by Ann Purser
“Good!” said Cowgill, sitting up straighter. “Now, anything you want to tell me now? I expect you’re anxious to get back as soon as possible.”
Lois frowned. Ah well, here goes. “Did you know the Prof’s done a bunk?” she said.
“We know he’s away on business,” said Cowgill. “Is there more? Gone to Russia, his wife says.”
Lois hesitated. Was this disloyalty? This was going to be difficult. Still, it could be important. “More like buggering off, if you ask me,” she said. “He’s always been one to spread it about a bit. She was a mess when he went, but manages now, just about.”
“Another woman?” said Cowgill.
“She thinks so,” Lois replied. “It could have something to do with your second round of questioning. That’s what I thought, anyway. He’s not actually gone off before. More the quick fumble before the wife sees – that kind of thing. Anyway, over to you. I shall no doubt hear more next week, if he’s not already back.” She stood up. “Got to go now, else the nurse’ll be back. I’ll pick a bit of holly in Gloria’s garden on my way – a reason for being here…”
“Gloria’s not going to need it, that’s for sure,” said Hunter Cowgill, with a small smile that was quickly gone. “Thanks, then, Mrs Meade. I’ll be in touch.”
Keith was still at the foot of the stairs, but now stood to one side as Lois came down. “Rat!” she said, as she passed him, and then, because his face fell like one of the boys in trouble, she added, “You know what’s out of kilter in that bedroom?” He shook his head. “The bed,” she said. “That horrible bed. And them dolls. Blimey, would you want to hop in there?” She was gratified at the embarrassment on Keith’s face, and left the cottage, brushing past the trellis surrounding the front door as she escaped. She felt in a turmoil filled with such mixed feelings, which were relieved only by loud cursing when she pricked her hand on the vicious holly in Gloria’s garden.
♦
“Those are lovely berries!” said Gillian Surfleet, walking into her yard as Lois returned. “What a good idea. Thank you!” she added, as Lois gingerly handed her the branches of holly. “Poor old Gloria used to make a lot of Christmas, though she was always on her own…mostly…”
Lois looked at her closely. “What do you mean, ‘mostly’?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Gillian said, shrugging. She took off her coat and put down her bag, full of supplies for the sick and convalescent in the surrounding villages.
Lois thought again how capable she looked, with her generous bosom and sturdy legs. I wouldn’t mind being looked after by her. She wondered if Gloria had come to her for reassurance, spilling out her worries and disappointments. “Gillian,” she said hesitantly. “Gillian, did Miss Hathaway have admirers? You know, boyfriends of any sort? You’d be the one to see them going up and down the garden path.”
Gillian Surfleet looked away, shaking her head. “Better not ask me that, Lois,” she said. “You know what they say: eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves. And I can’t deny I did hear some conversations through the garden hedge that wouldn’t bear repeating to the wrong person.”
“Like the police?”
Again Gillian nodded. “Best to keep things to yourself if you’re not sure what they mean,” she said. “It’s against the rules of my job to gossip. You can just imagine how many secrets I’m privy to on my rounds.”
Well, you’ve told me something, thought Lois. So the sharp and solitary Gloria did have admirers or boyfriends or whatever. Men. Men used to go up and down her path and in and out of the little arched trellis. As Lois polished, she wondered where else the men went. Up the stairs and into the scented bedroom with the huge bed and its creepy pile of dolls? And which men?
Her work finished, Lois struggled into her coat. She had more layers than usual to keep out the cold, and felt like an overstuffed armchair with her scarlet scarf round her neck and thick knitted gloves. But it was still cold and the heater had finally packed up in her car. One thing, she said to herself as she drove slowly up Farnden main street, the murderer may not have gone up and down Gloria’s path that night, but he certainly knew where she would be, where he could find her and finish her off in that violent way. Must have been easy. Lois shivered. Skinny woman like that, with a neck like a chicken. She peered round into the Barratts’ to see if there were any signs of the Prof’s return. There were no cars in the drive, and the windows looked blank and lifeless.
