by Ann Purser
"Except to tell you? You can trust me, Mrs. M." With an expression of deep concern, Dot left the office and disappeared up the street.
Hazel returned, and they continued to talk about the Clem tragedy and to speculate who on earth could have murdered the old man and why. "They say they've had a lead on that theft from the supermarket," Hazel said.
"Who says?" Lois looked up from an account book she was checking.
"I heard it from John, and he heard it in the pub in the village." John was her husband and they farmed at Waltonby. It was well known that if you wanted reliable gossip the Waltonby pub was the place to go.
"Did he say any more?"
"No. I don't think any of them knew the details. Seems odd, though, don't it, that the two crimes should have happened in Gordon Street? But there, it could be anywhere in Tresham. Your Douglas is welcome to it. Wouldn't catch me and John living there."
"Not many farms in Tresham," Lois said lightly. She remarked that any more details John heard in the pub would be welcome. All for the good of New Brooms, she stressed. She didn't want a breath of suspicion to fall on any of her girls.
"Which reminds me, Hazel," she added. "I've got a possible replacement for Bill coming here for interview tomorrow at eleven. He's coming from Fletching."
"He? Well, that could be a good thing. With murder in the air, girls could be put off. We need a bloke for the rougher jobs."
"We've got Dot," replied Lois, and they both laughed.
TWENTY-TWO
DOT KNOCKED LOUDLY ON THE DOOR OF BRAESIDE, THEN opened the letter box and shouted, " Yoo-hoo! It's Dot from New Brooms! Don't hurry yerself, dear. I know you can't see, so take your time!"
"Don't worry about me, dear," she said, as Mrs. Blairgowrie opened the door. "You just sit in your chair and listen to your nice book, an' I'll do the rest. Come tea break, I'll make a good cup for both of us. I usually start upstairs, and you can give me a shout if you need any help."
Thank God she'd told Alastair not to come today, Mrs. Blairgowrie thought, tapping her stick as she walked back to the sitting room. She did as she was told and settled in her chair. It was a beautiful afternoon, and she could see blue-tits and a robin feeding from the old bird table. She'd never been remotely interested in birds before, but now found she could pass the time more quickly watching out for new species. She'd asked Alastair to bring her a bird book, and now could identify several different kinds of finch. He'd told her to keep it out of sight, and she had answered that he should mind his business and she would mind hers. As far as people knew, she had some vestigial sight.
Dot set to work with her usual thoroughness. She would have liked to find something Bill had missed, some dusty corner or tidemark on the bath. For some reason Bill had made it clear he didn't approve of her. And the feeling was mutual. She thought he was too good to be true. She wondered who would replace him, and supposed Mrs. M had it all in hand. She picked up a hand mirror from the dressing table in Mrs. Blairgowrie's bedroom, and looked at herself. Not bad, she decided, and then noticed a thumbprint that she knew was not hers. Out of habit, she'd held it by the handle so as not to smear the glass. Mrs. Blairgowrie's thumb, of course, but why would she want to look at herself when she couldn't see? Dot shrugged. Just get on with it, Dot, she said under her breath.
She had finished upstairs, and was about to carry her tools down, when she heard a knock at the door. "Shall I go, dear?" she called out.
"No, I can manage," was the answer, and Dot heard footsteps in the hall. She retreated to the landing and stood silently by the banister rail.
"I thought I told you not to come today." It was the old lady's voice, and a man answered her.
"Need to talk," he said. "Urgently. Go on through and tell the woman to keep clear of us."
"She's upstairs, Alastair," Mrs. Blairgowrie replied, her voice wavery and faint.
Dot heard the man swear, and then he shouted up the stairs, "I'm her son, and we have confidential things to discuss. Please find things to do and don't disturb us. Thanks."
