Lost Property

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  It’s autumn 1969

  Ch 1

  Ch 2

  Ch 3

  Ch 4

  Ch 5

  Ch 6

  Ch 7

  Ch 8

  Ch 9

  Ch 10

  Ch 11

  Ch 12

  Ch 13

  Ch 14

  Ch 15

  Ch 16

  Ch 17

  Ch 18

  Ch 19

  Ch 20

  Ch 21

  Ch 22

  Ch 23

  Ch 24

  Ch 25

  Ch 26

  Ch 27

  Ch 28

  About the Janie Juke mysteries

  Thank you

  About the author

  LOST PROPERTY

  A JANIE JUKE MYSTERY

  By Isabella Muir

  Published in Great Britain

  By Outset Publishing Ltd

  First edition published December 2017

  Copyright © Isabella Muir 2017

  Isabella Muir has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN:1-872889-11-5

  ISBN-13:978-1-872889-11-5

  www.isabellamuir.com

  Cover photo: by Kit Junglist on Unsplash

  Cover design: by Christoffer Petersen

  It’s autumn 1969, in a quiet seaside town in Sussex. Janie Juke has unravelled the mystery of The Tapestry Bag and now she has secrets on her mind…

  Chapter 1

  ‘What’s your definition of a secret?’ I am sitting in dad’s kitchen, at the Formica-covered table that has been the site of many of our important chats over the years.

  ‘Let’s have a think,’ he says. ‘Well, I suppose it’s information that is not to be shared?’

  ‘And a lie?’

  ‘In essence, it’s the same thing. A lie might be the words that are spoken in place of the secret, or the words that are not spoken. A lie can be the silence.’

  A month ago I ended a search for a friend. A week ago I was asked to begin another search. But this time for a stranger.

  ‘What’s this talk about secrets and lies? Is there something you don’t want to tell Greg?’ My dad can’t see my face, but he has always been able to read my mind.

  ‘Yes, I made a sort of promise.’

  ‘When you married him?’ dad smiles.

  My hesitation in replying doesn’t go unnoticed.

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t tease you,’ he continues. ‘You mean a few weeks ago, when you agreed to settle down and plan for the arrival of your baby. Has something happened to make you change your mind?’

  ‘I’ve been approached by someone to track down a woman.’

  ‘And you’re wondering whether to tell Greg?’

  ‘Yes, he worries so much. I know it’s only because he cares, but even so…’

  ‘Ah,’ dad says and smiles, small creases appearing around the edges of his eyes that I haven’t noticed before. ‘Is that husband of yours still enjoying his new job?’

  ‘He loves it. He’s learning the building trade and I’m learning the vocabulary. I can now give you the low-down on the importance of unbridged cavities, while being able to spot efflorescence at a glance. It’s fascinating. Mr Mowbray says Greg will be building a wall before Christmas. Fastest apprenticeship known to man.’

  ‘And your apprenticeship?’

  ‘Exactly. I have a sneaky feeling I could be good at this investigating business.’

  Some may say investigating is an odd pastime for a librarian and perhaps pastime is the wrong word. The truth is, I appear to excel at sticking my nose into other people’s business. Much of the blame can be laid at the door of Agatha Christie. From an early age her books filled my shelves at home and now I have even greater access to them, via the library. I’ve learned a lot from Poirot.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be a competition, princess. You both have a chance to learn a new trade. Although being a competent librarian is important in itself.’

  ‘I know, you’re right.’

  ‘Maybe Greg needs more time, to get used to the idea?’

  ‘I don’t have more time. Bean will be here in a few months. This case needs to be well and truly solved long before then. If it’s to be solved at all.’

  In the first couple of months of my pregnancy I discovered my little embryo resembled a kidney bean. I told Greg and the name stuck. Heaven help the poor child when it’s born if we forget the name is temporary, or if we haven’t settled on a new one.

  ‘Can you tell me anything about this new case?’ dad asks.

  ‘One of my library customers has asked for my help.’

  On the days when I don’t help dad, I run the local mobile library. I have a regular route and plenty of regular customers. Mr Furness was a newcomer to the library and it was on his third visit to investigate the non-fiction shelves when he approached me to do some investigating of a different kind.

  ‘He wants your help to find a woman? Is that all you know? What else has he told you about her?’

  ‘Very little. There appears to be a mystery regarding a left luggage ticket.’

  ‘Intriguing.’

  ‘Mm, maybe.’

  ‘What’s the ticket got to do with the missing woman? Has this man given you the ticket? Has he asked you to do something with it?’

  ‘In a way, yes. You know the lost property box I keep in the van?’

  Since I’ve been in charge of the library van, I’ve gathered some fascinating items of lost property. Customers arriving on wet days frequently become so immersed in their browsing that they leave with their minds full of new stories and their hands empty of their umbrella - or walking stick. You would think that, once outside, with the rain pelting down, they would hastily return to salvage their winter protection. But my collection of six umbrellas and three walking sticks appears to prove otherwise. I keep the smaller items of lost treasure in a cardboard box under the counter in the van. The box contains an assortment of spectacles, gloves and mittens, a silk scarf, a snuff box and my favourite item, a single pink ankle sock - an adult’s one at that. Now and again I wonder whether its owner will be hanging their washing on the line one day and have a sudden recollection of the day when they called into the mobile library and left a sock behind. It’s a fanciful thought though, as it has remained in my box for almost a year now.

