The Man Who Vanished and the Dog Who Waited

by Kate High

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Animal Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Not Yet Available

Release date: May 27, 2021

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 368

Sample

The morning was still. Except for flies and bees, nothing moved within the boundaries of the old walled garden. The sky was an unbroken cloudless blue and the air, heavy with heat, was honeyed by the perfume of flowers.

Clarice Beech reclined in an old blue-and-white striped deckchair, her long legs in calf-length denim jeans stretched out onto a perfect manicured lawn. Her auburn hair, cut short into a bob, was concealed under a floppy sunhat and most of her face was hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses. Her bare arms, exposed by her yellow T-shirt, matched her freckled, sun-bronzed legs.

While she awaited the return of her hostess with coffee, Clarice surveyed the garden. Behind her, the double doors of the conservatory, leading to the kitchen, were open. In front stretched an elongated lawn with flower beds on either side, ending in a low hedge behind which was a wall with a locked gate and spaces to park cars.

It was rare to find such a large garden in this part of Lincoln. Alford House, a Grade II listed property, and the walls that enclosed this private sanctuary had been built in the mid-eighteenth century for a wealthy miller and his family. The property had gone through several owners until, in the early part of the twentieth century, it was bought by the Montgomery family. Displayed in the sitting room were framed wall-hung photographs taken over the last century of family events and gatherings held in the garden. Although many were in black and white, the images were almost identical to Clarice’s current view, the only exception being those taken during the years of the Second World War. The headline above one framed press cutting proclaimed: The Montgomerys Lead the Way, the article explaining how the family had dug up their lawn and flower beds to plant vegetables as part of the war effort. The newspaper picture showed a man named as Sir Henry Montgomery, smartly attired in a tweed jacket and plus-fours, pointing his pipe towards evenly spaced lines of seedlings. Clarice had smiled at the image; she could not imagine that in the mid twentieth century, a man of Sir Henry’s status would roll up his sleeves to dig and plant potatoes. The old wealthy families retained servants to perform those tasks, but she appreciated that the article was of its time, dutifully depicting the Montgomerys’ patriotism.

She moved her eyes along the deep herbaceous border that stretched from the wall to meet the lawn, trying to remember the names of the vast army of plants gathered, upstanding, in small groups. Blue and white Scabiosa, deep blue Aconitum, often known as monkshood, Alcea, commonly called hollyhock, and the yellow daisy-like flower Doronicum. Her host, Lady Jayne Montgomery, had obviously given thought, in the planting of the various varieties, to height and requirements for sun or shade. Lythrum, with its lance-shaped leaves and purple-red flowers, and Polygonatum, with curving fronds under which hung masses of white bells, were planted in the shadow of a large loganberry tree.

Further away, enjoying the benefit of the full sunlight, were bright pink and yellow Potentilla and mauve and purple Phlox. Clarice briefly half closed her eyes and looked through her lashes, a game she’d played as a child, to view the white Gypsophila as rolling, floating clouds. The garden was Jayne’s passion, and getting it to this point of excellence must have been an almost full-time occupation.

Turning her attention to the bricks in the old wall, most of which was hidden behind tall plants, shrubs and climbers, Clarice imagined the craftsmen labouring day after day to hand-make each brick, and then others working to construct the wall itself.

Jayne had offered Clarice the use of her walled garden for a fund-raising open day, to take place on the coming Sunday. There would be chutneys, jams and bread, a book stall and a tombola. Refreshments – tea, coffee, home-made lemonade and cakes – would be served at small tables by volunteers. The beneficiary, Castlewick Animal Welfare, or CAW for short, had been founded by Clarice when she began to take in waifs and strays of the four-legged variety. All monies would help to pay for veterinary and food costs: she hoped, if the weather was like this, to get an excellent turnout.

The main attraction, for inquisitive visitors to the private residence on the lane leading to Steep Hill in Lincoln, would be the walled garden itself. Clarice was aware that further up the hill, near Minster Yard, was where the more prestigious homes sat. But the beauty of this house would make up for any lack of status compared to its more elevated neighbours. It was rare for the thrice-married Jayne, now in her mid-eighties, to allow members of the public into her private domain. She was, as she had explained to Clarice, the custodian of the exquisite house and garden for her remaining lifetime. On her death, it would be inherited by the eldest son of her late husband’s first marriage.

