The Boat House by Pamela Oldfield

had reckoned without Richard Preston. Cook was eyeing him with obvious favour while Lorna was positively ogling him, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly open in what promised to be a smile were she given the slightest encouragement.
    He went on, ‘I won’t pretend Leonora and I were close because I was too young and didn’t move in her circles, but I loved her in my way. She was the bright star in our family, funny, light-hearted, wanting to please. I’m sorry that most of you weren’t able to meet her.’
    Mrs Matlowe coughed and glanced pointedly at the clock.
    ‘Leonora was just twenty when she met and fell in love with Mrs Matlowe’s son, Neil. It was obvious that they were made for one another and when they ran off and were secretly married—’
    ‘They had no right to marry in haste that way.’ Mrs Matlowe glared at him. ‘I should have met her first. That is a normal courtesy in this country.’
    Ignoring the interruption, Preston said, ‘My parents were upset. My mother had hoped for a very lavish wedding but they were so happy together that—’
    ‘Could we move on, Mr Preston? Get back to the point of this meeting.’
    Her jarring tone finally unsettled him. His expression changed to one of hurt. ‘I’m sorry you feel . . .’
    Cook, greatly daring, said, ‘She sounds a very nice woman, Mr Preston. I do hope you find her.’
    Mrs Matlowe gave her a withering look. ‘Could we get on, please ?’ she repeated coldly. ‘Does anyone have anything to tell our visitor that might help him in his search?’
    Lorna raised a hand. ‘I heard from Mrs Brannigan next door that the people on the other side of us took some nice photographs of your sister with the children. He might let you see them.’
    Marianne’s pulse speeded up at the look on Mrs Matlowe’s face.
    ‘Did he, Lorna?’ Richard Preston was positively beaming at her. ‘Thank you. Any photographs of my sister with the twins would be . . .’
    Mrs Matlowe said, ‘I think it most unlikely, Mr Preston. I certainly never gave him permission to take photographs of my family.’
    Lorna rushed on while she had their visitor’s full attention. ‘Oh, he didn’t need permission. He took them from one of his windows. His name’s Edward Barnes and he’s quite famous for his photographs. I mean, that’s what he does for a living. The Derby, the regatta, he photographs them all.’
    Preston nodded his thanks. ‘I’ll go round later and speak to him about them. They probably won’t help with my search but it will be great to see them.’
    Through clenched teeth, Mrs Matlowe sent Lorna back to the kitchen. ‘You’ve had your say,’ she told her. ‘Go back to the kitchen and get on with your work.’
    Marianne asked, ‘Did you ever hear from Mrs Matlowe’s son while he was searching in America? Did he have any idea why Leonora left the way she did?’
    Mrs Matlowe stepped forward. ‘Mr Preston is here to ask his own questions, Marianne, not answer yours. If you have nothing useful to contribute . . .’
    ‘No, please let her finish, Mrs Matlowe,’ he said. ‘This is the sort of dialogue I was hoping for – random talk that might somehow trigger a memory or a clue.’ He smiled at her to soften the words.
    Marianne persevered. ‘I have heard rumours that the boat house is haunted. Did your sister ever comment on that?’
    ‘Strange that you should ask that,’ he replied. ‘I have several letters with me that—’
    ‘Letters?’ cried Mrs Matlowe. ‘From your sister?’ The idea clearly dismayed her.
    ‘Yes. She was a great letter writer!’ He smiled. ‘The letters always rambled, nothing formal with Leonora, but they came straight from the heart. I’ve brought them with me and I want the private investigator to read them. They might help in some way.’
    Marianne asked, ‘Were any of them written after she left here – because the postmarks on the envelopes might . . .’
    ‘Sadly not. They would have been useful, but no . . .