  Dad waits calmly for me to continue. ‘Talk me through it, if you like. It might help to clarify your thoughts,’ he says.

  ‘Okay, I’ll refresh our drinks first though, shall I?’

  With drinks made and the plate of digestives topped up, I recount to dad as much as I know about Hugh Furness.

  On his first visit to the library I guessed that Mr Furness was a stranger to Tamarisk Bay, or at least I hadn’t seen him before. As he walked through the van doorway he dipped down slightly, the smart Trilby that was perched on his head just missing the frame. Once inside, he held himself upright, all six feet something and removed his hat. He reminded me of an actor. He kept his dark grey gaberdine mac fastened firmly around his muscular frame, the belt pulled in
around his middle, like a neatly wrapped parcel. The deep red silk cravat around his neck reflected its colour on his chin, giving him a ruddy glow. Perhaps in his younger days he could have been a Robert Mitchum, or Gregory Peck.

  He had only been in the van a short while, when the comfortable silence was disturbed by the raucous sound of a coughing fit. Once Mr Furness started coughing it seemed he could not stop. He was distressed, I was distressed and the result was that, as soon as he could catch his breath, he put his Trilby back on his head and left, embarrassed perhaps at the scene he had caused. A few minutes later I noticed he had dropped a left luggage ticket.

  Reuniting the left luggage ticket with its rightful owner would appear to be the easiest thing in the world. However, when Mr Furness returned a few days later, I explained about the ticket and offered it to him, but he denied all knowledge of the little slip of paper.

  We all know about the concept of ‘third time lucky’, although its origin is yet to be proved. Nevertheless, superstition, or folklore, notwithstanding, it was on the gentleman’s third visit when I was able to establish the connection between the left luggage ticket and my enigmatic customer.

  Dad has been listening intently. ‘What did he say to you? Did he explain why he’d told you the ticket wasn’t his?’

  ‘Not really. He just said, I lied.’

  ‘That brings us back to our conversation earlier, about secrets and lies.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I don’t like the idea that this Mr Furness has started off his dealings with you by lying. It doesn’t bode well.’

  ‘Mm, good point. Well, I’ve asked him to call back next Monday. Hopefully I’ll be able to pin him down and find out more.’

  ‘Remember to read between the lines - that’s where you’ll find the clues.’

  ‘Now you sound like Poirot,’ I say, giving dad a hug.

  On Monday morning, as I park the van in my usual place on Milburn Avenue, there is Hugh Furness, waiting.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Juke,’ he says, stepping into the van and removing his hat. His hair is pure white. I’ve noticed it before, but now everything about him has added significance. He may be my first official client. He is old enough to be going grey, perhaps, but white? I make a mental note to write my observation in my notebook.

  ‘Hello there, you’re nice and prompt,’ I say.

  He smiles. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile and it surprises me how much it changes his demeanour.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to help me. Where shall we start?’ he says. There’s a briskness in his voice, an urgency; this is not a man to be messed with.

  ‘One step at a time, Mr Furness. I haven’t agreed to anything yet.’

  The smile fades away, leaving an expression that could be irritation. Equally, I know so little about this man, my attempts at reading his body language are as tricky as an Eskimo trying to understand smoke signals.

  ‘There’s a lot I need to ask you and plenty you’ll want to share with me, I’m sure?’ I say.

  I can’t tell whether he agrees, or if he thinks I have already overstepped some imaginary line. ‘Let’s arrange a meeting, shall we? Somewhere quiet.’

  He raises an eyebrow.

  ‘I know, libraries are quiet, but this is my place of work. We would have to stop speaking every time someone walks in.’

  As if on cue, the door opens. Mrs Latimer, one of my regulars, is returning a couple of books. She approaches the counter, seemingly unaware she is interrupting. She wants to chat about her son, who is recovering from a nasty cold.

  ‘Of course, Bobby’s asthma is worse than ever,’ she says. ‘I’ll have to keep him off school again, but I’m worried he’ll never catch up. That’s why I thought I would borrow a couple more books. We do a few lessons at home, but he’s not keen. Says he’d rather be watching television. I ask you. When I was a youngster there was just the wireless and that would only go on for the news.’

  I smile and nod, trying not to encourage her too much. While I’m listening to her chatting, Mr Furness moves away to browse the bookshelves. Moments later, as Mrs Latimer transfers her attention to the children’s book section, he returns to the counter.

  ‘Case in point,’ he says.

  ‘Yes. Let’s choose a meeting place. Do you know the town well?’

  ‘Not very.’

  ‘There are some gardens, in the Maze Road area of town. I can show you on a street map, if you like?’

  I take out a map of Tamarisk Bay and spread it over the counter.