Jayne and Clarice had first met five years earlier, through Amanda Jenkins, a mutual friend. Jayne’s third husband, the retired circuit judge Sir James Montgomery, had died suddenly following a heart attack. Six months after his passing, her only remaining companion, Libby, a Miniature Poodle, had had to be put to sleep. She was, Amanda had explained, inconsolable; might CAW have a small, older dog available for adoption, to fill the sad gap?

Clarice had introduced Jayne to Basil, an eight-year-old Terrier/Springer Spaniel cross, who had recently lost his mistress after she’d been taken into a nursing home. Watching their first meeting, Clarice had witnessed love at first sight – the two oldies suited one another exactly, a perfect match. After his adoption, Basil had supplied amiable companionship, and Jayne had provided him with an ample lap, combined with the services of an ear scratcher.

Clarice had been secretly amused by Basil’s upwardly mobile trajectory. Adopters were never told who had given their animal up for adoption, but Clarice knew that Basil had gone from a home in a busy run-down estate in a town on the east coast to the swanky area below Steep Hill in Lincoln. The factor that remained constant was the love he received in both places. Now, at thirteen, although rather portly and sedate, his pace suited that of his mistress. The garden was her obsession, and as she worked her way around to plant or weed, Basil would always be close at hand.

Clarice had asked Georgie Lowe, the head of CAW’s fundraising committee, to accompany her today, to look at the garden and discuss the forthcoming event with Jayne: timings, setting up, and how many small tables with chairs might be required. Georgie, who was both nosy and an incurable gossip, had welcomed the opportunity to look around Jayne’s home and garden. But she had phoned early that morning, the disappointment in her voice palpable, to say that Jessica, her eleven-year-old daughter, had fallen ill with a stomach bug, and she would not be able to attend with Clarice.

When Clarice, on arrival had explained Georgie’s absence, she realised that Jayne, rather than being disappointed, was pleased that it would be just the two of them, and immediately understood the reason. Although she would have been horrified by the suggestion, Jayne shared Georgie’s penchant for gossip, and she had not had an opportunity for a proper natter with Clarice since the latter had reunited with her husband, Rick.

‘Coffee!’ Jayne came into the garden bearing a round floral-patterned tray. She was a short woman, with broad hips and a large chest that jutted out like a ledge over the crockery she carried. Despite her age, her skin was smooth and creamy, and her pale blue almond-shaped eyes might have seemed cold were it not for the laughter lines around them, her face when she spoke alert with good humour. Following a few feet behind her waddled Basil.

On the tray were not only cups with coffee, a jug of milk and sugar, but also what looked like flapjacks.

‘Have you been baking?’ Clarice eyed the flapjacks greedily.

‘Yes, these are sultana and apricot,’ Jayne beamed. ‘We can eat them while you fill me in about that gorgeous husband of yours. I want all the nitty-gritty.’

‘It’s been six months.’ Clarice spoke as she picked up the pink-patterned bone-china cup filled with black filter coffee. ‘It’s old news now.’

‘Not to me,’ Jayne protested. ‘How you ever let that delightful tall man slip through your fingers I’ll never know.’

Clarice laughed. Although she was actually over six feet tall, she never admitted to being more than five foot eleven. Rick, at six foot four, was taller than her by three inches.

‘You’d have had to settle for a midget if you’d let him go,’ Jayne continued. ‘I mean someone quite small by your standards.’

‘I’m not going down that route, thank you,’ Clarice smiled. ‘Anyway, Rick still spends a lot of time in the house he rents in Castlewick. The new-build estate. He always refers to it as number 24. The moment has never been quite right for him to move back into the cottage with me.’

‘Why did he not give it up when you decided to get back together?’ Jayne looked puzzled.

‘It was what we both wanted.’ Clarice spoke pensively. ‘We wanted to get back to being a couple, but slowly; to rediscover each other again.’

‘Sounds sensible.’

‘Yes, it’s worked like a second honeymoon.’

‘That’s perfect.’ Jayne sounded genuinely pleased for her.

‘And life has become manic for Rick – he’s just finished one complex case and is on to another – so it’s just easier for him to keep the rental for a while longer, and it’s so convenient for his office at HQ.’

‘Well, if that’s what works for the two of you …’

‘It isn’t a matter of choice,’ Clarice said, ‘but we’ll get there once he’s less busy.’

‘What’s he working on now?’ Jayne enquired. ‘If you’re allowed to say.’

‘A suspicious death; a man who died at a printing factory, crushed in a press.’ Rick had only just begun work on the case, and Clarice hoped to find out more about it later in the day.

