Episode 8 - Mrs Thomas

Wed cont. then Thursday December 17

Dorothy was not happy about going on a trip to Cardiff despite being flattered by Gary’s challenge, but it was important to talk to Bryn Thomas’s mother, so she decided to get on a train to Bristol, stay overnight with an old college friend with whom she had kept up a sporadic letter exchange over the years but had not seen for half a century, and persuade her to drive to her to Cardiff to find Mrs Thomas. Now she and Linda both had e-mail addresses and were thus free of snail-mail, communication was much easier. Dorothy sent her a mail and was immediately invited to stay as long as she wanted.

Dorothy sent Cleo a text message to say that she was about to catch a train to Bristol and hoped to have news of Mrs Thomas when she and her friend Linda had driven to Cardiff next day and looked around.

***

There was a joyous reunion of old friends who had plenty of memories, but had shared nothing of their working lives as Linda had returned to Bristol and married, while Dorothy stayed in London and earned a living as a professional accompanist. The rest of Wednesday was taken up with catching up on the half century that had passed.

Linda Fox, an enthusiastic flautist who could still be persuaded to play because she practised every day and said it was good for her lungs, was also an enthusiastic motorist, knew Cardiff well, and was thrilled by the prospect of driving Dorothy, who had never had a driving licence, but enjoyed being taxied around, to look for the legendary Mrs Thomas.

Their only introduction would be the unflattering photo of Bryn Thomas. Dorothy was much more confident than Linda about the chances of tracing Mrs Thomas.

***

Gary’s research into the permanent abode of Harry Marble was not very successful, since Marble was not actually at the address Cleo had suggested and Gary had phoned, but that did not mean he wasn’t sleeping there. Gary had no other lead to follow. Harry Marble was a loner.

Gary had read the police report on the murder of Dr Marble, Harry’s uncle and previous owner of the villa. The housekeeper, Mrs Riddle, had turned out to be Dr Marble’s former flame. She had hung on to her job, became a retainer for Dr Marble, and kept secret the birth of their love-child, passing the baby on to her twin sister when Dr Marble rejected it.

Dr Marble was very concerned about his public status as a notary. He could not afford disgrace in a small community like Upper Grumpsfield, where immorality would have been a good reason for dumping him as a solicitor and ostracising him as a resident.

Sylvie, Harry’s half-sister, grew up in Brighton calling her aunt ‘mother’. Grass grew over the scandal that never really became one, and the charade was only revealed when Dorothy and Cleo went to find the aunt. Sara, the Mrs Riddle of Dr Marble’s villa, and Carla, her twin sister, were as like as two peas in a pod, but Silvie gave the game away by calling the housekeeper known as Mrs Riddle ‘mother’. At that time, Sylvie was assumed not to know that her aunt was actually her mother. Events proved otherwise.

Dr Marble had learnt about his son Harry from his sister. He had left the mother of that love-child to deal with the matter alone, his only contribution being a sum of money enough to secure an abortion, since owning up to the child would have meant another scandal. The mother had appealed to Dr Marble’s sister to mediate and she ended up actually rearing Harry without telling him who his father was. Harry later found out and immediately set about extorting money from the father who did not want to be one.

Gary recalled the intricate story that surrounded the three Riddle women. One thing became clear; they were now at the mercy of Harry Marble. With them out of the way, the villa would be his, or so he thought. That alone was a good reason for Gary to visit Miss Riddle, the housekeeper’s sister. He wanted to be sure that Harry had not been there. If he was there, he was to be rounded up.

***

Despite the usual preoccupation with the children’s welfare at the cottage in Upper Grumpsfield, Gary got round to confirming that Harry Marble had definitely shared a cell with Bryn Thomas for a while. Overcrowding made it sometimes necessary for prisoners to bunk down together, but only those who were about to be released enjoyed that privilege. Cleo did not understand the logic of that ruling and said so.

“Isn’t that just inviting them to plot new crimes together?” she said. “Lots of new bands of criminals have emerged from contacts in prison; like meeting like, so to speak.”

“They are usually only small-time gangsters,” Gary said. “The big guys are not moved around. And anyway, simply exchanging personal data would be enough for anyone with a mind to commit a crime. They could make contact in freedom.”

