by Ann Purser
THE AUDI DID NOT GO FAR. AFTER A FEW HUNDRED yards, down a side road, it came to a halt again, this time outside the Forsyths, and Ken went in, once more looking carefully to right and left.
“Hello, stranger!” Daisy said. “Mind you, Fergus has told us you’ve been into the shop and had a couple of chats with him.”
Ken frowned. “Is that lad as discreet as his father? I’ve always known Rupert could be trusted, but Fergus … and anyway, is Rupert at home?”
Daisy nodded. “He’s upstairs, working on accounts. We’ve had the planning application turned down again, and our new extension seems as far away as ever. As for Fergus,” she added defensively, “he knows when to keep his mouth shut, never fear.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Ken, unsmiling. “Now, why don’t you put the kettle on, Daisy, and give Rupert a call. I have some urgent business to discuss with him.”
Rupert was halfway down the stairs, having heard Ken’s voice, and walked into the sitting room with outstretched hand. “Good afternoon, Ken,” he said formally. “How are you, and how is Jean these days? Enjoying her retirement?”
“Plays a lot of golf,” said Ken, and smiled now, remembering his afternoon’s visit to Jean’s golfing partner. “Still, keeps her out of mischief.” He reflected that there seemed to be no mischief in Jean’s life now, unlike those early clays when she first worked for Howard, the randy sod. But it had all been a lot of silly fun and no harm done.
“Was there something particular you wanted to talk about?” Rupert said, polite as ever. He and Ken were settled with cups of tea and biscuits, and Daisy had taken herself tactfully off to the kitchen, muttering about ironing.
“Yep,” Ken said. “It’s about Norman Stevenson. You knew that he … ?”
Rupert nodded. “Nasty one, that,” he said, giving nothing away. “Has there been a final verdict on what killed him?”
“His heart, apparently,” Ken said. “No foul play suspected.”
They were silent for a few seconds. Then Ken began again. “But there were letters, I have been told.”
“Who told you?” Rupert frowned.
“A little bird,” answered Ken. “But the important thing is, they were blackmailing letters. And it puts a whole new complexion on Norman’s death. We both know there were things in his past that made him vulnerable. And that he was not a particularly attractive character. There was that financial scandal, duly smothered by Howard but known about by most of us.”
“And his patronage of Rain or Shine,” Rupert said. “And more than our usual straightforward blow-up dolls and saucy videos. Oh dear, yes, we knew far too much about Norman Stevenson, Daisy and me. And he was married. Less permissive days then, of course. But confidentiality is the life-blood of our business, Ken.”
“And Fergus?” Ken’s voice was sharp.
Rupert stared at him.
“What are you suggesting, Ken?” he said.
“I’m suggesting that any one of us would have plenty of ammunition for successfully blackmailing Norman Stevenson. You, Daisy, Fergus, Howard, me, Jean … and it wasn’t either Jean or me. And it’s the last thing Howard would have done.”
Rupert stood up. “I think you’ve gone too far, Ken Slater,” he said. “What you are insinuating is a slur on the honour of my business and my family.” He looked like an offended cockerel, with his chest puffed out and his face suffused with colour.
Ken guffawed. “Honour?” he said. “The honour of Rain or Shine? Don’t make me laugh, Rupert Forsyth. Now I’m going,” he added, “but if you think of anybody else who would have had reasons to blackmail Norman, let me know. Whoever it was, he could well know more uncomfortable facts … uncomfortable for the rest of us.”
Daisy appeared suspiciously quickly—had she been eavesdropping? “Thanks for the tea. Sec you soon,” Ken said, and Daisy thought it sounded like a threat. Ken left then, and directed the green Audi home.
THE PUB WAS FULL BY THE TIME BILL TOOK LOIS‘S ADVICE and went in for a pint or two. He had persuaded Rebecca to come loo, and the warmth and chatter lifted Bill’s spirits. He spotted Derek by the bar, and waved. “Got one set up for you, lad,” Derek yelled above the noise. “What’ll you have, Rebecca?”
Time passed, and conversation had quietened to a mellow buzz. Bill and Rebecca sat with Derek and one or two of his friends at a table by the fire, and a needle dominoes match was going on at the next table. Old Fred won again, and there was cheering as he made his way reluctantly to the bar to buy his round.
