Disappearances

Rex followed the road back to Aston-on-Trent and stopped at a newsagent’s to ask for directions to the doctors’ clinic that Dudley had referred to at the reception.

“Won’t be anyone at the clinic today,” said the girl behind the counter as he turned to leave, pocketing his change from the purchase of a pouch of tobacco, in case his willpower ran out before the end of the weekend. “It’s Saturday.”

“Dr. Williamitis is there,” put in a female shopper behind him. “I saw his car parked outside. Is it him you want to see? There are six doctors, you know.”

“I wanted to speak to Dr. Thorpe’s replacement.”

“Dr. Thorpe? Funny you should bring his name up. His son got married today at All Saints’ Church. Here you go, duck,” the woman said to the shop assistant, depositing a bottle of Robinson’s Lemon Barley Water and two packets of milk chocolate digestive biscuits on the counter.

“Was Dr. Thorpe your doctor?” Rex asked the woman while her items were bagged.

“He was for a time, but that was ages ago. Never had to see him for anything serious, which is probably just as well. He was a bit progressive, like. Now, when my Terry got his duodenal ulcer two years ago …”

Oh, Lord, spare me Terry’s duodenal ulcer, Rex thought, suddenly gasping at his watch and excusing himself with all speed. Once inside the car, he followed the directions he had been given to Valerie Road off Weston and, after a false turn, finally found the single-story brick clinic—but no car in the parking lot. Getting out of his vehicle, he went to peer through the glass panel door. A note was taped to the inside notifying visitors that Dr. Williamitis was on a house call and would be back “soon.”

With a frustrated sigh, Rex cast a forlorn eye at the official hours of surgery and at the plaque on the wall listing the doctors, among them Dr. A. Williamitis. His was the only name that sounded like a disease.

Since there was nothing for him to do until the doctor returned, he drove back to the main street and without too much trouble found a space on a side road by The Malt Shovel, where he intended to plan his next move over a quiet pint. Shrugging back into his jacket, he stepped into the pub and approached the bar, which faced the weary red décor of an L-shaped lounge, the air redolent of chips and vinegar. Beneath a low beamed ceiling, the walls presented a hodgepodge of prints and farming relics, among them a yoke and shepherd’s crook, recalling the region’s agricultural heritage. Two chalk boards listed the menu, but in spite of the fact it was getting on for six o’clock and he was feeling the first hunger pangs of the evening, the “Fish Pie with peas & salad” failed to tempt him, still less the “Liver, onions, mash & veg.” He felt too anxious to eat with so little time to solve a triple murder. A cold fireplace stood in the far corner as sunless light filtered through the small window panes.

A burly landlord loitered by the beer taps, liquor bottles ranged on shelves behind him. “What’ll you have?” he asked over a background of muted Pop Rock.

“A pint of Guinness.”

“Aah-do! Been ta wedding?” interrupted a toothless old man in a flat cap perched on a neighboring barstool. He jerked his head toward the pink silk carnation in Rex’s lapel.

“I have,” Rex answered.

“Lovely girl, our Polly. Worked as barmaid here part-time. Ah were head gardener at Newcombe when her dad were still there.”

“Really?” Rex asked, turning his full attention on him.

“His missus, now, she ’ad enough of his carryings-on—”

“Now then, Jessop, that’s just gossip,” the landlord remonstrated as he delivered Rex’s pint. Neither he nor the old man appeared to have heard of the latest goings-on at Newcombe Court. The scattering of other customers around the bar and at the booths seemed similarly uninformed, judging by the lack of animation in the place.

“I ’eard ’em many a time up at house, at it like cat and dog,” the old man pursued earnestly.

“Are you saying Tom Newcombe was one for the ladies?” Rex asked. He’d heard about the drinking, but this was news.

His neighbor touched his nose knowingly. “Had an auld pair working at house.”

“He means an au pair,” the landlord interjected, loading clean glasses onto the overhead rack while Rex downed a draught of Guinness.

“She were from one of them countries in Eastern Europe wot keep changing names,” the old man went on. “Took care of his dooghter for two years, then the missus sent her packing. This were a year ’fore ’ee disappeared. Polly were nine by then.”

Rex bought the old man another pint of bitter and paid for his own drink.

“Hold up, old cock,” Jessop said as Rex got up to leave. “I keep a picture of the family at that time ’cause it shows the new garden.”

“You still have it?”

“I can nip ’round ta m’ cottage and get it.”

Rex sat back down.

“He’s leading you down the garden path,” the landlord warned when Jessop departed in surprisingly spry fashion. “He’s got nothing better to do than sit in here all day hoping people will pay for his nonsense with beer.”

“But he did work for the family at the time Tom Newcombe disappeared?”

“He did, and he put the new landscaping in, what you see now.” The landlord went to attend to new customers, a couple of hikers in anoraks and muddy walking boots.

Presently, Jessop returned with a colorful photo in a cheap wood frame, showing the Newcombe family and an unfamiliar young woman holding Polly by the hand. Rex scrutinized it with interest. Mother and child were instantly recognizable. Mrs. Newcombe, in a large-brimmed straw hat, smiled her superior smile. Polly, pink ribbons in her pigtails, grinned out of the picture, advertising a missing front tooth.

Tom Newcombe proved a letdown, quite ordinary in every way, a man settling into the gray and slack-featured anonymity of middle age, the sort of person you passed on the street without registering any lasting impression.

“Married ’im for his money,” Jessop said slyly, following Rex’s facial reactions.

“Is this the au pair?” Rex pointed to the young blonde squinting at the camera.

Jessop nodded and stuck his nose back in his ale. “Belter garden, in’t it?”

Rex discerned a compliment was in order. “Verra nice,” he agreed, recognizing the herbaceous borders of crimson roses and lavender against a backdrop of delphiniums in dusky pink, purple and blue, still growing at Newcombe Court.

“Warn’t before. It were a mess of tangled bushes and briars. We ’ad to dig it all up and put new grass down. The missus complained ’bout th’ mess, but she were pleased in th’ end. Even more pleased when her old man disappeared. Warn’t long before that solicitor—”

“Jessop!” the landlord exploded. “That evil tongue will be the death of you.”

The old man wheezed. “I knows wot I sees. If the police had asked me, I’d have told ’em to dig …”

At this point the landlord flicked his bar rag over his shoulder, pushed back the flap in the counter, and squeezing through, lifted the old man—stool, pint and all—and deposited him outside the pub entrance while Rex watched through the window. Returning, he brusquely swiped his palms together. “He won’t be back before tomorrow with his idle chatter. This is a warning. Next time his head gets shoved down the well for slandering the good folk from round here.”

Interesting slander, nonetheless. Rex requested the local phone book from the landlord and made a note of the doctors’ phone numbers from the clinic in case the aptly named Dr. Williamitis did not return from his house call in time.

In the absence of further information regarding Tom Newcombe, he was left with Dr. Thorpe as a chief line of inquiry. Hopefully that would lead somewhere. An investigation comprised a confusion of false starts and dead ends, Rex often thought; but eventually, if one persevered, the right path led out of the maze.