  ‘Just here,’ I point. ‘There’s a little café, well in truth it’s more of a shack. But if the weather is bad we can sit inside, if not we can wander around the gardens and chat. Does that sound okay?’

  An imaginary conversation is playing in my mind. Greg is glaring at me in horror as I tell him I’m going to be wandering around Tensing Gardens with a man I barely know. Fortunately, Greg won’t have to worry because I won’t be telling him, at least not yet.

  ‘Tensing Gardens is fine,’ Mr Furness says, bringing my attention back to the here and now.

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon? 4pm?’

  ‘Certainly. Thank you, my dear,’ he holds his hand out to shake mine. It feels as though I am agreeing a formal contract with a man I know nothing about, to undertake a job I have little experience of. Greg would call me impetuous, dad might use the word impulsive. My reckoning is that I’m just a little crazy.

  ‘This is just a preliminary chat, you do understand? I don’t know if I’ll be able to help you.’

  ‘I have nothing to lose,’ he says, looking directly at me. His voice is firm and yet there is a hesitancy about him.

  ‘Tomorrow then,’ I say.

  He nods, takes his hat from the counter and leaves.

  My only other customer returns to the counter with her books.

  ‘Didn’t the gentleman find what he was looking for?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I reply.

  Chapter 2

  On the two days of each working week when I’m not running the mobile library I help my dad out. My dad is a gifted physiotherapist. He is also blind. He tells me that losing one sense has helped to accentuate those remaining. After his accident, the physiotherapists helped him so much with his struggles to regain independence that once he was ready to seek a new career, physiotherapy was the obvious one. There’s no doubt that his patients would confirm he made the right choice. He has a waiting list of customers, all of them keen for his expertise, which doesn’t only deal with their physical ailments. He is a careful listener, never judging and often offering wise words. He sends patients on their way, not just with an easier shoulder or back, but with a happier heart as well.

  On Tuesdays and Thursdays there is paperwork to complete, housework to keep on top of and the fridge and cupboards to check. If I didn’t remind him, then healthy eating would not be high on dad’s list of priorities. Charlie also benefits from all the fuss. Charlie is dad’s German Shepherd dog. Wherever dad is, there is Charlie, who is loyal, hardworking and intelligent. Well, I suppose that goes for both of them.

  ‘Okay if I leave a bit early today?’ I say. ‘There are plenty of clean towels ready for your appointments tomorrow and I’ve made a stew and left it in the fridge. You can’t live on salad and sandwiches now we’ve seen the last of summer.’

  We haven’t spoken any more about my possible new case and I haven’t mentioned my planned meeting with Mr Furness, but that doesn’t mean dad won’t have his suspicions.

  ‘Beef stew? Sounds good. You will be careful, princess,’ he says, as I grab my coat from the back of the kitchen chair.

  ‘I’m always careful.’

  ‘You know what I’m saying.’

  ‘I will, I promise. See you Thursday,’ I say, kissing him on his cheek. ‘Bye Charlie, look after my old man, for me.’

  ‘Not so much of the old.’

  ‘You’ll be Grandpa before long, so you’d better get us
ed to it.’

  Before his accident dad was a detective and, by all accounts, a pretty good one. So, what with Poirot’s help and dad’s advice, I have more than a head start.

  Autumn has arrived in Tensing Gardens. The muted shades of amber, red and gold are brightened by the afternoon sunshine. The paths are covered with acorns and conkers. A grey squirrel is up ahead of me, its bushy tail reminding me of the fur collar of one of mum’s coats. I shake the thought away, as I watch the squirrel sprint up one of the trees, its mouth bulging with an acorn treasure.

  As I approach the rickety shack I spot Mr Furness. He is pacing up and down. Once again a prompt arrival. I slow my pace so that I can study him for a few moments. His strides are even, almost a march and as he reaches the end of the little path in front of the café, he turns on his heel. There is nothing casual about his movement. I’m close enough to see his forehead is creased with a frown, which immediately dissipates when he sees me approach.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Juke,’ he says.

  ‘Janie.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I’m Hugh. You’re right, if we’re to be working together there’s no need for formalities.’

  ‘One step at a time, Hugh.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  ‘Let’s take a seat inside, shall we? At least while there are no other customers.’

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Er, no, coffee please.’

  I can no longer stomach tea. Even the smell of it makes me queasy. In recent weeks I am also off spicy foods and cucumber. I’d always assumed the arrival of a new baby would require a change of routine, but I hadn’t anticipated a change of diet. All this and Bean hasn’t even been born yet.

  We step inside the shack and I’m reminded of the woodcutter’s cottage in one of my favourite fairy tales. Hugh walks over to the long wooden table that serves as a counter and orders our drinks. Everything about the woman behind the counter is round. She has a moon-shaped face and a comfortably large middle. Even her hair is wound tightly around and pinned into a little bun at the back of her head that reminds me of a doughnut. She is resting one arm on a walking stick, which appears to be there more from habit than necessity, because when she brings our drinks over to us she walks with certainty. A reminder that all is not what it appears at first.