“So how’s New Brooms goin’?” Derek said. “Lois never tells me nothing about it. Says it would bore me stiff, just like me going on about electrics gives her the yawns!”
“It’s fine,” Bill said. “Never a dull moment. My favourite client at present is Miss Ivy Beasley at Ringford. Quite a challenge, that one! But we’re hitting it off well now. I wouldn’t say she was exactly fond of me, but at least she doesn’t give me the evil eye so often.” Rebecca laughed, and said it would teach Bill to be nice to old ladies, which could only stand him in good stead. That reminded him of the old lady who’d sobbed over her dead Labrador, and he fell silent.
“Ivy Beasley?” said Fred, returning with the pints, and listening in to others’ conversations as usual. “She were a holy terror when she were young. One or two o’ the lads fancied her, but she frightened ‘em off afore they had a chance!” He laughed throatily, and went into a spasm of coughing.
Derek saw Bill’s face, and tried to cheer him up. “Still, you got that young Susanna Jacob on the team now,” he said. “Best pair o’ legs for miles around.”
“Huh!” interrupted Fred. “No better than she should be, that one. You should tell your Lois to get shot of her quick. My granddaughter’s a nurse up at the ‘ospital, and she could tell you a thing or two about Susanna Jacob.” And then he was off again, bent double with a coughing fit.
The conversation wandered off to the comforting subject of farming, and how awful the weather had been and what a rotten harvest it was again. “Who’d be a farmer?” Derek said.
“I would,” Bill said. “But I’d rather be a vet.”
“And a cleaner?” one of the others chipped in maliciously.
Bill nodded. “As I said,” he replied, “never a dull moment, and girls with the best pairs of legs for miles around.”
And one, he added to himself, with a past that grew more mysterious by the minute.
FORTY-THREE
“ARE YOU SHOOTING THIS WEEKEND?” JEAN SLATER was washing up the supper dishes, resentment in every word. They had a dishwasher, but Ken said it was a waste of money for only two people. She was idly speculating why Ken was in such an unusually good mood this evening. At home with her, he lapsed into a grumpy silence most of the time. Perhaps the prospect of firing at targets and hitting as many as possible had put him in a pleasant humour. It could be that. She had wondered more than once whether her own face had been superimposed by Ken on the target, as he lined up his sights.
“Yep. I shall be there. I mean to win a competition tonight.” He was almost conversational, adding, “Golf tomorrow?” His voice was casual, but his question was not. He never quite trusted Doreen and Jean together. He suspected they confided most things to each other. But he had no option but to hope that both were loyal girls, and that Doreen’s affection was strong enough to prevent betrayal.
“Certainly,” Jean replied. “It’s a regular fixture. Nine o’clock on the tee. Rain or shine …”
Ken stared at her. “What did you say?”
“ ‘Nine o’clock on the tee.’ Why? What’s wrong with that?”
“No, after that.” Ken shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, it’s golf on the telly, so hurry up with that.”
“You could dry up the dishes,” Jean said acidly. But Ken had disappeared. Jean finished at the sink, and went through to join him. She knew perfectly well what she had said that startled him. Rain or shine. Those letters to Norman Stevenson—had they bee
n something to do with the Forsyths? Surely Ken himself wouldn’t have sent them? He had absolutely no reason to do so. She dismissed the thought, but a nagging doubt stayed in her mind.
WHILE DOREEN AND JEAN STOOD ON THE TEE NEXT morning, flexing their muscles and looking forward to a morning’s gentle exercise, followed by a slap-up lunch in the clubhouse and a game of bridge after that, Lois set off on her rounds. Today she planned to go via Round Ringford, and see if she could find Doris Ashbourne. She would have to think of a convincing reason, other than the real one, and decided to invent a mythical old friend of her mother, one who had lived in Ringford many years ago. Doris would be flattered to be asked, she hoped.
First shop in Ringford. Lois drew up outside, and went in. A pleasant-faced woman behind the counter asked if she could help. “Some of those tomatoes on the vine, please,” Lois said. They were Derek’s favourite, and she’d got some of Josie’s best ham for tea. “A kilo?” the woman said. “Goodness, I don’t know,” Lois said. “Whatever a couple of pounds is now will do.”
