‘That sponging little twerp? It was him coming along that put me in the shackles of motherhood at the tender age of twenty. And as for how long I’ve been married – the answer to that one is too long, honey, too bloody long.’
With a sigh at Monica’s refusal to appreciate what she had, Buffy retorted, ‘I think you ought to sit back and count your blessings and not your curses. At least, when you get home from work you’ve got someone to spend the evening with. At least on Mother’s Day you’ve got someone to send you a card.’
‘Sentimental crap,’ Monica responded, thinking of the letter she had received, and what might have been in it, had she not been so discreet in the past. ‘Now, let’s change the subject before I lose my appetite completely. Are you sure you haven’t been abducted by aliens or something?’
VI
Hilda Pounce started, as was her habit, with the kitchen, when she arrived at Foxes’ Run. If everything was ship-shape in the kitchen, then anything else she found in the rest of the house that needed to be washed and put away, at least had somewhere to await her attentions, instead of being stacked on top of an already full sink.
She smiled as her hands plunged into the hot soapy water, thinking that her luck might have turned a bit. It had not really sunk in yesterday that, with Gabriel Pryor dead, she would lose the hours she usually worked for him on Monday and Friday afternoons. She had already lost other hours over the last few months, and when she finally realised the consequence of poor Mr Pryor’s suicide this morning, a dark mood had settled on her.
She had always worked her fingers to the bone, just to get by. It hadn’t been easy raising a family on a farm labourer’s wage, and what she could bring in from a bit of cleaning here and there. She had thought that things would get easier when the children left home, but her Bert had decided that that was when what he referred to as ‘me glarse back’ was going to stop him having to go to work, permanently.
Although he had been paid some sickness benefit, and had done the odd bit of gardening for Mr Warlock, who had no time for plants himself, and just wanted the lawn mown and the weeds kept down for him, it was still down to her to work whatever hours God sent, to pay the bills.
Then her Bert had died. There had been no long illness to warn her of how different life was about to become. She just found him dead in front of the television one day when she got back from work, and that was that. What meagre savings they had went to pay for the funeral, and the kids were no help at all, feeling nothing more than a mild inconvenience at having to come back to Steynham St Michael for his funeral.
And then, this morning, as she was screwing up sheets of newspaper to lay the fire and relight the kitchen boiler, which had unaccountably gone out overnight, Mr Rainbird had come round and asked her if she would be willing to go back and clean his shop for him, and all the lovely things in it.
Pleased? She’d be delighted, and the money would make up for what she would lose by not going down to Barleycorn Crescent twice a week, for he paid well for her to take extra care of his precious old things – a load of old junk, in her opinion, but if he was willing to pay well, that was just her good fortune, and about time a bit of it came her way.
As she rinsed the suds out of the sink and off the draining board, preparatory to drying them, there was a brief tattoo on the back door, and Mrs Raynor put her head round it, with a very winning smile on her face. If Mr Rainbird was willing to let bygones be bygones, maybe Mrs Raynor’s arrival heralded yet another recovery in her fortunes. Returning the smile whole-heartedly, Hilda Pounce bade her previous employer enter.
‘Hello, Mrs Pounce. I’m so sorry to disturb you at work, but I felt I couldn’t wait any longer to speak to you. I know we’ve had our little differences in the past, but do you think you could see your way to letting bygones be bygones, and coming back and ‘doing’ for me again. I’d be most awfully grateful, and it could be whatever hours suited you. And there’d be an enhancement to your hourly rate. What do you think, Mrs Pounce, dear? I’m completely drowning in household chores and mess and stuff, and I desperately need your help.’
Hilda Pounce could hardly believe her luck!
And when she got home, she was even more amazed to find a note from that woman of easy virtue at Clematis Cottage, asking her if she would come and clean for her once a week. What with her hours at Miss Grayling’s, her hours at Mrs Gifford’s, her work at the two pubs, and her reinstatement at two of her previous employers, she had never had it so good. Mr Pryor may have considered his life not worth living, when he had such an easy time of it, all things considered, but his passing seemed to have definitely changed Hilda’s luck for the better.
