Maestro Read online

  "Twenty years or so. I came here in 1968. I needed a change."

  "A change? How intriguing." Sara urged him on, hoping he would elaborate.

  "I suppose all of us dreams of giving it up at some stage. I needed to get away so I chose Glymeer. The opportunity came along and I took it."

  Sara pressed on, ignoring her knees trembling under the table.

  "May I ask where you're from originally?"

  "Have you got five hours?" Gillane smiled but was obviously bored by the question. "France, Italy, England. I've lived in all three." was all he would say.

  The waitress interrupted them again, this time to deliver their order.

  Despite the unease she felt, Sara enjoyed her meal. Traditional British cooking that comes out right every time. Roast meat, potatoes, gravy and the quintessential soggy vegetables.

  She observed that Gillane's table manners were excellent. Very natural, not forced. However table etiquette was easily acquired. Many a nouveau riche could attest to that.

  Sara surprised herself yet again by finishing off the glutton-sized quantity of food on her plate. Perhaps her large appetite had been due to the complete absence of conversation during the meal.

  "Do you shop at Glymeer? The grocer there is very good," she asked.

  "Never," replied Gillane "I prefer Goldarn. It’s shall we say, somewhat less personal."

  "That's the disadvantage of living in a small village, isn't it? Where everyone knows your every move?"

  Gillane did not reply.

  "What are you doing this afternoon Sara?"

  "I..I don't know...."

  "I'll be coming around if that's all right with you. There are a few things in the cellar that I'd like to take away. Will you be at Downswold at say, five o'clock?"

  "Yes of course."

  The meal over, Gillane was ready to go. He got up to pay the bill then walked back briskly towards the table, pushing his wallet into his jacket.

  "I'm sorry, Sara. I must go."

  "Thank you for lunch."

  "I'll see you later this evening. Shall I walk you back to your car?"

  "No, thank you. I'm sure I'll find my way back."

  Gillane shook her hand then left, disappearing out onto the street.

  Sara walked back to her car at a leisurely pace. Gillane had remained an enigma throughout the meal. He had chosen his words carefully, declining to reveal anything, saying nothing.

  She recalled the enigmatic few words which he had uttered, probably, in spite of himself:

  "I needed a change. The opportunity came along and I took it."

  A change from what? What opportunity? Most people relish a chance to talk about themselves, usually, ad nauseum. Gillane was different. Supremely confident. Not suffering from the inadequacy which most of humanity secretly harbours.

  Chapter Six.

  As Sara entered Downswold, the air in the cottage was thick with the perfume of flowers.

  "Silly girl, you didn't even thank the man for his flowers!" she thought out loud.

  Of course not. The day she had found the vase of flowers outside waiting to greet her, she had brought them in and deposited them absentmindedly on the nearest object she could find. Now, with all the windows shut tightly, the atmosphere was stifling.

  Sara walked through the cottage pushing open the windows to let out the cloying scent.

  It was only a few years ago that Sara had started buying flowers. She'd always thought it cruel, the act of growing flowers for profits, the ruthless cutting of the delicate stems, depriving the plant of ever coming to seed. She found it difficult to rationalise why anyone would buy flowers only to watch them shrivel and die. It seemed pointless and selfish.

  Occasionally, though, she would succumb to stopping in to the florist, just to have a look. She could see how the luxuriant, long stemmed anthuriums from the tropics, with their perfectly formed waxy petals, could easily transform the drabbest room. But Sara always reached the same conclusion: no matter how beautiful, flowers were not a necessity and did not add value to her life.

  The Maestro changed all that. It was not unusual for him to spend £2000 per month on flowers. His was a penchant for extra large bouquets and he insisted that his house be full of them.

  Sara took charge of ordering flowers for the Maestro. Soon she began to appreciate them not just for their ephemeral beauty but also for the way they made her feel. They lightened her mood, they made her house feel like a home.

  Sara glanced at her watch. Four o'clock. It was still warm and bright outside. She slipped off her shoes and decided to stretch out on the bench to do some reading.

