by Ann Purser
“Is it about the job?” she said nervously.
“It is a private matter,” Lois said firmly.
Mrs. Jacob looked even more nervous. “Can I help you at all?” she said. “In case Susanna has met someone and stayed for a chat.” Lois considered this, and decided that the girl had probably gone shopping in Tresham, or to a movie, and would not be returning until much later. She should probably leave at once, but did not move. Maybe a conversation with Mrs. Jacob would be useful.
“Would I be right in supposing you and your husband do not really like Susanna cleaning other people’s houses?” Lois was blunt, calculating that this might break down defences more quickly.
“Oh! Well, of course it’s up to Susanna but …”
“But what, Mrs. Jacob?”
“Well, in a way, you are right. Her father, particularly, considers it not suitable for a girl coming from a good background like hers. And she had a good job … promotion … at the Town Hall. Plenty of opportunities for getting to the top.”
“And getting into trouble,” Lois said, risking all.
The silence seemed to go on for ever. Mrs. Jacob passed a hand over her eyes wearily. “So you know about that,” she said. “I knew it would get out. We did our best to keep it secret, but villages are a hotbed of gossip. No chance, really.”
“It is none of my business, of course,” Lois said. “But if it affects how she performs her job, then I have a right to know. I’ll tell you straight, Mrs. Jacob, I don’t believe that Susanna has had flu. I don’t think she is out for a short walk. I’m sure she has been lying—not to put too fine a point on it—and for one reason. So she doesn’t have to work for Mrs. Jenkinson. Mrs. Jenkinson isn’t too keen, either. She doesn’t want Susanna anywhere near her. Now, this ain’t good for New Brooms, and I need to discuss it with Susanna. Not much future in her working for me, but I’m bound to give her a chance to talk about it.”
Another silence. Then Mrs. Jacob seemed to come to a decision. She began to talk in a different, more confident voice. “I see your point,” she said. “We have been very unfair to you, Mrs. Meade, and I hope you’ll excuse us. We are overprotective of our only daughter. I see that. Particularly her father. But we owe it to you to give you the facts.”
“Yes, you do,” said Lois, unrelenting.
“It began when Susanna first worked in the Town Hall. She bumped into the Mayor in the corridor, and he put his arms around her to steady her. Well, that’s what he said … It went on from there, and—you probably won’t believe this—she fell in love with him. She was so young, but she was certain. We did our best to show her what a dreadful mistake she was making. Then, of course, she got pregnant. Father dealt with all that, and she was terribly upset. Wanted to keep the baby. I was a coward, and kept out of it.”
Lois watched the trembling woman fumbling for a handkerchief, and felt bad. But Mrs. Jacob was talking voluntarily. It was her decision. She continued, “We wanted her to leave the Town Hall then and there, but she wouldn’t. And then, to our horror, we discovered the whole wretched relationship had started up again. Father was so angry, and threatened to turn Susanna out if she didn’t leave her job. So she did. But I am not at all sure this was the end of her seeing him. Then after the drowning accident Susanna went to pieces. But working for you seemed to be bringing her back to normal, and we went along with it. More or less. Now you see why she couldn’t work for Mrs. Jenkinson. And I can see it will be the end of her job with you. Fair enough. She’ll probably have to move away—she’s got friends in London, and might get a job there.” She tailed off, and blew her nose hard.
Lois stood up. “Thanks for telling me. A pity Susanna wasn’t straight with me in the beginning. Please ask her to ring me today, and we’ll fix a meeting. She has to have the final word.”
After that, Lois let herself out of the front door, aware that Mrs. Jacob was in tears again, and thanked her lucky stars that Josie had settled down into a responsible adult. But then Josie had not been a precious only. Nothing like a couple of brothers to keep your feet on the ground.
SUSANNA CAME TO SEE LOIS LATE THAT AFTERNOON, AND their conversation was not long. Mrs. Jacob had told her daughter that Mrs. Meade knew the whole story now, and it was with relief that Susanna sat in front of Lois in her office and offered to resign.
