Warning at One

by Ann Purser

  WARNING

  AT ONE

  ANN PURSER

  The Lois Meade Mysteries by Ann Purser

  Murder on Monday

  Terror on Tuesday

  Weeping on Wednesday

  Theft on Thursday

  Fear on Friday

  Secrets on Saturday

  Sorrow on Sunday

  Warning at One

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  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2008 by Ann Purser.

  All rights reserved.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Purser, Ann. Warning at one / Ann Purser.—1st ed.

  p. cm. ISBN: 1-4406-0229-8

  1. Cleaning personnel—Fiction. 2. Country life—England—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6066.U758W37 2008

  823'.914—dc22 2008023654

  For Matthew, who gave me a good idea

  ONE

  IN THE STUFFY BACK BEDROOM OF NUMBER FOUR IN A TERRACE of small red-brick Victorian houses, the old man, who had been born in that same room seventy-eight years ago, opened his eyes and saw a grey dawn over the roofs of Tresham, his hometown in the heart of England.

  "There 'e goes, bless 'im," he muttered, as he turned over and pulled the covers over his ears. "Cock- a-doodle-doo, my dame hath lost her shoe, my master's lost his fiddlin' stick, and don't know what to do!" The old man's voice was croaky, but he could still hold a tune, and he chuckled at the bawdy innuendo of the old rhyme.

  It was five o'clock in the morning and the town was asleep. At least, it had been asleep until the old man's splendidly feisty cockerel had begun his noisy alarm. His voice was piercing, as it was meant to be, and all along the terrace the inhabitants groaned and put their hands over their ears or pushed in their earplugs.

  The old man's name was Clement Fitch, and his neighbours in number five had moved out several weeks ago. They were driven out, they said, by that sodding bird crowing its head off underneath their window. They had complained to the owner, Mrs. Lois Meade of the village of Long Farnden, but she had done nothing about it. It was rumoured that as well as running a cleaning service, New Brooms, she was also a police informer—not for money, but because she enjoyed snooping into other people's business.

  Lois Meade had not at first been interested in looking into the problem of the crowing cock, until she was warned by her tenants that if it didn't go, they would. So they went, and spread the story as widely as they could, even getting their photograph in the local paper. As a consequence, new tenants had been slow in coming forward. Nonexistent, in fact.

  Lois, who was Tresham born and bred, had moved into the village of Long Farnden with her husband, Derek, a local electrician, some years ago. They had three grown children, none living at home, and Gran kept house now that Lois had a business to run. She had in fact thought carefully about the old man, and decided to do nothing about it for the moment. His family had lived there for generations and her sympathies were with him. And anyway, the sound of a cockerel was preferable to the never-ending revving of cars that edged through the narrow street, a shortcut to the nearby supermarket.

  Besides, the old man was frail, and would probably soon snuff it, Derek had said, then the problem would solve itself. Maybe Lois could give the cockerel a home? Gran had exploded at this idea, and said that as long as she was housekeeping for them, no feathered alarm clock would be welcome in their garden.

  Now, as Lois drove down Sebastopol Street in Tresham to New Brooms' office, she was reminded of their empty house. Derek and some friends had won the lottery jackpot, and he and Lois had bought the little house as an investment and source of income. She didn't like to think of it not earning its keep, and resolved to call in on the old man to talk about the cockerel. But first, the office.

  "Morning, Hazel," she said as she walked in. Hazel was one of her original staff, and now manned the office whilst her toddler, Elizabeth, spent the day with one of her two grandmothers or with Hazel's old friend Maureen, who lived next to the office.

  "Morning, Mrs. M," Hazel said, using the name adopted by all Lois's cleaners. "How's things?"

  "Difficult," replied Lois, "unless you happen to know a way of silencing a crowing cockerel?" She saw Hazel, who was the wife of a young farmer, raise her eyebrows, and added, "And no, I can't kill it. It's not mine. Belongs to old Clem Fitch who lives next door to our house in Gordon Street. Our tenants left, complaining, and the agents haven't been able to find new ones. All because of the cockerel. I wondered if the vet could operate and remove whatever it is."

  Hazel laughed. "I doubt it," she said. "You could ask, but be prepared for a dusty answer!"

  "Give me the phone, then," Lois said. "And no sniggers from you, please."

  The vet's receptionist seemed to be having trouble with her reply, and said if Lois could hold on, she'd go and ask. Lois could hear voices, then a hoot of laughter, and then the girl returned to the phone. "Um, you still there, Mrs. Meade? Yes, well, the vet says if there is a way, he's never heard of it, and if you'd like to bring the bird in, he will deal with it so that it'll never crow again."