She was a restless woman, who found it almost impossible to sit and do nothing, and knitted furiously as she watched the television of an evening, so that her viewing time was productive and not wasted. Her life-style had made sure that she wasn’t afraid of hard work, and if that hard work was the paying sort, then she was more than glad to do it. She could do with a few new clothes, and that old sofa of hers was leaking stuffing all over the place. Maybe things were about to get a lot better.
VII
Hermione was a little late arriving for the gathering that she had initiated in the Ox and Plough that evening, as she had spent some time on the telephone arranging her little break in the sunshine. But with her tardiness also came her generosity. Before she swept over to the group that awaited her, she paused at the bar and asked for half a dozen bottles of champagne on ice to be delivered to her friends’ tables: an unusual order in a rural pub, but the landlord was used to her extravagance, kept the bottles chilled and at the ready, and just assumed that she had finished another of her wildly popular Victorian sagas.
Her arrival, closely followed by her bubbly offering, was greeted with grateful enthusiasm, and the favoured few metaphorically licked their lips at the treats, both alcoholic and verbal, to come.
Even though some of the men from the usual cards’ gathering had demurred, they still made quite a crowd. At one table, still maintaining a separated identity as the Fox and Hounds players, sat Tilly Gifford, Roma Kerr, Bryony Buckleigh, Buffy Sinden, and Malcolm and Amy Littlemore.
At an adjacent table sat Vernon Warlock, Charles Rainbird, Dimity Pryor, Monica Raynor, and Craig Crawford. Laying claim to a Windsor chair from beside the roaring fire, Hermione dragged it over, and placed it equidistantly between the two tables, mistress of all whom she surveyed.
‘Well, that’s another one finished. I’ll be off in a couple of days for a few weeks’ well-earned rest in Barbados,’ she declared, holding the glass that Charles had gallantly charged for her as soon as the delicious sound of the cork popping had assailed their ears and tantalised their taste-buds.
‘It’ll probably take you a few weeks to find a new plot to filch from some unsuspecting stranger, eh, Hermione?’ Vernon was a very old friend, and, if not able to get away with actual murder, could commit verbal manslaughter in Hermione’s eyes, and not merit punishment.
‘You always say that, you old pseud, but you know you can’t string two words together when it comes to writing,’ retorted Hermione, after a pause to drink deeply from her glass.
‘Touché!’ Vernon replied, flashing a rare smile to all in attendance.
‘Now!’ Hermione rubbed her plump little hands together with glee. ‘What news of our very own village tragedy?’
Her eagerness was bluntly expressed, and because Hermione was facing away from the bar, she didn’t catch sight of Hilda Pounce wincing as she heard her employer’s words. Hilda had had another piece of luck in that she had been asked to come in this evening to give the cellar a good clear out. It was lucky she had so much energy, the hours she put in, for a very modest hourly rate, all things considered.
‘When we were at Gabriel’s house, I thought I saw that inspector reading a letter, and the paper was all screwed up, then smoothed out again, as if it had been thrown away, then retrieved,’ offered Dimity who,
with Hermione and Hilda, had been part of the cavalry trio that had so surprised Falconer when he arrived. ‘Do you think it might have been an anonymous letter? I mean, you wouldn’t write a suicide note, then throw it away, would you?’
‘Good point, Dimity,’ Hermione concurred. ‘I thought you might have been a little more upset, him being a relation and all.’
‘We never had very much to do with each other: well, not since all that gossip when he was a teenager. My parents told me to stay well away from him, even though I was a girl. They said there was no telling what he might do.’
‘I didn’t realise it was such a scandal,’ interjected Bryony Buckleigh, who had received an update on the situation from Tilly Gifford, the fount of all knowledge in Steynham St Michael.
‘Oh, it was all hushed up, you know. It might have been common knowledge, but we kept it to ourselves,’ Dimity explained. ‘Not like today, when it would be all over the papers, and a huge fuss made. In those days we dealt with our own problems in private.’
