Episode 14 - Mrs Goodweather

Dorothy was not sure what was going on. Gary had come with Cleo, which Dorothy had rightly interpreted and did not approve of. But she was on the defensive for Cleo and worried that Gary had seemed flippant and eager to go off with another woman. Dorothy thought that proved he was a philanderer at heart, but telling Cleo that would have been thought spiteful rather than well-meaning.

***

Edith turned up quite unexpectedly. She declared that she was checking that Dorothy was safe, but she had also brought the music scores that Dorothy had left on the vicarage piano.

“I would have missed them this evening,” said Dorothy. “I can’t live without Beethoven.”

Dorothy hugged Edith to thank her. She hasn’t done that before, thought Edith.

***

Despite Edith’s presence, there were still a few points to be discussed, however.

“Why did Gary Hurley turn nasty, Cleo?” Dorothy asked.

“Was Gary here?” Edith asked.

“Yes. And Shirley came. They were checking on me, too,” said Dorothy. “They left together and Gary was cross!”

Cleo looked at Dorothy. What was she trying to achieve by telling Edith that?

"Gary gets irate when he’s not sure of his facts," said Cleo, not mentioning the possible significance of the two cops leaving together. "He hates being caught with gaps in his logic."

"What do you have in mind, Cleo?" said Dorothy.

"Well, what about the tenants of the office before me, the Norton brothers? They knew the layout of the building and will have known that the sash window at the back did not shut properly. I think Gary knows more than he says, but hasn’t joined it all up.”

“Then we’ll have to do it for him, won’t we?” said Dorothy.

"Unfortunately I didn't notice that the window was easy to open. From where I stood in the utility room I couldn't see that the window was open enough to slide your fingers through and lift it, and that’s what obviously happened."

"Gary didn't mention the partners of the four women, either. Maybe one of them has a phony alibi, or the alibis are phony in some other way," said Dorothy, getting into the swing of things. Investigating was such fun.

"Do you think one of the partners could have killed Laura and was maybe even paid for doing the job?" said Cleo.

"I wouldn't go as far as that," said Dorothy. "I was thinking of who could have helped to dispose of the body."

Edith had stayed out of the discussion until now, but looked from one sleuth to the other and back again as if she were at a tennis match. She also thought investigating must be fun.

“Did you reach any conclusions?” she asked.

"It was a lot of theorizing, Edith.” said Cleo. 

“I must admit that I’d like to be a step ahead of Mr Hurley, if only to see the look on his face," said Dorothy.

“He might even rope Shirley in after we had told her the details of the case,” said Cleo, and Dorothy could hear regret in Cleo’s voice.

“Is that his new item?” Edith asked, wide-eyed since she thought he and Cleo were together, despite Robert, whom she now thought of protectively.

“I hope not,” Dorothy and Cleo said simultaneously.

***

The doorbell rang. It was the vicar. He had swung himself onto his mountain bike and peddled to Dorothy’s cottage.

“Is Edith here?” he asked.

“What a surprise, Frederick. Yes,” said Dorothy. “Come in.”

The vicar was already in. He pushed past Dorothy into the kitchen.

“You could hear Cleo and Edith discussing the finer points of Laura’ case.

“Come home, Edith, and make my supper,” the vicar said.

“Albert is in charge,” said Edith. “He’s making frozen chips and there’s span in the fridge. You can share their supper.”

“I want my own,” said Frederick.

“Shouldn’t you be finishing your sermon for tomorrow,” Edith said.

“Not on an empty stomach.”

“Have some currant bread, Frederick,” said Dorothy.

“What are you three women plotting?” said Frederick, ignoring Dorothy’s suggestion.

“Nothing, Frederick,” said Edith. “Go home to the boys!”

“Yes. I’m sure they’re waiting for you,” said Cleo.

“They hardly know who I am apart from when I dish out the pocket-money,” he spat..

“Don’t be silly, Frederick,” said Edith, who knew it was true.

