrs Matlowe probably drove him to it! You know my theory – that she drove a wedge between husband and wife. I blame her. Miserable old . . .’

  ‘Ted! Watch your language, please!’

  ‘Don’t you start!’ He gave her a peck on the cheek to show that it was meant in jest and headed for the door. ‘I’ll be in the dark room for twenty minutes or so.’ At the door he glanced back. ‘The regatta is going to be rather special this year, Davina, because of the royal visit. Do you want to come with me? I know you have rather lost interest over the years but it should be quite an event if the weather is decent.’

  ‘I haven’t lost interest but it’s a bit lonely on my own. I know you have to be here, there and everywhere for your photographs but that leaves me with no one to talk to.’

  He shrugged. ‘Bring a friend with you.’

  Davina brightened. ‘What a good idea. I’ll try and think of someone.’

  ‘They are sure to put on a splendid show for the King and Queen.’ He regarded her hopefully.

  ‘I wonder if Princess Mary will come with them.’

  ‘Anything’s possible. Which day are they coming?’

  ‘On the Saturday. I suppose they want to be there for the prizegiving and the end of regatta celebrations. Can we beat the opposition this year, do you think? First it was the Belgians and now the Australians!’

  ‘We can try! So you’ll come this year?’

  ‘Probably. I’ll ask Mary if she’ll come with us. I’m sure she would if we could get tickets for the Enclosure – then we could watch from the Grandstand.’ Davina crossed her fingers. This was a familiar argument.

  He was already shaking his head. ‘You know that’s out of the question. The only people who get into either are the stewards, rowers, their families and invited guests. A very select group!’

  ‘And photographers aren’t select enough!’ She grinned at him. ‘Never mind, Ted. I’d still like to come with you. I might need a new hat, though!’

  He laughed. ‘I thought you’d say that!’

  ‘And . . .?’

  ‘A new hat? Why not!’

  He had only been gone five minutes when someone rang the front door bell. The daily help was not due until ten o’clock so Davina hurried to answer it and found a man she vaguely recognized on the doorstep.

  ‘Mrs Barnes?’ He smiled. ‘I wonder if you remember me?’ He handed her a card.

  Davina took it but she looked more closely at him and recognized him. One blue eye was slightly darker than the other. She tried to recall his name without referring to the card.

  ‘Donald Watson!’ she said and a smile of triumph spread over her face, lighting up her plain features.

  ‘At your service!’

  ‘Private Investigator extraordinaire!’

  ‘Indeed.’ He smiled at the compliment.

  She had no idea what he could want but she opened the door to allow him to come in. ‘My husband is in the dark room so I dare not interrupt him but we can have a cup of tea, if you’d like that, while we wait for him.’

  He followed her into the lounge and Davina felt the first flutter of excitement. Was Mr Watson on another case? It was six or more years – maybe eight – since he had been involved with the Matlowes and although that had been a harrowing business at the
time, life had seemed rather tame when it ended.

  Without thinking, she asked, ‘Have they found Mrs Matlowe – Leonora, I mean? I still live in hope.’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’ He opened the buttons of his jacket and sat down.

  Surely not the same grey suit, she thought, surprised. He had become quite well-known at the time of the young mother’s disappearance and Davina would have expected him to look a little more affluent by now.

  As if reading her thoughts he grinned and at once looked much younger. Not that she knew his age but she prided herself on being able to make an informed guess and thought thirty was quite likely.

  He said, ‘This is my “looking inconspicuous” suit. It doesn’t pay to look too upper class – no offence meant – when you need to blend into the background. I look on this faithful old suit as my private investigator’s uniform!’

  Flustered, she retreated and came back with a tray of tea for one, explaining that they had only just finished breakfast.

  He glanced out of the French windows at the hedge that separated the Barnes’ garden from that of the Matlowes. ‘It doesn’t seem long ago that we were all trying to make sense of what happened next door.’

