04 Village Teacher (26 page)

‘It’s good, Jack – an exciting place to live.’

‘So you decided to come after all,’ said Beth.

Laura smiled at her sister. ‘Last-minute decision,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard so much about Harrogate in the spring, I
thought
I’d come along.’ Her green eyes flashed and she gave me that familiar mischievous look that brought back many memories. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Jack?’

‘Of course not,’ I said evenly. ‘Lovely to see you again.’ I leant over and gave her a peck on the cheek. Her perfume was just as I remembered it, Opium by Yves Saint Laurent, and for a moment I hesitated, recalling happier times.

We sat in the seat directly behind Laura and then Beth had a change of mind. ‘I’d better sit with my sister,’ she said apologetically and got up and settled down next to Laura.

Meanwhile, Joseph and Vera had climbed on board. Vera waved to Joyce Davenport and a few of her Women’s Institute friends on the back seat and walked down the aisle to join them. Joseph grinned at me. ‘May I?’ he said.

‘Of course, Joseph,’ I replied, and he sat next to me and took Vera’s
Daily Telegraph
from his pocket and settled into his seat. Soon he was frowning. Peter William Sutcliffe, a thirty-five-year-old Bradford lorry driver, known as the Yorkshire Ripper and accused of murdering thirteen women, was to be tried at the Old Bailey.

‘Are you all right, Joseph?’ I asked quietly.

‘To be perfectly honest, Jack, I didn’t really want to come. I would have preferred a quiet day at home with a glass of my peapod special and a good book, but you know what Vera’s like.’

‘Well, let’s hope you enjoy it,’ I said.

He gave me a resigned look and returned to his
newspaper
. All was not well with the world. Customs and immigration workers at ports and airports were threatening to disrupt the Easter holidays over their fifteen per cent pay claim and Joseph sighed, folded the newspaper and stared out of the window.

Soon the vast plain of York that stretched from the Pennines to the Hambleton Hills was left behind us and our coach rumbled along the A59 Skipton road. The landscape rushed by, hedgerows were bursting into life and tiny lambs took their first faltering steps in fields of new grass.

We wound our way down into the Nidd valley and before us the large, wealthy spa town of Harrogate filled the skyline. As we drove along the Stray, wide gracious lawns studded with a mosaic of crocuses spread out on either side of us. It was an oasis of calm and elegance. Spring had come to Yorkshire in all its glory, breathing new life into the winter trees and lifting our spirits.

William slowed down to park on Montpelier Hill. Tourists were everywhere and, as we pulled up, he had to brake fiercely when an elderly lady stepped off the kerb in front of him. Books, newspapers, bags and coats fell on to the floor of the coach.

‘Sorry, everybody,’ shouted William.

Laura’s handbag had burst open and keys, pens and assorted business cards scattered around her. There was a clatter as her lipstick fell into the aisle and rolled towards my size eleven Kickers shoes. I stretched down and picked it up just as Laura stooped to retrieve it. Our
heads
touched briefly and I stared into her soft green eyes. ‘Sorry,’ I said.

‘Thanks, Jack. I’m all fingers and thumbs today.’

As she took the elegant metal tube from me our fingers touched briefly. Her hair brushed against my face and then she stood up and smoothed her skin-tight, stone-washed hipster jeans.

Beth picked up Laura’s bunch of keys and Vera walked down the aisle to help. ‘Here’s your wallet, she said.

‘Oh, thanks, Vera,’ said Laura, looking preoccupied.

‘And the rest,’ said Joseph, as he hastily gathered up her belongings and piled them on the seat.

When we got off the coach, everyone set off to join the crowds of tourists flocking to the annual Spring Flower Show. I stood with Laura, Vera and Joseph while Beth browsed through her Harrogate guidebook.

‘How about starting at the Pump Room, the site of the old sulphur well?’ she said. ‘It looks interesting.’

‘What about you, Joseph?’ asked Vera.

He was staring in the opposite direction, deep in thought. ‘Well, if you don’t mind, I thought I might go and sit in the Montpelier Gardens and admire the lovely blooms and listen to the band, Vera,’ said Joseph.

Vera looked quizzically at her brother. ‘Very well, Joseph. We’ll collect you from there a little later.’ She fussed over his scarf for a moment and then stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘There now, keep wrapped up and warm.’

He looked a little sheepish and, as he walked down the winding path of the gardens, he felt in his overcoat pocket, took out a book and smiled. ‘Peace at last,’ he
murmured
to himself and sat down on a secluded bench behind a high forsythia hedge. He settled back and began to read the next thrilling chapter.