"If you want to know, I think Cleo and Dorothy are planning to go detecting on their own,” said Edith in order to dis-involve herself..

That was definitely improvised, thought Dorothy. Cleo was amused. Couldn’t Edith have just said she had brought the music back?

“Just tell them not to, Frederick. They won't listen to me," Edith continued and to bring hone her point added "No one ever does," in timid voice.

To Edith's dismay, the vicar retorted by saying "You don’t listen to me, either."

"Stop worrying, Edith," said Dorothy. "We were just speculating. Of course we won't do anything we shouldn't."

"I'm glad to hear that," said the vicar. “Would you like to tell me what it's all about?"

“I have a new case,” said Cleo, deciding to get off the topic of Laura. “It's a wife wanting to know where her husband goes when he says he's been working late, won't answer any questions and smells of a perfume the wife doesn't wear."

"Oh dear," said Edith, her idea of detection being to find murderers.

"Investigating is mostly about routine and patience," Cleo explained. “Patching up a marriage in this case, if it’s patchable.”

That statement was accompanied by stern looks from Edith to Frederick and back again. Both of them squirmed almost imperceptibly.

"Well, if that's all it is," said the vicar, "we can go home, Edith."

Edith reverted completely to the servile woman role she played when the vicar bossed her around.

They left. The vicar balanced precariously on his bike at walking distance until Edith sent him on ahead.

Not long after, Cleo went home.

***

Over supper,  Cleo asked Robert how far it was to Bristol.

"Why Bristol?" Robert wanted to know.

"Part of my theory about Laura. I'd just like to clear something up."

"What theory?"

"Mr Bontemps's mother lives in a suburb of Bristol and her name is Goodweather. That can't be a coincidence. It’s an exact translation. She might know something."

"What could she possibly know, Cleo? At most she knows that her little boy is a small-time crook."

“Why do you think that, Robert?”

“He looks like one and his eyes are devious.”

“I suppose you could be right,” said Cleo.

“I am.”

"How far is it to Bristol then?"

"Too far," said Robert.

Cleo switched on her laptop and found a route on the internet.

"It's less than an hour's drive, Robert. Can I borrow the van tomorrow?"

"You haven't driven more than 10 miles in the UK. How do you think you'll cope with all that traffic?"

"I’ll cope."

"That's what you think.”

"I need to check on Mrs Goodweather urgently."

“OK. I’ll get Phyllis to look after the shop tomorrow afternoon if you can’t wait.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to go in the morning?”

“No I’ll have sort out the stock from the wholesaler and get it ready to sell. Phillis doesn’t do hatchets.”

“OK. Afternoon.”

“Can we get an early night then, Cleo? It’ll be a long day tomorrow.”

“You always get an early night, Robert. I need to report on what we discussed today.”

Who’s  we?”

“Homicide and the Hartley Agency. Go to bed. I’ll clear up here.”

***

Robert was up with birds on Monday morning. He had made a gigantic list of meat cuts that he would collect at the wholesaler’s and take to his shop, as usual on a Monday morning.

Phillis was already more or less working, and not pleased to be in the shop all afternoon, but consented on the promise of double pay. Robert left everything organized and went home for lunch.

***

Soon after lunch Cleo and Robert, with Robert driving, set off for Bristol in the white delivery van. Robert harmonized along to a song on the radio in a rich baritone that might be one of reasons he lived at Cleo’s cottage.

Cleo was relieved. She hadn't relished him being grumpy all day. Thanks to the online phone book, she had traced three people with the name Goodweather in and around Bristol and written the addresses down. They would have to visit each one because Cleo had not wanted to announce her visit beforehand. Once resigned to a plan, Robert was fortunately prepared to go along with it whatever it cost in time and energy.

The first Goodweather family proved to be a young couple with several children living in a small holding just outside the city boundaries. Mr Goodweather's parents lived somewhere warm having left their son to manage the little farm and keep his job as an accountant going at the same time. Cleo thought it was all rather cute. Mrs Goodweather looked worn out, however. They did not have any relations in Upper Grumpsfield, she said. In fact, they'd never heard of the place.

