by Ann Purser
He shook his head, wondering why she had mentioned it at the meeting. In the next few minutes he discovered the reason. Everyone in the team had had experience of nasty phone calls, heavy breathing, disgusting suggestions, and so on. Mrs. M listened carefully.
"What was it about, Andrew?" Hazel said. "We get the usuals at the office sometimes, probably because there was once a knocking shop over the road. All tastes catered for there. What was the voice like?"
Andrew described what he was certain was a disguised voice, but none of them recognised it from his attempt at imitation.
"Sounds like it was meant just for you. A one-off, probably," said Hazel. "Better watch your step, lad. What did he say?"
Andrew hesitated, and looked at Mrs. M. She nodded, and he gave them the facts.
"Number six?" Dot said. "Nobody living there. They'll have trouble selling that after what happened to poor ole Clem. Bad-luck house, like Braeside over the road."
This resulted in a lively conversation about the long- ago murder case, and Lois had to bring the meeting to a firm close. "Get back to work, you lot," she said. "We have houses to clean and clients to cheer up. I'll be in touch, as usual."
Dot hung back after the others had gone. "Heard anything from Mrs. Blairgowrie?" she said to Lois.
"No. Why? Is something wrong?"
"Not so far as I know. Just wondered if they'd been on to you about anything."
"No, nothing." Lois frowned and looked closely at Dot. "Are you keeping something from me? Something I should know? If so, for God's sake speak up, Dot. It could be very important." Douglas had come back into her thoughts with a vengeance. Dot had so many contacts with the underworld in Tresham, she might well have heard something that would help.
"Would I do that?" Dot said with not a single stab of conscience. "If I find out anything that will help Douglas, I'll let you know at once."
Lois felt cold. "How do you know about Douglas?" she said, beginning to shake.
Dot approached and took her hand. "Haven't you seen the paper today?" she said. Lois shook her head mutely. "Well, don't you worry, dear. I reckon they'll print any old trash just to sell the rag. Don't you worry," she repeated, "we'll get it all sorted out."
FORTY-TWO
"I CAN SEE THEY'VE TOLD YOU," GRAN SAID, AS LOIS CAME SLOWLY into the kitchen after the meeting. "I was going to show you the paper after they'd gone. It's only a small paragraph on the inside pages, but there's a photograph."
Lois took the paper from her in silence. She read the bare facts. Murdered Man's Neighbour Under Suspicion. Under this headline, the report stated that Douglas Meade, next- door neighbour of murder victim Clem Fitch, popular resident of Gordon Street, had been questioned again in connection with the case. Douglas Meade, it continued, was the son of the well-known proprietor of New Brooms, Mrs. Lois Meade.
Lois turned on her heel and marched back to her study with heavy footsteps. Gran sighed. She knew exactly what Lois would do next.
"Inspector Cowgill please," Lois said to his assistant, having had no reply from his personal number.
"Not here, I'm afraid, Mrs. Meade."
"Where the hell is he, then?"
"On his way to see you. Should be there shortly. Anything else I can help you with?"
But Lois had rung off. She went to the window to look up the street, but it was empty. She stood there for several minutes, fuming and making no attempt to control her anger. She wished she had a gun.
Then his car came in sight, and her heart began to thump. She went out of the front door, down the drive, and into the street. As he got out of the car, she looked venomously at him. "Well?" she said.
He shook his head and walked round to stand next to her on the pavement. "I need to explain, Lois," he said.
"You certainly do!" she said. "You promised me you'd be discreet." She waved the newspaper at him. "Is this what you call discreet? Don't ever speak to me again. And don't expect my help. I wouldn't trust you now as far as I could throw you."
"That is not very far, fortunately," he said. He walked back around the car and looked over at her. "I can only say I have no idea how the paper got the story and am investigating the leak. I am extremely sorry, Lois. I shall do my best to make amends."
"Amends!" she shrieked. "How can you put that right? The entire population of Tresham reads this rag! Get out of my sight!" She ran back into the house and slammed the door. Cowgill drove off slowly. She was in tears, he told himself sadly, and it's my fault.
THAT EVENING THERE WAS A FAMILY CONFERENCE. JAMIE WAS THE only one missing, but as they sat down round the big kitchen table, he telephoned and said would Mum please let him know what they discussed and would they be sure to let him know if there was anything he could do.
Strangely, Douglas was the only one who seemed relatively unconcerned. "I don't think we should take this too seriously," he said, kicking off the meeting. "The police have questioned just about everybody in the street. They hauled me in again because some joker had left an anonymous message saying they'd seen me from a bedroom window in the next street beating up old Clem. Mum's chum Cowgill said he was not so much interested in me as in who would want to incriminate me, and why."
Lois began to deny hotly that Cowgill was her chum, but Derek shushed her, and said she could have her say later.
"It's obvious," Josie said from her seat next to Douglas. "If you want to cover up your crime, you incriminate someone else. Douglas is an easy target. They should be looking for the reason why Clem was killed. What did he know, or, more likely, what had he seen?"
