The Red 65. Grant Peake

style mansion, Probably built back in the ’20s estimated Marty. The house was set back from the road and built on high ground, which gave a commanding view over the valley below. Splendid black wrought iron gates, with a gold crest inserted in the middle of each gate. The gates were open, so Marty drove in. The house was painted white with bright, sunny yellow shutters to complement. A circular driveway led up to the house, where Marty parked the car. Getting out, he could see that the gardens appeared well manicured and had an English garden format. Low box hedges surrounded a statue of Peter Pan blowing water from his flute. There was a colourful array of bedding flowers, deciduous shrubs and rhododendrons of varying colours were the backdrop. A silver birch graced one lawn area and a golden ash another lawn area. A bay window had a bed of blue hydrangeas planted. The bushes were in bloom, the enormous flower heads standing out like beacons. Well planned out, someone likes to garden, Marty guessed.

      He strolled up to the front portico and saw that the house was named, “Harpenden Lodge”. The white, double front doors had a fanned arch in the top of each of them. These arches had been painted the same colour yellow as the shutters on the windows. The house had been rendered and painted a glistening white. The yellow of the shutters stood out, plus the vibrant shade of blue of the Hydrangea plants complemented the overall sight.

      Marty pressed the bell and awaited.

      Promptly, the door was opened by a fresh faced young woman in her early twenties. Dressed in a maid’s uniform, she gave Marty a pleasant smile. “Yes, Sir?”

      Displaying his police badge, Marty explained he wished to speak to Peggy Cavallaro. The maid looked taken back and asked Marty to step inside whilst she saw if Mrs Cavallaro was available. Marty handed the maid his police business card. The maid hurried off to deliver her message. Marty wandered from the entrance doors into a foyer and could see an immense wooden staircase leading up to the upper rooms. The staircase encompassed either wall and met in the middle, at the top of the landing. Very impressive, thought Marty. Expertly carved

      hand railings and banisters were a draw card to this piece of workmanship. The wood was a light shade, could have been oak. Marty was not sure. Gilt framed pictures hung on the walls, which seemed to have a brocade like wallpaper stuck on them. Up high on the pale green wall, there was a painting of a handsome and distinguished looking man at the very top of the stairs. Possibly this was Mr Cavallaro. The high ceiling in the middle of the foyer led the eye to behold a gorgeous chandelier, which was highlighted by sunlight streaming through a glass dome in the roof structure. The wide carpet piece Marty stood on was plush and he could see that it was an antique. Someone’s flaunted some dough around, mused Marty. Not bad, a maid and a gardener to boot as well!

      In the corner of the large foyer stood an antique grandfather clock. Marty had not seen one of these for years. His grandparents had a clock similar to this in their home in Boston, but that was years ago. I wonder what ever happened to that clock, thought Marty. His rambling thoughts were broken by the maid returning. She appeared more relaxed and asked Marty to follow her through to the drawing room. Down a wide passageway they walked. Marty noticed the place was well maintained inside too,

      Arriving at a double set of carved wood doors, the maid opened a large, heavily carved door, and motioned for Marty to enter the room. Stepping into the room, was like stepping into a palace. The walls were pure white painted with gold leaf friezes. The furniture was in the French style you often see in those French chateaus. Tapestries hung on two walls, another wall had a massive gilt mirror and the other had a wide wood bookcase, filled with old books. Sunlight shone into the spacious room and a sofa table had silver ware placed on it. Marty realised this was the room he had seen with the bay window and the Hydrangeas planted beneath. Wow, thought Marty. From the average Femmer house, to the flea bitten wreck of 1811 and now into a palace – he had seen it all today.

      Sitting on a three seater sofa was an elderly lady, advanced in years but no expense had been spared on clothes and makeup too. There was a walking stick next to her right side. Her hair is that blue rinse set stuff, Marty reminisced to himself. His grandmother had joined the set, it was popular some years ago, but had gone out of fashion now. Marty used to think that ladies with blue hair suffered with poor circulation. This lady still belonged to the blue rinse set obviously. The pale pink floral dress was well cut, and what appeared to be diamond earrings, were placed in the ear lobes. The stones shone in the daylight coming into the magnificent room. A sizeable sapphire ring was placed on the wedding finger. Her eyes were a soft blue but were intelligent and took in all that was going on around her. Sensible walking shoes, of a soft pearl shade, were on the delicate feet. This lady gave the aura of someone of some importance, oozing with grace and elegance.

      Mrs Peggy Cavallaro spoke first, “Detective Chief Inspector Hislop, hello. How may I assist you? Please, do sit down.” She indicated for Marty to be seated in an expensive looking chair opposite where she sat, in regal state. Her voice was definitely refined, and Marty detected English grass roots in the pedigree of this lady.

      “Thank you, Mrs Cavallaro. I won’t take too much of your time.” Marty gave the woman a flashing smile and seated himself in the large wingback armchair. Showing Mrs Cavallaro his police badge to confirm his identity, Marty sat back in the chair. Marty had already analysed Peggy Cavallaro as one who stood on social standards as the norm.

      “Some tea or coffee, Chief Inspector?’

      “Yes, thank you, that would be nice Mrs Cavallaro. Tea is fine with me.” Marty got the idea that this lady would be a tea drinker rather than a coffee connoisseur. So he chose tea for this reason.

      Mrs Cavallaro turned her head and said in a pleasant voice to the maid, who was still in the room, obviously awaiting instructions from her mistress, “Matilda, can you please arrange some tea for the Chief Inspector and myself, thank you”.

      “Very well Mrs Cavallaro”, replied Matilda meekly, and floated out of the room to complete her quest. “Well Chief Inspector, this is a surprise, having a visit from the police. I don’t often have such a pleasure,” came the very plastic response.

      Her eyes were surveying Marty’s clothing, that were a bit dishevelled after playing ball with Pirate Pussy. He realised that his tie was not properly in place and his suit coat was rather crumpled. The tired looking white shirt had come out of his trousers and hung loosely in the front. Marty’s hair needed a comb that was standing up at the back of his head. At least he had not noticed that – but Peggy Cavallaro had.

      Oh shit, thought Marty. To hell with it, she doesn’t know the circumstances. Marty ignored the “once over” look from Mrs Cavallaro and came straight to the point of his visit. Pleasantries annoyed Marty, they covered a multitude of sins, he always said.

      “I am investigating the Billy Parsons case, you may remember the child who went missing in 1965? We want to recheck some details, and wondered if you can remember anything

      from that day?” Without pausing, Marty spoke on, “Can you tell me anything about the day Billy went missing or the people he was staying with?” said Marty in a professional voice.

      “You did give a statement at the time, saying that you did not see Billy Parsons, but a red Ford Mustang went past your home much later in the day. Can you elaborate on this please, Mrs Cavallaro?” Marty smiled sweetly at the shrewd woman opposite him. He could tell that this lady was not someone to be taken lightly. This proved to be a good opening question for Mrs Cavallaro.

      “Oh yes, I do remember Billy Parsons, Chief Inspector.” came the gushing reply.

      Interrupting Mrs Cavallaro, Marty asked her to call him “Marty”.

      “Very well, um er Marty,” she stumbled, not used to first names for senior police officers.

      “Not that I knew Billy personally, you realise ... Marty.” Mrs Cavallaro was having difficulty coming to terms with this first name bit.

      Marty smiled within and looked expectantly at Mrs Cavallaro for more words to flow. A slight hesitation, so Marty took the plunge.

      “No, of course not, Mrs Cavallaro”, was Marty’s glowing