The second Mr Goodweather was located at a corner shop run by an elderly serviceman still in uniform as if ready to go back into battle. He had lost his wife decades ago and was alone in the world, having spawned no offspring and being the last of his generation. Out of pity for the poor guy, Cleo bought some cheese cut off a huge slab, a box of Black Magic to give to Mrs Goodweather if they found her, apples for Robert and a bar of chocolate for herself.

That left the third and last Goodweather, who in the process of elimination had to be the person they were looking for. She was. There was no denying the relationship with Mr Bontemps. They had the same nose, the same constantly twitching fingers and the same permanently sulking mouth. Mrs Goodweather lived in a two up, two down council-house in a long terrace of council-houses in a long street that could have been any side street in any British suburb.

Mrs Goodweather was not interested in Cleo and Robert, but since she seldom had any visitors at all, anyone was better than nothing and might even be good for a contribution to her meagre income, so she invited them into her stuffy sitting room and accepted the chocolates as if they were her divine right. The room was pokey and overwhelmed by a disproportional television set and a yard-wide electric fire with three bars, all of which were switched on full although it was a reasonably warm summer’s day.

"It's my rheumatism," the woman explained. "I need the warmth."

Cleo, who had never seen such heating arrangements before coming the Britain and had spent quite a lot of money on a modest heating system  in her cottage, said with as much sincerity as she could muster that it was a good idea to keep warm whatever the weather. Robert took his jacket off and loosened his tie in anticipation. His wallet was now on the little coffee table. Mrs Goodweather could barely take her eyes off it. Cleo pulled it towards her and pretended to look for a business card. Women like Mrs Goodweather weren't averse to a bit of theft if given the opportunity.

Cleo and Robert were sitting close together on the little sofa because there was nowhere else to sit, and Robert was quite surprised that Cleo had popped the wallet into her capacious handbag, but he made no comment. He was used to Cleo's hunches. Meanwhile both of them realized that they would have to get the visit over fast before they melted in the ridiculous heat of the room.

***

"What do you want then?" the lady of the house asked. She went to the bay window, drew back the grubby net curtain and peered out as if she were waiting for someone. Turning back into the room, she announced that she hadn’t got all day. Her hands twitched faster. She had already come to the conclusion that the coloured woman was not the charitable sort and the man was henpecked.

"I’m here to inquire about your son, Mrs Goodweather," said Cleo.

"Don't mention him to me," the woman snapped.

"Why not?" said Robert

"Went off and changed his name by deed poll, didn’t he?”

“Did he?” said Robert.

“He did. He got a tick about being French. But he's not French enough to support his old English mother, mind you."

So that letter had probably been a begging one, Cleo construed.

Robert removed his tie and rolled it up carefully.

"Do you know him then?" Mrs Goodweather inquired.

"Not very well," said Cleo.

“I know him well enough,” said Robert. “He buys my sausages and sells them 20% dearer in his shop.”

“Does he have a shop?” inquired Mrs Goodweather.

“He works at the local supermarket,” said Cleo.

“Not shop-lifting then?” said Mrs Goodweather cryptically.

Neither Cleo nor Robert had any desire to hear about Bontemps’s thieving so I they did not ask his mother to explain.

"He writes now and again and once or twice he's enclosed a fiver – as if that would get me anywhere. In his last letter he said he was getting married."

Robert whistled.

Cleo nudged him and reacted with an “Oh really? Who's the lucky girl?"

"I'll tell you at a price," said Mrs Goodweather, leering at Robert.

***

Mrs Goodweather sat down on a tacky armchair opposite the sofa. She had been through similar routines before and speculated that these kind man would pay up for any information.