Lois changed gear with a clumsy grating sound and accelerated out of the village. The Prof was a strong man. She’d seen him in the garden heaving great rocks about when they were building that fancy pond. He’d wring the necks of those poor pheasants he went shooting without a qualm, she was sure. It was the obvious conclusion. But it was too obvious. Lois had read enough detective stories to know that the obvious suspect is never the guilty one. She wished she had asked Nurse Surfleet if she’d ever seen Professor Barratt knocking at Gloria’s door. Still, she wouldn’t have told Lois. Professional secrecy, and all that. Gloria Hathaway was hardly Malcolm’s type, was he? Lois couldn’t imagine what type would want to jump into that bed with Gloria Hathaway, poor stringy thing, with her gingery hair and freckled skin. But there was always someone, and the attraction could have been that Gloria was willing.
Swerving to avoid a roving dog brought her sharply back to the present. That Cowgill’s got me thinking again, she realized, and felt suddenly happy. It was, after all, what she’d wanted. Put your brain to work, her dad had said so many times, and she hadn’t. Well, now she was, and what the result would be was anyone’s guess. At least I’ll have had a go, she told herself, and turned into Byron Way with a flourish.
When she opened the door, she saw Derek sitting at the kitchen table, a mug of tea in his hand, his shoes off, reading the sports pages. “Home early!” she said. “What went wrong at the Hall?”
Derek shook his head. “Nothing wrong – just finished the job. The lady of the house couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. Maybe she thought I’d pinch some more freesias. Anyway, the kid came prancing in and asked if I’d like to look at her new pony and her mum came down like a ton of bricks. ‘The electrician has to be on his way,’ says she. ‘Thank you so much…send us your bill and if the work is satisfactory we shall no doubt have other things for you in the future.’ Satisfactory, my eye. She’ll not get a better job done nowhere. Anyway, Lois, how was the nurse today?”
“Fine,” said Lois absently. “Any tea left in the pot? Give us a cup then. I’ve got some thinking to do.”
Derek looked at her fondly. “You’re a wonder, gel,” he said. “As if you hadn’t got enough on your plate without playing policewoman. Here, let me take your coat off and you sit down and warm up first.” He stood behind her and helped her off with the duffel, turning to hang it up. “Hello, what’s that,” he said, running his hand over the sleeve of her jersey. “Nasty mark on that,” he said. “Hope it’ll wash out.”
Lois was upstairs in a flash, pulling the jersey over her head and turning it round to look. She saw a dark stain at the top of the sleeve that had certainly not been there when she went out. She sniffed at it and smelled creosote. Not an unpleasant smell, but she could not think for the life of her where it came from. She wondered whether to tell Derek about Hunter Cowgill, but decided not – not yet.
♦
Rachel Barratt sat in her cheerful sitting room, the fire blazing and the television on.
It was four-thirty in the afternoon and she had a full glass of white wine at her elbow and a half-empty box of chocolates on her lap. She felt very happy and when the doorbell rang she ignored it. Whoever it was could go away. The girls had broken up from school and were staying with their grandmother. Malcolm was presumably lost in the snowy deeps of Russia, and she was watching a sexy film which had just got to the good bit. She shifted round in her chair to get more comfortable and took another chocolate.
The doorbell rang again. Blast! “Go away!” she shouted, and
then gasped as a face appeared at the window. She rushed to the door then, and opened it quickly.
“Afternoon Madam,” said the tall man standing on the doorstep. “Detective Inspector Cowgill…can I come in for a few minutes? One or two things I’d like to check with you.”
∨ Murder on Monday ∧
Eighteen
“Mum!” It was Josie, followed by the boys. “Mum! Dad!” Lois struggled awake, nudging Derek as she became aware of the little party standing at their bedroom door. She and Derek had been up until the small hours finishing the decorations and stacking the parcels under the shimmering Christmas tree. Now she sat up muzzily and saw Josie bearing a breakfast tray and a wide grin.
“Happy Christmas! Happy Christmas!” Jamie leapt on the bed and bounced up and down.