“That would be best,” Lois answered. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements, and we’ll forget all about it. I wish you well, Susanna. As for the Jenkinson affair, you’ll have to deal with that in your own way. My advice, if you want it, would be to get a job far away from here. Keep in touch with your parents, who love you a lot, but make a new life.”
Susanna nodded, and prepared to leave. “The thing is, Mrs. M,” she said, “I did love him, you know. He was not such a villain as my father thinks. And I’m not such a tramp. Howard used to talk to me. Not like he was with other people, all blustery and confident. He was gentle and kind. And he told me about himself. Said he’d always had to cover up part of his real self, because he had terrifying panic attacks that really floored him. Various things triggered them off, he said, and he’d more or less learned to avoid them. The bluster, he said, was a cover-up, and mostly worked. But he was different with me,” she repeated. “It was real love with me. Not like anything he’d had before, he said.” Lois raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. “Bye,” Susanna said wanly, “and thanks, Mrs. M.”
“Howard Jenkinson?” Lois said to her empty room. There was only one person Howard Jenkinson really loved, and that was himself. And what a yarn he’d spun her! Poor, silly kid, she thought. Susanna loved him, and would not have harmed him. But her father? He must have loathed the Mayor, and would not have been the first enraged father to avenge his wronged child.
LOIS CONSIDERED THE SLATERS, REMEMBERING IVY Beasley’s parting shot, reluctantly admitting that the old bat clearly had an encyclopaedic memory, and a good nose for what was going on.
Whatever Ken Slater’s mother had been, he seemed to Lois to be the very model of a respectable civil servant. He had a permanently disapproving air, and in their few meetings—more confrontations than meetings—he had looked at her as if he had a bad smell under his nose. What did she know about him? Two things: one, he was a member of the golf club; and two, he belonged to the Tresham Shooters, a gun club with impeccable credentials. Won prizes, and often had his photograph in the local paper, bearing championship trophies. The thought of Ken Slater with a gun made her shiver …
Still, Howard had not been shot, nor whacked with a golf club.
Jean Slater next. She was more interesting to Lois. A woman who had worked closely with Howard. Lois remembered that Jean had made the initial contact with New Brooms. She was getting on in years, and was apparently Doreen Jenkinson’s best friend, though out of her league as far as wealth and position were concerned. Had she been closer to Howard than just a faithful secretary? It was more than likely. My God, Lois reflected, they certainly went in for wife-swapping in elevated Tresham society! But she had no proof. And in any case, why should any of this make Jean want to up-end Howard into his fish pond? Jealousy, possibly. But Howard’s death would have put her out of a job—had, in fact, done so. She was probably too old to get another as well paid, and the Slaters maybe needed the money. Too many possibles and probables.
But Ivy Beasley was not one for wasting words. More ferreting was needed on the Slaters. This was difficult, as she had no obvious contacts. Perhaps she would bring them into the conversation when she went to Hornton House tomorrow morning. Risky, but she would be tactful, and Doreen might divulge something of interest.
Meanwhile, Lois remembered, there was Bill and his honeymoon. Miss Beasley could have been stirring it, but she had looked so pleased with herself at knowing something Lois did not. She would ring Bill in the morning and make a joke of it. She put out the light in her office, and quickly downed an illicit piece of Gran’s chocolate cake before joining the telly-watchers. Keep it light with
Bill, that would be best. After all, his private life was his own affair, and although she felt a little hurt, she was sure he would tell her in his own time.
FORTY-SEVEN
DOREEN JENKINSON SAT AT HER DESK, WRITING A LETter to her sister. She had thought hard about what she would say, but still sat chewing the end of her pen. It was not easy to warn her that the police might be in touch, checking Doreen’s story about her movements on the day of Howard’s death. She had had an unexpected visit from Inspector Cowgill, asking all sorts of questions. Why now? He hadn’t given much away, just hinted that they were making further enquiries into the circumstances surrounding what they now seemed to regard as a mystery. She was irritated. It had all looked straightforward, hadn’t it? Howard had been drinking on his own, gone up the garden to look at the fish and tripped, too drunk to save himself. She’d told the police at the time that Howard had a weak head for alcohol. A couple of whiskies would make him more or less incapable, she’d said.