The last word was very much an afterthought, and Dot
bridled. She was not used to being spoken to like that. She would report it to Mrs. M, along with several other things about this house. She heard the key turn in the sitting-room door, and crept softly downstairs. He needn't think he could order her about. She went silently into the front parlour and left the door ajar. If the conversation got heated, she guessed she would be able to hear. Now, she would polish everything possible to a high gloss and probably clean the windows as well. That should give him time for his confidential conversation! It would be her tea break soon, anyway, and that was part of her contract. She began with a coffee table and moved on to a brass-edged fireguard. She noted with glee that the brass was tarnished. Black mark, Bill. That would take quite a while to polish up.
It wasn't long before a raised male voice could be heard. Dot moved swiftly to the open door and listened. Mrs. Blairgowrie's reply was too soft for her to distinguish words, but the next thing was him shouting angrily, "You stupid berk! Can't you be more careful? One stupid mistake could give away the whole thing."
"Shhhh!" It was Mrs. Blairgowrie, and Dot heard no more. She shut the door carefully and got on with her work. Not long afterwards, heavy footsteps went past to the front door, and with a loud slam he was gone. Dot flew to the window and caught a glimpse of a large, dark-haired man in a grey suit. As he shut the gate, he turned and looked at the window. She backed further behind the curtain and heard his car being revved up and driven away with a squeal of tyres.
That small glimpse had been enough.
TWENTY-THREE
IT WAS TOWARDS THE END OF THE AFTERNOON BY THE TIME LOIS parked outside the Freemans' house. She wanted to be sure that David Freeman was back from work. There was a car in front of the house, and she went to the door and knocked. It was a small, semidetached house on an estate designed to avoid straight rows and similarity, but ending up like a rabbit warren. The Freeman house was redeemed by sunny windows and a very neat garden. Light and airy, unlike Lois's house in Gordon Street. She hoped they were not too resentful about the move.
Mary Freeman saw her coming. The door opened immediately, and Lois was relieved to see her smiling. "Mrs. Meade! What a surprise! Did we leave something behind at Gordon Street? Anyway, now you're here, come on in."
David Freeman was sitting in an armchair with his shoes off, and he did not get up when she came in. He didn't smile. "Oh, it's you," he said. "What can we do for you?"
"Sit down for a minute. Would you like a cup of tea?"
Mary Freeman scowled at her husband. "We were so sorry to hear about poor Clem Fitch," she said. "It was a big story in the paper. Poor man."
"Huh, he would have been delighted to have made the front page," said Freeman. "Awkward old sod."
Mary put her hand to her mouth. Then she said she would go and make the tea. "Tell Mrs. Meade about our lovely garden," she said as she left the room.
Freeman glared at her, and Lois smiled bravely. "I can see it looks very well cared for," she said.
"Best thing about it is there's no bloody cockerel next door," he said.
"Yes, well," Lois began in a soft voice. "I think if you had seen Clem and his bird stuffed in an old lavatory, even you would have been sad. The cockerel was strangled and his head almost pulled off. He'd obviously put up a fight. There were feathers everywhere. Those beautiful feathers, all muddy and torn."
Freeman was quiet for a moment, then said, "And the old man? Had he, well . . . ?"
"Bashed on the head from behind. Must have been a terrible blow. Real butchery. They reckon he died instantly, thank God."
There was a long silence now. Lois could hear crockery being rattled in the kitchen, and prayed for Mary to come in soon. But Freeman had something to say now, and it was obviously an effort.
"I did think, when I saw the story in the paper, that if we'd still been there it probably wouldn't have hap
pened. My wife is a very bad sleeper, and the slightest noise wakes her. Me, too, for a year or so. That bird would have made a terrible noise. We know that from bitter experience, don't we, Mary?"
The tray of tea was set down, and Mary sighed. "I do know
one thing," she said. "That wretched recluse from the other side of Clem wouldn't have stirred. Nothing would get him out, except a fire! Yes, Dave, you're right, if we'd still been there we'd have stopped whatever went on. It's a horrible thought, Mrs. Meade."
