Witch is How Bells Were Saved Page 3

  I was just beginning to think that maybe we’d been invaded by space aliens when Tony’s voice came out of the blue thing.

  “Morning, Jill.”

  “Hi. You gave me a bit of a shock.”

  “They’re horrible, aren’t they?” said green, bobbly Clare.

  “What are they supposed to be?”

  “Germs. It’s GermCon this weekend, and it’s our first time there. As always, you and Jack are welcome to come along.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but it looks like we’ll be attending a model train rally on Saturday.”

  “Mr Hosey’s thing? He invited us, but we had to say no because of the con. It’s a pity, it sounds like it’ll be fun.”

  “Doesn’t it, just?” I started for the car. “I’d better get going. Lots to do.”

  “Have you and Jack been practising your instruments for the band?”

  “Of course. Every chance we get.”

  “What did I say, Tony?” said green, bobbly Clare. “I told you that everyone else would be putting in lots of practice.”

  “It’s not like we haven’t done any practising,” Tony AKA the blue, tubular spiky one said. “But it’s not easy what with work and the con to prepare for.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I reassured them.

  I knew it. Jack seemed to be under the impression that everyone else was practising their instruments like crazy, but most people were too busy. Or, like me, they just couldn’t be bothered.

  ***

  Mrs V wasn’t in the office.

  And neither was her computer. At least, I didn’t think so, but then I spotted it on the floor next to the filing cabinet.

  I was still trying to work out what was going on when the woman herself came through the door. A few steps behind her was Armi, carrying what appeared to be some kind of vintage typewriter.

  “Put it on there, my little gingerbread man.” She pointed to her desk.

  Armi was red in the face, and clearly relieved to put the relic down.

  “Morning, you two.”

  “Morning, Jill,” Armi gasped.

  “What do you think of it, Jill?” Mrs V held out both arms as though she was showing off a prize on a game show.

  “It’s a typewriter, isn’t it?”

  “It’s the first one I ever used. I was given this as a leaving gift when I left my very first job at Drake, Cheeseman and Tyler. I think they were planning to replace them anyway, so it saved them buying me a gift.”

  “Right? So, err—why is it here?”

  “I’ve never really got along with computers. You know that, Jill. They’re so fiddly and slow. I’ll be much more productive with this, you’ll see.”

  “You’re going to use it here? For work?”

  “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “I suppose not, provided you’re still able to do your normal work. What about other computery things?”

  “Like what, dear?”

  “I don’t know.” It was only then that it struck me: I didn’t really have the first clue what Mrs V did all day. There was the knitting of course. And answering the phone. But beyond that, nothing that I could think of.

  “It’s not like I’m going to throw the computer away. It’ll still be here if something crops up that I need it for.”

  “I’d better be going, my little dewdrop.” Armi seemed to have caught his second wind. “I thought I’d pop by the estate agents while I’m in town.”

  Once Armi was out of the door, Mrs V slipped a sheet of paper into the typewriter and began to tap away on the keys.

  “It’s rather noisy, isn’t it?” I shouted.

  “Sorry, dear?” She paused. “What did you say?”

  “I just said—never mind. I see the waste bin is back in its normal place.”

  “Yes, the leak has been repaired.”

  “Good. Macabre isn’t altogether useless, then.”

  “Come and take a look at this!” Winky was on my desk, looking at my computer.

  “What is it? I’m very busy.”

  “Come and see.”

  “Why are you looking at pictures of horse-drawn carriages?”

  “I thought, seeing as we were going all retro-like, you might like one of these instead of that old rust heap you’re driving.”

  “Get off my desk.” I gave him a gentle nudge that somehow resulted in him doing a swan-dive onto the floor.

  “I could sue you for that.” He put on a fake hobble for my benefit. “That’s cruelty to animals.”

  “Cry me a river.”

  “Are you seriously going to leave that decrepit old thing in the outer office?”

  “I think the typewriter will be okay.”

  “I wasn’t referring to the typewriter. I meant the old bag lady. She’s beginning to scare people.”

  ***

  My latest case was a peculiar one. Sure, I’d dealt with my fair share of missing person cases, but this one was plain weird. For a start, if Mr and Mrs Bell had wanted to disappear, why bother towing their caravan all the way home first? Surely it would have made more sense for them to ‘go missing’ while they were at the caravan park. And as for the police’s theory that the Bells had disturbed burglars, that was okay as far as it went, but why would the burglars have forced the Bells to go with them? Why not just do a runner?

  My first port of call was to the Bells’ next-door neighbours, the Hemsleys.

  “Hi. I’m Jill Maxwell. I phoned earlier.”

  “Are you the ant lady?” The elderly man squinted at me over his reading glasses.

  “Err, no. I spoke to your wife, I think. About your neighbours, the Bells.”

  “Is it the ant woman?” A woman’s voice came from somewhere in the bungalow.

  “No. She says it’s about the Bells, and that she spoke to you on the phone.”

  A woman, her hands covered in what looked like flour, appeared at the man’s side. “I told you she was coming, Eric.”

  “Did you?”