“And that’s what Marble and Thomas will have done, I expect. Thomas told Marble that he wanted Hilda out of the house, and Marble told Thomas enough about the villa to make him curious,” said Cleo. “Thomas likes to present himself as some sort of self-made man, though Hilda did not mention that he had a profession, or even a job. I think she was already a victim of a confidence trickster well before she was trapped in that office.”

“We can safely assume that Marble had various axes to grind, but his main aim was to move into the villa whatever it took to get it.”

“There’s a gap in the logic of that,” said Cleo. “Surely he would not have set fire to it, unless of course he had decided that if he could not have the villa, no one else would.”

“Although I know now that those two guys did share a cell for a short time, I’m not sure how they found common ground, except that they both had evil characters” said Gary. “I’ll see to the supper, shall I?”

“Your mother’s contributing a casserole.”

“I’ll do the table then.”

“Oh, by the way,” said Cleo, “Dorothy texted that she was going to Bristol today.”

“Why Bristol? She was supposed to go to Cardiff and she didn’t have to dash off immediately.”

“You should know Dorothy by now, Gary. She can never wait before doing something. She has a friend in Bristol who knows Cardiff like the back of her hand. Dorothy is going to get her to drive there and search for Mrs Thomas together. It sounds like a good idea, don’t you think?”

“I’m not so sure. Perhaps we should have got the Cardiff police onto it.”

“But we decided that it would alarm Mrs Thomas.”

“I’d be alarmed if any total stranger called on me and asked impertinent questions,” said Gary.

“Let’s wait and see what happens. Dorothy is shrewd. She will know what to do and she won’t be impertinent.”

“Assuming they can find the woman.”

***

Dorothy and Linda had decided to start their search at the town hall if perusal of the phone book was negative. They would say they know Mrs Thomas’s son and wanted to meet his mother. They would soon be in possession of a list of householders with the name Thomas; they were sure of that.

“What is Mrs Thomas’s first name, Dorothy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Phonebooks like more than just a surname,” said Linda.

“I should have asked” said Dorothy.

At that moment Linda wondered what she was letting herself in for.

“Let’s try an initial then. How about B for Bryn? “

“I’ll have to ring Cleo about that. We can’t just go through the alphabet,” said Dorothy.

 “Mothers often give sons the same initial as theirs. So if the woman was named Bronwyn, for instance, that would be a B initial.”

“I’ve never heard of that name, Linda.”

“It’s Welsh, Dorothy, and a popular girl’s name there.”

***

Most of the Hurleys were still at home having breakfast.  At Dorothy’s behest, Cleo asked Gary if he could find out more about Mrs Thomas, in particular her first name. Gary instructed Nigel to get Mrs Thomas’s full name for the fictitious form he was going to give Thomas for membership application of Lucky 13.

Nigel was impressed with the idea and said he would invent a form and then take Thomas a good cup of coffee down to the arrest cell and ask him to fill it in.

Not long after, Nigel rang Cleo with the information and Cleo sent Dorothy a text.

“Tell Gary there’s work for him here,” said Nigel.

“He’s on his way,” fibbed Cleo. “Can you spell that name?”

***

An hour later, Dorothy phoned. There were no Bronwyn Thomases in the phonebook, but there were 16 B. Thomases. She and Linda planned to visit as many as it took to find Bronwyn, the name Thomas had entered into the fantasy application form.

“You heard, Gary,” said Cleo. “Thanks for the coffee. Shouldn’t you have left by now?”

“Not quite,” said Gary. “I’ll be at HQ soon enough, but you will have to warn Jessie Coppins that Harry Marble has been released. Dorothy’s mission is not as important as if she thinks it is.”

“Why Jessie in particular?”

“Because she put us on to him, Cleo.”

“But he doesn’t know that.”

“He might.”

***

“Don’t you see the importance of Dorothy’s mission, Gary?”

“To a certain extent.”

“I thought it was very important. Every detail that can be learnt from the mother of a suspect is relevant”

“Some mothers don’t tell the truth. Some mothers make it all up to save their precious sons, however reprobate they know them to be.”

“Occupational therapy, in other words,” said Cleo. “That’s mean of you, Gary. Dorothy thinks she is doing you a service.”