"I agree," said Lois. "Douglas has no enemies. I'm sure he's never even hurt anybody's feelings. He's just convenient, living next door with no alibi. No, I reckon those dimwits should be concentrating on Braeside across the road. There's definitely something funny going on there. That son of Mrs. Blairgowrie—Alastair, he calls himself—is either the twin brother or the same man as John Smith, the new owner of the Pickering house."
"What's he got to do with it?" Derek said.
"Everything, I reckon," Gran said. "I've never seen such a suspicious-looking customer in my life. A lot of coming and going at that house, too. I reckon he's Mr. Big."
"Too much television, Gran," said Douglas, laughing.
"I spoke some more to him two or three days ago," Josie
said quietly. They all turned and looked at her. "I asked him about his family. Just chatting, you know. Got to get on with all my customers, whether I like them or not. He was pleasant for once. Said his mother lived in Tresham, that she'd been married twice, and he was the son of her first marriage to Alastair Smith. She named him after his father, but he preferred his second name, John."
"He told you all that?" said an astonished Lois. "Why on earth should he?"
"Why on earth shouldn't he, Mum?" Douglas smiled at her and said perhaps she'd forgotten that her daughter was a very attractive girl, and most men would rabbit on in order to spend a little more time with her.
"Huh!" said Lois and preferred to think otherwise. It was too glib a story, probably invented to explain the difference in names.
"Anyway," said Derek, taking charge, "we're here to discuss Douglas and what we can do to help deal with the inevitable gossip that'll surround him. Could even affect your job, lad," he added.
"I got sent for in the office this afternoon," Douglas said. "The boss was very understanding, but you're right, Dad, they won't want me around if it goes any further. He made that quite clear. But I'm all right for the moment. We just have to get this whole thing cleared up as soon as possible. All of us together should be able to get to the bottom of it. Or just Mum by herself."
He looked at her with such trust and confidence that Lois felt weak with anguish. Sleuthing was all very well, a bit of a game when it was someone else's family involved. But when it was your own son . . . She got up and went to the sink to hide her emotion. "I'll make some coffee," she said. "It'll keep us alert. We need a plan of action."
GORDON STREET WAS QUIET. A STRAY CAT ESCAPED DEATH BY inches as a large car turned the corner and made no attempt to avoid it. The car pulled up outside Braeside, and Alastair John Smith walked up to his mother's front door and disappeared inside.
Half an hour went by, with only a couple of girls giggling their way along to the supermarket. Then a middle- aged woman, thin and blonde, walked quickly up to Braeside front door and knocked. The front curtains twitched, and she knocked again. This time the door opened and she went in.
"Dot sodding Nimmo!" gasped Mrs. Blairgowrie. "What are you doing here?"
Alastair appeared behind her. "Get her, Babs," he said. "Get her back here in the sitting room."
"If you dare touch me," Dot said calmly, "I shall make sure everything I know about you and your little enterprise is reported directly to the police. I have left all the details with my sister with instructions to take the envelope to the police station if I am not back at her house by nine o'clock."
Mrs. Blairgowrie backed away from her, and Alastair stared, unsure what to do next.
"I 'ave a number of things to say to you," Dot continued, "so I'll come into the sitting room of my own free will." She walked past them and they followed meekly. "And leave the door open," she added. "I'm a bit claustrowhatsit."
Exactly a quarter of an hour later, the door of Braeside opened once more, and Dot Nimmo walked out, head held high.
FORTY-THREE
THE DAY OF THE OUTING DAWNED GREY AND WET. GRAN woke early and looked at the sky. "Rain before seven, fine before eleven," she said.
Lois came down to breakfast looking a lot more cheerful, and said it didn't matter anyway. Most of the museum was under cover. Derek said he would be better employed mending that leak in the shed, but Gran and Lois turned on him and said he'd promised to come to swell the numbers of the group. And anyway, there was the section of old farm machinery and he was interested in that, wasn't he? He capitulated and said he'd better be off to finish that job in Fletching so he could be back in time for the procession of cars to the museum.
"WE COULD'VE FILLED A MINIBUS," GRAN SAID, WHEN THEY WERE all assembled outside the church. "Still, at least it means we can leave when we want to."
Lois was subdued, but had decided that the outing would be a good opportunity for her to switch off and think. The family plan had turned out to be not much more than keeping eyes and ears open, and reporting back to Lois anything that might help. But she had been grateful for their support, and was confident that between them they would crack it. "Without Cowgill?" Derek had said, looking straight at her. She had not answered.
It was usually a twenty-minute drive, but the convoy had to go slowly because of the elderly Mini driven by Miss Hewitt and Miss Allen. The two ladies maintained that thirty miles an hour was fast enough for anyone. Derek noticed with chagrin that several cars passed them at speed on the dual carriageway, one containing a grinning mate of his from the pub. Finally they reached the modern entrance to the museum and parked in the spacious area labelled Groups.
"Well, I don't know I'm sure," said Ivy Beasley from Round Ringford WI. She stood looking around her. "You'd not think this was in the middle of Tresham, would you, Doris?" Doris was her good friend and companion, and had endless patience when in the firing line.