  “I knew you weren’t listening to me.” She gave an exaggerated sigh, and then turned to me. “Men, they’re always the same. Sorry, dear, I know you told me your name, but I’ve forgotten it.”

  “Jill Maxwell.”

  “I’m Cynthia. Come on in. Eric, make yourself useful and get us all a drink. Is tea alright for you, Jill?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “We’re expecting the ant woman,” Cynthia said. “We thought we’d got rid of the little blighters, but they’re back again. Such a nuisance.”

  “Do you know the Bells well?”

  “Walt and Jean? Yes. We’ve been neighbours for almost thirty years. We’ve seen both of their children grow up and leave home. Nice kids. Eric and I never had children, did we, dear?”

  Eric was back with the tea and a plate of chocolate digestives.

  “No, but Adam and Katie were always around here when they were little. They must be beside themselves with worry.” Cynthia offered me the plate of biscuits. “I can’t believe it’s over a year since they went missing.”

  “Thanks.” I was very restrained and allowed myself only a single biscuit. “What I find really strange is that they towed the caravan all the way back home, and only then went missing.”

  “Cynth and I said the same thing,” Eric said.

  “Did either of you see them arrive back from their holiday?”

  “No. The caravan wasn’t there when we went to bed, but it was when we got up the next morning.”

  “Do you remember what time that would have been?”

  “We’re creatures of habit, aren’t we, Eric? We always turn in at ten. Ten-thirty at the latest. And we’re always up by six-thirty.”

  “That’s very helpful, thanks. You’re probably already aware that the police believe the Bells may have walked in on burglars. I don’t suppose you saw or heard anything unusual?”

  They both shook their heads, and Eric said, “There have been very few break-ins in this n
eighbourhood while we’ve lived here. In fact, I can only remember one.”

  “Two,” Cynthia corrected him. “There was the Boswells, and the Greys.”

  “Oh yes, I’d forgotten about the Greys, but both of those were at least ten years ago.”

  “Tell me about the Bells,” I said. “Did they have any problems that you were aware of? Health, family, money, that kind of thing?”

  “Not that I know of,” Cynthia said. “And Jean and I spoke most days. The four of us used to have dinner at one another’s house at least five or six times a year. Jean and I used to take turns making dinner, but she was a much better cook than me.”

  “No one makes steak and kidney pud like you, Cynth,” Eric said, sweetly.

  I came away from the Hemsleys with the impression that Walter and Jean Bell were very much an ordinary, unremarkable couple. Unless they’d been very adept at keeping secrets from their neighbours, there was no obvious reason why they should have wanted to disappear. That left only the burglary theory, but that still didn’t ring true with me. The neighbourhood had an incredibly low crime rate, with only two burglaries in the previous thirty years. At least, according to the Hemsleys. If that was true, what were the chances that the Bells would walk in on burglars on the day they returned from holiday?

  Something else was bothering me too. Why had the Bells travelled home during the hours of darkness? Wasn’t that a bit unusual?

  Chapter 4

  “I thought you’d given up on the clown thing, Mrs V?”

  “I have. There’s no point now Armi has lost interest.”

  “It’s just that you have white spots all over your cheeks and chin. I thought it must be face paint.”

  “Oh dear, I hadn’t realised.” She took a small mirror out of her handbag. “It’s the correction fluid.”

  “The what?”

  She held up what looked like a nail varnish bottle. “It’s Liquid Paper. Haven’t you seen it before?”

  “I can’t say I have. What’s it for?”

  “When I make a mistake, I use this to paint over it. When it’s dry, I simply type it again.”

  “It looks like you made an awful lot of mistakes.”

  “Sorry?” She looked appalled at the suggestion.

  “I’m just going on the amount of white stuff on your face.”

  “I think the bottle must be leaking.”

  “Did people really have to do that before computers? It seems like an awful lot of messing around.”

  “Yes. Young people these days don’t know they’re born. What with their spell check and their addictive text.”

  “Addic—? Oh, you mean predictive text. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go back to your computer?”

  “Definitely not. I think I’m getting back into the swing of it. And besides, this brings back some happy memories for me. It reminds me of when I used to work in the typing pool at Bolt, Nut and Ratchet.”

  “Engineers?”

  “No, they were a firm of accountants. There were thirty of us in the typing pool.”

  Given how noisy a single typewriter was, the noise in there must have been deafening. No wonder Mrs V was a little hard of hearing.

  She continued to reminisce, “There was one particular young man, his name was Malcolm Bagmore, who worked in the mailroom. He used to come into the typing pool four or five times every day, and whenever he did, he always made some excuse to talk to me.”

  “Was he hot?”

  “He was very polite, and always very smartly dressed.”

  “Yes, but was he hot?”

  “People weren’t hot in those days. He was very handsome, though.”

  “Did you go out on a date?”

  “No. I got the impression that he was building up to asking me out, but Lilian Jones got in first. She pretended to drop a box of paperclips on the floor, just as Malcolm was walking past her desk. Malcolm, being the gentleman that he was, stooped down to help her pick them up. And that was that. Lilian’s cleavage did the rest.”