“I’m doing her a service. I think she dreams of having a shoot-out one day. I’d like to prevent that. And to be honest, I’m glad she’s out of the way after what has happened to Jane Barker.”

“To my shame I’d almost forgotten Jane,” said Cleo. “You could confiscate Dorothy’s pistol when she gets back, assuming she has it with her.”

“I can’t do that. Greg organised it for her.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” said Cleo.

“But I could ask Greg to persuade her to give it up.”

“Is he persuasive enough?”

“Good question.”

“I’m sure we must remember that Jessie was also Dr Marble’s daughter. She witnessed the goings on in that office the day her father was killed, so she really could be at risk.”

“We don’t know if Jessie knew Dr Marble was her father at that time. I dare say he paid her mother handsomely not to tell anyone,” said Gary.

“But we all know now and Harry Marble still thinks he can get possession of the villa, otherwise he would not have hung around there. All Dr Marble’s heirs are in danger.”

“I wonder if Dr Marble has any descendants we don’t know about,” said Gary.

“They might not know he is dead. When they find out they’ll have to stake a claim and that would make them known to you.”

“So I should put the Registry Office on red alert, should I,” said Gary. “But you also think Marble could get at the Riddle twin who did not get sent down for murder, don’t you?”

“It’s possible. I don’t know of anyone else. We don’t know if he’s there, but if he is, pick him up.”

“What if it’s a wild goose chase?”

“I have no answer to that.”

“I should have gone to Brighton myself or at least sent a cop” said Gary.

“I’d go myself if I were you.”

“I’ll go tomorrow. Can I take the red car?”

“It may be too late, of course. “

“Don’t even think that, Cleo.”

“Get armed before you set off, Sweetheart. Harry Marble is an unknown quantity.”

“Don’t go by yourself. You’ll need a witness, however informal it starts.”

“I could ask Mia Curlew.”

“Do that. She’ll look after you.”

“Are you going to look for Jessie Coppins tomorrow, Cleo?”

“I‘ll push the little twins up the hill to Huddlecourt Minor and call on the Coppins house. If Jessie isn’t there, she’ll be across the road at Molly Moss’s pub. I think she still helps out there.”

***

Trial and error finally brought results for Dorothy and Linda. Someone named Thomas lived in a long terrace of council houses that had seen better days. They were small, narrow abodes and the one with Thomas written on a sticky label and attached to the letterbox had sagging, greyish net curtains at the front window. It looked anything but affluent. All the houses in the terrace looked shabby, but it was a poor area and as Linda said: You should not judge a book by its cover. Some council dwellers lived cheap long after they could afford something better and spent the money they saved on smart cars (several were parked at the roadside) and expensive cruises.

A woman with a stately figure and curlers in her hair opened the door. She was in her sixties, Dorothy thought, so would qualify as mother of Bryn.

“Excuse me asking,” she began, “but are you Bronwyn Thomas.”

“Yes. Why?”

“Do you have a son named Bryn?”

The woman looked startled, but replied.

 “I used to have a son named Bryn,” she said in a strong Welsh accent. “What’s that to you?”

“Can we talk inside?” said Dorothy.

“I don’t know where he is,” Mrs Thomas said. “And to be honest I don’t care.”

“Can you tell us why, Mrs Thomas?”

“You might as well come all the way in,” Mrs Thomas said. “I don’t like standing on the doorstep.”

Mrs Thomas led the way into the parlour, where anti-mocassas protected grubby armchairs, and where the cold was driven out by an electric fire standing in the unused grate. Its three bars were switched on.

Mrs Thomas gestured to them to be seated on the sofa matching the two armchairs that together almost filled the room. Then she sat on the chair nearest the electric fire and rubbed her hands together in the heat.

Since Dorothy had no idea what use a conversation with this woman would be, she improvised on the scant knowledge she did have. Quite obviously, Bryn Thomas would not want to come home to this mother and this home especially if Hilda’s house were now in the offing, but it might be relevant to know why Mrs Thomas had disowned her son.

Mrs Thomas did not need much encouragement to talk about the boy who had disappointed her and been so naughty in the past that she wanted nothing more to do with him in the future.

“What did he do, Mrs Thomas?”