  The current issue of Good Housekeeping proved to be fascinating stuff - everything from the latest fashion, creative interior design, how to plan a party for one hundred guests and a fool-proof recipe for chocolate cake.

  Somewhere between adding the flour to the creamed butter, sugar and eggs, stirring the flour in a figure eight motion, Sara heard the now familiar voice.

  "Hello, Sara."

  The voice was very low. Sara felt the same annoyance as the first time Gillane had descended upon her out of the blue. She sat up, her skirt safely pulled down over her knees.

  "Did you come down the path? I didn't hear you."

  Gillane looked down at her, arms crossed against his chest, a duffel bag at his feet.

  "I took the short cut across the meadow. Sorry if I gave you a start," he replied, his eyes flashing at her.

  Sara waited to see if the faint look of bemusement on Gillane's face would transform itself into a full blown smile.

  She abandoned all expectations for a smile and returned to her reading.

  "Please go ahead and help yourself to what you want in the cellar," she said without looking up from her magazine.

  She hoped he would leave quickly.

  "Thank you. I won't be long."

  Sara watched Gillane walk towards the cottage. The sun cast a long shadow across his tall frame. He had removed his jacket and she could see through the thin, white cotton shirt. He was very athletic, lean but powerful, like a fencer or dancer. She wondered why he had never married.

  She waited for a few minutes before going into the cottage to make herself a cup of tea. The door to the cellar was open. She could hear Gillane moving around below. The light bulb at the top of the stairs began to flicker dangerously and went out completely.

  Not wanting to go the aid of the unfortunate Gillane, who by now was surrounded by complete darkness, Sara made a swift exit from the cottage and returned to the bench.

  The sun was still shining very brightly but a few dark clouds had appeared in the sky. The atmosphere felt sticky, humid.

  Sara finished her tea and lit a cigarette. She looked down at her bare feet and thought how ugly they were. The first two toes on each foot were miles longer than the rest. Her feet looked totally neglected. She felt embarrassed by the sight of them and hurried back into the cottage to find a pair of shoes.

  She went into the kitchen, curious to see what had become of Gillane. She found him standing near the sink, his forehead covered in blood.

  Gillane was pressing a kitchen towel against his head and grimaced when he saw her.

  "Damn light bulb went out," he muttered.

  "Perhaps you should sit down. Is it a deep wound?" Sara asked, pulling out a chair.

  Gillane sat down.

  From what Sara could see, he had hit himself on the temple just on the hair line. The wound wasn't very deep but a thin stream of bright red blood was flowing out of it.

  "The blood will stop in a few minutes. I'll get some witch hazel to clean it up for you," she said, hurrying off into the bedroom.

  She returned with the witch hazel and carefully dabbed the wound.

  "It’s not too bad but you may need a couple of stitches."

  "There's no doctor in Glymeer. Only in Goldarn."

  "Surely someone can drive you. I will if no one else can," Sara offered.


  "No, I'm fine. Thank you."

  Gillane stood up and reached for the duffel bag.

  Sara had got to it first intending to hand it over to him. She could barely lift it off the floor.

  "Please allow me to drive you home."

  Gillane acquiesced reluctantly, nodding his agreement as he picked up the duffel bag.

  The drive to Gillane's farm took a mere three minutes. A large meadow did in fact separate his farm from Downswold. So Gillane had spoken the truth: it was possible to walk across the meadow, after all.

  Whereas Downswold was concealed from public view, Gillane's house could be seen easily from the main road.

  Strangely, Gillane had not changed the name of the property: a sign with DENLEY painted on it, still stood near the entrance. Seeing the sign reminded Sara of her conversation with Mag: Old Man Denley was the original owner of both the farm where Gillane now lived, and Downswold.

  Sara drove straight up to the house. Gillane got out of the car immediately. Sara opened the boot for him to retrieve the impossibly heavy duffel bag.

  Sara was surprised to see Gillane walk over to her side of the car and tap on the window.