As Beth had the guidebook, she became the impromptu guide and told us that the local springs possessed a sulphur and iron content that gave them a unique quality. ‘It says they have the power to reinvigorate the body and heal ills,’ she said.

‘Just what I need,’ said Laura.

When we came out we looked for Joseph but he was nowhere to be seen.

‘Where
has
he gone?’ asked Vera, scanning the crowds in the distant gardens. After a lifetime of looking after her absent-minded younger brother, she knew this was typical of him. ‘Oh well, never mind, it’s his loss … Where next, Beth?’

‘The Royal Baths Assembly Rooms,’ Beth announced, pointing to a photograph in her guidebook.

This was where Victorian health-conscious ladies and rheumatic gentlemen had bathed in the soothing waters. At the end of the nineteenth century, the opening of the Royal Baths Assembly Rooms with its mud baths and steam rooms was a masterstroke. Its pure spa waters became a veritable fountain of youth. By the early twentieth century, so many leading politicians sought the health-giving properties of the famous ‘treatments’ that it was almost possible to hold a Cabinet meeting in the opulent Turkish baths. Harrogate had become a health farm for the rich and the local economy boomed.

Again, when we came out, we looked for Joseph, who, unknown to us, was completely enthralled by his novel and had forgotten the time.

Vera shook her head in frustration. ‘Silly man,’ she said.

‘How about a cup of tea in Bettys Café Tea Rooms?’ said Beth.

‘What a good idea,’ said Laura.

‘With fresh scones,’ I said enthusiastically.

‘And crumpets and curd tarts,’ said Vera with a faraway smile.

Opposite the tall Cenotaph, at the head of Parliament Street, we paused under the impressive wrought-iron canopy of Bettys Café Tea Rooms, noticeably without the expected apostrophe in
Bettys
on the large ornate sign. In the window was a display of mouth-watering cakes, pastries and hand-made chocolates, as well as every blend of tea and coffee we could possibly imagine. We selected a table surrounded by Art Deco mirrors and oak panelling and with a large picture window overlooking the Montpelier Gardens.

The waitress who served us wore a starched white apron and neat little cap and looked as if she had just stepped out of the pages of one of Agatha Christie’s novels. Vera ordered her favourite crumpets and curd tarts, while the rest of us tucked into a plateful of Yorkshire Fat Rascals – namely fruity scones filled with citrus peel, almonds and cherries. Vera poured the tea, which was served in a silver teapot with a matching sugar bowl, silver tongs and a delicate tea strainer. Everything looked
superb
. It was as if we had stepped back into a bygone era of white linen and impeccable silver service.

‘Isn’t this perfect?’ said Vera.

Beth still had her nose in the guidebook. ‘This is interesting,’ she said. ‘“The North Yorkshire spa town of Harrogate will always be remembered for the strange occurrence of the third of December nineteen twenty-six”,’ she recited.

‘Ah, you mean the strange story of Agatha Christie,’ said Vera, putting down her teacup.

‘What’s that?’ chorused Beth and Laura.

‘Well,’ said Vera, dabbing her mouth with a crisp linen napkin and replacing it on her lap, ‘it all began after her husband revealed he was in love with another woman, Nancy Neele, and wanted a divorce.’

‘Oh yes,’ we all murmured. This had the makings of a good story and two blue-rinse ladies on the next table stopped speaking and listened in.

‘Yes,’ said Vera, ‘Agatha Christie left a message for her secretary saying she was going to Yorkshire and then she carefully staged an accident. She drove her car to Sunningdale, left it hanging over the edge of a chalk pit and disappeared.’

‘Disappeared!’ exclaimed Beth.

‘Where to?’ said Laura.

‘Over a thousand police and civilians searched for her to no avail,’ said Vera, ‘but eleven days later she reappeared as a guest at the Hydropathic Hotel in Harrogate and no one could explain where she had been.’

‘How strange,’ I said.

‘Some thought it was just a publicity stunt,’ added
Vera
, ‘while others believed she had suffered from amnesia after the breakdown of her marriage and the death of her mother. She never revealed the true reason and the townspeople of Harrogate have discussed it ever since.’

The two ladies at the next table nodded knowingly.

‘What a wonderful story, Vera,’ I said.

‘Almost better than one of her novels,’ said Beth.

Laura just looked at me and said nothing.

