James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

“I think Mrs. Dauntsey has something to tell us,” said Bliss, leaving Doreen hanging.

“Oh. I suppose you’ll find out soon enough,” Doreen spluttered. “I was the one getting the Major’s war pension not Tippen. He couldn’t sign his name and they was very good at the post office — they knew he couldn’t get out of the house, so all I had to do was scratch a cross on the form and they’d give me his pension.”

“Didn’t anyone ever check up — ever want to see him?” asked Bliss.

“No,” she shook her head. “Nobody wanted to see him.”

Bliss whistled. “So you were collecting Major Dauntsey’s pension for what … ten years?”

The old grandfather clock had stopped completely, halting time in the Coffee House. Even the children at the next table seemed soporific under the weight of silent anticipation. Then Doreen Dauntsey broke down. “More than fifty years,” she blubbered. “I knew I shouldn’t have — I knew it were wrong, but I had to pay the bills.”

Those damn bills, she thought to herself, sniffling into a handkerchief — never enough money for the bills, especially with old Doctor Fitzpatrick having his hand permanently in her purse almost until the day he’d died. But what choice did she have? Then there was the cost of bringing up Jonathon in a manner befitting the supposed son of a major; the death duties when the old Colonel died; in addition to the upkeep and taxes on the house. The income from the Scottish estate had helped but she had still been forced to sell everything movable over the years. Only the land and houses remained, still registered in Rupert Dauntsey’s name, and impossible to sell or mortgage while he was still alive. And, legally, he was still alive.

“The pension was Tippen’s idea,” Doreen averred when she’d calmed down. “He said we’d have to claim the Major’s pension or someone would start asking awkward questions. I said I wouldn’t do it, but … ” Her eyes glazed again, this time with a memory so horrific that in fifty years it had never dimmed, even for a day: Tippen, in the turret room, viciously grabbing her by the throat with the three clawed fingers of his left hand, pulling her to within an inch of his grotesque face, then slobbering with a foetid spray of bad breath and saliva as he spat, “As long as we both keep quiet nobody will ever know.” Her face screwed in awful memory of the moment saying, simply, “He made me do it.”

“But he forged the Major’s signature on the will,” said Samantha. “If you had gone to the authorities they would have soon discovered who he was and the will would have been null and void.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But it would still have left me penniless. Rupert never changed his will when we married. He didn’t have time, I told myself; didn’t want to was more like it. Anyway, his will left everything to the church because he had no other relatives. I still wouldn’t have got anything.”

No wonder the vicar was thinking he might see a new roof, thought Bliss, wondering why the lawyer had accepted Tippen’s false signature if he had the previous will to compare it against. Then it dawned on him — Tippen alias Dauntsey didn’t have a right hand. He could have scribbled anything with his left, mumbling, “This won’t look anything like my previous signature.”

“I decided the best thing to do was to pretend Rupert was alive as long as possible and just keep my mouth shut,” Doreen continued, pulling herself together. “I couldn’t think what else to do, and I thought it would all be over when Tippen died.”

“But it wasn’t?” piped up Daphne, seeming to surface from nowhere and stunning them with her understanding. “I bet it was worse.”

Doreen nodded, sobbing. “I suppose in one way or another we’re all prisoners of our dead,” she said with remarkable insight. “When he was alive he had no voice. He was my prisoner and I was his. One word from either of us and we would all be out on the street: him, me and Jonathon. But once he was dead he held all the cards: His mother would get the Major’s house and estate, and the pension would stop. I thought once he was dead I would be free, but he never let me go.”

A sudden flurry at the front door caught Bliss’s eye and he turned in time to see the matron and Jonathon Dauntsey barging in.

“Oh shit,” he muttered.

“There she is,” shouted Jonathon as if he’d spotted a fleeing prisoner.

“Inspector?” said Doreen, grabbing his arm as if she wanted to make a dying declaration. “The dead are the lucky ones — they never have to explain.”

“Leave my mother alone,” screeched Jonathon, advancing on them.

Then Doreen had her final say, “He only really makes such a fuss of me because he knows when I’m gone he’ll have to live with himself.”

“Mother are you alright? Has he hurt you?” said Jonathon, turning a dozen pairs of accusing eyes in Bliss’s direction.

Daphne turned on Jonathon with such ferocity Bliss wondered if she might kick him. “Don’t be so stupid. Of course nobody’s hurt her. What rubbish — I just took my old friend for a walk and a nice cup of tea. Isn’t that right, Doreen?”

“Yes. And a meringue …”

“You kidnapped her,” spat the matron, catching up to Jonathon. “And you,” she spun on Bliss. “You were in on this. I shall report you to the Chief Constable. This is a disgraceful way to treat a sick old lady. I’m taking her back to the home this instant.”

“I thought we were the only ones allowed to take prisoners.”

“How dare you — she’s not a prisoner.”

“She could be,” he retorted. “I have sufficient evidence to send her to prison for the rest of her life.”

Something in the sincerity of Bliss’s tone brought the matron up short, then she shook the notion aside. “I don’t believe it.”

“Are you suggesting we disregard the truth in the interest of believability, Matron?” he asked, putting on a Jonathon Dauntsey attitude, but the manageress intervened, pounding her way back across the room, demanding they should leave immediately, threatening to call the police.

Daphne started to open her mouth: “We are the police” on the tip of her tongue, but Bliss got to her in time and caught her arm. “Leave it, Daphne,” he said, not wanting to attract any more attention, knowing that Donaldson would already have an all-units warning out for him.

“Come along then, my dear,” said the matron, in baby-talk, wrestling the wheelchair from Daphne. “It’s your dinner time. The cook made some tasty stewed beef and rice pudding.”

“Just one question, Jonathon,” said Bliss, standing in front of the man to block his exit. “When I told you we’d found your father’s body, you said, ‘I doubt that very much, Inspector.’ Why?”

Jonathon’s face puzzled as if asking, “Is this another trick question?” But Doreen was quick to respond, “Come along, Jonathon. I’ve told the inspector everything he needs to know.” Then, giving the matron a nod to push, she added. “Thank you for the tea and the meringue, Inspector,” as if nothing else had happened.

“She hasn’t changed a bit,” said Daphne as the three of them watched Doreen disappearing through the front door. “Still as flighty as ever.”

“Possibly,” said Bliss. “But I still don’t know who is, or was, Jonathon’s father. And I’m still not sure who blew Tippen’s brains out.”

It was not until eleven-fifteen in the evening that Samantha slipped the key into her front door.

“Sorry I’m late, Dave,” she called cheerily, hanging her jacket in the closet, sighing “That’s better” as she kicked off her black uniform shoes. “Shit!”