by Ann Purser
“Might I see it, sir?”
“Of course, I’ll call Rachel.”
Inspector Cowgill made no comment, but the fact that it had a recent cleaner’s ticket pinned to the lining, in the middle of the muckiest, wettest season of the year, when expensive cleaning would be an utter waste of time, seemed odd to the inspector, and he made one or two notes. “Well, I’ll be off now,” he said. “Don’t worry, Mrs Barratt, I’ll see myself out,” and he was gone.
Malcolm was taut with anger. “Why the bloody hell did you send it to the cleaners?” he said.
“It had that mark on the sleeve, you know…you said…” said Rachel, beginning to tremble.
“I didn’t ask you to!”
“But I often send your clothes without…” faltered Rachel in a cracked voice. Malcolm sighed. “Oh well, I don’t suppose it matters,” he said, deflating. “Don’t let’s spoil it all now. We’ll go down to the pub and have a curry.” He had made a big effort, he felt, but the coolness was there again and he didn’t know what else to do for the moment.
The Farnden Arms stood at a crossroads in the village, where a narrow lane intersected the long main street about halfway down. The pub had been built three hundred and fifty years ago as a staging post on the main route to the west. It was large for a village pub, with a big yard with stabling at the back, but no horses, carts or carriages called there now for a rest on their long journey. The stables were converted into garages and, tacked on to the end, built in ugly pink brick, were the pub toilets. The new landlord – Don Cutt, late of the Standing Arms, Round Ringford – had put up new signs; a highwayman for the men’s toilet, a simpering, crinolined lady for the ladies. This had caused some ribaldry in the pub and Malcolm Barratt had made a serious request for reinstatement of the old toilets. “Those new things are right out of character,” he’d said to Don Cutt, who had made a silent vow to keep things exactly as he wanted them. Some of the older inhabitants of the village had been delighted with the new signs, and one old boy had told him a story of the legendary Ditchford Dick, a local highwayman who’d led a life of successful crime, but ended his days swinging from the gibbet on Fletching Hill.
“Morning, Professor,” said Don, with professional bonhomie. “And Mrs Barratt. Nice to see you back, sir. What can I get you?”
“Pint of Old Hookie for me, and a gin and tonic for Rachel,” said Malcolm, perching on a bar stool and holding another out for Rachel.
“Um, no,” she said. “I think I’ll just have an apple juice today, thanks.”
Don Cutt smiled kindly at her, and said, “Fine. Apple juice coming up. The Old Hookie’ll be a minute or so – just put on a new barrel.”
Malcolm took up the menu and glanced down it. “How’s the new caterer doing?” he said. Bronwen had grown tired and too old, she said, to cope with pub food any more, and they’d got in this Indian bloke, who filled the place with foreign smells that were nevertheless very appetising, and the new dishes were going well. They chose curries and went to sit down in the corner.
They were halfway through, at ease with each other again, when Dallas Baer walked in. “Malcolm!” he said. “Welcome back, old son!” Greetings were exchanged, and Dallas walked over to them carrying his half-pint.
“Join us?” said Malcolm, but Dallas shook his head. “Got to get back to the wife. She’s not been well, but you wouldn’t have heard about that. A nasty fall. Well on the road to recovery now, though. Thanks all the same,” he added, and downed his beer in a couple of swallows. “Where’ve you been, then, you old reprobate?” he said. “Thought I caught sight of you one day when I was up in Edinburgh – ”
Rachel turned swiftly to Malcolm. “But I thought you said – ”
“Must’ve been someone else,” said Malcolm smoothly. “Sure you won’t have the other half?”
Don Gutt had his hand ready on the pump, but Dallas shook his head. “No,” he said. “Have to get back. Evangeline is much better, but doesn’t like being left alone for long.”
“Very understandable,” said Rachel acidly, and added, “Give her my love. I’ll be round to see her later with another book. She read the last one in three days, poor soul. Just as well the gallery’s closed anyway at present, isn’t it, so Evangeline can have a really good rest?” Her voice was not friendly. She’d heard rumours around the village. Did she fall or was she pushed? She had dismissed these as typical gossip, but after her own recent experiences she was tempted to lump all men into the same guilty heap. Men…who needs them? I do, she admitted, and fought a winning battle against the craving for a nice cool glass of white wine.