‘How?’ asked Bryony, definitely intrigued to discover how things had changed.
‘Well, to my certain knowledge, his father gave him a fearful thrashing, and told him that if there was any more talk, he’d thrash him again, and to within an inch of his life if not to the other side of it.’
‘But I thought you lot used to be Strict and Particular,’ Tilly queried, on the scent, once more, of a good tale probably worth repeating to anyone who wasn’t present here tonight.
‘We were. And that was how things were dealt with, and with the blessing of the pastor. Any deviation, criminality, homosexuality, that sort of thing, was to be thrashed out of the perpetrator. ‘Driving the Devil out’ it was referred to. Thank God people are rather more enlightened now.’
‘And what about Noah and Patience? He was their cousin too, wasn’t he? And I noticed that the library was closed today, when I went to change my books. Very inconvenient, if you ask me. They shouldn’t have husband and wife working there together. It stands to reason that, if something like this happens, or they get ill together, there’s no one to cover for them, and people like me have a needless walk for nothing,’ Craig Crawford complained.
‘Don’t be so damned self-centred, you young whipper-snapper,’ barked Vernon Warlock, with a glare in the young man’s direction. ‘They’re both very knowledgeable about books, and have the most impeccable manners, which is more than I can say for you, young man.’
‘Sorry, Granddad,’ Craig replied in a sarcastic tone, but his face belied his public embarrassment and glowed a warm red, much to his discomfort.
Charles Rainbird thought that he would not have been so harsh on the young man, for just saying what he thought, but then Charles was Charles, and rather a different kettle of fish from Vernon.
There was a long moment of silence, as the door on that particular subject was discerned to close, and Buffy broke it by saying meekly, ‘I had a letter too.’
‘You did?’ Hermione was on to her like a shot, and Charles Rainbird smiled to himself as he imagined her new book, based round a series of poison pen letters, culminating in suicide, and family feuds lasting decades.
‘Yes. It was absolutely horrible, and I don’t want to talk about it, but I just thought I’d mention it.’
Anyone closely observing the convivial group would have noticed a shadow pass over several of the faces there present, but, unfortunately, no one was.
Chapter Eight
The Black Bitch Is Played
Friday 8th January
I
When Dimity Pryor returned from her morning duty at the charity shop in the High Street (for she only worked there part-time), she noticed that the curtains next door at Pear Tree Cottage were still closed, indicating that Noah and Patience had either gone into mourning or gone away after Gabriel’s demise. And that would mean that they had again failed to turn up to open the library, and that was very unlike them, because they were a very conscientious young couple.
Being a somewhat shy person herself, she didn’t like to intrude on what she saw as their grief, but was nevertheless concerned, and decided to slip along to Hermione’s to see what she thought or knew, about the situation. She might even get invited to stay for lunch, if Hermione was feeling as full of the joys of life as she had been the previous evening.
Spurning the front door as unfitting for so old a friend, Dimity walked round to the rear of the property, and let herself in through the kitchen door, which Hermione habitually left unlocked throughout daylight hours, so that unexpected visitors would not disturb her train of thought if she were writing.
Once inside Dimity called ‘coo-ee’ but, receiving no answer, began to check the rooms to locate her friend. Had she been out, the back door would definitely have been locked. No one in the drawing room, no one in the dining room. That was odd. Hermione had said she’d finished her book, and there was no way she would start another one so soon, especially as she had booked a holiday.
An embarrassing thought occurred to Dimity, and she stood outside the downstairs lavatory, listening carefully at the door, but there was no sound from within, and opening the door confirmed that Hermione was not in the middle of conducting any ‘business’ – how embarrassing if she had been, thought Dimity, horrified at her unsuspected ability to pry like that.
That only left her writing room her author-torium, as she would insist on calling it. With no other choice, Dimity walked down the hall, knocked discreetly, in case her friend didn’t want to be disturbed then, receiving no shouted instructions to the contrary, opened the door and went in.
