Mike found himself at the receiving end of a dark, shrewd gaze. He felt that this police officer would recognise a lie from the most qualified of conmen. ‘And what else was said about her?’
‘That she were rich, very rich,’ Pat took up the theme. ‘Come from a good family somewhere and married beneath her. Supposed to have had a home like a palace, although she only ever had the smallholding, and in later years only her pension, as far as we know.’
‘Family?’ rapped out the policeman, contemplating his cigarette smoke.
‘No children, no one at all as far as we know,’ Mike answered. ‘Very sad when you look at it. How did she die, Chief Inspector?’
‘Preliminary reports suggest she was asphyxiated, Mr Penhaligon.’
* * *
Two days later Lionel Whitehead and his sergeant were sitting down to one each of Pat’s huge pasties and steaming mugs of tea. They ate their meal for privacy in the kitchen, and as they did so they chewed over the evidence gathered so far.
‘We don’t have much to go on yet, Sergeant. The old lady was choked to death by the shawl she was wearing, fibres of wool were found in a cut on her throat. After you with the salt and pepper. It must have taken a lot of strength to kill her because evidence shows she put up a desperate fight, borne out by the bruising on her hands and a broken finger, and she was strong for her age, according to the state of her heart. Motive appears to be theft. A cameo brooch people have mentioned she always wore is missing. Her pension, of course, hadn’t been drawn for several weeks and there was no money in her purse, but we can’t be absolutely certain which day of the week she was murdered. Money might have been stolen or she may have been broke from the week before. As she had no family, friends or visitors, hadn’t even seen the doctor in years, we don’t know if any other valuables have been taken. This pasty is good.’
‘Nearly as good as my mother’s, Chief.’
‘The letter which led to the discovery of her body has been of no help, just a quarterly bill for foodstuff for her pony. The pony has turned up, identified by a farmer, Spencer Jeffries, who found it browsing with his moorland stock.
‘Our best piece of information comes from Miss Tremorrow of the shop. After her grandfather’s sudden death – not in suspicious circumstances, I hasten to add, he could have dropped dead at any time apparently – she noticed things were missing when packing up his house. The young couple who took over the place, a Mr and Mrs Tom Waller, newlyweds, have stated that an apple and cinnamon pie went missing mysteriously while cooling on a windowsill, that vegetables have continued to disappear from the garden, but being somewhat wrapped up in each other they had put it down to the ghosts which are supposed to haunt the place. Other villagers have reported minor things like washing missing off clothes lines, milk stolen off doorsteps, a feeling that someone is watching them about the lanes and on the moor. A few people, like Ince Polkinghorne, the fiancé of the aforementioned Miss Tremorrow, have voiced the belief that there is a light-fingered tramp in the vicinity.’
‘Can I have the salt back, please, guv? This tramp could have been thieving from Mrs Noon and she could have surprised him.’
‘I don’t think so. If you had sneaked into someone’s house to steal from them and she caught you at it, would you make her sit down before killing her in a panic? No, Sergeant. There’s no evidence to suggest Chummy broke into the front of the house. Unlike most people round here, Mrs Noon kept her front door locked and bolted. There isn’t a key to her back door, just one bolt which hadn’t been forced. I believe Mrs Noon was already sitting down or her assailant made her sit down. Either way suggests premeditation. We’ve got men and locals out combing the moor. Let’s hope they come up with something. Pat says there’s a rice pudding in the oven. Dish it out, will you? I’m going down the road to see a Mrs Daisy Tamblyn after this. She had the shop before the engaged couple. We’ve been told her son was having an affair with a married woman and was involved in a punch-up with the cheated husband in the bar not so long ago. The husband killed himself by taking an overdose out on the moor and is now, of course, reputed to be haunting it. Mrs Tamblyn threw her son out. It was soon after Mrs Noon last drew her pension. I want to know where he’s been since then. I want a word with him.’
* * *
Alfie and his brothers were thrilled at having a murder so close to home and having police and reporters about the village. They made pests of themselves, hanging about and making up misleading stories, until PC Geach threatened, ‘I’ll lock you all up in a cell for the night and what would your poor mother do then?’ Alfie told his brothers the constable was only joking, but from then on he stopped them and himself from being a nuisance.