‘The Ben Abbot case? I read about that,’ Jayne said with interest. ‘It was reported this week in the Lincoln Herald as an accident. Abbot’s the printers have been in North Hykeham for years. Ben’s father only died a few weeks ago, and there’s a brother.’ She looked at Clarice reflectively. ‘If Rick’s working on the case, it must be suspected murder.’

‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ Clarice said, though she smiled as she spoke.

Jayne nodded, understanding that her friend would not be drawn further on the subject. ‘Is he coming on Sunday?’ she asked hopefully. Despite her age, she was an incorrigible flirt.

‘I think so, work allowing.’

‘Good.’ She gave Clarice a sly smile. ‘I’ll look forward to it. I expect he’s going with you to the opening of your London exhibition?’

‘Yes,’ Clarice said. ‘It’s a group exhibition, with three other makers. I do one every third year in London, the next year in Norwich, then a year when we have a break. We’ll set up on Friday morning – it’s open from six to nine in the evening.’

‘So you’ll have a lot on, with this fund-raiser on Sunday.’

‘Fortunately the gallery’s manned by staff – included in the cost, which isn’t always the case. I’ll set up and be there for the opening, stay over on Friday night, and then home on Saturday.’

‘Are the other makers all ceramicists?’ Jayne asked.

‘Yes, but we’re not competing. These group exhibitions highlight our differences. Jerry, one of the makers, works on miniatures – cups and saucers, teapots, really quirky stuff. Ros does flat plates, and John’s work has a 1960s Scandinavian look about it, with a contemporary twist.’

‘A nice contrast to your tall vases.’

Clarice nodded as she scanned the garden. ‘Now, thinking about Sunday, can one of the volunteers bring some folding tables and chairs on Friday?’

‘No problem, I can store them in the garage until we need them. Just make sure they phone first to guarantee that I’m in.’ Jayne followed Clarice’s eyeline. ‘Tables for teas and cakes at this end, nearer the kitchen?’

‘My thought exactly,’ Clarice agreed. ‘Less of a walk carrying trays.’

An hour later, after finalising the arrangements, Clarice gave both Jayne and Basil a hug and said goodbye.

Walking from the house to her car, she mulled over the conversation. She wondered if her upbeat responses about her estrangement from Rick might one day no longer be an act. Could she stop remembering the loneliness of the break-up as a distressing spasm rippling through her body? It was, she determined as she reached the car, surely only a matter of time.

She found her mobile phone on the front seat of her dark blue Range Rover. There were three missed calls, all from Louise Corkindale, an old friend who lived in the Wolds outside Lincoln.

While she’d been away, the car had heated with the sun. She rolled down the windows to allow air in. A group of children racing each other down the hill, their voices shrill, reminded her that the school summer break had started, and made her think again about Georgie, wondering how she was getting on with Jessica. She hoped Seth, older than Jessica by four years, had managed to avoid the bug.

Louise picked up on the second ring. ‘Hi, Louise!’ Clarice said. ‘Have you been trying to reach me?’

‘Clarice, yes.’ Louise sounded breathless. ‘Thank you for getting back to me. I need to ask for your advice. It’s about Susie, Guy’s dog.’

‘Ah, lovely Susie the Boxer.’ Clarice picked up a sense of alarm in the usually level voice of her friend. ‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’

‘Well, yes, there is. I have Susie here with me, but I need some advice about where to board her. Guy’s wife Charlotte asked me to hang on to her myself, but Milo, my Westie, is fifteen now; he won’t tolerate another dog on his territory. And Susie has a nasty cut on the back of her leg.’

‘How did that happen?’ Clarice asked, confused by the direction of the conversation.

‘I don’t know, she just turned up on my doorstep. She ran off while Charlotte was occupied, so she didn’t realise she’d gone.’

Clarice wondered if the cut was deep, and why her friend hadn’t taken the dog to the vet. ‘Louise, I’m just about to leave Lincoln; can I call in on my way home? I’ll be with you in half an hour.’

‘Yes, thank you, Clarice, if you could.’

‘Where is Guy?’ Clarice asked. ‘Is he back in London on business?’

‘No, that’s the problem. He’s gone.’

‘What do you mean, gone? Gone where?’

‘I don’t know,’ Louise said, her voice suddenly tearful. ‘Charlotte says he left home around seven yesterday morning with someone he described as a business acquaintance, and he’s not been seen since. He’s simply vanished.’

Driving along Silver Street onto Monks Road, Clarice concentrated on the heavy traffic, but picking up the route out of Lincoln, she began to relax. The sun, which had dazzled between the buildings in the city, now lit up the undulating, dancing fields of wheat, turning the vista into a golden haze.

