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Authors: Ann Purser
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their right minds than Mrs. Spurling cared to acknowledge.
“So what is this important new revelation?” Ivy said when they were settled.
“You tell,” said Deirdre to Gus. “With all your experience in the field of undercover enquiries, you’ll do it better than me.”
Gus looked at her closely. Was there sarcasm in her tone? No, surely not. Just a little green-eyed envy, he told himself, and began.
“They were very helpful at the newspaper archive,” he said, “although there was not that much about William Jones. Not at first, anyway. Much more about George and his achievements. George took care of that, apparently, being a brilliant self-publicist. No, over the years there was a mention of William’s coming-of-age party; his success at university, listed alongside others; and then the notice of his engagement.” He paused for dramatic effect.
“Who to?” Roy said, thinking it was time to get to the point.
“One Alwen Rosemary Wilson, of the parish of Oakbridge in the county of Suffolk.”
Gus leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and looked triumphantly at Ivy.
“Yes, well, we guessed that much,” she said, refusing to be impressed. “But what about the rest? The marriage, for a start. Were they actually married? Lots of engagements get broken off. And if they were, what after that?”
“Hold your horses, Ivy,” Deirdre interrupted. “There’s more, but at least we know for a start that Alwen was Mrs. William Jones, of the highly regarded Jones family. Go on, Gus.”
After that, Ivy and Roy sat quietly whilst Gus told them what else had been found. The marriage was a quiet one, and Bronwen had been born “prematurely” six and a half months later. They discovered this from marriage and birth notices.
“Then we found the real treasure,” Gus continued. “It was quite a big splash. William Richard Jones, brother of Mayor George, had disappeared. Although no confirmed reason emerged, it was strongly believed that William, then company secretary of the brewery, and responsible for all financial matters, had got into debt and absconded with a sizable sum.”
“But surely George would have suppressed such a story?”
“Oh, he tried,” said Deirdre. “Categoric denials, threats to sue the paper, assurances that he was in touch with William, who was merely taking a sabbatical, all of that. And then suddenly it all went quiet, and in time the whole thing was forgotten.”
“And William came back?” said Roy, hoping for a happy ending.
Gus shook his head. “Oh no,” he said. “He never came back, and the last mention of him in the local paper was a report of his death in Australia. He’d been bungee jumping, according to report, and the springy rope had severed. Killed instantly, said the official report issued by the public relations office of the brewery.”
“So that was that? And Alwen was left a widow, but no doubt supported by the ever-generous George?” Ivy said, her eyes wide and incredulous. “Well,” she continued, “if you believe that load of cobblers, you’ll believe anything. Bungee jumping indeed! What rubbish!”
There was a stunned silence, and then Roy cleared his throat and said perhaps they could all do with another cup of tea. “I’ll ring the bell,” he said.
ALWEN JONES WAS intrigued. She was now, as usual, sitting at the supper table with Roy and Ivy, and they both seemed oddly abstracted. She regaled them with stories of infants and their useless parents, and in the end tried on them her best school story. It was when the children had written daily news books, she said, and described one entry that had made all the staff chuckle. “One little boy,” she said with a grin, “had written, ‘Dad killed the dog last night and buried it in the garden.’ ” This anecdote, a favourite one amongst teachers, had always gone down well, but Roy and Ivy had scarcely smiled.
“Poor dog,” Roy had said, and Ivy had merely nodded.
“Oh
“So what is this important new revelation?” Ivy said when they were settled.
“You tell,” said Deirdre to Gus. “With all your experience in the field of undercover enquiries, you’ll do it better than me.”
Gus looked at her closely. Was there sarcasm in her tone? No, surely not. Just a little green-eyed envy, he told himself, and began.
“They were very helpful at the newspaper archive,” he said, “although there was not that much about William Jones. Not at first, anyway. Much more about George and his achievements. George took care of that, apparently, being a brilliant self-publicist. No, over the years there was a mention of William’s coming-of-age party; his success at university, listed alongside others; and then the notice of his engagement.” He paused for dramatic effect.
“Who to?” Roy said, thinking it was time to get to the point.
“One Alwen Rosemary Wilson, of the parish of Oakbridge in the county of Suffolk.”
Gus leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and looked triumphantly at Ivy.
“Yes, well, we guessed that much,” she said, refusing to be impressed. “But what about the rest? The marriage, for a start. Were they actually married? Lots of engagements get broken off. And if they were, what after that?”
“Hold your horses, Ivy,” Deirdre interrupted. “There’s more, but at least we know for a start that Alwen was Mrs. William Jones, of the highly regarded Jones family. Go on, Gus.”
After that, Ivy and Roy sat quietly whilst Gus told them what else had been found. The marriage was a quiet one, and Bronwen had been born “prematurely” six and a half months later. They discovered this from marriage and birth notices.
“Then we found the real treasure,” Gus continued. “It was quite a big splash. William Richard Jones, brother of Mayor George, had disappeared. Although no confirmed reason emerged, it was strongly believed that William, then company secretary of the brewery, and responsible for all financial matters, had got into debt and absconded with a sizable sum.”
“But surely George would have suppressed such a story?”
“Oh, he tried,” said Deirdre. “Categoric denials, threats to sue the paper, assurances that he was in touch with William, who was merely taking a sabbatical, all of that. And then suddenly it all went quiet, and in time the whole thing was forgotten.”
“And William came back?” said Roy, hoping for a happy ending.
Gus shook his head. “Oh no,” he said. “He never came back, and the last mention of him in the local paper was a report of his death in Australia. He’d been bungee jumping, according to report, and the springy rope had severed. Killed instantly, said the official report issued by the public relations office of the brewery.”
“So that was that? And Alwen was left a widow, but no doubt supported by the ever-generous George?” Ivy said, her eyes wide and incredulous. “Well,” she continued, “if you believe that load of cobblers, you’ll believe anything. Bungee jumping indeed! What rubbish!”
There was a stunned silence, and then Roy cleared his throat and said perhaps they could all do with another cup of tea. “I’ll ring the bell,” he said.
ALWEN JONES WAS intrigued. She was now, as usual, sitting at the supper table with Roy and Ivy, and they both seemed oddly abstracted. She regaled them with stories of infants and their useless parents, and in the end tried on them her best school story. It was when the children had written daily news books, she said, and described one entry that had made all the staff chuckle. “One little boy,” she said with a grin, “had written, ‘Dad killed the dog last night and buried it in the garden.’ ” This anecdote, a favourite one amongst teachers, had always gone down well, but Roy and Ivy had scarcely smiled.
“Poor dog,” Roy had said, and Ivy had merely nodded.
“Oh
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