Warning at One

by Ann Purser

  He rose to the challenge. "Quite a lot, actually," he said, "but for now, a wholemeal loaf and two apple turnovers, please."

  She put them deftly into bags and handed them to him. "How're you doing this morning?" she said. "Working hard on my project?"

  She was aware of her colleagues pricking up their ears, and saw through their eyes a rival to Douglas. What nonsense! This was a business matter, and when he asked casually if she knew whether number six next door to her house was occupied or for sale, she shook her head. "I don't think so," she said. "I haven't seen anyone round there. It's all locked up now. Could be the police don't want anyone there at the moment. Not 'til they catch that ratty little bloke."

  A queue was forming behind Andrew, and he moved away, saying he'd be in touch when the details were finalised.

  "Blimey, Susie," her fellow assistant said, "you haven't wasted much time. What does that nice Douglas think?"

  Susie blushed, and said there was nothing in it. He was just someone helping her with smartening up her grandfather's old house.

  "They cost, y' know, these interior décor blokes," her friend said.

  "I know. But Granddad left me a bit to go with the house, and it'll be an investment, Douglas says. I can ask for much more rent if it's in a decent condition."

  Andrew filled his trolley and made his way to the checkout, where he almost collided with Lois and an elderly lady he now knew as Gran.

  "Morning, Andrew," Lois said. "Looks like you're feeding the five thousand."

  "It'll last me for at least a couple of weeks," he replied, smiling sweetly at Gran.

  "Introduce me, Lois," Gran butted in. She knew exactly who he was, but did not intend to be left out. Lois was not deceived. She had talked enough about Andrew, discussing with Derek the new plan and whether she should employ him. If Gran had not picked up on their conversations, it would be the first time ever.

  "Andrew, new recruit, meet my mum," she said.

  He stood to one side to allow them to go first through the checkout, and they waited for him to follow. "I'll come and help you pack the car," he said. Lois replied that she was perfectly capable of doing it herself, and at exactly the same moment Gran said in a firm voice that it was extremely kind of him, and it would be a great help.

  It took only a few minutes to fill the back of Lois's van, and Andrew turned to go. "All going well with Susie's décor?" Lois asked, and he hesitated. He hadn't meant to tell anyone about the threatening call, but now he found himself spilling it all out to Lois. Gran was full of sympathy, but Lois suddenly snapped to attention.

  "Why didn't you call back?" she said sharply.

  "I did, but there was no return number. I tried several times."

  "Are you sure it was a disguised voice?"

  "Yep. Like somebody acting. By the end of the message, where he said 'fancy decorations,' the voice was much lighter, and quite posh."

  "And he was definitely warning you off spying on number six?"

  Andrew nodded, rather wishing he'd never mentioned it.

  "Right. Now, if it happens again, I want you to let me know straightaway," said Lois firmly. "I'll be able to help."

  He thanked her and walked off to his car. So it wasn't just a joke. He knew from Hazel in the office about Lois's hobby of sleuthing, and from her reaction just now he began to wonder if he was a victim of something more sinister.

  Lois and Gran drove home in silence. Eventually Gran, who abhorred a conversational opportunity wasted, said, "A penny for 'em, Lois."

  "Not for sale," Lois grunted, and turned into the drive with squealing tyres. "Can you manage, Mum?" she said. "Got to make an urgent call." Without waiting for a reply she disappeared into the house, and Gran heard her study door shut with a bang.

  "Hello? Is that you?" Lois drummed her fingers on her desk. "You took long enough to answer."

  "Busy, Lois," Cowgill said. "A policeman's lot is not a happy one." He waved his assistant away towards the door, and settled back in his chair.

  "Well, just listen carefully. Maybe I can make your lot a bit happier."

  "Anything you say makes me happy," Cowgill said softly.

  "Oh, for God's sake! This is serious." Lois gave him a suc

  cinct account of what Andrew had told her, and Cowgill sat up straight in his chair.

  "Why number six, and why Andrew Young, and why would somebody be so anxious about an empty house?" he asked in a now professional voice.

  "If I knew the answers to that, I wouldn't be calling you," Lois snapped. "At least, not yet. Still, if you think about what I've just told you, your brilliant detecting mind may put two and two together and come up with the fact that Andrew is doing a job for Susie Mills, who inherited old Clem's house next door to number six. He'll be in and out with paint and stuff through the back yard, and will get a good view of what goes on in number six from there. And, by the way, have you got that skinny bloke yet?"

  "We're following up several leads," Cowgill said mechanically.

  "So you've got no idea where he is," Lois replied flatly. "Well, I might have. But I'm not telling you yet until I'm sure. I don't want PC Plod trampin' in there in hobnail boots."

  Cowgill sighed. "If I didn't love you, Lois, I'd be tempted to end our relationship right now. But as I can't live without you, it doesn't matter."

  "I hope to God you're joking, Cowgill! And just don't forget I want Andrew Young protected from any more threatening calls. I know you can arrange it. I'll be in touch. Probably."