Cleo looked startled. Robert gesticulated to her to hand him his wallet. He fished out a £20 note, which he let drop on the table in front of Mrs Goodweather. She pocketed it without delay so that Robert couldn't change his mind.

"Well, Mrs Goodweather?" he said.

"Not a girl. Nearly old enough to be his mother."

“What was her name, Mrs Goodweather.”

Mrs Goodweather gave it some thought.

“Amy? Florrie? Lorrie?”

“Laura?” suggested Cleo.

“That’s it. Laura and something like a bird. Chaffinch?”

The visitors had trouble keeping a straight face.

So that was it. Mr Bontemps had persuaded Laura Finch to marry him. Or had he? He could have been lying to appease a nagging mother.

"Are you sure that was the name of the bride?"

"I'll get the letter. Don't touch anything."

Mrs Goodweather left the room and could be heard mounting the creaking stairs. Her bedroom was above the sitting room. They heard her tramping around the bed then back again and finally back down the stairs.

"Here you are," she said, handing Robert the missile.

Cleo and Robert read the letter together, of course. It confirmed their suspicions. Laura Finch had apparently agreed to marry the awful Mr Bontemps. If that were true, what did Bontemps want with such an old wife, especially as he had hitherto shown absolutely no inclination to enter into a relationship with any female? Had Laura seduced him? Had she shown him the delights of love-making? It didn't bear thinking about.

“I just hope she’s got enough money to support him and me,” said Mrs Goodweather.

"It's not going to happen," said Cleo.

"Why not?"

"Because the bride-to-be is dead."

***

It took a while for Mrs Goodweather to digest that news, possibly because she had start to think it would improve her lot, as well.

"Did she leave him anything?”

“Not that we know of,” said Cleo.

Mrs Goodweather was disappointed but not going to pass up another banknote, so she now focussed on Robert's wallet.

"Will that be all?" she said pointedly.

"We won't keep you any longer," said Robert, getting up and wriggling inside his uncomfortably damp shirt.

Mrs Goodweather fiddled with the banknote Robert had given her. She folded it into a fan then opened it and folded it into 4, as if she were about to do a bit of origami.

"I've got to the church hall now,” she said, irritated because these two fat cats had not reacted to her hints.

“It’s bridge. Beats the Sunday service and they do free teas and cake," she continued. "And I'll be lucky with the bingo this evening as I can afford to play for  20  rounds."

Reacting to the extremely broad hint, Robert said "We can take you there if you like, and here's another 20 for  the bingo."

“Or groceries, Mr….”

“Jones.”

Mrs Goodweather stuffed the second £20 note down her bony cleavage to join the first. She nodded triumphantly to Cleo, as if to emphasize that not all men were as stingy as her son.

"Nice name," she said in a rather courtly voice. "I'll just get my things."

"Where am I supposed to sit if you let her sit in front?" Cleo whispered.

"In the back. There's a seat that tips, and the van is empty."

'"Don't give her any more money!"

"I'd better. She looks as if she needs it."

Mrs Goodweather had removed her pinny and put on a rather strange turban style hat. She allowed Robert to help her into a coat that anyone else would have worn in midwinter. Her copious all-plastic handbag was quite out of proportion to the rest of her. It was white, adorned with scratches and fastened with a jewelled clasp. She opened it and looked pointedly at its contents. Robert obediently popped another banknote into it and winked broadly, which made her simper. After hoisting the still simpering Mrs Goodweather onto the front passenger seat and ushering Cleo into the rear of the van, Robert asked the woman to direct him to the church. Mrs Goodweather sat upright, hoping someone would see her in this vehicle. Fortunately for Cleo the journey did not take long. The little seat in the rear of the van was designed for smaller bottoms.

Robert helped Mrs Goodweather out of the van in front of the church, handing her yet another £20 note and whispering "Don't tell anyone", at which Mrs Goodweather fluttered her eyelashes.

After wishing Mrs Goodweather good luck at bridge and bingo, the latter of which was unknown territory to Cleo, she climbed into the front of the van and they drove off.