"The recluse has gone now," Lois said quietly. "Done a bunk. That night, it was. By the time Douglas got there, and the police, there was no sign of him. House left unlocked, and everything looking as if he left in a hurry."
Mary's colour drained. "You mean it was him? Him that killed Clem? But why on earth . . . ?"
Lois was waiting for Freeman to say that perhaps he was allergic to cockerels, but he didn't.
They drank their tea, and chatted quite amiably now. Lois deliberately changed the subject for a while, and asked about Freeman's new job and how they felt about the area.
Mary made a face. "Well, it's not exactly Nob Hill," she said. "Kids are rough and swear at you at the drop of a hat. You have to double lock everything, and nobody puts garden pots or ornaments out the front. But our neighbours are nice and helpful. We're lucky that way. And the house is, well, you can see. It's new, and light and clean. We like it a lot. And Dave gets out in the garden when it's fine. Would you like to take a look when you've drunk up?"
They walked slowly round the garden, and Lois was knowledgeable and complimentary. Her dad had been a keen gardener, and she herself had taken over the front lawn and flower beds back in Farnden. Derek had encouraged her in an attempt to give her something else to think about other than cleaning and crime. She had discovered it was a great way of seeing what went on in the High Street, and spent many evenings out there.
"You'd do really well in our horticultural show, Mr. Freeman," she said. "O' course, it's just for our village and a fivemile radius, but I bet there's one around here. You'd win firsts in most classes!"
He beamed, as she had intended, and escorted her back to the house as if she were a visiting celebrity about to present the prizes. They begged her to stay a minute or two longer and see the photographs of their visit to Monet's garden in France, and she followed them once more into the sitting room.
They had been talking about an old gardener they knew who lived in his potting shed and talked to nobody, not even on the bus when he made his weekly foray into town. Lois saw her opening. "I suppose," she said casually, "you never saw much of that other man we were talking about, lives the other side of Clem?"
Freeman shook his head. "Only once or twice," he said. "He'd come out to empty rubbish in the bin. Piles of it, there was. God knows what he got up to in there."
"Occasionally I'd see him in the supermarket," Mary chipped in. "Mind you, he never answered if you said hello, and always scuttled off like a frightened rabbit."
"There was one night, d'you remember, Mary, when he was out the front talking to somebody. It was half-dark, and the other bloke was shouting at him. Tall, he was, and heavily built. Throwing his arms about and walking up and down." Freeman gesticulated and paced back and forth.
"Fancy you remembering!" Mary said. "Now it comes back to me. The other bloke crossed the road and got into a car parked outside Braeside. He drove off like a maniac. We thought of going along to make sure the little man was all right, but he'd disappeared and we knew he'd never open the door."
"I don't suppose you remember what kind of car?" Lois
said. "Douglas rang me earlier and said he'd seen one parked out there by a big man who went into the blind lady's house. A big black job with darkened windows."
"That's it!" Mary answered. "That's right, isn't it, Dave?"
Freeman nodded. Then he looked straight at Lois. "Is that why you've come?" he said. "To ask us questions about Gordon Street?" He didn't seem too angry, and Lois decided to tell the truth.
"Well, partly," she began. "I was also wondering how you were getting on. I felt a bit guilty about not being able to do anything about poor old Satan. But yes, owning a house next door to a murder has worried me. It'll certainly lower the value for a while, until people forget. Luckily my son Douglas is there at the moment, and he's not in the least put off! In fact," she added, "he's taken a fancy to Clem's granddaughter Susie. But I'd like to help the police as much as possible and get the whole thing cleared up. There'll be two houses empty there for a while, and it don't look good for the rest of the terrace."
"Nice girl, that Susie," said Mary. "Better than her mother. That woman never came to see Clem, not the whole time we were there. Why don't you have a chat with Susie? She was there regular, and could well have seen or heard something. Maybe Clem told her about the skinny little man, some things we don't know. Worth a try."