“Aren’t you going to tell me your names? I’ve told you mine.”

“I’m Dorothy and this is Linda, Bronwyn,” she said, relieved that Mrs Thomas’s aloofness was being replaced with informality.

“I don’t know if I should tell you,” said Bronwyn.

“You’ll feel better if you do, Mrs Thomas,” said Linda.

You can call me Bronwyn, too.”

“Thank you.”

 “He had someone in his room, you see.”

“He’s a grown man, Bronwyn. Had he been married and then moved back after a divorce?”

“I wish it was like that,” said Mrs Thomas. “Things were better in the old days.”

“Who was it who visited Bryn then?” said Dorothy. “A new girlfriend?”

“It wasn’t a girl. It was two men.”

“That’s all right, Bronwyn,” said Linda. “Men have men-friends, too.”

“I took them a cup of tea. The men had half their clothes off and Bryn was dressed as a woman,” said Bronwyn. “I was shocked to the core.”

“So what did you do?”

“I ran downstairs and called the police.”

“And what did the police do?”

“They asked how old my son was and I told them.”

It dawned on Dorothy and Linda that the police probably thought a child was being abused, especially if Mrs Thomas had not told them that her son was an adult dressed in women’s clothes, so it was routine to ask for the age of the child.

“Then they told me to go into the kitchen and drink a cup of tea. I was to calm down. They could not interfere with a grown man’s behaviour in his own room.”

“So what did you do?”

“I went back upstairs, grabbed all the clothes I could find in that den of iniquity and threw them out of the window.”

“Oh, my goodness,” said Dorothy.

“What happened then?” Linda asked, astonished at the tale, the more so because she did not know about the travesty show in Upper Grumpsfield.

“The two men ran past me, almost naked as the day they were born,” she reported, laughing despite herself. “They flew down the stairs, barged through the front door and rescued their clothes. They got dressed in front of the house, on the pavement, by the light of the street lamp” she chortled.

Aware that it might have been quite a comical scene if you were just watching it, Dorothy tried not to join in Mrs Thomas’s cruel laughter. The event had been devastating for Mrs Thomas and she must preserve the seriousness of the woman’s distress, since the laughter was hysterical and far from normal.

“Me and Bryn had a terrible row after that. I told him to pack his things and leave. I told him I never wanted to see him again. The shame of it all”, she said, the laughter now turning into sobs.

“And he hasn’t been here since, has he?”

“No, Dorothy. I’m glad about that. The neighbours talked about it for ages.”

“How long ago was that, Mrs Thomas?” Linda asked.

“About two years and it’s Bronwyn, Linda.”

“Had Bryn ever done anything like that before?” Dorothy asked.

“He liked wearing his sister’s clothes when he was a kid, but she left home and after that he had no girl’s things to wear.”

“Did he want to be a girl?”

“Oh no,” said Mrs Thomas. “He liked girls.”

“So he had a girl-friend later, I expect,” said Linda. “When he was a teenager, I mean.”

“I don’t know if they were girls or boys,” said Mrs Thomas. “They wore girl’s clothes, but they had quite deep voices.”

“But the men here that night were wearing men’s clothes when they came, weren’t they, Bronwyn?”

“Yes,” said Bronwyn. “I don’t understand why they took their clothes off.”

Dorothy thought that explaining the situation in a tactful way might help Bronwyn to get over her confusion about her son.

“Well, Bronwyn,” said Dorothy, “it is possible that your boy is a transvestite, and the men who called were going to try on some women’s clothes that he had in a wardrobe.”

How do you know about the wardrobe?” said Bronwyn.

That was just a guess. You see, transgender….”

“What is that?”

“Some people think they were born in the wrong gender.”

Bronwyn looked blank.

“They were born in one gender but felt psychologically like the other one.”

“Do you think…?”

“No, Bronwyn. I don’t think your son is a transvestite or transgender. He’s probably a cross-dresser. That’s someone who likes wearing the clothes belong to the other sex but does not want to change gender.”

“Oh,” said Bronwyn, struggling to understand. Dorothy continued with her simplified explanation of the phenomenon.