  "Would you like to come in for a sherry?" he asked

  "You must have a nasty headache. Perhaps it’s better if I don't..."

  "It'll soon pass. Please come in."

  Gillane walked towards the house and stood waiting for her at the front door.

  Sara turned the engine off, got out of the car, and locked the doors.

  Gillane was no rural farmer. Sara found the gentleman of the house standing in the hallway, next to an elegant wooden chest. An impressively sized abstract painting hung along the wall. It was definitely not the type of painting the folk in Glymeer would be prone to collecting.

  Gillane led Sara down the hallway, the walls on either side covered with more paintings. At the end of the hallway, a sumptuously decorated sitting room awaited.

  In between fine wooden furniture, rugs were scattered over the floor. A myriad of colours jostled for space on the walls. Blues, greens, yellows, reds, in every shade imaginable.

  Sara found it hard to take it all in. She had been expecting a rustic farmhouse. But this!

  Gillane obviously had refined taste which had been cultivated somewhere else.

  Sara's host appeared not to notice her astonishment. A crystal glass full of sherry was handed to her.

  "Please sit down Sara." Gillane instructed, waving to a deep crimson-coloured chair.

  Sara accepted the glass and sat down. Gillane took his place on a separate chair alongside.

  He remained silent, offering no explanation for what Sara saw around her. Sara assumed that he must be extremely uncomfortable. In return for her bringing him home, he had felt obliged to invite her in.

  Sara chose to remain equally as silent. She sipped her sherry slowly, looking at Gillane out of the corner of her eye. She had learned by now that Gillane was too much of an elusive character to justify anything, let alone the possessions which filled the room.

  She also felt strangely flattered that he had revealed some of himself, part of an inner sanctum which surely no one else in Glymeer had been privy to.

  "Wonderful sherry," she mused, "Not too sweet."

  Gillane moved towards her, decanter in hand. She held the glass steadily as he refilled it.

  "The cut has stopped bleeding. Does the light in the cellar always give trouble?"

  "Yes. I should have warned you about it. Perhaps you shouldn't go down in the cellar until I attend to it."

  Sensing that the quality of Gillane's conversation would not improve, Sara set her glass down and got up to leave.

  "You'll be right as rain in the morning," she said with as much gusto as a doctor telling a patient that they had one month to live.

  Gillane accompanied her through the hallway. They stood briefly together behind the front door, inches apart.

  "Thank you for the ride, Sara. It’s just a scratch, not to worry."

  Sara nodded concentrating on the door.

  "You're very welcome to stay for dinner," continued Gillane, "if your stocks are low at Downswold."

  He was very close to her now. She could feel his breath on her face. Tempted and terrified at the prospect, she declined the invitation without giving her hesitation away.

  "It’s very kind of you but you would do well to get some rest."

  Gillane opened the door. Sara walked to the car slowly. Before getting behind the wheel, she looked at Gillane, who had stayed standing in the doorway.

  His face expressionless, Gillane nodded then waited for her to drive out onto the main road.

  *********************

  Over breakfast the next morning, Sara concluded that Gillane was an extraordinary individual. He didn't spin a yarn or fabricate stories about himself. His greatest weapon lay in his silence and quiet observance of others. During their lunch together the previous day, he had remarked that Glymeer was too personal. What he hadn't said was that the villagers' silence, their recalcitrance towards him, was more deafening than his own. They suspected him of something terrible.

  If he had indeed committed a murder and gotten away with it so far, it was his silence that had saved him.

  A young girl went to Downswold and was never seen again.

  Sara remembered John Sheeley's words. And Mag's. Twenty years ago. If Gillane had done something indefensible, why would he still be living in Glymeer? He could have moved away, gone to the ends of the earth, taking his secret with him.

  Sara retrieved her notepad and examined the notes she'd taken from the microfiches.

  Inspector Jay had closed the case. Twenty years ago. He had, "felt obliged to close the case."