She was troubled by the fear in Louise’s voice. Her friend of many years was usually steady and unflappable. How was it possible for her son to simply vanish? If he’d been unhappy with his marriage to Charlotte, he must have shown signs before packing his bags. Or was it more sinister, something work-related? Guy was a defence barrister, operating from chambers at Lincoln’s Inn in London.

Louise, a widow, was in her mid-seventies. Clarice had never known Martin, her husband, who had died while Guy was a child. After his death, Louise had expanded her hobby of growing herbs into a small market-garden business. It had worked well: she was able to fit her business commitments around her domestic life and had always been at home during school holidays. The company had thrived, and now employed three full-time staff members. Louise’s situation put Clarice in mind of her own parents: her father had died suddenly, leaving Mary, her mother, to bring up Clarice as a single parent. Both women had managed admirably.

Guy was only a year younger than Clarice, and their paths had crossed in the pub in Castlewick when they were in their late teens. Later, Louise had taken an interest in Clarice’s animal charity, by which time Guy had moved to London to begin his career. By all accounts, he had been a pleasant, intelligent young man. And now he was a successful lawyer. Clarice and Louise had several friends in common, amongst them Jonathan Royal, a vet, and his partner Keith Banner, a solicitor, both with businesses based in Castlewick. Clarice thought once more about the cut to Susie’s leg, wondering why Louise had not already taken the dog to Jonathan’s surgery.

Stuck behind a slow-moving tractor pulling a wide load, she reminded herself methodically of the details of the Corkindale family. Guy was forty-one and married to Charlotte, who was a similar age. They had their main home in Lincolnshire and a small flat in London for Guy when he was working there. The oldest daughter, Tara, from Charlotte’s first marriage, was fifteen, and the two younger girls were eight-year-old Angel and six-year-old Poppy.

Clarice watched with relief as the tractor in front indicated and turned left, allowing her to pick up speed. The landscape changed as she progressed deeper into the Wolds, the lanes becoming narrow with snake-like twists and curves. Twenty minutes later she dropped a gear to slow the car as she turned on to the single-width unmade track leading to Louise’s home. Opening the windows, she felt the warm breeze against her skin, carrying with it the earthy smells of soil, grasses and wheat. The narrow track presented no problems for most of the year, but in winter, with rain, ice and snow, it could become perilous for travellers. On either side were deep man-made dykes, currently filled with summer grasses, which allowed water to drain from the land. Louise drove an old Land Rover, heavy enough to avoid the skidding and dips encountered by the drivers of smaller cars.

Clarice could see from a distance the neat rows of plastic tunnels used for growing the herbs, arranged like shiny alien vessels against the backdrop of the landscape. Louise’s three employees included a couple in their early fifties, Ian and Judith Roberts. Judith had come first, fifteen years ago, to be joined by Ian five years later, after he had been made redundant from his previous job. The third employee was Gavin, a young man taken on straight from school as the business expanded. The Robertses now knew as much about the running of the business as Louise did. She often commented that if she took a week or two away, everything continued to glide smoothly along under their watchful eyes. Judith had asked if they might have first option to buy the business and the cottage if Louise ever decided to sell up and move away. She had agreed, but told them that she loved her home and still enjoyed working, so that point might not be reached for years. Still, Judith and Ian had been satisfied by her response.

As she curved around a small wooded area that was part of Louise’s garden, Clarice came to the front of the idyllic eighteenth-century cottage, partly hidden by large shrubs and climbing double-headed white roses. As she pulled to a halt in the driveway, she was reminded of Jayne’s garden, the smell of newly cut grass mingling with the scent of flowers and the chattering of garden birds. To this was added the fragrance of herbs and, in the depths of the open country, the unceasing monotonous grumble of farm machinery.

‘Clarice, so glad you could come.’

A small, slim woman with neat features, her white and grey hair cut short, emerged from the cottage, walking towards Clarice with open arms. They hugged, and Clarice followed as Louise led her inside

‘I’m all over the place, Clarice,’ she said. ‘It’s silly really, I’m sure there must be a rational explanation, but I’m just so worried.’

‘Has he ever done this before?’ Clarice asked.

Louise raised her shoulders and grimaced, in an exasperated gesture.

After passing through a short hallway, they had arrived in the sitting room. Two small rooms had been merged to create this space, an archway in the centre indicating where the dividing wall had once been. The room was the heart of the house, its plaster walls a beige grey, the doors and floor oak, as were the wooden beams overhead supporting the low ceiling. Around the room were antique tapestry-backed chairs, and a chintzy three-seater sofa and matching armchairs were arranged before an unlit wood-burning stove. To one side in a small nook sat an oak bureau, passed down to Louise from her parents.

