would it be an imposition for me to come and speak to you
about her? It’s not just for the story. I too have taken a personal interest in
her.”
“Of course you may, dear. I’ve spoken to lots of journalists
and crime buffs over the years. I’m not sure I can give you any clear answers
though.”
“That doesn’t matter. Just speaking to someone who knew her
would be interesting.”
“Come down in the morning at eleven. I’ll have the kettle on
ready.”
True to her word, Mrs. Cunningham was waiting in her trim
bungalow on the edge of Midchester. She was a well-groomed sprightly woman in
her late seventies, who could easily have passed for someone ten or fifteen
years younger. It was clear she had once been very pretty. Her greying
hair showed hints of fiery red and her green eyes were sharper than a pin.
She had tea and a plate of scones waiting in the tiny
lounge, which was crammed with all manner of old furniture and books.
“We’re still getting used to how small this place is,” she
explained to Philly as she poured the tea. “The vicarage was a big old rambling
house. They let us live on in it for a while, since the new vicar bought a
house amongst the new builds. Or they were new builds then. They must be twenty
years old now. We moved here five years ago, and my first thought was ‘Where on
earth are we going to put everything?’ I still haven’t answered my own question
as you can see from the clutter. We’re magpies, Andrew and I. That’s my
husband. Every year we decide we won’t buy any more books, but then one trip to
a second-hand book shop and we’re back where we started.”
“I love books too,” said Philly. “There’s something magical
about travelling to other worlds whilst sitting in your own armchair.”
Mrs. Cunningham looked at her with approval. “A person who
doesn’t love books doesn’t love life, that’s what I think.”
“I agree!”
“It wasn’t always easy to impart that to the girls, though I
hope I did my best. I imagine it’s even harder for teachers nowadays, with
television and the Internet to distract them. Not to mention those awful phones
that ring wherever you are in the world. In my day if you missed a telephone
call, people simply phoned you back. But now I sound like an old fogey, out of
tune with society. We do have a computer …” she glanced around the room.
“Somewhere amongst all the clutter. My grandson taught me how to send an email
and how to … what do they call it? Surf? Now that’s magical. Being able to surf
when the nearest beach is miles away.” Mrs. Cunningham winked. Philly strongly
suspected that her hostess was nowhere near to being the vague old lady she
pretended to be. “But,” Mrs Cunningham continued, “You’re not here to talk
about my computing habits. You want to know about Dominique.”
“Yes please. You said you knew her.”
Mrs Cunningham sighed. “Yes, did. Poor girl.”
“You say that as if you think she’s dead.”
“There seems to be no other explanation. I told you, did I
not, that my husband and I were amateur sleuths in our day? She was our only
failure.” Mrs. Cunningham’s eyes became sad. “But when I say poor girl, I don’t
mean it in that sense. I mean she was always a poor girl. She had a weight
problem, and with her glasses, buck teeth and frizzy hair … well, she was not
glamorous. People think that young girls are only obsessed with image nowadays,
but it isn’t true. Anyone who looked different was not treated well. It did not
help that Dominique was not the friendliest of creatures. She certainly did not
have the warmth of her fellow countrymen. Also … well I should not say this as
it speaks ill of the dead. But she was very greedy.”
“Hence the weight problem?”
“Oh I think it was more than just a problem. You see, she
would receive these big trunks of food from her family. Now the other girls
always shared.” Mrs. Cunningham smiled. “Let’s just say we
about her? It’s not just for the story. I too have taken a personal interest in
her.”
“Of course you may, dear. I’ve spoken to lots of journalists
and crime buffs over the years. I’m not sure I can give you any clear answers
though.”
“That doesn’t matter. Just speaking to someone who knew her
would be interesting.”
“Come down in the morning at eleven. I’ll have the kettle on
ready.”
True to her word, Mrs. Cunningham was waiting in her trim
bungalow on the edge of Midchester. She was a well-groomed sprightly woman in
her late seventies, who could easily have passed for someone ten or fifteen
years younger. It was clear she had once been very pretty. Her greying
hair showed hints of fiery red and her green eyes were sharper than a pin.
She had tea and a plate of scones waiting in the tiny
lounge, which was crammed with all manner of old furniture and books.
“We’re still getting used to how small this place is,” she
explained to Philly as she poured the tea. “The vicarage was a big old rambling
house. They let us live on in it for a while, since the new vicar bought a
house amongst the new builds. Or they were new builds then. They must be twenty
years old now. We moved here five years ago, and my first thought was ‘Where on
earth are we going to put everything?’ I still haven’t answered my own question
as you can see from the clutter. We’re magpies, Andrew and I. That’s my
husband. Every year we decide we won’t buy any more books, but then one trip to
a second-hand book shop and we’re back where we started.”
“I love books too,” said Philly. “There’s something magical
about travelling to other worlds whilst sitting in your own armchair.”
Mrs. Cunningham looked at her with approval. “A person who
doesn’t love books doesn’t love life, that’s what I think.”
“I agree!”
“It wasn’t always easy to impart that to the girls, though I
hope I did my best. I imagine it’s even harder for teachers nowadays, with
television and the Internet to distract them. Not to mention those awful phones
that ring wherever you are in the world. In my day if you missed a telephone
call, people simply phoned you back. But now I sound like an old fogey, out of
tune with society. We do have a computer …” she glanced around the room.
“Somewhere amongst all the clutter. My grandson taught me how to send an email
and how to … what do they call it? Surf? Now that’s magical. Being able to surf
when the nearest beach is miles away.” Mrs. Cunningham winked. Philly strongly
suspected that her hostess was nowhere near to being the vague old lady she
pretended to be. “But,” Mrs Cunningham continued, “You’re not here to talk
about my computing habits. You want to know about Dominique.”
“Yes please. You said you knew her.”
Mrs Cunningham sighed. “Yes, did. Poor girl.”
“You say that as if you think she’s dead.”
“There seems to be no other explanation. I told you, did I
not, that my husband and I were amateur sleuths in our day? She was our only
failure.” Mrs. Cunningham’s eyes became sad. “But when I say poor girl, I don’t
mean it in that sense. I mean she was always a poor girl. She had a weight
problem, and with her glasses, buck teeth and frizzy hair … well, she was not
glamorous. People think that young girls are only obsessed with image nowadays,
but it isn’t true. Anyone who looked different was not treated well. It did not
help that Dominique was not the friendliest of creatures. She certainly did not
have the warmth of her fellow countrymen. Also … well I should not say this as
it speaks ill of the dead. But she was very greedy.”
“Hence the weight problem?”
“Oh I think it was more than just a problem. You see, she
would receive these big trunks of food from her family. Now the other girls
always shared.” Mrs. Cunningham smiled. “Let’s just say we
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