∨ Murder on Monday ∧
Twenty-Two
“Morning, Lois!” Malcolm’s voice came as no surprise to Lois as she let herself into the Barratts’ kitchen. A call from Janice Britton had given her the news of his return. Janice was wary of the new arrangement but had been told by Hunter Cowgill himself to cooperate with Lois. Janice had explained to Lois that she’d seen Malcolm in the shop, looking as full of himself as usual, with Rachel tagging along behind him with a meek expression on her foolish face. Janice had sounded annoyed, as if Rachel was letting down the whole of womankind, and Lois had momentarily agreed. Then afterwards, once she had thought about it, her sympathies moved to Rachel. After all, Rachel had the girls to bring up and no job of her own. It was easy for Janice to be judgemental when she was single with no children and a good career in front of her. “Ah, you’re back, Professor Barratt,” said Lois coldly. Malcolm had just come in from the garden, back in countryman mode, wearing his Barbour and a tweed hat which made him look like an actor playing the part.
“Surely,” he said in a mock stern tone, “you know me well enough now, Lois, to call me Malcolm?”
She ignored this, and said blandly, “Did you have a nice holiday?”
He nodded quickly, and said, “I’d be glad if you could do my study first this morning? I want peace and quiet up there as soon as possible and no interruptions.”
“If that’s all right with Rachel,” Lois said, and added, “and the totally silent cleaner’s not yet been invented. Perhaps you could do that, being a professor and all, Malcolm?”
Rachel was in the sitting room, plumping up cushions and stacking newspapers. “I don’t expect you to tidy as well as clean,” she said. She had said this every week before Malcolm’s disappearance, and then she couldn’t have cared less whether the house was clean, tidy or burnt down to its foundations.
Lois recognised the old catchphrase as a return to normality, and smiled. “Thanks,” she said. “If only all my clients were as thoughtful as you, Rachel. I’m to start upstairs, then?”
“Please, if you don’t mind,” said Rachel, apologetically.
Lois had all but finished in the attic study when she heard Malcolm’s step on the stairs. She rapidly rewound the cleaner flex and made for the door, but suddenly there he was, barring her way.
“All done?” he said, but he was not smiling. Lois nodded, moving forward. He put out a hand and took her arm. A shiver of fear made her start back. “Now, Lois,” he said, turning her back into the room. “I have meant to say this to you before, but now it’s even more important. A lot of my work deals with sensitive issues and anything you may see or hear in this room is strictly confidential. Do you understand? Papers, telephone calls, anything at all. Do I make myself clear?”
Stupid old fart! Suddenly Lois was angry. “Excuse me, Professor Barratt,” she said sharply, pulling her arm away from his restraining hand. “I’ll thank you not to touch me again, ever, and if I hear any more so-called warnings from you like that, I shall be handing in my notice at once. It seems to me,” she said, warming to the task, “that anybody who’s been away from home for weeks without letting his wife know where he is – or been in touch with his daughters at Christmas – has no right to be talking about ‘sensitive issues’. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll get on with my work.”
To her surprise, Malcolm s
miled. “Wonderful!” he said. “I love it when you’re angry. Off you go, with your arms akimbo! Wonderful!” And he added to her departing back, “Don’t forget what I said, mind!”
Lois, furious, clattered down the stairs, all prepared to collect her coat and leave, but when she reached the hall she saw Rachel looking at her with a worried frown. “All right, Lois?” she said, her chin quivering.
“I suppose so,” said Lois wearily.
“I’ll make us a coffee,” said Rachel gratefully, and scuttled into the kitchen. Lois followed her and began to sweep the quarry-tiled floor. She hated it, with its liver-coloured tiles and dull surface that never came up to a good shine. As she simmered down, she reflected that after all it wouldn’t be such a good idea to give up the Barratts. She’d learn nothing more about Malcolm’s strange absence, nor about the reason he’d had that stain cleaned off his jacket. Maybe now would be a good time to get something out of Rachel.
