Free Missing: Presumed Dead by James Hawkins Page A

paisley one, with the frilliest of white aprons which fluttered as she gave a little shudder. “It’s chilly for June – more like October or Oslo. You’ll have to fight your way through,” she added, inching her way back down the cluttered hallway.
    â€œAre you moving?” he asked, confronted by an upended double bed; an ancient mahogany sideboard that no-one would describe as an antique; several precariously balanced stacks of books, and a stuffed goat.
    She turned, her forehead crinkled in confusion, “Moving? ... Oh no … Charity auction next Saturday – Women’s Institute.” He stopped at the goat and slid his hand along the polished hairless back.
    â€œIt used to be in the butcher’s,” she said, seeing the inquisitive look on his face. “All the children used to sit on him while their mothers waited in line. That back’s been polished by thousands of bums over the years, mine included, but the kids today wouldn’t find it fun; they only want noisy toys that shake the daylights out of them and have hundreds of buttons.” Pausing in remembrance, she gave the goat an affectionate pat. “It seems silly now, but sitting on that moth-eaten old thing was quite a treat in my day.”
    â€œI nearly didn’t find you,” said Bliss, moving on and squeezing into the dining room that seemed equally crammed.
    â€œJumble-sale ... Girl Guides,” Daphne indicated with a sweep, suggesting that some of the clutter was not her responsibility, though not indicating precisely which.
    â€œI was wondering if you might get lost. It’s fairly isolated out here, no through traffic, and there’s only the fields behind.”
    â€œIs that where you saw the lights?” he asked, taking in the view out of the back window and seeing the fresh green ripples of a cornfield lapping at the edge of her neatly cultivated vegetable garden.
    â€œYes – you can still see where the corn’s been battered down if you know just where to look.” She pointed, he strained but couldn’t see anything. “Anyway,” she said, turning away, “I never said they’d made circles, Chief Inspector. Dowding made that up.”
    â€œI’m sure you didn’t. He was only teasing.”
    â€œHe goes too far at times does that one.”
    Bliss looked around for something to change the subject and seized on the piano. “What a beautiful instrument. Do you play?”
    â€œVery badly – I had loads of lessons as a child but lacked dedication. What about you?”
    â€œA little. But I’ve never played one like this.” He brushed his hand over the surface, “Just look at that veneer;” reverently lifted the lid and took in a sharp breath of awe, “And the keys – real ivory;” gently touched a few notes, “Perfect!”
    â€œQuite a beauty, isn’t it? Coincidentally, it came from the Dauntsey house. I bought it at an auction twenty odd years ago, and it still had the original receipt tucked inside. The old Colonel had bought it in 1903.” She paused with a vague expression.“Or was it 1905? Lift up the lid, Chief Inspector, I think it’s still in there.”
    The receipt was there as predicted. “1903,” Bliss said, reading it off the faded handwritten paper. “You were right the first time.” Then he sat down and started playing.
    â€œMozart?” she queried, recognising the theme.
    â€œUh-hum,” he nodded.
    She closed her eyes in rapture. “Oh that’s so beautiful. You could make love to this.” Her eyes popped open. “Oh now I’ve shocked you.”
    â€œNo – not at all.”
    â€œThere was a time, Chief Inspector ...” she cut herself off and listened for a while, her mind awash with romantic memories that softened her face and brought a touch of dampness to her eyes. “You do know that God only invented