“Dear Sis,” she wrote,
Something has come up. The police are checking some final details about that awful evening when I was on my way home from seeing you. They might get in touch, to get your confirmation that I was with you. Sorry about this, but it’s not important. Just getting everything straight before they close the file. That sort of thing. How are you? Come down and seethe new house soon. It’s great, and I am turning into a real villager! Love Doreen.
She addressed an envelope and stuck on a first-class stamp. Hearing a lap at the door, she guessed it was Mrs. Meade, and went to greet her.
“Morning!” said Lois in her cheeriest voice. She wanted Mrs. Jenkinson in a good mood, relaxed and communicative. Doreen offered her tea, and although she much preferred coffee, she accepted, taking the mug with her to start work in the dining room. There were no extra duties to do this morning, and before she moved on, she went back to the kitchen with her empty mug.
“Shall I stack the dishes?” she said, noticing that breakfast things were still on the table. Doreen nodded. She seemed abstracted, and Lois saw that she was holding an envelope tightly in one hand. “I’ll just go over and post this,” she said. “I want to make sure it goes today.”
“Oh, I’ll take it when I leave,” Lois said quickly. “I’ve got to pop in and see Josie, and the post doesn’t go until this afternoon.”
Doreen hesitated, but could think of no reason to refuse. “Right,” she said. “Well, in that case, I’ll make a phone call.”
Damn, thought Lois. She’ll be on the phone for hours, and I need to manoeuvre her into a chat. She lingered in the kitchen, taking longer than was necessary to clear away the remains of a modest breakfast for one. Doreen’s end of the conversation was perfectly audible, and Lois pricked up her ears when she realised she was talking to Jean Slater.
“A migraine? Oh, you poor dear.” Doreen’s voice was full of concern. “Of course you mustn’t think of playing this morning. What was that? Ken’s got a day off and could give me a game? Is that what you said? I can’t hear you very well. It was. Right, well, I’m a bit of rabbit compared with him, but if he … All right, then. I’ll be ready at half ten. Yes, yes, she’s here. In the kitchen. Take care now. Byee.”
Lois busied herself with a brush and dustpan, trying to ignore the shiver that caught her unawares. “She?” They must have meant her. Why would Jean Slater have asked? And why did she need to know where in the house Lois was?
Doreen called from the hall that she was going upstairs to change, and would be in the shower for ten minutes. Lois moved on to the drawing room. Her mobile rang, and she took it quickly from her pocket. She had forbidden her staff to have mobile calls while working, but when she saw who it was, she answered. “Yes? I’m at work, so make it snappy.”
“Right,” Cowgill said. “I’ll be brief. Just a warning. Things are hotting up, and could be dangerous. Can’t say more at the moment, but be very careful, Lois. Very careful indeed.”
Lois put her mobile back in her pocket and stood still, staring at nothing. “Did I hear someone talking?” Doreen said, appearing at the door.
Lois nodded. “It was me,” she said. “An urgent call from one of the team. Sorry if it alarmed you.”
“Of course it didn’t alarm me!” Doreen said, a little too quickly. “Just that I wondered if someone had called. Anyway, I am expecting to go out shortly. Mr. Slater will be calling for me.”
Lois looked at her blandly. “How nice,” she said. “Playing golf? My Derek is threatening to take it up, but I’ve told him it’s a very expensive game these days.”
“Too right,” said Doreen, smiling. “But I have no other vices. Don’t smoke, don’t drink much.”
“I wouldn’t call golf a vice,” said Lois.
“Depends what kind of game you play,” Doreen said, turning away, her smile gone. She disappeared into the hall, and Lois heard the rattle of plates as Doreen reorganised the dishwasher. Why is it that every idiot who owns a dishwasher thinks only they know how to stack it? Lois dusted the keys of the piano, out of tune because nobody ever played it, and made much of the cacophony she produced.
In due course, the front door bell sounded, and Doreen went quickly to open it. In minutes she was gone, without asking Ken into the house. Lois heard a muttered conversation at the door, and caught the words, “She’s still here, Ken.”