“Oh, by the way,” she said. “Where did you take the professor’s jacket to be cleaned? Looks good as new. My Derek’s got a nasty oily stain on his and he won’t chuck nothing away…”
Rachel looked at her sharply. “Johnsons in Tresham,” she replied. Then she added, as if to herself, “Wretched jacket – what’s so special about it?”
“Special?” said Lois, taking her empty mug to the sink and rinsing it out. “What d’you mean?” she added casually. “Is it Exhibit A, or something?”
It was meant to be a joke, a tactful reference to the mystery of the disappearing professor, but Rachel’s reaction took her by surprise. “What d’you mean!” Rachel stuttered. “Has that Inspector been talking to you?”
Lois shook her head. “No, it wasn’t…I just meant…” She gathered her thoughts swiftly, and added, “Why, Rachel? Was he interested in the jacket?” But Rachel had withdrawn, taken up a vase of flowers and gone rapidly out of the kitchen.
Halfway through the morning, Lois was dusting upstairs in the big bedroom overlooking the drive. She straightened the curtains and saw a police car draw up at the gate. Since nobody seemed to be answering the door, she went quickly downstairs and opened it. “Morning, Inspector,” she said.
The Inspector’s smile was warm. “Good morning, Mrs Meade,” he said. “Is the Professor at home?”
“I’ll get him,” said Lois, but Malcolm had come up behind her.
“Thank you, Lois. I’ll look after the inspector now.” Dismissed, Lois walked slowly back up the stairs, straining her ears to hear what was said.
She managed to catch the tail end of a sentence, just before the sitting room door was slammed shut by Malcolm, “…and so I wonder if you’d mind telling me about that evening once more,” said the Inspector.
♦
“What made you think you’d be the only one to notice those jackets?” said Derek, pushing spaghetti around his plate. “Stands to reason. If an amateur like you can spot a thing like that, it’s a sure thing a professional will notice it, too. They’re highly trained, y’know. PC Plod is a thing of the past. But,” he added, looking at Lois crestfallen face, “he might not have come up with the connection. Not noticed the creosote on that trellis.”
“Bet he has,” said Lois miserably. Still, the whole jacket business might not be all that important. She’d only to find a reason why Malcolm Barratt visited Gloria, and she’d already come up with his oft-declared intention of ‘getting to know the locals’ by taking on the delivery of the village newsletter. And the doctor and the vicar had every reason to be there.
She brooded on this for a while, until Derek said, “Penny for ‘em,” as his fork chased the last piece of pasta across the table.
“Worth more than a penny,” said Lois, thinking quickly. “It’s the boys. They’ll soon both need new shoes.” She got up and kissed the top of Derek’s head, his springy hair tickling her nose. “You’d better get back to work,” she said. “Else we’ll never be able to afford them, the price trainers are these days. They’ll want the latest, of course.”
“Of course,” said Derek. “And as long as I can connect a couple of wires, they shall have the latest.”
♦
The shoe shop was crowded, as always on a Saturday. Most of the customers had helped themselves to a single shoe that took their fancy, and stood about trying to catch the eye of one of the very few assistants. After a long wait, the boys finally had their shoes, and Lois said they could go off for half an hour, but to meet her again by the entrance to John Lewis without fail. Josie had tagged along in the hope of new shoes herself, but Lois had very little money left.
“Next month, Josie,” she said. “Then it’ll be your turn.” They walked up the shopping centre boulevard, and Lois thought funds would stretch to an ice-cream while they waited for the boys. The ice-cream parlour was brilliantly lit. Too bright, thought Lois, to be welcoming. It’s like standing under a spotlight in a torture chamber. She squinted against the whiteness, wondering if they should go somewhere else, when Josie’s voice drew to her attention the tall figure of Melvyn Hallhouse standing in front of them, smiling broadly.
“Hi, Mrs Meade. Hi, Josie. Ice-cream all round? Er…like, it’d be an apology for getting it wrong the other night?”
Josie accepted quickly, before Lois could refuse, and they perched on uncomfortably high stools eating silently. Someone’s got to say something, thought Lois, and wiped her mouth with the paper napkin.