  Sara stuffed the notepad into her handbag and drove into Glymeer to find a 'phone.

  There were no public telephones on the single main street. She decided to drive into Goldarn to find one. She didn't want to ask John or Mag if she could use their 'phone; surely they would already know that she had been to Gillane's house. A long explanation would be required.

  The square in Goldarn was filled with early morning activity. Sara found a 'phone booth at the corner of the street that Gillane had led her down on their way to lunch. She could see the police station at the opposite end of the square.

  She found the number for the Goldarn Police Station in the worn directory under the 'phone. She dialled the number. It rang several times before someone answered.

  "Good morning! Is Inspector Jay there please?" Sara sang into the mouthpiece camouflaging her accent as best she could.

  "Inspector Jay? He hasn't been here for more than fifteen years!" came the surprised reply.

  Sara summoned her courage.

  "I...I wonder if you could help me. He was very nice to my family some years ago. We promised we would visit him if we ever came by this way..."

  "Ah if you want to be visiting him then, he lives in Finacre."

  "Finacre? Is it far?"

  "Where are you then?"

  Sara held her breath.

  "I'm opposite the bloody station," she thought pulling apart the map she had inside her notepad.

  She spotted Goldarn on the map and a village called Ayres just south of it.

  "Er.. Ayres. I'm in Ayres!" she lied into the telephone receiver.

  "All right then. You're not far. About forty miles. Here it is: Savernake Cottage, Finacre, RH8 CG3. That's all I've got."

  "Thank you. Thank you."

  Sara hung the 'phone back in place. With any luck, she had gotten away with it.

  Her heart racing, Sara drove back to Downswold to figure out what to do next.

  Chapter Seven.

  Sara locked the door behind her once she was safely back at Downswold.

  Over a cup of strong coffee and a cigarette, she scrutinised the map to decide the easiest route to Finacre. She calculated that it would take her one and a half to two hours to get there, covering a distance of fifty-
five to sixty miles. If she left right away, she would probably catch the Inspector having his lunch. If he was still alive.

  "Probably best to take some lunch along," she muttered to herself as she packed half a loaf of bread and cheese into her bag, "damned if there's a decent place to eat between here and there."

  Getting to Finacre was easy; due north of Goldarn, the winding country lanes offered the benefit of panoramic views unimpeded by diesel fumes and speeding drivers.

  An hour and a quarter later, Sara spotted the road sign. FINACRE 16 Miles.

  Sara considered she might be a little hysterical or even mad to have driven all this way. The Inspector would probably be demented or senile by now, with no recollection whatsoever of something that took place a lifetime ago.

  Sara slowed the car down. Fate was beckoning. The first cottage in Finacre, the first dwelling she saw, was SAVERNAKE Cottage.

  A very small stone cottage surrounded by a low brick wall. The carefully tended garden filled with brightly coloured flowers. Someone still lived here.

  She steered the car onto the pebbled driveway. An elderly woman came out the front door. Sara jumped out of the car quickly.

  "Mrs. Jay? Are you Mrs. Jay?"

  The woman stared at Sara apprehensively and pulled the shawl she was wearing, tightly around her shoulders.

  "Yes?"

  "My name's Sara. I was wondering if I might have a word with your husband."

  "What about?"

  Mrs. Jay lifted one hand to her head, the other hand still clutching the shawl. She seemed bewildered, confused.

  Sara saw an old man appear behind Mrs. Jay in the doorway.

  "What is it then?" Sara heard him say, as he placed his hand on Mrs. Jay's shoulder.

  "Mr. Jay? Mr. Jay? My name's Sara. I've got to talk to you!"

  Husband and wife looked at each other. Mrs. Jay stepped aside to let her husband pass through the doorway. Sara noticed he was leaning heavily on a cane.

  The old Inspector resembled John Sheeley: the same ruddy face, reddish hair, what was left of it. He looked Sara up and down. Sara stood there motionless expecting to be rebuked strongly at any moment.

  "What you be doing here then?" barked the Inspector.