“There are even married men who are cross-dressers, Bronwyn. They get a thrill from wearing their wives’ underwear and tights under their normal clothes, and some even go further; they wear women’s skirts, blouses and high heels, makeup and wigs and go out dressed like that.”

“They are made that way,” said Linda. “It isn’t an illness; it’s a preference. Most of them are nice people.”

“Well, I’d prefer it if my son did not do that.”

“You can’t stop it, Bronwyn.”

“But it put a stop to the fires, didn’t I?”

“What fires?” Linda asked.

Dorothy had not told Linda about the fire at her friends’ villa. Bryn Thomas was under suspicion of causing it, and now here was his mother telling them it had happened before.

“Only as a child,” she said, “in the woods.”

“Did the police find out?”

“Yes, they caught him and then he stopped doing it.”

“I think Bryn must have been quite a mixed-up kid,” said Dorothy.

Bronwyn nodded sadly.

“I’d like to see him again,” she said.

Dorothy did not have the heart to say he was a really nasty individual. She would change the subject now they had the woman’s confidence.

“Did your son know his father, Bronwyn?”

Bronwyn got up suddenly and went to the window. When she turned back it was with a strangely angry look on her face.

“Don’t ask me about that bastard!” she screamed.

Linda got up and went to calm her.

“Why, Bronwyn?”

“He abused our daughter and when I got pregnant again with Bryn it was after he had raped me,” she said. “I went to the police, but they could not find him.”

“He should have gone to prison for what he did to you and your daughter, Bronwyn,” said Linda.

“He came back and we played happy families at first,” said Bronwyn. “Then one day he left. He’d been dropping hints about some woman or other and he said he’d found a job out of the paper. It was somewhere near Oxford.”

“What a tragic story,” said Linda.

“I don’t know how long he’d known the other woman, but she took him in and they lived ‘happy ever after’,” she sneered.

“He’s dead now,” Dorothy said.

“Is that why you came here?”

“More or less.”

“But I already know,” Bronwyn said. “Bryn phoned me and told me. I don’t know how he found out,”

“I think he had found his father,” said Dorothy.

“The good news is that you are now a widow and have a legal claim on the house he shared with his new woman.”

“The best news is that he’s dead,” said Bronwyn viciously. “Bryn hasn’t told me about my good fortune. I suppose he’ll want to keep it all to himself.”

“He can’t do that, Bronwyn,” said Linda.

“So what do I do next?”

“We’ll sort that out, Bronwyn,” said Dorothy. “Your son saw the death announcement you see. It was in The Times.”

“He doesn’t read that kind of newspaper.”

“But he did, Bronwyn.”

“We are here for a very important reason, Bronwyn,” said Dorothy.

“Even more important than what you’ve just been on about?”

Linda was now very much in the picture and decided to warn Bronwyn in dramatic form.

“Yes,” she said. “Your son wants to claim all of the inheritance, but he can only do that if you are dead.”

Bronwyn gasped and covered her face with her hands. Dorothy looked at Linda admiringly.

“So your son might decide to kill you, Bronwyn,” said Linda.

It occurred to Dorothy that Linda  had not really known what the mission actually entailed, and Gary was also probably in the dark and had sent her to find Mrs Thomas thinking it would be a wild goose chase simply to keep her occupied, but she was wiser now. Bronwyn had said enough to make coming here well worth her wile and Linda had just dotted the ‘i’s impressively.

“He would not do that, would he?” said Bronwyn. “Bryn is not a killer.”

“Are you sure?” said Linda darkly.

Bronwyn nodded as a new thought occurred to her.

“The Tom Thomas I was married to never had any money,” said Bronwyn. “This house belongs to the council. Where did he get the money from to buy a house?”

“He didn’t, but the woman who took him in wrote him into the deeds of her house and now Bryn is claiming it,” said Dorothy.

“So where is the woman my husband shacked up with? Did he kill her?”

“We don’t know, but she is dead, Bronwyn.”

Bronwyn was too shocked to ask any more questions, but not too shocked to tell Dorothy and Linda that no son of hers would commit murder and would they please leave.

The change of attitude startled Linda. Dorothy had seen it before and reacted appropriately.

“I’ll leave my business card with you,” she said. “If you want to know anything more, please get in touch. We’ll pass the issue of you inheriting a share in the house to a solicitor. He’ll get in touch.”