That afternoon there wasn’t a small Uren in sight in the village; they were having a rare treat, Rodney’s birthday party.
Not having any idea how to go about a child’s party, Dolores had enlisted Tressa and Roslyn to help her with the food and games and Laura had offered to make the cake and party hats. Careful to keep away from the sitting room where Gerald was sleeping in a drunken stupor, the women put Woody, the old dog, in the shed for his own sake, then decorated the kitchen and laid the table. With Dolores heavily pregnant, Tressa just beginning to show, and Laura in the delicate early stages, Roslyn climbed about putting up homemade streamers.
‘I had these left over from Rachael’s party,’ Roslyn said, pushing in the last drawing pin with a determined thumb. ‘She feels she’s getting a big girl now and said she didn’t want so much fuss this year.’ She viewed the other three women wryly when she got down off the chair. ‘Look at you. Three happy mothers-to-be. I hope it isn’t catching.’ She took Guy from Tressa’s arms. ‘And aren’t you getting to be a fine young man, the weight of you. What’s your mother feeding you on? Iron nails and spinach?’
As she was the only one who had not given birth before, Laura was bombarded with all sorts of useful advice. ‘No need to tell me about the birth,’ Laura protested in sport, wondering how she was going to remember everything. ‘I delivered Guy, don’t forget.’
‘That might come in useful,’ Dolores laughed, patting her huge bump. ‘Mine’s due any time now.’
‘You’re not having pains, are you?’ Tressa asked, getting the urge to rub Dolores’ back for her.
‘No, I think I’ll get this party over with before I add to the family.’
The birthday party was a happy fun-filled occasion which Alfie, despite his more grown-up eleven years and attendance now at the senior school, enjoyed as much as Rodney. Laura had made a square sponge cake, sandwiched it with jam and buttercream and iced the top. It had piped rosettes decorating it and tiny, hard, silver sugar balls spelling Rodney’s name. Roslyn had produced three miniature candle-holders and white candles and Rodney was fit to burst with pride and happiness when he blew them out.
When the tea was over, sticky hands and faces were washed and the pregnant women sat drinking tea while Roslyn, organising the children in a circle on the floor, sang popular songs to provide the music for a game of Pass the Parcel.
‘I’ll give a party for Guy’s first birthday and they can all come over to Tregorlan,’ Tressa said, watching the newspaper parcel being passed eagerly from hand to hand.
‘I don’t think Alfie will go to that,’ Dolores smiled, proud of her eldest son’s support and loyalty. She could rely on Alfie, whereas the lazy wretch in the other room was, nothing more than a burden to her now. There was a tender area on her stomach where Gerald had kneed her the day before. ‘What does Vicki think about your baby?’ she asked Laura.
‘She can’t wait,’ Laura replied, seeing again her stepdaughter’s delight when she and Spencer had told her about the baby. ‘Aunty Daisy taught her how to knit while she was staying with us and she’s knitting a blanket for it and is making all sorts of plans. She wants to choose the baby’s names though. I’m trying to get her to drop Jasper after a rabbit in one of her story books or Ophelia after she’d heard the name men
tioned in connection with Shakespeare’s play on the wireless.’
‘Jasper’s not too bad,’ Tressa said doubtfully. ‘Have you chosen your baby’s names yet, Dolores?’
‘I haven’t really thought of any boy’s names because I’m hoping for another girl. I like Grace, after Gracie Fields – I’ve always liked her singing.’
‘That’s lovely,’ Laura said. ‘Spencer would like a boy and wants to call him after himself. What? I said. Can the world bear two Spencer Jeffries?’
The women giggled, then clapped their hands as Rachael won the prize of a long liquorice whirl in a little brown bag. She broke off tiny bits and gave some to each child, saving the biggest bit, much to Vicki’s chagrin, for Alfie. Everyone joined in for Blind Man’s Buff and Winking. Alfie refused to play Postman’s Knock, raising his voice and making the other children squeal with mirth at declaring that kissing of any sort was only for sissies.
There was a sudden urgent banging on the other side of the kitchen wall. Dolores became anxious; Gerald was complaining about the noise. Quick as a flash Alfie suggested Hide and Seek outside and, always ready to comply with their hero, all the children ran obediently outside.
