defences. They need to rally against the shock, you see. And I’ve decided to go ahead with our little soirée after supper. We owe it to our other guests and—’
‘Oh yes! You mustn’t let us spoil things for everyone else.’
‘Of course not but I hope you’ll come down if you feel up to it. Everyone is wishing you well and you’d be very welcome. It might be easier than sitting here alone.’
Maude nodded without committing herself and looked at the tray.
Mrs Cobb said quickly, ‘A slice of my own home-made onion tart with salad and thin brown bread and butter. And then we have strawberry sponge with cream. I’ll send some up in ten minutes. I’ll leave you to it, Mrs Brent and . . .’ She held up crossed fingers. ‘Don’t give up hope. I feel sure fate will be kind.’ She closed the door carefully and Maude listened to her departing footsteps.
A kind fate. Was that was she was hoping for? Maude picked up a piece of lettuce and put it back on the plate. In a kind of daze she spread the serviette across her lap and picked up the knife and fork. She shook her head, put the knife and fork down and picked up a small triangle of brown bread. Somehow she chewed it up and swallowed it. Then she picked the onion tart up in her fingers and took a large bite. It was delicious. She swallowed, almost choking with eagerness, and bit into it again as though she had not eaten for a week. Still using her fingers, she stuffed salad in to her mouth, chewed, swallowed, then more tart and more salad, forcing it all down.
Before long the plate was empty and she sat back exhausted, but yes, she must be honest, she did feel a little better. She had helped the body’s defences. Thank you, Mrs Cobb , she thought. She sat back as unexpected tears streamed down her face. Struggling to defeat a growing feeling of hysteria, Maude waited numbly for the strawberry sponge to appear.
Constable Wickens left the Romilees and returned to the Hastings police station. He stood in front of his superior’s desk, trying as usual to look older than he was, and hoping to make sense of his handwritten notes.
‘Er . . . The Hursts passed the missing man going out as they came back. He said he was going to–to buy his wife something which he described as “a surprise” but wife claims there was no birthday due and no other special date.’
‘Special date? Like what?’
‘Er . . . like a wedding anniversary or the anniversary of the first day they met . . .’
‘First day they . . . Heaven help us!’
Constable Wickens continued, ‘Or anything of that kind. Mrs Cobb is the co-owner with her brother and says the missing man is, quote, “quite charming and they are obviously very fond of each other”, close quote.’
‘So he hasn’t done a runner with another woman?’
‘No, Guv. Not very likely. Mrs Cobb’s brother, Derek Jayson, says he hardly saw Brent except to say, quote, “How do and have a nice stay,” close quote. Miss Penelope Trew, maid, says missing man was, quote, “a bit of a dish and spoke quite la-de-dah and must . . . no, might give them a decent tip,” unqu—’
‘For Christ’s sake, Wickens, forget the ruddy quote-unquotes! Just get on with it. I’ve got a home to go to.’
‘Right, sir. Sorry, Guv. A young boy, Billy Hurst, and his father—’
‘The Hursts? You’ve already said them.’
‘Have I? Oh, right then . . . The wife, Maude Brent, says it’s out of character for him to go missing, never done anything like it before, can’t think of any reason for his disappearance and plumps for possible amnesia . . .’
The sergeant yawned. ‘Any known enemies? Money troubles?’
‘No enemies; she’s got money from her family, he works in her smart art gallery in London where she is part-owner. The Barlowe Gallery. She wants to go home to Folkestone.’
‘Anyone left at their home in Folkestone?’
‘An aunt and a paid companion.’
He looked at the wall clock.
‘Oh yes! You mustn’t let us spoil things for everyone else.’
‘Of course not but I hope you’ll come down if you feel up to it. Everyone is wishing you well and you’d be very welcome. It might be easier than sitting here alone.’
Maude nodded without committing herself and looked at the tray.
Mrs Cobb said quickly, ‘A slice of my own home-made onion tart with salad and thin brown bread and butter. And then we have strawberry sponge with cream. I’ll send some up in ten minutes. I’ll leave you to it, Mrs Brent and . . .’ She held up crossed fingers. ‘Don’t give up hope. I feel sure fate will be kind.’ She closed the door carefully and Maude listened to her departing footsteps.
A kind fate. Was that was she was hoping for? Maude picked up a piece of lettuce and put it back on the plate. In a kind of daze she spread the serviette across her lap and picked up the knife and fork. She shook her head, put the knife and fork down and picked up a small triangle of brown bread. Somehow she chewed it up and swallowed it. Then she picked the onion tart up in her fingers and took a large bite. It was delicious. She swallowed, almost choking with eagerness, and bit into it again as though she had not eaten for a week. Still using her fingers, she stuffed salad in to her mouth, chewed, swallowed, then more tart and more salad, forcing it all down.
Before long the plate was empty and she sat back exhausted, but yes, she must be honest, she did feel a little better. She had helped the body’s defences. Thank you, Mrs Cobb , she thought. She sat back as unexpected tears streamed down her face. Struggling to defeat a growing feeling of hysteria, Maude waited numbly for the strawberry sponge to appear.
Constable Wickens left the Romilees and returned to the Hastings police station. He stood in front of his superior’s desk, trying as usual to look older than he was, and hoping to make sense of his handwritten notes.
‘Er . . . The Hursts passed the missing man going out as they came back. He said he was going to–to buy his wife something which he described as “a surprise” but wife claims there was no birthday due and no other special date.’
‘Special date? Like what?’
‘Er . . . like a wedding anniversary or the anniversary of the first day they met . . .’
‘First day they . . . Heaven help us!’
Constable Wickens continued, ‘Or anything of that kind. Mrs Cobb is the co-owner with her brother and says the missing man is, quote, “quite charming and they are obviously very fond of each other”, close quote.’
‘So he hasn’t done a runner with another woman?’
‘No, Guv. Not very likely. Mrs Cobb’s brother, Derek Jayson, says he hardly saw Brent except to say, quote, “How do and have a nice stay,” close quote. Miss Penelope Trew, maid, says missing man was, quote, “a bit of a dish and spoke quite la-de-dah and must . . . no, might give them a decent tip,” unqu—’
‘For Christ’s sake, Wickens, forget the ruddy quote-unquotes! Just get on with it. I’ve got a home to go to.’
‘Right, sir. Sorry, Guv. A young boy, Billy Hurst, and his father—’
‘The Hursts? You’ve already said them.’
‘Have I? Oh, right then . . . The wife, Maude Brent, says it’s out of character for him to go missing, never done anything like it before, can’t think of any reason for his disappearance and plumps for possible amnesia . . .’
The sergeant yawned. ‘Any known enemies? Money troubles?’
‘No enemies; she’s got money from her family, he works in her smart art gallery in London where she is part-owner. The Barlowe Gallery. She wants to go home to Folkestone.’
‘Anyone left at their home in Folkestone?’
‘An aunt and a paid companion.’
He looked at the wall clock.
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