The Gilded Madonna by Garrick Jones (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📕

driving a crane. He’d closed his cobbler shop for the duration, even though he’d still managed to pay the rent.

“Yes, my mates at the tram works all pitched in and helped me out with the smaller metal bits and pieces—I gave it to David for his last birthday. All the wood’s cast-offs from replaced tram benches.” His voice quavered when he spoke his son’s name.

“Well, it’s a marvel, you should be proud of yourself.”

Tom stood to have a look at it. “I’d have loved something like that when I was a kid,” he said over his shoulder.

“I bet your dad made toys for you though.”

“No, Mr. Bishop, I was five when Dad left for the war, and he never came home. There’s just Mum and me.”

“You’ve turned out a very fine lad,” Mrs. Bishop said. “Your mother must be very proud of you.”

“Why thank you, Mrs. Bishop. Yes, you’re right, my mum is very proud of me, especially now I’m working as Mr. Smith’s right-hand man.”

“He’s the Pat Patton to my Dick Tracy,” I said, smiling, trying to lighten the mood a little.

“Pat who?”

“Never mind,” I said. “I don’t know if you read the comic strips … he’s a detective.”

It was plain they had no idea what I was talking about.

“Why do you think the person who took Susan and David would be sending those strange notes to us, trying to get us to make contact with you, Mr. Smith? I don’t understand.” Margaret Bishop wanted to talk about her missing children. We’d been avoiding it since Tom and I had arrived.

“Well, I don’t think they’re from the person who abducted them, to be honest. I think the notes come from someone else, outside the case, who thinks I might be able to help the police.”

“But the package? You still haven’t told us what was in it.”

“There were some items in it we’re still trying to connect to the investigation. Once we’ve worked out what they mean, we’ll let you know. But I can assure you there was nothing in the package to worry about. I’m sure Mr. Jones explained that to you while you were in my office?”

“Yes, but—”

“If there was anything in it that would give you any hope we could find your children, any clues, we would have told you. Please believe me. With public cases such as that of the disappearance of your children, we often get sent things from well-meaning strangers who think they’re being helpful.”

“Despite your reassurances, I’m sure you understand we haven’t been able to stop wondering what was in the package. It’s made my wife very anxious, Mr. Smith,” Cyril Bishop said.

“There was a statue and a flag. We’ve no reason to believe they are connected to David and Susan, Mrs. Bishop. If there’d been anything sinister, I wouldn’t be sitting here smiling at you. We’d be having a very different sort of conversation.”

Margaret Bishop looked puzzled. “A statue and a flag? Well, that is strange. Are you sure it has nothing to do with the children …?”

I could tell she still thought I was hiding something from her. “Please, Mrs. Bishop, for the moment we’re treating the box and its contents as some sort of enigmatic nonsense. Be rest assured that we’re doing everything humanly possible to find your children. Worrying about the unknown will only make you more upset—”

“We’ve done nothing but worry, Mr. Smith. Imagine if it was your own child—”

“I’m not married, Mrs. Bishop, but I’m not a stranger to loss and grieving.”

“Do you think David and Susan are unharmed?”

“I think it’s best if I speak plainly. There’s no reason to think they’ve come to any harm, but I also don’t want to give you false hope that now I’m involved, I’ll find your missing daughter and son and have them back home around your kitchen table in time for Christmas. I do have to say is I think it’s inconceivable they’ve just wandered off and got lost, just in case you’ve that desperate hope in the back of your minds. If that was the case, your children would be distressed and people are still very aware of young ones wandering around by themselves. Your daughter’s what, ten? She’s old enough to knock on a door and ask for help. Someone would have taken them in and phoned the police.”

“What are you saying, Mr. Smith? Please—”

“I’m not saying anything just yet. Until I can liaise with D.C. Paleotti and see what’s already been done, I can’t even suggest possibilities. However, I have one major hope, and that is that this is a ‘Mrs. Keepit’ case.”

“What on earth is that?”

During my account of similar cases I’d run across and had read about, I could see hope begin to glimmer in her eyes. Their arms went around each other as I came to the end of my explanation, and she clutched her husband’s hand, blotting her eyes with her handkerchief, retrieved from the sleeve of her cardigan.

“And that’s common?” she said, smiling for the first time since we’d arrived.

“It’s not uncommon,” I said, although I could only remember two occurrences over the course of my nine-year career as a detective in the police force.

“And that’s your hope?”

“It’s one of them, Mrs. Bishop. I don’t want to give you false promises, and I don’t want you to dwell on the worse possible outcomes. However, what I will promise you is that I’ll do my best and I’ll keep you informed of my progress—and you must do the same, tell me if you hear of anything, or remember anything, no matter how insignificant you think it might be. Now may I look around the house?”

“You may as well, Mr. Smith,” Cyril Bishop said. “Everyone else has.”

*****

The clothes in the children’s wardrobes were beautifully handmade, neatly finished with obvious care and love. Even their socks and underwear in the twin chests of drawers in the room David and Susan shared were carefully ironed and folded.

“It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it, Tom?” I said, idly stroking