Milo came forward slowly to greet them, the movement of his tail random, his coat dull, the muzzle he pushed into Clarice’s proffered hand damp and snow white.

‘Poor old man.’ Clarice knelt down in front of him and talked as she stroked. ‘You are looking your age, but I bet you get lots of TLC.’ The dog sat upright in front of her, his head to one side, observing her through milky, clouded eyes. From another part of the house came the sound of barking.

‘Yes, he’s slow and very arthritic.’ Louise leaned over to stroke Milo’s head. ‘He’s also deaf, rather short-sighted and a bit doddery, bless him, but I do try to give him lots of love.’

‘Being a bit doddery’s allowed at fifteen,’ Clarice smiled as Milo turned away to clamber up into one of the armchairs.

‘It’s just as well they’re low enough for him,’ Louise said. ‘That one’s his favourite.’

‘I assume that’s Susie barking?’ Clarice spoke as the barking paused and then resumed.

Louise nodded. ‘She just wants some attention, but I can’t let her in here – she’s far too full-on for Milo. Her tail’s like a whip when she’s excited. I love that she’s got a proper one, though. I remember years ago Boxers had theirs docked – horrible.’

Clarice followed Louise to the sofa and took a seat next to her. ‘Start from the beginning, and tell me what happened.’

Louise brought her hands down to rest in her lap and inclined her head down momentarily; when she lifted it, she was composed. ‘I don’t really know.’

Clarice nodded, puzzled.

‘The family often use the route between their house and mine to exercise Susie – we’re only two or three miles apart, and it’s a good walk for the children and the dog. They follow the course around the river and take the small bridge at Miles End. Susie’s a bright girl – she could find her way here blindfolded.’

Clarice nodded again. Though she had never been to Guy’s home, she knew the course of the river and the route Louise described.

‘I was in the garden at about ten o’clock this morning when I heard barking. I went round to the front and Susie was there, limping towards me.’

‘A cut on the back leg?’ Clarice asked.

‘Yes,’ Louise confirmed. ‘I knew Guy had been home for the weekend – I saw him on Saturday – and he was due to return to London early yesterday morning.’

‘But he didn’t?’

‘Apparently not. When I found Susie, I telephoned the house. According to Charlotte, Guy had said he needed to discuss a problem with a business acquaintance before he left. The man – Charles something; Charlotte didn’t know his surname – came and picked him up at about seven a.m.’

‘Why did Guy not just invite him into the house to talk?’

‘It’s school holidays,’ Louise said. ‘The children are at home. I expect, if it was a serious business meeting, he wouldn’t want them interrupting. But he didn’t come back. His bag is still packed and in the hall.’

‘Charlotte didn’t phone to tell you?’ Clarice asked. She had met Charlotte on two occasions at social gatherings at Louise’s home and found her to be polite but not overly interested in small talk. She had sensed that having been invited on numerous occasions by her mother-in-law, the woman would see it as a duty to make an appearance once or twice per year.

‘No, she said she didn’t want to worry me.’ Louise glowered. ‘Like I wouldn’t want to know if there was a problem concerning my own son.’

‘Doesn’t Charlotte usually take him to the station?’

‘Yes, she does, but she said he had done this once before, so she wasn’t worried.’

‘So it’s not completely out of character?’

‘No, I suppose not entirely.’ Louise sounded unsure. ‘I can’t remember exactly what happened, but I recall something years ago. There was a lot of joking about Guy not keeping his eye on the clock.’

‘But on that occasion he did come back?’

‘Yes, he was very late getting to his chambers in London, I think, and late for meetings.’

‘But yesterday he didn’t arrive at work at all?’ Clarice asked.

‘No,’ Louise said. ‘He didn’t turn up at his chambers or the flat. In case of an emergency we know the number of his neighbour, Stuart; they have keys to each other’s flats. Stuart says he spoke to Guy on Friday afternoon before he left to come home for the weekend and he’s not been back since.’

‘And what about Susie?’ Clarice asked. ‘How does that relate to Guy disappearing?’

‘Charlotte said she thought something must have panicked her.’

‘Noise or activity?’

‘She didn’t know.’ Louise shrugged. ‘She said the children were in the garden yesterday evening with the dog. The girls came in when she called them, but Susie had gone.’

‘That . . .