“Careful!” said Derek, rubbing his eyes. Douglas, in his position as eldest boy, pushed Jamie off the bed and made a grand gesture to Josie, indicating that she could now safely present the tray. On it, on the best china, were grapefruit, cereals, toast and marmalade, and Lois’s cut-glass vase containing one greenish-white Christmas rose from the garden. “Blimey! Must be expecting some good presents, this lot…”
Lois’s lip quivered, and she grabbed Josie’s hand. “Thanks, love,” she said. “What a great idea.” She turned to Derek. “Shall I be mother?”
“Not again, I hope!” said Derek jovially, and reached for a cup of tea strong enough to take the back off his throat.
Lois’s mother arrived early, bringing her share of the Christmas feast, and the two women worked most of the morning in the kitchen, filling the house with such good smells that a series of interruptions from the rest of family began, asking obvious questions about whether they could help and surely they should lay the table now?
It was the family tradition that presents were not opened until after dinner, and as there were so many, this went on more or less until bedtime. Occasionally they took a break, and one or another would stroll around the estate for a breath of fresh air and reassurance that the normal world was still out there. Nobody could eat Christmas cake at teatime, and Lois was just taking it back to the kitchen, saying they could have it later, when she saw a figure approaching the back door. Tall, head down, dressed carefully in neat jeans and jacket, Melvyn knocked diffidently at the door, at the same time peering anxiously through the window into the kitchen. Oh Lord, now what? Nobody ever called on Christmas Day. Families kept themselves to themselves on the estate. It was one of those accepted norms. None of your sherries for the locals before lunch that Lois’s clients in Farnden seemed to think was necessary. She’d often pitied them for not being able to spend one whole day with their families and nobody else.
And now here was Melvyn, smiling pleadingly at her through the window. She opened the door. “Happy Christmas, Mrs Meade,” said Melvyn. “I was just passing and wondered if I could see Josie for a minute? Got something for her…just a little something,” he added, seeing Lois’s face.
“You’d better come in,” Lois said grudgingly, standing back to let him step inside. He looked at the cake and said, “That’s a good’un, Mrs Meade!” Lois didn’t reply, but walked ahead of him to the sitting room, where the usual quarrel about presents was in progress. As Melvyn followed her, there was a sudden silence, and Josie, crouched on the floor with a half-assembled construction toy, struggled to her feet, her face scarlet.
“Hi, Josie,” said Melvyn, his composure regained. “Happy Christmas, Mr Meade and all…”
Nobody replied, and Derek got to his feet, scowling. “What’re you doing round here on Christmas Day?” he said.
“Got a present for Josie,” said Melvyn, unabashed. He fished in his jacket pocket and brought out a small, square package wrapped in glittery paper. “Here,” he said. “You said you liked them in that shop, so I got you one.”
Josie held out her hand, glancing fearfully at her father and took the package. “Thanks,” she said, and smiled defiantly.
“Open it, then,” said Melvyn. It was as if they were the only two in the room, the rest struck dumb by some pantomime fairy godmother.
Derek had been doing some quick thinking, and suddenly spoke: “Well then,” he said. “What’ll you have to drink, Melvyn? Mustn’t forget the festive spirit, Lois,” he added with a meaningful look as he turned to the tray of bottles on the sideboard.
“Thanks,” said Melvyn, visibly relaxing. “Got any cider, Mr Meade?”
“Move up,” said Douglas to Jamie and made a space on the sofa where Melvyn sat down smiling.
Josie nervously pulled at the wrappings of her parcel and finally produced a small, framed picture. “Oh!” she said, colouring again. “It’s the one I liked!” Inside, behind the glass, was a tiny tableau of fabric mice, dressed in human clothes and busy about a minute kitchen. It was charming, and clearly expensive. “You shouldn’t have!” Josie exclaimed, and gave Melvyn an impulsive kiss on his cheek.
“That must have cost a bit,” said Lois, peering at the picture. “It’s really lovely, Melvyn.” She felt uneasy, and glanced across at Derek. She could see by his expression that he felt the same. Neither of them said anything much, but Lois’s mother was full of praise and admiration.
“Lucky you,” she said to Josie, “to have such a generous boyfriend!”
“She’s too young for boyfriends,” said Derek jerkily.