The woman smiled. “I’m only just used to the new system myself,” she said. “Some of my elderly customers have real trouble with it. And one or two still think in shillings!”
“Like your neighbour, Miss Beasley?” Lois said with a laugh. “And her friend … Doris Ashbourne is it?” She explained how she knew about them.
The woman confirmed that Miss Beasley had washed her hands of the whole metric system. “Though Doris is quite up with it all,” she added. “Up there in her bungalow in Macmillan Gardens she has plenty of young neighbours to keep her up to date. Very popular, is our Doris, though mostly I think it’s her baking the kids are after!”
Lois thanked her kindly, and set off for Macmillan Gardens. This was a small development of old folks’ bungalows and semi-detached council houses, now mostly privately owned. She cruised round the central square of grass, and pulled up. A bulging lady with a white terrier looked at her enquiringly. “Which one is Mrs. Ashbourne’s, please?” Lois said, looking reassuringly at the woman.
“What was it you wanted?” the woman said suspiciously. There had been frightening visits from men disguised as electricity inspectors and water company operatives, and money had been taken fraudulently.
“Just to chat about a mutual friend,” Lois said. “She will remember me.”
“Up there, number four,” the woman said. “I shall be in my front garden, in case you want to know anything,” she added, in a threatening rather than helpful voice.
“Thanks very much,” Lois said, sighing for the untrusting world around her, and went to ring the doorbell of number four.
The door was opened, but the inside chain left on while Doris peered through at Lois. “Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Meade,” she said, and released the chain. “Come in, do. Is it about Ivy? I saw her this morning early, and she seemed fine.”
“No, no. Nothing to do with Miss Beasley. She’s very lucky to have such a good friend. No, Bill’s getting on fine, and she seems pleased with him.”
“And that’s quite an achievement with our Ivy!” Doris laughed.
“I was passing by, and remembered my mother—she lives with us in Farnden—talking about an old friend who’d lived in Ringford years ago. They’ve lost touch, and I wondered if you might remember her and what became of her. She was Mabel Richards. I think that’s right.”
To her amazement, Doris’s face brightened. “Mabel Richards! Goodness, that was a long time ago.” Just as Lois was beginning to think she had conjured up a ghost from the past, Doris added, “But it wasn’t Mabel, was it? I think her name was Mavis. Yes, I’m sure it was Mavis.”
They talked about Mavis for a while, and Lois promised to pass on the details to her mother. Fortunately—though not for Mavis—she had emigrated to New Zealand, and had been killed soon after in a road accident. “What a shame,” she said hypocritically, wondering how she could get the conversation round to Susanna Jacob.
But Lois’s luck was in. Doris herself introduced the subject. “Did you sort out Ivy on changing her cleaner?” she said. “Got it into her head that Bill was leaving, and you were sending Susanna Jacob instead.”
Lois said that had been straightened out, but asked Doris why Ivy had been so against the idea?
“Oh, that’s Ivy all over,” Doris said. “Most particular who she has in her house. She’s a very churchy person, you know, and everybody has to be as blameless as she is. Well, chance would be a fine thing, I often think. Who would want to lead Ivy Beasley astray?”
“Was that what happened to Susanna?” Lois tried to sound casual.
“Well, I shouldn’t really tell you,” Doris answered, “what with her being your employee, an’ that. The truth is, Susanna was working in the Town Hall. Not much of a job for a girl with her education, but apparently she wasn’t all that bright. What she lacked in brains, though, she made up for in looks. Really lovely, she was and is. Heads turned, all that. Loads of boyfriends and men friends too. Then it happened.” Doris paused and looked out of her window at the starlings fighting on the bird-table.
“Shall I guess?” Lois said finally. “Like Ivy said? Susanna got pregnant?”
Doris nodded. “She did. And got rid of it. Her father organised all that.”
“And who was Dad? The baby’s Dad, I mean.”
Doris shook her head. “There were rumours flying everywhere, but nobody really knew. There were so many possibles! No, it was all hushed up, and she went away for a bit. When she came back, she returned to the Town Hall, and people forgot. Except Ivy! So now you know, Mrs. Meade, and I hope you’ll keep it to yourself.”
Lois assured her that her lips were sealed, and left shortly after, wishing Doris well and telling her not to exhaust herself looking after Ivy.
“Tell that to Ivy!” Doris shouted after her, and waved.