“Just keep Bryn away from me,” said Bronwyn, “in case he does want to kill me.”

“The police will have to do that,” said Dorothy.

***

Before she and Linda could drive around Cardiff for a bit before driving back to Bristol, Dorothy had to phone Cleo and tell her that if her hunch were accurate, Mrs Thomas, not her son Bryn,  was entitled to a share of Hilda’s house since she would be the closest relative of the guy who called himself Tom Bone. Had Gary thought about that?  Cleo did not think he had. She hadn’t either. Dorothy suggested that Mrs Thomas might for that reason be in danger of her life.

“So it wasn’t a case of occupational therapy, after all,” Dorothy threw in. “I did notice, you know, Cleo. Friends are usually straight with one another. You can tell Gary that from me.”

 “What you found out indicates that Thomas’s accomplice, Harry Marble as far as we know, could step in and deal with Mrs Thomas,” said Cleo, “and nobody knows where he is. I’ll put Gary onto it.”

“Is he at the office?”

“Yes. He’s going to Brighton to look for Marble tomorrow. Today he’s trying to get to grips with stuff going on at HQ.”

“How did you decide to make Marble the accomplice?”

“Not make, Dorothy, just suspect. He probably shared a room in prison with Thomas and his fingerprints were in our villa,” Cleo explained.

“It’s a can of worms,” said Dorothy.       

***

Gary spent his hours at HQ trying to start his new job and cope with his old. Fortunately, Greg Winter, who had taken over Gary’s job, was due back at the weekend. Nigel ordered pizzas from Romano’s restaurant. He and Gary were just taking a short lunch break when to their surprise Greg turned up.

“It’s only Thursday, Greg,” said Gary. “You had the whole week off.”

“Rosie broke a leg,” said Greg. “She hadn’t told me she had never stood on skis before, so I took her down one of the proper slopes and that’s when it happened.”

“I am sorry, Greg.”

“Not as sorry as I am. Do you know what a problem it is getting a broken leg home? We had to get mountain rescue to put her on a stretcher and hoist her into a helicopter. Then she was driven back in a Swiss ambulance.”

“I hope you were insured.”

“Yes, fortunately.”

“So Rosie went skiing on a really adventurous slope in the Alps without ever have stood on skis before did she?” said Gary. “She could have told you, surely.”

“She looked gorgeous.”

“It doesn’t matter how she looked.”

“It did to me. I was glad we had bought all those nice dessous as well as her state-of-the-art ski suit and marvellous après-ski body spray.”

“But she did not wear the dessous in public, surely,” said Nigel. “Were you insured for the outlay?” Nigel said.

“Not the clothes, Nigel. We drove overnight from Bern in a Red Cross ambulance, came through the tunnel and got here at lunchtime.”

“So where is Rosie now?” Gary asked.

“Back in hospital on a drip. In Bern they discovered that she’s pregnant. She didn’t even know.”

“So you are going to be a father, are you? Congratulations!”

“I’m not sure about that either.”

“You mean….?”

“I don’t know what I mean,” said Greg.

“She’s 4 months gone and we haven’t been together that long.”

Silence fell on the office. No one could think of anything to say. After a thoughtful few minutes, Greg wanted to know what had been going on in his absence.

“Apart from someone setting fire to the villa, and Jane, Dorothy’s neighbour, probably setting her house on fire then committing suicide, possibly without wanting to, nothing much,” said Gary. “You haven’t been away long enough.”

***

Later, with Greg established in Gary’s old office and some of the backlog of Greg’s cases, mostly drug-connected, dealt with (Greg was disappointed that Gary had not had time to deal with any of them during his absence), they called it a day and went home.  Nigel promised through gritted teeth to help Greg next day. But he could only do that if Gary was away.

Gary had asked Mia Curlew to be ready at nine next morning to drive to Brighton with Gary, and would she please bring an overnight bag in case it was too late to drive back.

“We aren’t eloping, I hope,” she had said jokingly.

“Not this time, Mia. I expect you want to stay with your family, and I certainly want to be with mine.”

“So why are we going to Brighton?” Mia wanted to know.

“To find a guy we suspect of arson, Mia. I’ll tell you the details on the way. “