  ‘And failing dismally!’ Davina rolled her eyes. ‘And here you are again. I’m wondering why.’ Receiving no reply, she went on. ‘So they really haven’t found Leonora?’

  ‘I do have news,’ he said cautiously, ‘but if you don’t mind I’ll wait for your husband to join us and tell you both at the same time. But how are things with you and the neighbours? Everything peaceable?’

  Needled that she was not going to learn anything before Edward did, Davina smiled sweetly and took her time pouring the tea. ‘How many sugars? Two, isn’t it?’ She handed him cup and saucer. ‘Your mother keeping well? I remember she had a nasty turn when you were last here.’

  ‘I’m afraid she had another turn for the worse and she died two years ago.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Watson! I’m so sorry. A peaceful passing, I hope.’

  He nodded. ‘She died in her sleep without pain.’

  ‘That’s what we all hope for, Mr Watson.’ Unable to wait any longer with her own news she said, ‘We have a new governess next door. The previous one only lasted a few weeks. I’m hardly on speaking terms with Georgina Matlowe but that’s just because she goes out of her way to avoid her neighbours.’

  ‘So how did you hear about the governess?’

  ‘I see Mrs Brannigan once a month at our sewing circle and she keeps me up to date. The children talk to her through the hedge.’ She frowned. ‘I must say that Georgina Matlowe has rather withdrawn from the rest of us. Dropped out of the ladies’ luncheon group soon after it happened but still plays bridge . . . But the strangest thing is that she no longer attends church and she used to be a regular churchgoer, come rain or shine.’

  He shrugged. ‘Tragedy takes people in different ways,’ he offered. ‘I knew a young woman once who came home from work to find both her parents dead.’

  ‘Good Lord! Had they been murdered?’

  ‘No. The coroner’s verdict was that the father collapsed and died of a heart attack and then the wife found him some time later and died of shock. But the daughter, poor soul, went into a convent for a few months and is still there years later.’

  ‘Poor soul indeed. But I daresay she . . .’ There were footsteps on the stairs. ‘Ah, here comes Ted.’

  As soon as Edward was seated, their visitor began. ‘As you know I was engaged by Neil Matlowe’s family when Leonora went missing, to try to discover her whereabouts, and this was during and after the police investigation. Neither of us found any clues. There was no sign of her in America, either, and at some stage everyone lost hope and the investigation was ended.’

  Edward said, ‘You all did your best. It was nearly three years before the police finally gave up on the case.’

  Donald Watson nodded. ‘No one is blaming anyone on that score. But I have learned that something did come to light about eighteen months ago. The Prestons – that is Leonora’s American family – discovered that Neil Matlowe had been found dead four years ago – killed in a car crash in Nebraska of all places.’

  Husband and wife exchanged shocked glances.

  She said, ‘In a car crash? Oh, the poor man!’ She turned to her husband. ‘We liked Neil, didn’t we, dear? Rather dominated by his mother, of course, but when he was offered the chance to go to America, he jumped at it – and met Leonora. He really wasn’t the sort of person to die in a car crash!’

  Her husband said, ‘In Nebraska?’

  Donald Watson nodded. ‘It seemed he’d been living under an assumed name – with a woman named Bella Williams. She told the police that he had confessed to her that he was on the run because when he’d left England he was afraid he’d be framed for a murder he didn’t commit . . .’

  ‘Be framed?’ Davina stared at him. ‘By whom?’

  Ignoring the interruption he went on. ‘But Bella Williams didn’t believe he was the sort to murder anyone and she never would believe it.’

  There was a short silence.

  Davina said, ‘So he’s dead! Has been for years. That’s terrible!’

  Her husband shook his head. ‘We never thought there had been a murder. Never. This Bella woman was right. Neil Matlowe wasn’t violent.’

  ‘Quite the opposite!’ said Davina. ‘I thought him very nicely brought up. Good manners. Quietly spoken. A gentle soul. I think the vivacious Leonora must have been quite a tonic for him!’