  “So you never got to go on a date with him?”

  “No. He and Lilian were married within six months. Last I heard, they had six kids and about a thousand grandchildren.”

  “What a shame. By the way, I meant to ask you, Mrs V, what’s happening with those new-fangled gloves of yours?”

  “The Top Tips? I’m afraid I’ve had to abandon that particular venture.”

  “Really? You seemed so gung-ho about them.”

  “I was until Armi sat down and calculated the production costs. When you factor in the time it would take to create a pair, and the cost of the Velcro, it meant I’d have to sell them at about seventy pounds per pair. And, as my little gingerbread man rightly pointed out, no one would buy them at that price, regardless of how good they were. So, it’s back to the drawing board, I’m afraid.”

  I walked into my office to find Winky dressed as though he was going to a wedding.

  “What’s with the suit?”

  “I’m expecting a visitor.”

  “Is it your mysterious new lady friend? Am I going to meet her at long last?”

  “No, it’s my Aunt Wynn, all the way from Somerset. She’ll be arriving here this evening, and I want to make a good impression.” He glanced around. “Mind you, that won’t be easy, given the state of this place. Can you get the contract cleaners in this afternoon?”

  “No, I can’t. If you aren’t satisfied, you’d better dig out the mop, duster and rubber gloves. I’ve never heard you mention this aunt of yours before.”

  “We usually Skype one another, but she said it had been far too long since she’d seen me in person, so she’s coming up for a couple of days.”

  “I hope you haven’t told her she can stay here because that’s not on.”

  “Keep your wig on. She’s booked a nice little cat hotel a couple of streets away. There’s no way she’d want to stay in this dump.”

  “What do you mean, dump? There’s nothing wrong with this office.”

  “That’s not what the rats thought.”

  “There are no rats in here.”

  “That’s because they packed their bags and moved out last week.”

  Before I could respond with a witty rejoinder, the white-faced Mrs V stuck her head around the door. “Your two o’clock appointment, Mr Duyew, is here. He’s just picking out a pair of socks.”

  “Send him through when he’s finished, would you?”

  “Will do.”

  I turned to Winky. “You’d better hide behind the screen.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to have to explain why my cat looks like he’s dressed for Ascot.”

  “You should be pleased I take such a pride in my appearance. One of us has to.”

  “Behind the screen.”

  “Fine, but I want my protest registered.”

  “Duly noted. Now disappear.”

  “Your receptionist gave me these.” Mr Duyew held up a pair of brown socks.

  “All part of the service. Do take a seat. I’m Jill Maxwell.”

  “Call me Victor.”

  Once Mrs V had brought the drinks through, we got down to business.

  “What brings you here today, Victor?”

  “It’s a very serious matter, I’m afraid. The penguins have gone missing.”

  “I see. Do you work at the zoo?”

  “No, nothing like that. I’m the manager of the Washbridge Penguins. They’re a—”

  “Ice hockey team?”

  “Actually, they’re a junior football team.”

  “Are you saying that the players have gone missing? Surely I would have seen that on the news.”

  “Not the players. It’s the merchandise that has disappeared, specifically the toy penguins. Someone has stolen them.”

  “I see. Are they valuable?”

  “The toys aren’t particularly expensive for us to purchase because we buy them in bulk, but the lost revenue is quite substantial because
there’s a healthy mark-up on this kind of branded merchandise. Have you worked on cases like this before, Jill?”

  “Not penguins specifically, but I do have lots of experience on similar cases.”

  “Excellent. What do you need from me?”

  “Maybe the best place to start would be for me to pay a visit to the club’s shop. Could that be arranged?”

  “It’s open every day between nine and six. Just drop in anytime.”

  Once Victor Duyew had left, Winky came out from behind the screen.

  “Du yew think he was serious?” He laughed. “Get it?”

  “Whatever you do, don’t give up your day job. Oh wait, I just remembered, you don’t have one.”

  “Seriously, though, something’s not right with all that.”

  “All what? What do you mean?”

  “Think about it. Who would want to steal a load of stuffed toys, particularly penguins? If you were going to do it, you’d at least go for teddy bears or unicorns. There’s a market for those, but no one wants a stuffed penguin.”

  Much as it pained me to admit it, Winky did have a point. Why would anyone want to steal a load of toy penguins? Hopefully, all would soon become clear.

  ***

  I magicked myself over to Aunt Lucy’s house, and found her in the lounge with Lester who was wearing a uniform.

  “I don’t know why you didn’t pick one that fitted you.” She was pinning the waist of his trousers which was clearly too large for him. “Hi, Jill. Would you be a love and make us all a cup of tea while I completely re-tailor this uniform?”

  “I explained the situation, Lucy,” Lester said. “They only had three sizes, and this was the best fit.”

  “If this is the best, thank goodness you didn’t pick one of the others. Now, for goodness sake, stand still, will you?”

  “What’s with the uniform, Lester?” I said. “Have you changed jobs again?”

  “No, I’m still with the reapers, but the powers that be have decided we need to wear this.”

  “It looks like a traffic warden’s uniform.”