The large old red-brick farmhouse stood four-square among venerable pine trees, and in the surrounding park sheep grazed lazily in the sun. As Gran had predicted, soon after eleven o'clock the rain had stopped and the sky cleared. The assorted arrivals gathered together in a body and entered the museum reception area. The pleasant tall man greeted them, and said he was to be their guide. Miss Allen and Miss Hewitt disappeared behind the tempting shelves of the shop. "Come along now, ladies," the guide called. "Plenty of time to shop before you leave us."
They began in a small building dedicated to the origin of telephones. "Huh," said Ivy Beasley, "how fascinating."
"Oh, come on, Ivy," Doris said, "you get one end of this and I'll get the other." She handed Ivy an empty tin connected by string to another, and spoke in a whisper something that she was sure Ivy would not hear.
"Doris Ashbourne!" said Ivy, whose hearing was conveniently erratic. "That's quite enough of that!"
The party spent so long trying out mini- exchanges and telephones they could remember from their childhood that they had to be moved on by the guide. Entering the grand front door of the farmhouse, they turned out of a tiled hall into the best parlour, furnished entirely in the Victorian style. Gran was thrilled. "Oh, look, Lois!" she said. "A pianola! Just like we used to have at my auntie's."
A room steward stepped forward and said, "Would you like to play it, dear?"
Gran beamed. "Just remind me how," she said, and the woman showed her the pierced rolls of paper and the pedals that worked the mechanism. As a result, the tune could be speeded up or slowed down to a dirge, and Gran played "Hindustani" with considerable emotion. Lois stood watching, but chiefly her eyes were on the steward. Why was she so familiar? There was something about her guarded smile, the way she stood, waiting for Gran to finish. When the music ended at top speed, Gran modestly acknowledged a few claps, and joined the others.
"Lois! Come over here, me duck. Look at this sparrow hawk, poor thing." Derek was standing by a stuffed bird under a glass dome. It was moth-eaten and its fine feathers had faded. But its murderous beak and glassy stare made Lois shiver. "Ugh," she said, "I reckon they were a bloodthirsty lot, the Victorians."
"Nothing changes, Mrs. Meade," said the steward, coming up behind them. Lois was startled. How did this woman know her name? And why did her remark sound like a threat?
"On we go, ladies!" said the tall man, and Derek muttered to Lois that he wished the guide had noticed there were one or two men in the party. Lois glanced back once more at the steward, and was sure she had seen that face before. But not with pretty grey hair and pearls.
IT HAD BEEN AN INSPIRED VISIT. MANY OF THE WI MEMBERS could remember the old domestic exhibits, and the small street of shops intrigued them. The ladies did not linger in the large barn full of threshing machines, red paint faded to a gentle pink; friendly small tractors; and chicken houses, still with a faint odour of warm droppings. But Derek was in his element, and Lois waited for him rather than join the stampede to the tearooms. Then she caught sight once more of the woman steward crossing the yard outside. "Derek!" she said. "Who is that woman? I'm sure I've seen her before." But she had disappeared into the house, and that was the last Lois saw of her before sitting down to a welcome cup of tea with homemade gingerbread.
It was not the last Pat saw of Lois. The party did not know that she was following them discreetly out of sight, and noted with dismay that Lois Meade was accompanied by her mother and husband, and that none of them looked particularly troubled. Why not? All of 'em should be biting their nails in anxiety about Douglas. Pat was worried. She would have to report back to Alastair. Perhaps it would be better to phone Babs to convey the message. Meantime, Lois should have got the message in the parlour. It was meant to be a subtle warning, and it had gone home, judging from the look on her face.
Pat watched them with a sinking heart from the hatch in the kitchen, laughing and enjoying tea with the others. How to explain that to Alastair?
The group returned to Farnden in convoy, still at a steady thirty, and dispersed tired but happy.
Back in the museum, Pat prepared to leave, and said goodbye to the chief.
"Pleasant people, that lot," the tall man said. "Nice to have some intelligent questions. There's a lot to be said for retirement! Which reminds me," he added, "our long- serving caretaker has announced the date she wishes to leave, and it is alarmingly close. I wondered if you would like to think of taking her place? It would not, of course, include cleaning. As you know, we have a team of volunteers for that. But you could live rent free in the flat, and have the run of the gardens and so on. It is a responsible job, and requires a special kind of person. Could y
ou give it some thought?"
Pat beamed. All thoughts of Alastair vanished. "No need for thought! I accept right now. And I can move in as soon as you like. I've been living with my sister, as you know, and she is not as good company as my dear late husband, to put it mildly." It was immensely cheering to think of getting out of that awful crumbling safe house. This would be the perfect hiding place.
The tall man put out his hand. "My dear, you have saved the day. We shall discuss all the details in the morning, and I shall sleep soundly tonight. Thank you so much."
* * *
GRAN SET THE TABLE FOR SUPPER, HAVING HAD A FULL POSTmortem of the visit with Mrs. Pickering. "Went off well, we think," she said to Derek, who agreed, with reservations.
"Just don't try and rope me in on any trips to knitting exhibitions and stuff like that," he said. He looked across at Lois, who was staring blankly out of the window. "You're very quiet, me duck," he said. "Everything all right?"