  Cowgill listened sadly to the dialling tone for a second or two, then went to the door and yelled down the corridor at the top of his voice for his assistant.

  THIRTY-SIX

  PAT ADJUSTED HER DIAMANTÉ- EDGED GLASSES AND ENTERED the museum reception hall. She had found a bus which took her directly to the large old farmhouse on the outskirts of Tresham. The house was now part of a thriving museum with new extensions and sizeable tearooms. Excellent, she said to herself, and looked around. The reception area was purpose-built, a large airy space that incorporated a shop selling souvenirs and toys. This morning it was crowded with a school party of ten-year- olds, all wearing uniforms of grey and scarlet. How smart they looked, thought Pat. She approved of uniforms of all sorts, and the more colour in them, the better. She heartily disapproved of the teenagers hanging about town, clad in deepest black from head to foot. No wonder they saw the world through such disillusioned eyes!

  "Senior citizen ticket, please," she said, patting her neat grey hair. The tall, harassed-looking man behind the counter handed her a ticket and pointed in the direction she should take.

  "It's quite easy from there, dear," he said. "Signed all the way to the tearooms. I know you ladies like a cup of tea and a homemade cake after your tour. I'll be taking a party around in a few minutes, if you'd like to join us?"

  Pat shook her head. "If it's allowed," she said, with a pleading smile, "I would really love to saunter round on my own. I know there will be nostalgic moments where I shall want to linger."

  "Of course you can, dear," the man said kindly. "Take your time. There's a lot to see!"

  Better and better, Pat said to herself, and walked unhurriedly through the double doors into the start of the museum. She found herself in a high-ceilinged room which had clearly been the parlour of the old farmhouse. It was furnished just as it had been in Victorian times, and she clasped her hands together in delight. Cluttered and rather dark, with heavy rusty brown curtains, the room was stuffed with furniture, grandly upholstered in faded red velvet, a solid pianola built to last, with piles of perforated rolls to make it work, glassfronted display cabinets with many-coloured vases and figurines, a table with its bulbous carved legs made decent by a chenille cloth edged with bobbles, and a solitaire board with beautiful glass marbles, just like the one Pat's grandmother used to have.

  A motherly woman stood by the door, answering questions from visitors as they wandered round. Pat approached her and asked about the pianola
. "Try it, dear," the woman said. She went with her and showed her how it worked, and Pat pedalled away with gusto. A small burst of applause from the steward greeted her as she stood up beaming with pride.

  "Are you a member of staff?" she asked the nice woman.

  "In a way," she answered. "We're all volunteers here. The

  museum couldn't exist without volunteers! But we all love it, you know. We meet so many interesting people, and even the children are mostly well- behaved."

  "Do you have to have special qualifications?" Pat asked casually.

  "Goodness, no. We just have to be trustworthy, of course, and reliable. You get an interview with the manager, and he decides. You probably saw him. He's on reception this morning. Takes his turn with the rest of us. A very nice man."

  Pat thanked her, and moved on into an old-fashioned schoolroom. Everything there delighted her. It was all as her grandmother had described. Scarred wooden desks with tip-up seats, with a slate and slate pencil to each one. A tall black iron stove, cold now but once dangerously hot, by the teacher's high desk. There was even a pan of water on top to keep the atmosphere sweet.

  On Pat went, through a cold, dark street of tiny shops, including a post office with sheets of impossibly cheap stamps, a haberdasher's emporium full of lace and frills, a chemist's, with yellowing packets of long- forgotten remedies for every ailment. Then she lingered by the shoe mender, a waxwork figure surrounded by every size of shoe shapes and neat piles of nails and hammers. How comfortable those shoes must have been, each made for an individual foot!

  At last she came to the tearooms, and sat down feeling pleasantly exhausted. She looked at the menu, and saw that they catered for snack lunches as well. After hot tea and homemade shortbread, she made her way back to reception and saw that the manager had just finished escorting the children on their lightning-speed tour, and was now selling them souvenirs of their visit. She wandered round the shop, and finally, after all the children had gone, she took a packet of notecards to the desk.

  "Did you enjoy your visit, dear?" the manager said, slipping the pack into a Tresham Museum paper bag.

  "Very much, thank you," Pat replied. "In fact, I was so taken with it all that I wondered if you have any vacancies for volunteers? I'm recently widowed, and find I have far too much time on my hands."

  The manager beamed. "Forgive me if I just manacle you to the desk so you can't get away!" he said, laughing heartily. "My dear, we always need volunteers. Now, why don't we fix a mutually convenient time for us to have a talk, and I'll be able to fit you into our rota in no time at all."

  "I'm free all day, if that's any help."

  "Ah, well, not today. I have one tour after another to deal with today. How about tomorrow? Shall we say eleven o'clock tomorrow morning?"