‘Now, ladies,’ Roslyn smiled cheerfully to mask the awkward moment. ‘Where’s my cup of tea?’
Daisy peeped round the front door. A huge smile was lighting up her face from ear to ear.
‘The chief inspector didn’t arrest you then?’ Laura joked, relieved at seeing Daisy in such good spirits. She had called in on her just before coming here and Daisy, in the middle of the questioning, had looked fearful and guilty, as if the policeman was about to lock her up for the rest of her life.
‘Like I told him, I’ve no idea where Bruce is and I don’t care. I gave him Bruce’s address in Canada in case he’s gone home to Carol. Anyway, that’s enough about him.’
Daisy’s hand shot into sight and the others saw a bottle of champagne in it. ‘This has just been delivered to Rosemerryn with a telegram. Spencer was bringing it over but when he saw me he asked me to pass it on, what with just women being here. There’s wonderful news. Early this morning Celeste gave birth to a seven pound, five ounce baby girl, Elizabeth Helen Rose.’
There were cheers and whoops of joy. Laura burst into tears. Tressa and Roslyn hadn’t even known Celeste was pregnant, and Daisy told them she was now respectably married. Mindful of Gerald, the women calmed down quickly. The champagne cork was popped and the pale golden liquid poured into cups and mugs.
‘That’s fantastic,’ Dolores exclaimed. ‘Celeste’s baby sharing the same birthday as one of my children.’ She frowned. ‘I was sure she was having a boy.’
‘There’s still plenty of time to have your next one before midnight,’ Daisy pointed out.
‘Celeste was having the baby at home,’ Laura said, wiping her eyes. ‘I can’t wait to phone her, hear how everything went.’
Daisy tapped Laura on the arm. ‘Spencer said to tell you not to get too excited.’
‘Oh, isn’t it lovely how they fuss over you?’ Spencer had insisted on carrying a bundle of towels upstairs for her this morning.
‘Tell me about it,’ Tressa grinned. Andrew had brought home a box of chocolates last night, ‘Just in case you’re feeling weepy and need cheering up, darling.’
‘Wait until you’ve had the third one,’ Roslyn grunted with the air of an old hand at the game. ‘He’ll hardly give you a second thought.’
Some men never care at all, Dolores thought for one sad, bitter moment.
When the party guests had gone and Alfie, being wise, had taken his brothers off to play outside, Dolores settled Emily down for a nap and put her feet up. The other women had insisted on washing the dishes and clearing up the crumbs and the kitchen was clean and tidy. It was quiet and peaceful. After a few minutes her eyelids drooped and she fell asleep.
A hard slap on the head woke her up. ‘I’ve run out of b-booze,’ Gerald slurred on rocky feet. ‘Get up to the pub and knock up the landlord.’
Dolores gave a despairing sigh. ‘He won’t let me have any. I keep telling you, Gerry. Mike said he won’t serve me out of hours any more.’
‘Do as you’re bloody told!’ Gerald snarled, gripping her by the throat and hauling her out of the chair. ‘You rotten bitch! I want a drink and I want it now.’
‘I haven’t got enough money,’ Dolores pleaded. ‘I’ve had Rodney’s birthday present and party this week.’
Gerald smashed her across the face. She screamed and shied away.
‘You’d no need to give the bleddy kid a party. Bringing a bunch of stuck-up interfering bitches in here. Making so much bleddy noise I couldn’t sleep.’
Before when he had beaten her Dolores had shouted at him but she had learned that the more she said, the more brutal he became. So she had clamped her mouth tightly shut in a disapproving line, but this had driven him wild with fury too and he’d struck her for it. The last few times she had hung her head and waited for him to stop abusing her. Today her hangdog demeanour infuriated him.
‘Say something, you fat, useless bitch. Don’t you dare keep ignoring me.’ He laid into her, slapping, punching, kicking, paying no heed to her cries and pleas.
Biddy Grean was outside her door listening. The new tenants in the Millers’ house came outside and stood on their back doorstep.
‘Is he at it again?’ Barry Hoskins called across to his neighbour.