We finished the last of the tea and Laura picked up her handbag. ‘My treat,’ she said. ‘Please, no arguments. I’ll pay on my card.’

‘Card?’ I looked puzzled.

‘Yes, Jack, don’t you remember? I’ve got a Barclay Visa card. It’s great. If I keep fifty pounds in my personal cheque account I don’t have to pay for cheques, standing orders or statements.’

‘Even so, it’s not really for me, Laura,’ I said lamely.

She smiled. ‘You really do need to knock him into shape, Beth.’

‘Perhaps it could be worth considering, Jack,’ said Beth. ‘I’ve heard you can borrow up to five thousand pounds with no security as long as you are in a steady job.’

I was horrified at the thought of so much debt.

‘And they’re fitting cash-dispenser machines in the wall outside Barclay’s bank,’ added Laura, ‘so you could draw out up to a hundred pounds per day and even order a statement.’

‘Heavens,’ said Vera.

‘Well, I suppose it sounds impressive,’ I said, but without conviction.

‘Oh dear, Jack,’ said Laura, ‘I know that look so well.’

Beth gave her a glance but said nothing.

Laura began to rummage frantically in her handbag. ‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘it’s not here. My bank card’s gone!’

We looked on helplessly as Laura continued to search to no avail.

While Vera and Beth were consoling her I paid the bill and we walked outside. I looked at my watch. ‘Let’s find Joseph on our way back to the coach,’ I said.

‘Where can he be?’ asked Beth.

‘We could split up, I suppose, and meet back here,’ suggested Laura.

Vera didn’t answer.

‘What is it, Vera?’ I asked.

‘I’m just thinking back to the events of the day,’ she said, staring thoughtfully, ‘and it’s just possible …’

‘What’s possible?’ I asked.

‘There has to be a simple solution to all this,’ said Vera calmly. Her sharp brain missed nothing. In her cocoon of concentration, she was trying to unravel the mystery as if it were a game of three-dimensional chess. Ragley’s very own Miss Marple was on the case!

She set off at a brisk pace back towards the coach, where we found Joseph sitting all alone, his head buried deep in his novel.

‘I thought so!’ said Vera.

Joseph looked up guiltily and hurriedly put the book in his jacket pocket.

‘Sorry, Vera. I simply forgot the time.’

She leant over and tugged the paperback from Joseph’s
pocket
and held it up. It was Agatha Christie’s
Murder at the Vicarage
.

‘Oh,’ said Joseph, ‘I was just, well, you know … intrigued by the title.’

‘And this, I presume, is what you’ve been using as a bookmark,’ said Vera, holding up a plastic card, ‘and you’ve obviously no idea what it is, have you, Joseph?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ mumbled Joseph, looking puzzled.

Vera turned the card over and showed him Laura’s name printed across it.

‘My bank card!’ exclaimed Laura. ‘Oh, thank you, Joseph, you’ve found it!’

‘Have I?’ said Joseph. ‘It was under my seat and I thought it would be a useful bookmark.’

‘What a relief,’ said Laura.

‘It’s as we thought all along, I’m afraid,’ said Vera. ‘It was just a matter of a process of elimination.’

‘Well done, Vera. What a detective you are,’ said Laura.

‘Just like Miss Marple,’ said Beth.

Vera smiled modestly and held up
Murder at the Vicarage
. ‘It was obvious from the beginning that it could only be one person,’ said Vera.

‘Oh, who’s that?’ asked Joseph.

She gave him an affectionate hug. ‘The soppy vicar, of course!’

Chapter Sixteen

Grace, Hope and Chastity

The PTA agreed to lend their crockery to Mrs Pringle for the Christening party on Sunday, 26 April, at St Mary’s Church Hall
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 24 April 1981

THE CHILL OF
winter was forgotten and as I drove past the village hall on Ragley High Street the almond trees were in blossom and the closed buds on the cherry trees were waiting for the trigger of life as the season shifted on its axis with its message of the warm days to come.

However, when I slowed up at the school gate, the wonders of nature on this beautiful April morning were not being appreciated by everyone. A group of mothers was cheering something out of my eyeline. Suddenly Police Constable Dan Hunter came into sight, pedalling for all he was worth on a bright-red Raleigh bicycle. Even with the saddle extended as high as it would go, Dan’s
knees
stuck out like Charlie Chaplin’s. He gave the group of mothers a shy grin and, when he spotted me, he pulled up under the avenue of horse-chestnut trees and parked his bicycle against the school wall.