  "Thanks for nothing!" said Lois crossly, and cut off the call.

  "No luck?" Hazel said, and thought it tactful to change the subject. "We've got a new client, referred to us from your house agents. In Gordon Street, on the other side of the road from Clem Fitch. Bigger houses that side. It's a new owner, an elderly lady with failing sight, and she'd asked the agents if they knew anybody who could clean for her. Naturally they mentioned New Brooms. Do you want to call in on your way home?"

  Lois said that it fitted in well. She was going to see Clem anyway, and could do both. Then she settled down with Hazel to go through the post and any messages that had come in.

  TWO

  BY THE TIME LOIS KNOCKED ON THE FRONT DOOR OF NUMBER four, Clem had been up for hours, had had his usual cursory wash, and gone out to feed his cockerel
before fetching the morning paper from the corner shop.

  The bird's territory was an old, brick-built outhouse which had once been the two-hole lavatory for the six houses in the terrace. Children were put in together, and sometimes man and wife. The shit- cart, as it was universally known, had come once a week to empty the buckets, clanging its way along the street at an early hour, accompanied by a foul but familiar smell, and awakening the residents just as Clem's cockerel did now.

  Clem had cleaned out the outhouse, but kept the two-hole seat, its surface polished smooth by countless bottoms. He used the cavity as a store for the cockerel's grain and mash. With wire netting filched from the dump, he had made a frame that fitted over the open door during the day, and the bird had grown to a good size, roosting on top of the crossbeam in the roof. Iridescent feathers gleamed in the sun, and his comb and wattles were bright scarlet. He was a very handsome fellow, and Clem was as proud of him as if he had been his only son.

  Now Clem opened his front door a couple of inches, and said, "Yes?"

  "Good morning, Mr. Fitch," said Lois. She was prepared for a cool reception, and was certain that Clem knew exactly who she was.

  "What d'you want?" Clem answered. He had a good idea of what she wanted. The people next door had done a runner, shouting at him that his ruddy cockerel had driven them mad. Nobody had come in next door since, and he was half expecting this woman's agent to pay him a visit. Now he was faced with the woman herself. Ah, well, he was too old a hand to be bullied by a woman.

  "Can I come in for a minute?" Lois said. "There's something I want to ask you. Won't take long, but it's beginning to rain and I'd rather not stand on the doorstep."

  "You could try saying please," grumbled the old man, and opened the door just wide enough for Lois to squeeze by him. She wished she had taken a deep breath before entering, enough to last her for the whole conversation. There was a fire smouldering in the grate and the close atmosphere was heavy with whiffs of old, unwashed clothes, frying pans never cleaned, the same fat used over and over again, and an allpervading smell of mice.

  "Go on, then," Clem said, "say what you come for." He was determined to make her introduce the subject. At this point, unfortunately for Clem, the cockerel decided to crow loudly, though it was now the middle of the day.

  "That!" said Lois, smiling in spite of herself. "That awful row is what I've come about. You have to admit, Mr. Fitch, it's got a powerful voice!"

  "Glad you like it," said Clem, folding his arms challengingly. "Pretty good, ain't it?"

  "Maybe to you, but not to your neighbours, and not at five o'clock in the morning."

  "Not in winter, it's not five. In winter it's much later. 'E don't like the dark, doesn't old Cocky. Mind you, 'e knows when the day's breaking much sooner than the lazy sods living in this terrace."

  Lois tried another tack. "Can I see him? He sounds like a wonderful bird. Maybe he needs a wife, and somewhere to run about?"

  I know what you're up to, said Clem to himself. You're goin' to say why don't you find him a nice home with hens and a yard for exercise? Well, hard luck, missus, there's bin others tried that, and I've got an answer.

  On cue, Lois said, "I happen to know a farmer would give him a good home. Hens and a field to chase 'em in. He'd have a great time, Mr. Fitch." She knew as soon as she'd made the suggestion that Clem had set himself against it. He was keeping his cockerel, even if it meant him moving in with it and barricading the door.

  "Could you think about it . . . please?" said Lois, making for the door. She was feeling breathless, and needed some fresh air. "I'll come back in a few days. I don't want to cause you any trouble with the authorities an' that. But something's got to be done, Mr. Fitch. Think what'd be best for Cocky. Cheerio," she added as pleasantly as she could, and made a quick getaway.