  Edward nodded. ‘As you know, we understood that Leonora had run away after a series of rows with her mother-in-law. When he also left we didn’t know what to think.’

  Davina said, ‘We supposed he had gone to find his wife who must have been quite distraught . . . But we told you all this at the time, Mr Watson. It must be in your reports.’ She frowned. ‘Do you think they’ll ever find her?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’ve been engaged to look again into what happened.’

  ‘Look again? By whom?’ Ted leaned forward in his chair.

  ‘By Leonora’s younger brother, Richard Preston. He was sixteen when it happened so now he must be about twenty-three.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ She looked at her husband. ‘Did we know Leonora had a brother?’

  ‘I don’t think we did.’

  Donald Watson continued. ‘The Prestons never recovered from the loss of their daughter, apparently. The mother took to drink . . .’

  Davina said, ‘They often do!’

  Edward turned to her. ‘How would you know?’

  Ignoring the reproof in his voice she said, ‘I think I might do something like that. Desperate measures . . .’

  ‘You don’t know what you’d do!’

  ‘I most assuredly wouldn’t go into a convent!’ she told him scathingly.

  Hastily Donald Watson went on. ‘The father, Arnold Preston, has developed a serious lung condition and the doctors aren’t hopeful. The son wants to solve the mystery for his parents’ sakes as well as for his own.’

  After a thoughtful silence Edward said, ‘So you’re here in your official capacity as a private investigator to rake over the coals, so to speak, and hopefully turn up new clues.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I doubt if we can help you, Mr Watson, much as we’d like to.’

  His wife nodded. ‘The Brannigans might know something . . . or you could talk to the governess. Her name’s Marianne something. French, I think. She looks French anyway – dark hair, brown eyes.’

  ‘Lefevre,’ said Edward. ‘Marianne Lefevre. But she’s new. She wouldn’t know anything, would she? She probably doesn’t even know what happened – although she must wonder where the twins’ parents are.’

  Donald Watson agreed, adding, ‘I’d be grateful if you would both keep your eyes and ears open for any bits of gossip or rumours. You know the drill from last time.’ He glanced again at his watch.

  Edward said
slowly, ‘So this time are we supposed to think there might have been foul play? A murder, even. Are the police involved again? Can we expect a visit from them?’

  ‘Not at this early stage but if anything suspicious surfaces . . .’

  Davina placed a hand over her heart and lowered her voice. ‘You should talk to Mr Blunt, their gardener. He’s been with the Matlowes for donkey’s years. If anyone had to dig a grave, for instance . . .’

  Her husband tutted. ‘A grave? For heaven’s sake, Davina! Your imagination is running away with you. All this poor brother wants is to find his sister – if she’s still alive. Which no doubt she is . . . even though she might have remarried.’

  ‘Which she can’t because she’s still Mrs Neil Matlowe!’ Her tone was triumphant.

  Donald Watson raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Oh no! She isn’t, is she!’ she amended. ‘Now that Neil has died in a car crash . . . She’s a widow! If she knows he’s dead, that is.’ Seeing her husband’s warning look she stumbled to a halt.

  The private investigator stood up. ‘It’s all very confused, Mrs Barnes, but these are questions I hope to answer. My brief is not to solve a crime but to find Leonora Preston, wherever she is. I’ve warned young Mr Preston that after all this time I am not very hopeful. I don’t want to give him false hope. I shall notify the police, naturally, before I start stomping all over their “patch”, as they call it. Only courteous to let them know I’m snooping around again. But if I unearth anything suspicious I shall pass it on to them.’

  Davina said, ‘This younger brother – what is he like?’

  Donald Watson shrugged. ‘Very young and sounds somehow earnest. A slightly heroic cast, if you know what I mean. Determined to right a wrong. That sort of thing.’

  Davina nodded. ‘Riding to the rescue of his sister!’

  ‘Exactly.’

  They both got up to see him out.

  Edward said, ‘Let us know how things go, and if we can help, we will. Same telephone number, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’