Jigsaw by Anthea Fraser Page A

appointments beginning at eleven thirty.
    However, the day proved not to be as interesting as she’d hoped. Back in her room that evening, she tried to sort out a mélange of impressions of corridors, chalky blackboards and slightly harassed heads in overcrowded studies. The private kindergarten – presumably the one Dinah had attended – alone stood out clearly, since it was in a converted private house, the graciously proportioned rooms mutilated by makeshift divisions to form a series of classrooms. It seemed some of the tots boarded; Miss Pierson, the headmistress, told her they were the children of army or diplomatic families based abroad. She provided Rona with a prospectus and a copy of the school magazine, neither of which contained much that she could use. However, she promised the school would receive an honourable mention, and that a photographer would be in touch later.
    She had decided to leave St Stephen’s until after speaking to Catherine Bishop, but there seemed little to choose between the rest of them. Her query about former pupils or unusual incidents for the most part produced blank looks, and clearly several of the heads thought she was wasting their time. Consequently she was feeling slightly dispirited when she went down to join the Banks family for supper.
    Nuala’s father, whom she’d met briefly that morning, added little to the conversation, whether from shyness or a taciturn nature Rona could not be sure. His face was deeply furrowed, possibly from pain following his injuries, possibly from the strains of life generally. Young Will was also quiet – unusually, Rona suspected. No doubt he would open up when he felt he knew her. It was therefore left to Nuala to make conversation, and this she gallantly tried to do.
    Supper was home-made leek and potato soup, followed by pork pie and salad. In deference to the guest, dessert was a rather elaborate trifle.
    â€˜Mr Breen mentioned some people who might be willing to help me,’ Rona began, breaking a short silence. ‘I’ve tracked down one of them in Marsborough, but the other was an old lady who I think he said lived opposite the church.’
    That caught the attention of the other two, who both looked up, Will exclaiming, ‘Auntie Edna!’
    Rona turned to Nuala, who explained, ‘That would be my aunt, Miss Rosebury. She’s lived here all her life and not much escapes her. Or at least, it didn’t used to.’ She paused. ‘As a matter of fact, we’re a little anxious about her. She’s become increasingly frail since Christmas, and she didn’t arrive for tea yesterday, as she always does on Sundays. When I went to find her, she said she thought it was Saturday, and seemed very vague and disorientated. I’m wondering if she’s had a minor stroke, but she refuses point-blank to see the doctor.’
    Rona felt a stab of disappointment, mixed, after her less than satisfactory day, with frustration. She hoped all her leads weren’t going to fizzle away. ‘I wouldn’t want to worry her if she’s not well,’ she said tentatively.
    â€˜Actually,’ Nuala replied, ‘it would probably do her good. A new face might stimulate her, and talking to you could help her to remember things. In any case,’ she added frankly, ‘I’d be glad of your opinion. If you also think she’s not well, I’ll ask the doctor to call round. I’ll phone later if you like, and ask if she’ll see you. Would tomorrow be all right?’
    â€˜The morning would be fine, thanks.’
    The local paper was lying on the table as she crossed the hall and, seeing her glance at it, Nuala handed it to her.
    â€˜I kept this for you, because there’s a paragraph about you. I thought I’d heard your name before, and of course I remember where, now.’
    â€˜What does it say?’ Rona asked uneasily.
    â€˜That you discovered that writer