  * * *

  THE HOUSE ACROSS THE WAY HAD A NAME AS WELL AS A NUMBER. Double- fronted, and with three scrubbed stone steps, Braeside was one of several detached houses in the street, and the date, carved in the stone lintel above the door, indicated that it had been there before Clem's terrace. Lois imagined the furore that must have followed the plan to build workmen's houses opposite the solid citizens of Tresham in their superior detached residences. Nothing changes, she thought as she stepped up to the front door and rang the bell.

  It was a while before she could see, through the frosted glass panel, a woman's shape approaching. The door opened, and an elegantly dressed person, holding a white stick and wearing dark glasses, said, "Good morning. Mrs. Meade, is it?"

  Lois said yes, it was, and she had an appointment for twelve o'clock. Was she too early? If so, she would be quite happy to wait in the car. There was a distinctly regal presence about Mrs. Imogen Blairgowrie, and Lois reacted accordingly. Blimey, I nearly curtseyed, she said to herself as she followed the woman into the comfortable, sunlit sitting room at the back of the house.

  Mrs. Blairgowrie turned to Lois and indicated a chair for her to sit down. "I am still getting used to the geography of this house," she said, "but it is beginning to feel like home. Do you know, Mrs. Meade," she added in a friendly, confiding voice, "as soon as the agents told us the name of the house was Braeside, I knew it was the one for me. My son was with me, of course, and insisted on asking all the right questions. I was concerned only with what seemed like a nice warm feeling here, and the Scottish connection. We are a Scottish family, you see."

  Lois nodded, and realised the old lady was waiting for her to respond with similar details. "Fine," she said. "I'm glad you like it here. I was born in Tresham, but now we're in Long Farnden, not far away. New Brooms has been going for several years, and we've got a good reputation. The agents said you'd like some help in the house? All my cleaners are thoroughly reliable, honest, and discreet." She always said this, getting it out of the way at once.

  Mrs. Blairgowrie nodded approvingly. "Very necessary," she said. "Discretion is vital when someone has access to everything in my house. And, of course, now that I cannot see so well, it is even more important."

  "If you'll forgive my asking, Mrs. Blairgowrie," Lois said tentatively, "do you mind telling me just how much you can see? I really need to know, so I can tell my cleaners to give you the best possible help."

  "Almost nothing," the old lady said airily. "Just vague shapes, and very little colour. Best to assume I can see nothing," she said.

  Days and times for the cleaners were fixed, and Lois got up to leave. Mrs. Blairgowrie rose at once. She's pretty good on her pins, thought Lois, and when she stood back to allow her new client to lead the way to the door, she marvelled at the sure way she moved out of the door and into the passage.

  "Goodbye, then, Mrs. Meade." Mrs. Blairgowrie smiled. "I shall look forward to meeting you again." She shut the door, and Lois walked across to her car. As she drove home, she thought of Clem and the cockerel, and of her new client. Who should she send to work at Braeside? It needed some thought. If the old lady really could see next to nothing, it would have to be a nimble, observant person. Bridie, perhaps? Or Bill? It would be a pleasant job. No problems, as far as she could see. Then she had a quick picture before her of the blind, upright figure walking firmly to the front door, minus her stick, finding the small Yale lock at once, and stepping back with complete confidence to allow Lois to leave.

  "If she's blind," she said aloud, "I'm a banana."

  THREE

  "I WENT TO SEE A NEW CLIENT THIS AFTERNOON," LOIS SAID. SHE was leaning against the Rayburn watching Gran wash lettuce at the sink.

  "Thought you were going to sort out the cockerel man." Gran shook the lettuce and put it into a whirly plastic drier.

  "I did go, but I haven't sorted it. For one thing, the house stank. I had to get out before I was suffocated."

  Gran scoffed. "Don't be so silly, Lois! If you'd lived where I did when I was a child, you'd know—"

  "—what a smelly house really was," completed Lois. "I expect you're right, but when I was a child o
n the Churchill housing estate in Tresham, you probably remember there was no wallowing in pig muck, so I'm not hardened to it like you."

  "Well, that's enough of that," said Gran firmly, vigorously chopping up tomatoes. "Now tell me sensibly how you got on."

  Gran still had the power to make Lois feel eight years old, and she obediently told the cockerel story and how she was convinced nothing was going to persuade the old man to get rid of it, unless forced to by the cops. "And I'm not prepared to go that far, Mum," she concluded.

  Gran nodded. "Quite right, too," she said. "Something'll turn up, anyway. I'm not sure Derek's right in saying the old boy'll snuff it. That wiry sort live long. Anyway, what about this new client?"

  "A blind woman. Mrs. Blairgowrie."