“Josie’s Dad came round, more or less,” she said. “Better not come to the house for a week or two, but after that I reckon it’d be all right…just at weekends.”
Josie beamed at her. “Fine!” she said.
But Melvyn shook his head. “Might not be around for much longer,” he said portentously.
A warm sense of relief flooded Lois, but Josie gasped. “Why? Where’re you going?”
“We might be movin’ away, up north,” said Melvyn. “Dad’s being moved in his job and Mum says where he goes we all go. They’ve sussed out a house to rent already. None of the rest of us want to go, but Dad says he has to be where the work is. Sensible, I suppose.”
Lois agreed quickly, adding that it always took a while to move house, so he’d be sure to be in Tresham for a few weeks yet.
Josie failed to cheer up, and threw her half-eaten ice-cream into the bin. “I’m going to look for the boys,” she said. “See you around, Melv.”
“Oh dear,” said Lois, getting off the stool. “She’s upset, Melvyn, that’s all. I’d better be off after her.” Something made her look back as she walked away from the parlour. Melvyn was watching her, grinning as if he’d just won the lottery. Well, thank God he doesn’t look exactly broken-hearted, Lois thought, and hurried on her way.
∨ Murder on Monday ∧
Twenty-Three
Monday morning in Byron Way was chaos, with the boys rushing in different directions looking for homework books, library books, violins, recorders, football boots, coats, scarves, gloves. Josie had shut herself in the bathroom for some unexplained purpose and wouldn’t come out. Lois’s mother stood at the door, saying that if she, at her age, could get herself ready and out of the house, and walk up that steep hill in time to collect everybody, surely the least they could do was be ready.
“Quite right, Mum,” said Derek. “Get a move on, you boys. Your mother has to go to work, and so do I, and poor Gran is getting cold waiting on the doorstep, and – ” he added without pausing for breath but his voice rising several decibels – “Josie Meade! Come down here at once. I don’t care if you’re still in your pyjamas! Serve you right if I made you go to school in them.”
“Derek, that’s enough,” said Lois, and went quickly upstairs. “Is something wrong, Josie?” she said through the bathroom door.
“Nope,” said a tearful voice.
“Let me in, dear,” said Lois. “Better tell me what’s up.” She sat with Josie on the edge of the bath and put her arm round the narrow shoulders. “Now then…”
“
It’s today Melvyn’s movin’,” Josie finally croaked. “Shan’t see him no more.”
“Any more,” said Lois automatically. “The move’s happened very quickly, hasn’t it?”
“Well, his Dad’s found a place to rent, and it’s empty, so he said no point in waiting. Melv doesn’t want to go…”
“Oh dear,” said Lois, hovering between a wish to comfort her only daughter and pleasure that at least one of their problems would now be solved. She finally got Josie dressed and, despite being rather limp, Josie was now at least dry-eyed. Gran had waited, sensing that her granddaughter might need support. Derek told her sharply to get a move on. Lois made a face at him and encouraged Josie out into the porch.
“There’ll be other fish to fry,” she said cheerfully, knowing as she said it that at Josie’s age there is no such thing as tomorrow, let alone next week or month or year.
♦
Derek was overjoyed when Lois told him. “Good riddance,” he said. “Perhaps Josie’ll concentrate on her school work now.” And perhaps she won’t, thought Lois. There will be others, but none of them will be good enough for Derek’s little girl. Still, we should get a bit of respite now Melvyn’s gone. She pulled on her coat and went out to start her car. The doctor’s house today. As she drove along past leafless trees and bare fields, noisy seagulls driven inland by storms flew up in a curving flock. I could do with a bit of sunshine, a warm beach and blue sea, said Lois to herself. She had been watching a travel programme the previous evening and wished they had enough money for a winter holiday. It’d make spring come all the quicker. “Instead of which,” she said aloud to the small dragon talisman swinging over her windscreen. “I am on my way to clean another woman’s house because she’s too lazy to do it herself.” Her thoughts circled on and as she thought about Mary Rix and her empty days, she wondered again what had happened about the baby they should have had, the one they made a nursery for and kept as a shrine. Time to find out, Lois. You never know what might emerge.