Lois extricated herself from the Freemans with difficulty. It seemed that once they'd made peace they were only too anxious to be friends. "Pop in and see us anytime you're this way," Mary said as Lois got into her car.
"And if we think of anything else to help with your enquiries"—Freeman chortled at the official phrase—"we'll be in touch."
TWENTY-FOUR
LOIS ARRIVED AT THE OFFICE IN SEBASTOPOL STREET AT HALF past ten the next morning, and sat down to read Andrew Young's curriculum vitae. He was twenty-five, unmarried, lived in a flat in Fletching, a village a few miles from Long Farnden, and had been looking after himself for six years. His parents had been killed in a car crash in Australia whilst touring. He had dropped out of university and gone off on a protracted trip around the world in an effort to come to terms with the tragedy.
"Does he say why he wants to be a cleaner?" Hazel asked. She remembered Gary, a nice lad who'd worked for them for a while. But his unsavoury past had caught up with him and he'd left under a cloud.
"No. That's our first question, I suppose." Lois had decided on enlisting Hazel to the interview session. Usually she did it all herself, and preferred to talk to candidates in their own homes, but Derek had been nagging her lately about delegating and this was a tryout.
"It'll probably emerge naturally," Hazel said, knowing by now how Mrs. M worked. "I shall be guided by you. You're the boss," she added reassuringly. Like most of New Brooms' team, she recognised all Mrs. M's faults, but would have stood by her through thick and thin, if necessary. It had been necessary once or twice, and Hazel had no doubt that it would be necessary again. All the cleaners knew they had to keep quiet about Mrs. M's sleuthing, and this minor conspiracy kept them faithful to a job which normally would see a fairly rapid turnover of staff.
"Looks like this is him," Hazel added, standing at the window and peering up the street. "Tall, thin, round-shouldered. Dark hair, lopes along like a farmer."
"How does a farmer walk, Hazel?" asked Lois, laughing. "Better come and sit down now."
Lois sat behind the desk, and Hazel took a chair over by the window with an empty one not far away. She had been reading a book about interviewing methods, and decided one person behind a desk was enough.
He came in, stumbling over the doormat, looked frantically back and forth from Hazel to Lois, and said, "I'm Andrew Young and I'm so nervous I think I'll go now, before I make it worse."
To Lois's surprise and eventual relief, Hazel burst out laughing, hearty, cheerful guffaws. "Well, that's a new one!" she said. "There's nothing like that in the book!"
"Sit down, Andrew," Lois said, noting that he'd stared open-mouthed at Hazel. "Take no notice of Hazel. She's always had a weird sense of humour. Now," she added, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms in what she hoped was a motherly gesture, "why don't we all have a coffee and relax."
Hazel jumped up at once and made for the kitchen. Lois could hear her chuckling as the kettle was being filled. This would be something to tell Derek, him and his delegating!
After they'd settled, Lois began
to ask questions. She thought it best not to start with "Why do you want to be a cleaner?" "Where did you go in your travels?" she said instead, and was amazed at the list of countries, some of which she'd never heard of. How could he have managed, if walking down a familiar street to a job interview sent him into such a tizzy? "I had company," he said, as if he'd read her thoughts. "She was a sort of girlfriend at the time. We're split now, but still friends. Nothing like travel to get to know someone really well," he added. "Oh, and she dumped me, in case you're wondering. Married a high-flying banker. Couldn't blame her, really."
Hazel risked a question. "Better prospects than a house cleaner, would you say?"
He nodded. "I must tell you honestly this wasn't something I'd always wanted to do."
"So why are you here?" Lois said gently. "You'll appreciate that I'm looking for someone who's likely to stay with us for a reasonable time. We've had fly-by-nights now and then, and they're more trouble than they're worth. There's all the paperwork and training. And my clients do like continuity of staff."