  Pat nodded, and almost stuck out her hand to shake hands on it, but remembered in time and smiled gratefully instead. As she walked to the bus stop, she looked back at the handsome old house with its treasures of the past. "Splendid," she said aloud, and was pleased to see a bus rounding the corner and heading back into the town centre.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  MOVING DAY CAME NOT A MOMENT TOO SOON FOR MRS. Pickering, who was in that strange instinctive inbetween world of being without a nest. All was ready, packed and crowded together in convenient heaps for the removals men. Floss's father had proposed hiring a van and doing it themselves in stages. "It's only just over the road and round the corner," he tried to persuade his reluctant wife.

  "I don't trust you and Floss and Ben to take care of my treasures," she'd said, near to tears. Moving house was bad enough, in spite of it having been at her instigation, but the thought of backstrain, breakages, and lost tempers was too much to bear. "I shall hire those nice people who moved us here," she said. "And if it's the money that's worrying you, I am quite happy to dip into my savings."

  "Don't be ridiculous," her husband had replied. "Of course we'll have the removals men if that will make you happy."

  Gran had come down early, saying that they need not worry about refreshments during the day. It was all arranged, and Lois would bring down soup and sandwiches at lunchtime. "Now," Gran said comfortingly, "a good strong cup of tea will put us all on the primrose path." Not one to be worried about a muddled metaphor, Gran set to work cheerfully with kettle, mugs, milk, and a packet of Rich Tea biscuits.

  The men arrived, and it seemed that by coffee time, not much had been moved. Mrs. Pickering noticed that Gran spent some time chatting to one or the other. She knew the family of one of the Tresham lads, and the bored young man listened politely to tales of his old grandfather's roving eye.

  "Mrs. Weedon," said Mrs. Pickering, putting a kindly hand on Gran's shoulder, "I wonder if you could do us a great favour? I quite forgot to get batteries for our big torch, and I am sure we shall need it this evening to peer into things. Could you possibly get one of those big square ones from Josie? She can put it on my account."

  Gran thought privately that surely there would be electricity in the Blackberry Gardens house, but didn't comment. You had to humour people who were moving house, especially the women. "Of course I can," she said. "Leave it to me, dear. Anything else you've forgotten?"

  Mrs. Pickering shook her head. "Can't think of anything at the moment," she said, so Gran quickly rinsed mugs and set off for the shop. As she went out of the gate, a big car drove past very slowly, and a thickset man wearing horn-rimmed glasses looked across at the house.

  "That's him!" Gran said. "That's the man who's moving in. John Smith, he calls himself."

  "Morning, Mrs. Weedon. Talking to God?" It was the vicar, Mr. Rollinson, passing by like Dracula in his flowing black cloak. Gran assured him that she was indeed praying for fine weather. The Pickerings were moving house, and she was sure they'd appreciate a blessing from himself. This was mischievous, as she knew perfectly well the Pickerings were never seen in church, and she had heard more than once Mr. Pickering hold forth on the evils of organised religion.

  The vicar's face lit up for a second, and then he remembered past conversations with Pickering, and with a cheery wave and a promise to visit once they were in the new house, he swooped on his way.

  Gran remembered her mission and headed for the shop. Outside she saw the big black car. John Smith could be pouncing on Josie again. She quickened her step in case her beloved granddaughter should need rescuing, but once in the shop she could see several customers and Smith awaiting his turn. He turned round to see who had come in, and looked away without interest.

  "Good morning, Mr. Smith," Gran said in a firm voice. "Here to see how the move is going?"

  He was forced to take notice, and said irritably, "Not really, just passing through. I shall be over later, of course."

  "Much stuff to move in?" Gran said, not in the least daunted.

  "The usual," he replied shortly. "I've left them to it. The fewer the distractions, the quicker they get on with it," he added. He had noticed Gran emerging from his new house and said to himself that here was one to be firmly discouraged. He turned his back on her, hoping that would shut her up. It did not, of course.

  "No good being ready before the Pickerings are out," she said. "I reckon it'll be around four o'clock before they've finished there."

  "Ye Gods, they've only got two hundred yards to go!" said John Smith, losing his patience.

  "Ah, yes," Gran replied calmly, "well, I could be wrong. Now, it's your turn, Mr. Smith. Josie's ready."

  The big man looked around, as if wondering which one was Mr. Smith, and then stepped forward to the counter. "Aspirins," he said curtly. "A large packet."

  Josie frowned. A "please" wouldn't come amiss, she thought. "Headache, Mr. Smith?" she said coolly. "Moving house is a strain, isn't it. I am sure Gran here will give you a hand after the Pickerings have gone, if that would help?"

  Gran glared at Josie, but she needn't have worried. John Smith scowled and said that he needed no help, and didn't believe in it. "I'm quite c
apable of putting my things in the right places," he said. "And I am very particular about my privacy. I hope you'll let that be known in the village, my dear," he added, his voice resuming its oily tone.

  Josie bridled. "You'll hear no gossip in this shop, Mr. Smith," she said. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

  AT ONE O'CLOCK EXACTLY, LOIS DREW UP NEXT TO THE REMOVALS van. She took out a tray of hot soup and piles of sandwiches previously prepared by Gran and carried them in. She was amazed to see an almost empty house. "My goodness," she said, "they've really got a move on. Soon be finished?"