So I’m still here, and that matters. Lois continued to clean the house, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Golf … depends what game you play … what kinds of game were there? Good or bad. Slow or fast. Honest or cheating. On the fairway or in the rough … In the rough, in the woods, with thick beds of bracken, concealed from sight? A warm, sunny day with bees humming and birds busy in the trees. Lois was almost scared at the clear picture unrolling in her mind. She shook her head. Overactive imagination, my girl, she said to herself. She finished her work and locked up the house. Too much thinking about Ivy Beasley and her second sight! The thought of Ivy Beasley led her on to Bill, and she hadn’t yet asked him about a honeymoon. Perhaps it should wait until the Monday staff meeting? No, she would talk to him in private.
THE FLOOR OF THE SHOP WAS COVERED IN OPENED cardboard boxes. Josie had been to the wholesaler’s, and Gran was helping her to unpack and price the stock, then stack it on the shelves. “You can see why village shops are going out of business,” Josie said, mopping her brow. “Supermarkets have loads of staff to do this job. Me and Gran have to do it all. The lot.”
Lois felt guilty. She had promised to help out when she could, but Josie very seldom asked her. “Can I do something?” she said, then remembered she had to get back to meet Bill.
“No, it’s all right,” Gran said. The truth was that she loved helping Josie, and didn’t want Lois muscling in, telling them what to do and organising everything.
“Well, I wanted a loaf, Josie, if you’ve got one left.”
“It would be better if you asked me to save you one regularly,” said Josie grumpily. She went into the back room and returned with a small wholemeal loaf. “You can have this,” she said. “Daisy Forsyth asked me to keep her one, but she’s not been in. She always collects it at half ten promptly, so I guess she doesn’t need it. You’re in luck.”
Not the time to ask Josie anything, Lois concluded. In any case, she had only wanted to see if Josie remembered handling letters with handwriting like the one in her pocket. It was a long shot, and not worth risking Josie’s sharp tongue. She posted the letter and made her way home.
DAISY FORSYTH HAD NOT BEEN IN TO COLLECT HER bread because of an almighty family row that was still going on. Fergus had shut the shop and arrived in the middle of the morning with a long face. “What’s wrong with you, boy? And who’s looking after the shop?” Rupert had said crossly.
“Are you ill, dear?” Daisy had said, pushing Rupert to one side, and reaching up to kiss Fergus’s pale cheek.
“No,” he said. “I’m not ill, and the shop can look after itself for one morning. Trade is
not that brisk. In fact most mornings not a single punter comes in. So can we sit down. I need to talk.”
“Talk about what?” Rupert was angry and impatient. What on earth did the boy think he was doing?
Daisy led the way. “Shall we have a coffee and calm down?” she said soothingly. Whatever Fergus said, she knew that something was very wrong.
Rupert and Fergus sat hunched in their chairs saying nothing, while Daisy made coffee and brought it in on a tray. “Biscuit, dear?” she said to Fergus. He shook his head. “Let’s get this over with,” he said.
“Right,” said Rupert firmly. “Get going, and then we can get back to the business that keeps us all in food and drink, and a roof over our heads.”
“Bull’s eye, Dad,” Fergus said. “It’s the business. And my life in the business. I hate it, if you want the truth. I hate the goods, the customers, the shifty looks and sideways smiles of my so-called friends. I hate sitting in that cramped little shop, nowhere near the centre of town, wasting my life doing bugger-all most of the time. No, don’t interrupt, Dad. You can—and, I am sure, will—have your say in a minute. I want out. The way things are going, we’ll be losing so much business anyway, and it won’t be enough to do all those things you just listed so pleasantly.”
Daisy looked at him admiringly. This was a new, more confident Fergus. He sat up straight and looked his father in the eye. “I suggest,” Fergus continued, “that we either sell the business or wind it up and you and Mum can retire. I mean to get some training to do something completely different. A new start, Dad. Before it is too late.”
He sat back, and waited. Daisy took a deep breath and looked at Rupert, who seemed to be stunned into silence. “Excellent, Fergus!” she said. “Just what I’ve been thinking myself. We can all have a new start.”
Rupert came alive. “And what shall we bloody well live on?” He glared at Daisy, as if it was all her fault.