Dimity gave a little moan at what she saw, and slipped to the floor, unconscious.
II
In the CID office at the Police Headquarters in Market Darley, Detective Inspector Falconer and Detective Sergeant Carmichael were engaged in a discussion of word usage and derivations: in other words, a little discussion concerning etymology was in progress. Or rather, Harry Falconer was holding forth on the current lax use of English, and Carmichael was trying to look like he was listening, and realising that this was all his own fault. If only he’d kept his mouth shut.
It had started with Carmichael bowling in, bubbling over with bonhomie because today was what he declared, his first week ‘anniversary’.
This of course was like a red rag to a bull to Falconer, and he dived in, word mis-use antennae waving so fast they were a blur. ‘Do you have any idea of the root of the word ‘anniversary’, Carmichael?’
‘No, sir. Does it matter?’
‘Does it matter? Of course it matters, Carmichael. When mis-use becomes common usage the whole language goes to pot, communication becomes ineffective, and we might as well communicate in a series of grunts, which the younger generation seem to have degenerated to already anyway.’ Falconer was beginning to get red in the face, and was in danger of falling off his soap box.
‘But you knew what I meant, didn’t you, sir?’ Carmichael was feeling bemused at such a vehement response to such a simple statement, and began to tune-out the sound of his superior’s voice, while maintaining an attentive and interested facial expression.
‘… so it can only be used when referring to years, not days, weeks, or even months. Years, Carmichael! Only years! And why are you dressed like that? I thought the new Mrs Carmichael was leaving out your work clothes the night before! You look like a clown!’
‘Kerry said that I was being so good about her choosing my outfits, that I could have ‘dress down Fridays’, so that my personality and natural exuberance would not be stifled for one day of the working week,’ he explained, as if he had learnt this by rote, for whenever he was asked about his present garb.
‘And did she say anything about not stifling your congenital lunacy and complete lack of colour co-ordination?’
‘Not that I remember, sir.’ Carmichael was getting used to Falconer’s little ways, and just humoured him whenever necessary.
‘Well, she should
have done. Just look at you! Lime green jogging bottoms! Why?’
‘Because it’s minus five outside, sir, and they’re fleecy-lined.’
‘Bright yellow fleece, ‘Don’t worry’ written on it, and a smiley face. Again, why?’
‘Same reason, sir. Also, the colour makes me feel happy.’
Falconer sighed deeply and addressed himself to the most elevated garment in the ensemble, the hat, which was multi-coloured striped, South American in style, with a bobble on the top, and ear-flaps from which appended long strings, should his sergeant wish to tie said garment under his chin to keep him even more cosy.
‘And that thing?’
‘The boys gave it to me for Christmas, sir.’
Well, there was no answer to that, not without accusing Carmichael’s young stepsons of having the most appalling taste in presents, so that was the end of that conversation. And it was just as well, as at that moment of ‘where do we go from here?’ the telephone rang.
Falconer was only a few minutes on the phone, mostly listening and scribbling on a scrap of paper. As the call ended, he sprang up from his desk and headed towards the coat stand, calling over his shoulder, ‘That place we went to about that anonymous letter, the domestic violence, and the suicide – what was it called?’
‘Steynham St Michael, sir. Why?’ Carmichael asked, getting to his feet quickly in reaction to the inspector’s movements.
‘Because it just got even busier, and we’re going there again. And this time it sounds like murder! At least, if it’s not, it’ll be the weirdest case of suicide I’ve ever come across. Now do your hat up like a good detective sergeant, so that you don’t catch cold, and let’s get on the road.’
Carmichael couldn’t be bothered to point out to Falconer that one didn’t catch a cold from getting cold: that a virus was involved, for he knew the inspector knew that, and was just teasing him about his attractive and unusual headgear. As he left the office, he pulled the ear-flaps down a little bit, for extra protection against the temperature outside, thinking how well Kerry’s boys knew his taste and just accepted it as part of him.
Inkier Than the Sword (The Falconer Files Book 3) Page 9