‘Started the minute the children and their mothers left the party,’ Biddy informed him, neck bent forward, a hand to her ear.
‘We’ve only been here a week,’ said Alison Hoskins, her temper rising, ‘and that’s the third time I’ve heard that swine beating her up. Do something, Barry.’
Barry, built like a brick wall, his head like a block of wood, flexed his mammoth hands and ran them through his Brylcreemed hair. ‘Right, I will. No one keeps hitting a woman when I’m around.’ He cocked his tree stump leg over the dividing fence then changed his mind. ‘I’ve got a better idea. The village is full of coppers. Let one of they catch him red-handed.
They can lock the bastard up and throw away the key.’
Having given up peeing in the ditches because he felt it set his brothers a bad example, Alfie had popped home to use the lavatory. On hearing his mother’s screams, he leaped over the back garden wall. His heart was beating wildly in fear for his mother and hatred for Gerald. The two negative emotions turned into hard resolve. He wasn’t going to let his lazy good-for-nothing stepfather hurt his mother any more.
‘Wait, Alfie,’ Biddy called to him, appalled by his fierce expression; his intention was plain. ‘Barry’s gone for help. You’ll only make things worse if you try to interfere.’
Alfie ignored both her and Alison who also begged him not to go inside. He thrust open the back door and saw his mother down on the floor, Gerald was kicking her; he wasn’t wearing shoes but he was still doing a lot of damage.
‘Leave her alone! Get away from her!’
‘Sod off!’ Gerald snapped, looking over his shoulder. ‘Your old lady’s asked for this.’
With a cry like a banshee and a mighty lunge Alfie launched himself at Gerald’s back. He pummelled and pounded, trying to get Gerald off-balance and down on the floor. It was easily done with the man drink-sodden and hungover, but as they hit the floor it was Alfie who was pinned underneath. They were near the sink. Sitting astride the boy, Gerald pushed aside the piece of curtain hanging from the draining board and grabbed a handbrush. He bashed the wooden handle down on Alfie’s forehead. Alfie howled and struggled to push the man off him. Gerald hit him again and again and again.
Dolores reached them, crawling on all fours, her heavy stomach hanging grotesquely beneath her. ‘Stop it! Leave my son alone. We’re finished, Gerald! Get out of my house and leave us alone.’
Flinging out his hand, Gerald hit her face cruelly hard, sending her toppling onto her back. Alfie was stunned, his head spun, the pain thumped unbearably. Weakly, h
e put up his hands to fend off further violence. Gerald brought the handbrush down on his temple and all went black. Dolores screamed in terror for her son.
‘Got you, you little bastard.’ Gerald wiped sweat and spittle off his chin. ‘Now for your mother.’
Dolores screamed again. She couldn’t get up out of his reach. She couldn’t move a muscle. She was petrified for herself and for Emily.
‘Oh no you don’t!’
Gerald was knocked senseless by a woman wielding a saucepan. He crashed to the floor unconscious.
Alison Hoskins put the saucepan down and glanced at Biddy Grean cowering behind her, hands clutched to her face. ‘We’ve been ruddy fools,’ she said scornfully. ‘We should have been the ones to run for the coppers and Barry should have stopped this from happening.’ She shook Biddy. ‘Pull yourself together, you silly cow, and run and phone for an ambulance.’
Alison made to go to Dolores but she pointed agitatedly to Alfie. ‘Is… is he all right?’
Kneeling beside the boy, Alison pressed her fingers on his neck, feeling for a pulse. ‘He’s breathing. Let’s hope he’s not too badly hurt.’ A row of coats hung on hooks on the back of the door and she laid a couple of them over Alfie. Looking dispassionately at Gerald and seeing his chest heaving as it rose and fell, she stepped over him and crouched down beside Dolores.
‘I heard you order your man to get out. I hope you meant it. Can you move? Do you think you’ve got any broken bones?’
‘I’m just aching all over. Thank God Emily was really tired because of the party and slept all the way through it. Will you help me up?’
Alison helped Dolores to a sitting position then linked her arms round her from behind. She didn’t have to struggle to get Dolores into a chair. Barry was suddenly there helping her. With him was Chief Inspector Whitehead and the sergeant.
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