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‘So what happened then?’

‘Some of the passengers went to the car park and found that the coach had been there, but had only stayed a very short time., They returned to the others and they all hung about until a policeman told them they were obstructing the footway. They informed him of what had happened. The upshot was that a local coach was laid on and the day’s outing proceeded according to plan, except that the passengers arrived extremely late for lunch. Eventually the coach was traced to Swansea. We sent up another driver as soon as we got a ’phone call from the manager of the hotel at Tenby after the passengers had been taken back there for the night, and the police soon traced our own coach, so that was all right so far, except that they haven’t traced Daigh.’

‘It seems a most mysterious business. Can you supply me with a list of the passengers who took these two tours and give me their addresses?’

‘Yes, of course. Honfleur’s desk-clerks will know. I’ll call him. They’ll have all the details at his office.’

‘And can I possibly find out which of the passengers have travelled with you before? I understand from Mr Honfleur that the majority of your clients, having sampled the amenities you offer, are inclined very much to book with you again.’

‘Again and again, most of them. It’s very gratifying. I will certainly obtain the information you require and will let you have it at the earliest possible moment. I am so grateful that you are prepared to help us. I am not at all in agreement with Honfleur that it is a waste of time. The police will do their best, but I think a private enquiry may obtain quicker results.’

CHAPTER 3

Hulliwell Hall

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Dame Beatrice spent the whole of the following day studying the lists of names and addresses she had been given so that she could make her choice of witnesses. She was working entirely in the dark, for Basil Honfleur could give her no further information. He had met none of the passengers. There were thirty names on the Derbyshire list and twenty-eight people had taken the Welsh tour.

The ideal procedure, she supposed, would have been to interview each and every passenger, as the police had done, but she felt that time was important, so for the Derbyshire witness she chose Vernon Tedworthy. He had a telephone number, which expedited matters, so she called him up and asked whether she might visit him.

Vernon Tedworthy was a retired schoolmaster. A pencilled note on the Derbyshire list informed Dame Beatrice that his only previous experience of touring with County Motors had been in 1971, when he had travelled with his wife on a trip to Yorkshire.

When he and Dame Beatrice met, he told her that he had intended to stay at his school (where he was deputy headmaster) until his sixty-fifth birthday, but two things had caused him to change his mind and retire at the optional age of sixty years. One was the death of his wife when he was fifty-nine; the other was that his school, a good, well-run, trouble-free Secondary Modern establishment of three hundred and fifty boys, each of them known by name to the headmaster and his staff of ten picked and dedicated men, was to be turned into a two-thousand strong, mixed Comprehensive.

It was much less than certain that Vernon Tedworthy’s headmaster would be offered the captaincy of this gargantuan hydra, and even less certain that Tedworthy would retain his post as deputy head. That would go to some young man with a university degree to flourish, a young man who, as like as not, would do little classroom teaching, but who would be employed mostly in an administrative capacity only, with plenty of paper-work to fill up his time, but with little or no contact with the real life of the school as personified by its couple of thousand boys and girls.

‘Not for me,’ said Tedworthy. He had given in his notice of retirement to take effect at the end of the Easter term following his sixtieth birthday. ‘Why on earth they want to muck up perfectly good schools, whether they’re Sec. Mod. or grammar schools, to satisfy the sacred cow of Equality of Opportunity, I don’t know. I know it sounds all right, but some animals will always be more equal than others, don’t you think?’

After his retirement he had sold his house and lived for a time with his daughter and her husband and family, but in the following spring he had bought a small bungalow in Dorset and lived alone there except for occasional visits from relatives and friends. He ran a small car, but when it came to holidays he decided that he would try another coach tour. It was not good to lead too solitary a life.

He remembered that on their previous trip he and his wife had enjoyed themselves and had made many temporary friends – temporary in the sense that, although addresses had been exchanged and promises made of keeping in touch, nothing had come of what had been merely an expression of holiday enthusiasm and euphoria.

He picked up a brochure at his local coach station and decided upon a tour of the Peak District. It was a part of the country which he had not visited and which had no associations with his wife. He thought, too, that six days would be enough to show him whether it was the kind of holiday he could still enjoy, or whether perhaps a fishing holiday of a solitary kind would be preferable in the future.

There were only five people at the start of the tour; a few others were picked up along the route and the main body joined the coach at Canonbury. Up to that point he had had the seat to himself, but he realised that this was not likely to last, and it did not.

Before the coach moved off from the Canonbury bus station, the driver, his tally complete, introduced himself to his passengers.

‘I am Cyril Noone, your driver-courier. Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you will all have a pleasant tour and we’ll hope for the best from the weather. You have had your coffee break for this morning, so our next stop is for lunch in Cheltenham. As we go along I shall be indicating any items of interest we pass on the road and I shall also be telling you how long we have for lunch and tea and so forth, and what the arrangements are for our hotel and the time we start off for our first trip tomorrow morning. I don’t need to tell you that good time-keeping is essential on these tours, so I am sure you will all get back to the coach punctually, so that we don’t have to rush things. Thank you.’

At Canonbury Tedworthy’s partner had joined him. She was odd-one-out in a threesome which consisted of husband, wife and wife’s sister, all of advanced middle age but not elderly. He hoped that Miss Eildon (her name on the passenger list with which he had been supplied) would not prove talkative. Courteously he offered her the window seat which he had booked for himself, but she thanked him, refused it and said that she preferred to talk across the gangway to her relatives.

‘That’s if I want to talk,’ she said. ‘I think to look at the scenery is better, don’t you?’ Thankfully Tedworthy agreed. At the first lunch stop he included himself as the fourth member of her party at a table for four and this convenient and agreeable arrangement continued for the rest of the tour.

The coach-load proved to be a mild and orderly party and soon split up into recognisable groups, any lone souls being absorbed in kindly fashion so that nobody was obviously segregated. Tedworthy was well pleased with all the arrangements. He liked the company he was keeping, the hotel where they were to stay for five nights was well situated and comfortable and the meals were good.

The first morning in Dovedale was wet, but newspapers were available, although not included in the price of the tour. Most of the men settled in the lounge to read while the women formed groups and gossiped. When the bar opened at eleven there was an exodus and lunch was served at twelve-thirty because there was a coach-trip to Matlock Bath in the afternoon.

Breakfast was at eight on the following morning. The rain had cleared away and the party, leaving the hotel at a quarter past nine, spent an enjoyable day. There was a halt at Tissington to see one of the florally decorated wells (no longer restricted only to Ascension Day) and another short stop at Eyam. The last was unscheduled, but Tedworthy was anxious to take a photograph of the Saxon cross in the churchyard, a matter of more interest to him than was Cyril Noone’s account of the Reverend William Mompesson and his heroic villagers who, at the time of the Great Plague, remained in their villages and died there instead of fleeing for safety and risking a spread of infection.