Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

The bungalow was sold to a retired grocer and his wife. After one summer they put it on the market again, saying they missed the city. The music teacher who came next found it too remote for his pupils, and the cat fancier said her cats didn’t like it. For a few years it was rented out on weekly lets for the season, then even that small demand dried up. For a decade the bungalow stood empty and the cypresses grew tall around it, hiding it from the road.

Miss Coghlan came upon Channel Vista while on a cycling holiday, discovered Mon Repose, fell in love with it and bought it all in the course of one week in April.

Miss Frank, who taught with her companion at Four Winds Junior School near Slough, thought Miss Coghlan had taken leave of her senses. “But my dear, look at the state of it! It’ll be years before you can move in.”

“Nonsense,” Miss Coghlan said briskly. (No one had ever told her that adults don’t usually address each other quite so dismissively. Of course children don’t like it either, but they can’t do much about it. Adults avoid people who are rude to them, which is why many teachers’ only friends are other teachers.) “It’s Easter now. I’ll get men in right away to do any structural work, they should be through before we break up for the summer. Then I’ll give up my flat and move in here. I’ll put in my notice when we get back, work till July, then hang up my mortarboard. Then I’ll have all the time in the world to decorate and do the garden.”

Miss Frank was almost lost for words. “But — it’s so sudden!”

“It’s nothing of the sort. I’ve been thinking of retiring for a couple of years. If I don’t jump soon I’ll be pushed. A project to sink my teeth into is just the incentive I need.”

“But Joan,” wailed Miss Frank, almost in tears, “to give up your job, and your flat, and move away from the area you know, and your friends... it’s so—”

The word she was looking for was rash, or possibly foolhardy. But Joan Coghlan let a great beam spread across her strong face, sandwiched between the short iron-grey hair and the several chins, and nodded enthusiastically. “Isn’t it?” she agreed. “Absolutely splendid.”

In the event, there was little structural work to be done. Seaside bungalows were built well in the 1950s and Mon Repose remained basically sound despite the years of neglect. Which was just as well, because Miss Coghlan had unexpected difficulties getting men to work there.

The local contractor said he had work coming out of his ears and couldn’t touch Mon Repose before September. She informed him that there’s no such word as “can’t.” Mr. Stone explained that his workmen were already promised to other clients and Miss Coghlan suggested that where there’s a will there’s a way. He lost patience then, told her she could complain to his mother if she wanted but he still couldn’t do anything for her until September. Cycling back to the guesthouse where she and Miss Frank were staying, she pondered — not for the first time — on how unhelpful grownups were.

Just before she had to return to Slough for the new term, Miss Coghlan found a contractor five miles down the coast who could start the repairs immediately. When the solicitor gave her the key to Mon Repose she passed it on to Mr. Wiggins. It did not at that time occur to her to wonder why Mr. Wiggins had so much less work on his books than Mr. Stone.

But later she concluded it was because Mr. Wiggins was an incompetent and his staff were work-shy layabouts. Every time she phoned to check on progress there was none. She accepted the first excuse he gave — that flu had been playing havoc with his schedule. She did not query the second, that the men had downed tools to search for a child lost on the Downs. But when he tried to tell her that he had three men off work attending the funerals of elderly female relatives, she told him tersely that he would attend her at “Mon Repose” at noon on Saturday to show her what had been done and explain the continuing delays.

Mr. Wiggins was waiting when she arrived, an uneasy figure in dungarees and a flat hat framed by the towering cypresses.

The tour of inspection did not take long. Very little work had been done in the weeks since Miss Coghlan gave him the keys. A path had been cleared through the jungle to the front door. A broken window had been removed and a plywood square tacked in its place. Two men could have done it in one not-very-energetic afternoon. The rotten window frame, the rewiring, and the plastering were untouched, and the lease on Miss Coghlan’s flat ran out in three weeks’ time.

“Mr. Wiggins, I don’t know what to say.” She had been a teacher for forty years, had never been lost for words before. “My bags are packed. We agreed I could move in at the end of the month.”

Mr. Wiggins squirmed. “We’ve had — problems.”

“You told me. Flu. Missing children. A surfeit of funerals.”

He had the grace to blush. “Not that. The men—”

“Yes?”

“Don’t like—”

“Don’t like what?”