***

"What did you say to her that made her smile, Robert?"

"A little something for the bingo. I told her to keep it a secret."

Cleo couldn't help laughing.

"What an awful woman, but I feel sorry for her having a son like Bontemps."

"So do I and a few quid to support her won't break the bank."

“How much?” said Cleo.

“I lost count,” said Robert.

"It was worth it, however. I kept the letter."

"That's theft," said Robert.

"It just fell into my handbag. I'll make a copy and send it back tomorrow."

"If you want to catch criminals, you should at least uphold the law yourself," Robert advised.

"Sometimes it takes one to catch one, Robert. Let's find somewhere nice to have some food."

***

According to a banner in Gothic letters proclaiming “Ye Olde Pastures Greene”, the pub they eventually drew up to was the most frequented in the region and that was verified by the crowded carpark. They were lucky to be led to a window table and even luckier not to have to wait more than five minutes for the menu.

"Should I tell Gary about the letter?" Cleo asked Robert.

Robert pondered for a moment.

"I think you should, though you stole it."

"He'll be mad at me."

“But he won’t arrest you, will he?” said Robert. "You don't need to show him the original. Say you borrowed it and have since returned it. If you post it before you tell him about it, it'll be the truth."

“I don’t think he’ll be bothered, Robert. He’s hell-bent on solving Laura’s murder without the Hartley Agency. Anyway, Mrs Goodweather might not even have missed it. But I should phone her when we get home."

"What are you going to tell her? That you've pilfered her property?"

"I'll improvise. If she's persistent I'll just tell her the truth. That I picked it up and put it in my handbag absentmindedly."

"That's another lie, Cleo."

"A white one. What are you having? Roast beef?"

"No. I’ll try one of their pub snacks."

“Won’t we  have to go to the bar for that?” said Cleo.

Just then, the waitress came so Robert changed his mind about the crisps and sandwich and ordered tomato soup and a large pork pie with chips. The soup would be hot even if it came out of a can. The pork pies were sure to be commercial ones, but tasty. No one made proper pies anymore. Even Robert had given up on that as being too time-consuming. Cleo ordered a small pie. Country portions were notoriously large. For lubrication they ordered halves of locally brewed light ale.

An hour later, tolerable high teas eaten and paid for, they were back in the van on the way home.

***

At the cottage the answering machine had been busy. All but one of the calls were from Gary becoming increasingly annoyed that Cleo hadn't responded.

Cleo called back.

"What is it Gary? Why the panic?"

"Where have you been all day?"

"Am I under house arrest, Gary?"

"Not yet."

"Well, if you want to know, we've been visiting friends in Bristol this afternoon."

“We?”

“Robert and me.”

"Friends?"

"Yes, friends."

"Just in case you're going to embroider the ‘friends’ tale, I should tell you that I have hauled Bontemps in."

"Did he confess to something?"

"He confessed about his mother in Bristol being hard up, Cleo."

"Now that is a coincidence," Cleo improvised.

"And a little bird told me that you visited Bontemps’ mother in Bristol today. Am I on the right track?"

"You would have wanted me to, wouldn't you, Gary? It's not a job for the police. There are some things a friendly visit can achieve that you can't," said Cleo. "For instance, did you know that Mr Bontemps changed his name by deed poll?"

"He told me that, too."

"And that he was planning to marry Laura Finch?"

"Go on. Pull the other one."

"I have evidence of that, Gary."

"Hand it over."

"Ask me nicely. Better still, come over and have a coffee.”

“Now?”

“You seem to be still working, so you can do a working coffee.”

"It looks as if I'll have to."

"It sure does. I can also offer you a sweet bagel flavoured with cinnamon and dripping with butter."

“Temptation pure, Miss Hartley. Give me 20 minutes.”

Cleo scanned the letter into her laptop for her records and printed a copy for Gary.

***

“This Gary person,” Robert said nervously, “you don’t fancy him, do you?”