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Authors: Pamela Oldfield
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‘Hurry it up, Wickens.’
‘Mrs Brent says there was an odd chap hanging about. Might get more from the Folkestone follow-up. Jem, his name was, this odd chap.’
‘Jem. Right. We’ll see what Folkestone have found out. I’ll give them a call. Probably all a waste of time. Storm in a blasted teapot! Probably got drunk and fallen asleep somewhere and scared to come back to the missus! Let’s face it – he hasn’t been gone twenty-four hours yet. Anyway, get off home, Wickens, and tomorrow be in on time. You were late yesterday and twice last month. It’s not good enough. You’ve had your last warning!’
‘Yes, Guv. I will.’ He made his escape.
The following morning Maude was asked to attend the police station as there was still no sign of Lionel and they were now taking more interest in the case. She had spent a wretched evening downstairs, attending the amateur soirée and trying to appear composed. People were too kind to her and her longing to be at home with Aunt Biddy and Alice was almost a physical pain. She was, however, tempted to stay on in the area where her husband had disappeared and where all the efforts to trace him would be undertaken.
Fear for his safety ate into her like a disease, crippling her mind and making it impossible to sleep. Mrs Cobb had called in a doctor who wanted to sedate her but the idea terrified her and he gave up. Instead he offered a soothing syrup, which she took dutifully at intervals but which did absolutely nothing – or so she imagined. After a sleepless night she felt dull and exhausted but she ate a little breakfast and just before midday she allowed herself to be taken to the police station in Derek Jayson’s new Ford motor. He went in with her, on his sister’s instructions, and promised to be waiting for her when the interview was over.
Maude found herself seated in a small airless room, sitting on an uncomfortable straight-backed chair, sipping a cup of over-sweet tea.
Constable Wickens was nowhere to be seen but an older man entered the room, smiled and introduced himself as Detective Constable Fleet. He had a world-weary manner but he inspired more confidence in Maude than his younger colleague had. He read silently through a sheet of notes and then looked up.
‘We’ll find him, Mrs Brent. Don’t worry. It’s just a matter of time. I’m going to run through what we have so far and you must add anything you think relevant or correct anything you think is wrong.’
Maude nodded without speaking. She had promised herself she would not cry. She would hold herself together and would not invite pity or compassion. Finding Lionel was all important and breaking down would help no-one. She sipped her tea and listened attentively.
‘Your husband, Lionel Brent, failed to return from a shopping expedition yesterday and this is totally out of character so you are naturally worried. He hasn’t yet been absent for twenty-four hours but if he doesn’t return shortly we will have to take further steps.’
He looked up and she nodded.
‘So far the only possible clue to his disappearance is a young man by the name of Jem who came to your house – that is Fairways , in Folkestone. Can you tell me anything else about him?’
Maude sat back and clasped her hands to prevent them from trembling. ‘He said he had something for Lionel and wouldn’t give it to anyone else. We sent him away because my husband was at work in London—’
‘The Barlowe Gallery?’
‘Yes. When Lionel came home he said the man had been waiting for him at the railway station and had given the envelope to him.’
‘So you saw the contents of the envelope?’
‘No. But it was some printed material about events that were taking place in Hastings in August and they were for the wrong dates because we were going now, in June.’
‘So you didn’t see the enclosures.’
‘No, because Lionel had thrown them into the rubbish bin on the station.’
Immediately his expression
‘Mrs Brent says there was an odd chap hanging about. Might get more from the Folkestone follow-up. Jem, his name was, this odd chap.’
‘Jem. Right. We’ll see what Folkestone have found out. I’ll give them a call. Probably all a waste of time. Storm in a blasted teapot! Probably got drunk and fallen asleep somewhere and scared to come back to the missus! Let’s face it – he hasn’t been gone twenty-four hours yet. Anyway, get off home, Wickens, and tomorrow be in on time. You were late yesterday and twice last month. It’s not good enough. You’ve had your last warning!’
‘Yes, Guv. I will.’ He made his escape.
The following morning Maude was asked to attend the police station as there was still no sign of Lionel and they were now taking more interest in the case. She had spent a wretched evening downstairs, attending the amateur soirée and trying to appear composed. People were too kind to her and her longing to be at home with Aunt Biddy and Alice was almost a physical pain. She was, however, tempted to stay on in the area where her husband had disappeared and where all the efforts to trace him would be undertaken.
Fear for his safety ate into her like a disease, crippling her mind and making it impossible to sleep. Mrs Cobb had called in a doctor who wanted to sedate her but the idea terrified her and he gave up. Instead he offered a soothing syrup, which she took dutifully at intervals but which did absolutely nothing – or so she imagined. After a sleepless night she felt dull and exhausted but she ate a little breakfast and just before midday she allowed herself to be taken to the police station in Derek Jayson’s new Ford motor. He went in with her, on his sister’s instructions, and promised to be waiting for her when the interview was over.
Maude found herself seated in a small airless room, sitting on an uncomfortable straight-backed chair, sipping a cup of over-sweet tea.
Constable Wickens was nowhere to be seen but an older man entered the room, smiled and introduced himself as Detective Constable Fleet. He had a world-weary manner but he inspired more confidence in Maude than his younger colleague had. He read silently through a sheet of notes and then looked up.
‘We’ll find him, Mrs Brent. Don’t worry. It’s just a matter of time. I’m going to run through what we have so far and you must add anything you think relevant or correct anything you think is wrong.’
Maude nodded without speaking. She had promised herself she would not cry. She would hold herself together and would not invite pity or compassion. Finding Lionel was all important and breaking down would help no-one. She sipped her tea and listened attentively.
‘Your husband, Lionel Brent, failed to return from a shopping expedition yesterday and this is totally out of character so you are naturally worried. He hasn’t yet been absent for twenty-four hours but if he doesn’t return shortly we will have to take further steps.’
He looked up and she nodded.
‘So far the only possible clue to his disappearance is a young man by the name of Jem who came to your house – that is Fairways , in Folkestone. Can you tell me anything else about him?’
Maude sat back and clasped her hands to prevent them from trembling. ‘He said he had something for Lionel and wouldn’t give it to anyone else. We sent him away because my husband was at work in London—’
‘The Barlowe Gallery?’
‘Yes. When Lionel came home he said the man had been waiting for him at the railway station and had given the envelope to him.’
‘So you saw the contents of the envelope?’
‘No. But it was some printed material about events that were taking place in Hastings in August and they were for the wrong dates because we were going now, in June.’
‘So you didn’t see the enclosures.’
‘No, because Lionel had thrown them into the rubbish bin on the station.’
Immediately his expression
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