What a nice person, thought Lois, as she drove off with a wave at the fat lady and her dog.
FORTY-FOUR
TIME FOR AN UPDATE, LOIS DECIDED, AS SHE WENT into her office, her mind turning over all the possibilities that Susanna’s pregnancy had opened up. She picked up a pen and a blank sheet of paper. Write it down, Cowgill had suggested years ago. A good way of organising your thoughts. She began by making a sort of family tree, with Howard Jenkinson at the top. Dead, and not by accident.
Next, she added a line of possible culprits’ names. Fergus Forsyth (revenge—or fear?), Norman Stevenson (desperation in face of blackmail), Rupert Forsyth, Daisy Forsyth (a mysterious couple with secrets), Ken Slater (lifetime of being patronised by rich friend), Jean Slater (ex-employee with a grudge?)… Who else? Doreen? Well, from all that Lois now knew about Mayor Jenkinson, she would have had every reason. But she was miles from home, and had a perfect alibi. Besides, Doreen Jenkinson was the very model of a middle-class, cosseted housewife. Bill had never hinted at any trouble there. All, but wait a minute—what about Howard’s den? But then, Bill had said Doreen had seemed not to mind at all—had even found it amusing. Who else?
Lois drew a long line beneath the list. Then she added in large letters: A Burglar (nothing taken), An Old Flame, or An Old Flame’s Husband (too many to mention), and Norman Stevenson. His anxious voice came back to her over and over again. The look on his face as he watched the funeral procession. A mystery man indeed. How close had he been to colleagues in Tresham timber works? Somebody must have known him well.
Another blank sheet of paper. This time she put a list of all the characters, including Howard, at the top, and drew lines connecting them. Howard knew them all. The Forsyths knew Howard, Ken, Jean, Doreen, possibly Norman. The Slaters knew Howard and Doreen, probably Norman, and the Forsyths. No, this would not do. Everybody knew everybody. Lois screwed up the paper and threw it in the bin. She stared again at the family tree. Her thoughts roamed, and she was back with Doris Ashbourne, and the morning’s revelation. She had left off one name: Susanna. Was it possible? Doris Ashbourne had said boyfriends and men friends
. Her first job had been at the Town Hall. Could Howard have spotted her, and if so …?
A furious, vengeful Mr. Jacob, in the heat of the moment? Lois’s head spun. That kind of thing only happened in films, surely. Not in Tresham, small market town in the Midlands? But Lois knew only too well that crime did not restrict itself to big cities, and added Susanna’s father to the list. She thought about it, and decided that if he had given Howard a push on a supremely angry impulse, it would have been at the time the girl was pregnant, not months afterwards. She crossed him off. Although it was not as simple as that, Lois had a strong feeling that she was on the right track.
Next: how well did she know the names on the list? Another sheet of paper. The Jenkinsons—not very well personally, but with plenty of information from Bill, and from her recent cleaning job at Hornton House, she probably knew them best of all the others. The Slaters—hardly at all, except that they obviously disliked her. Or distrusted her? Did they think she knew something they were anxious to hide? But why should they suspect her of anything? Ah yes, because of the office in Sebastopol Street. Ken Slater had seen her there, knew it was her business, and expected her to share in the confidences Fergus Forsyth frequently exchanged with Hazel and Maureen.
Lois felt a sudden chilly shiver down her spine. Ken Slater had an icy stare, and his wife’s dark eyes had looked at her malevolently. Rubbish! She was imagining it. Still, she put a big question mark by the Slaters, and carried on. The Forsyths—Rupert and Daisy. Sounded like an old music-hall act. The Flying Forsyths. Let the Forsyths Help You to Fly! Well, they had the merchandise. Lois was pleased with that, and smiled. But how well did she know them? There were two people she could consult: Gran, who knew Daisy from her brief membership of the WI, and Josie, who saw them regularly in the village shop.
Of course, the whole village knew what Rupert’s shop in Tresham supplied. It had all come out at the time of the Mayor’s funeral. Rupert and Daisy had kept their heads down for a while, and Fergus had hardly been seen in Farnden. But when the fun had died down—and it had been great new material for the pub’s wags—the Forsyths slowly emerged. It was indeed a permissive age, and one which, Rupert was coming to realise, would eventually render their confidential services unnecessary.