“Melvyn’s just one of the gang,” added Lois defensively. “Now, shall we all have a game of cards? I expect you’ll have to be getting back, Melvyn?”
But Melvyn had no intention of getting back. The usual traditional Christmas was in full swing in his house, with all the right trimmings, but here in this crowded semi on the Churchill Estate, he basked in the warmth that was missing back at home. Here, amongst the quarrelling and shouting, and gleeful boasting, the over-eating and drinking, was something special, and he stayed on obstinately, until it was dark and Jamie began to yawn and was packed off to bed.
♦
Melvyn’s Christmas visit caused a great deal of argument between Lois and Derek during the rest of the holidays, but both agreed that it was better to have him there where they could see what he was up to. Better than some dark corner of a derelict factory. It was not until the children were back at school that Lois had time to think again about Gloria Hathaway. There had been the usual round of treats for the boys – a visit to the cinema, a hugely expensive night at the pantomime in Tresham’s Theatre Royal. Lois’s mother had come too, and Derek had looked ruefully at the bill for the tickets. “Could get you a new car for that, Lois,” he said. But it was traditional. They all had ice-creams in the interval, and Derek said thank God Christmas only came once a year.
And then it was all over. New Year was not made much of in the Meade household. Lois always said they had enough celebrating by the time the New Year came in, and she and Derek did not even stay up to watch the celebrations on the television. Derek was back at work, the children reluctantly returned to a new term, a sprinkling of new teachers and a new curriculum at school, and Lois went back to her weekly routine in Long Farnden and her curiosity about the increasingly interesting Gloria Hathaway. A fall of snow held her up, but the heavy old car pushed on slowly, and her thoughts returned to the puzzle before her.
♦
Who was the real Gloria Hathaway? Lois was beginning to wonder. The early picture of a sharp, unfriendly spinster was beginning to change. The quiet ones were always the worst, her Dad used to say. Just what was she up to in her tea cosy cottage? And how did she live? Lois couldn’t remember anyone saying she went out to work. Yet she had a new little car every two years and her furniture and clothes were all clearly good quality. Lois knew expensive clothes when she saw them. No sign of poverty, or even economy. The cottage was well maintained, paintwork good, clearly renewed regularly, and the thatch had been recently repaired. Lois was on her way to the vicarage, but she drove on as far as Gloria Hathaway’s cottage and pulled up, staging at the pleasi
ng picture of a thatched cottage under snow. The trellis porch with its now bare tangle of rose branches, sagged slightly under the weight. The wooden lattice showed darkly through the stark whiteness, and a small link connected up in Lois’s brain. Creosote. She’d noticed spots of it on Gloria’s otherwise immaculate front doorstep. The trellis had been treated very recently and it hugged the door so closely that it was impossible to step inside without brushing against it. And thereby stain one’s jersey, thought Lois excitedly – and one’s Barbour too, especially if you were a big man, pushing his way in.
She turned around and accelerated down the street, skidded alarmingly by the village shop, and caused Dr Rix to turn and gesticulate anxiously at her. She waved cheerfully at him. Derek had taught her how to steer into a skid, but she proceeded more circumspectly along to the vicarage.
Peter White was in his kitchen, and smiled warmly at Lois as she stamped snow off her shoes. “Come on in, my dear,” he said. “Just made a pot of tea. You must have a cup and warm up. How was your Christmas? Children happy?” It crossed his mind to ask whether they had gone to church on Christmas Day, but he knew the answer to that one, and abandoned it.
“Fine, thanks,” said Lois. “And you?” Silly question, she thought. It was the vicar’s busiest time of the year, she supposed. He looked so friendly and concerned that she broke her usual rule and sat down to sip scalding hot tea and allow him to chat. And anyway, something useful might come up.
He was in the middle of a long story about the children carol singing round the village, and her thoughts were wandering, when he got up suddenly and said, “There’s a policeman at the door, Lois. Better let him in, if you don’t mind. I’ll just tidy up,” he added. “I’m afraid I haven’t combed my hair yet!”
Not much difference when you do, thought Lois, but obediently went to the front door and opened it.