Threats at Three

by Ann Purser

  FOURTEEN

  FATHER RODNEY WALKED BRISKLY THROUGH THE OLD CEMETERY, across the road and into the churchyard. The clock struck ten o’clock as he quickened his step through the rose bushes and fragrant lavender to greet the bell ringers, who were already waiting to go into the church.

  “We’ve had more turnover than Tesco’s,” Tony Dibson said, catching sight of the vicar. He was pushing his wheelchair-bound wife up the uneven path, just as he did every Sunday for morning service. She listened while the bell ringers, including Tony, rang out the peals, if a little unevenly, across the surrounding countryside. “Come to church, come to church,” they seemed to call.

  The vicar, smoothing his wiry hair in front of the small, cracked mirror in the vestry, wished the call was answered by more people than the elderly faithful few who turned up, rain or shine, to worship their Maker and reserve a place for themselves in the hereafter.

  The Dibsons had arrived inside the church, and Irene said, “What did you mean, about Tesco’s and turnover?” Tony pushed her to a suitable place where she would not block the exit in case of fire. The thought of fire reminded him of the village hall and he wondered if Lois had found out anything more.

  “Tony! What did you mean?” Irene could see his mind was elsewhere, but persisted.

  “Vicars,” he said. “Turnover in vicars. They never stay long in Farnden. Must be something about this village.”

  “Nothing wrong with us,” Irene said, “except maybe we could do with a few more in church. Go on, then, I’m all right. Off you go. Get ringing, boy.”

  THE VILLAGE HALL AND THE PLAYING FIELD AT THE REAR WERE approached by a narrow lane, and Gavin Adstone walked along trying to avoid piles of horse dung left by a group of girls on ponies heading for the bridle path that led out of the playing field and over the stream. “More horses than people in this village,” he muttered to himself, cursing as a dollop of the sticky stuff stuck to the toe of his shoe. “And the horses would win in an IQ test every time,” he added angrily.

  He was heading for a meeting with John Thornbull, the only member of the SOS committee who might possibly be persuaded to Gavin’s point of view. John was a practical man, a farmer with education and a small daughter a year or two older than Cecelia. He was more likely to be able to see a future for Long Farnden than the rest of the old codgers or dim-witted women Derek Meade had enlisted.

  He could hear voices coming through the open door of the hall, but not John Thornbull’s. Damn, he couldn’t see him anywhere. Still, he could go in and have a look round. He’d never really examined the place properly, and with a few informed criticisms of the structure and its proposed renovations, he might still be able to persuade SOS into seeing the folly of the restoration proposal.

  The cricket wives were gathered in the kitchen preparing tea for the afternoon match. Gavin looked in, smiled his most charming, and asked if he might wander round. “I’m a newcomer, as you already know,” he said, addressing Floss, who seemed to be in charge. Her Ben was captain of the team, and she presided over sandwiches and cakes and umpteen cups of tea.

  Far from being bowled over by Gavin’s charm, Floss stared at him. “What do want to look round for?” she said sharply. “There’s nothing going on here today, except cricket.”

  Gavin bridled. “In case you’ve forgotten,” he said, “I am a SOS committee member and have every right to come and inspect the ‘shed’ we’re intending to pour money into for its restoration. And in any case, I have a meeting scheduled with John Thornbull—”

  “I suppose you can, then,” said Floss. “It’s just that we’ve been told to be very careful since the arson attempts. That’s all. Look round all you want, but don’t get in our way. Look, there’s John now, just parking his quad bike.”

  “Morning, Gavin,” John said. He led the way into a small room where meetings were held, and asked what exactly he wanted to talk about. He explained that he had several cricket matters to attend to, and hadn’t much time to spare.

  “Just wanted a few words about SOS,” Gavin said. “I felt a bit odd man out at the committee meeting, and had a sort of feeling you might be more in tune with me than the others.”

  John frowned. He was a Farnden man, born and bred, and he had no wish to side with this unpopular incomer. It was true, however, that he privately thought the others had grouped themselves unfairly against Gavin’s ideas, and though they were much too ambitious as they stood, a lot of them could be adapted to widen the scope of the soap box grand prix. After all, the man was young and keen, and that was not easy to find in Long Farnden.

  They talked for a while, and when Gavin left the hall and walked back up the muddy lane, he realised that he had gained nothing. John had been very polite, sympathetic, but in the end committed himself to nothing. Waste of time, then, Gavin decided. He could have been at home, playing with Cecilia.

  “Morning, young man,” said a voice behind him. It was Tony Dibson with his wife, Irene. Gavin could see that pushing Irene’s wheelchair through the muck on the lane was heavy going.

  “Here, let me have a push,” he said. “Been to church?”

  Tony said they were on their way home, and had stupidly decided to come along the footpath and home by the longer route.

  “The Thelwell girls have been along here,” Gavin said. “D’you remember those cartoons, Tony?”

  “O’ course I do,” the old man said firmly. “Long before you were born. Wicked little girls on small fat ponies. D’you want me to take over?”

  Gavin said he was fine, and added that his mother had loved the Thelwell brats on ponies and had kept books of them.

  Glad to talk about something other than SOS, Gavin chatted to Irene, asking her questions about her disability without reserve or false sympathy. Tony could tell she was warming to another side of Gavin Adstone. When they reached the Dibson’s gate, Gavin insisted on pushing the chair right into the house, and accepted an offer of coffee with what seemed to be genuine pleasure.

  But what is he up to? thought Tony suspiciously. Wouldn’t trust the bugger as far as I could throw him.

  “What a nice young man,” Irene said, after they had drunk coffee, chatted of this and that, and Gavin had left, promising to bring Cecilia and Kate to meet Irene.

  “GUESS WHO WAS IN CHURCH THIS MORNING,” GRAN SAID, TAKING off her summer hat and donning her apron in the kitchen.

  “President Obama?” said Derek.

  “How did you guess?” said Gran. “We had a lovely chat, but he had to get back to saving the world.”

  “And apart from him?” Lois said, laughing at the pair of them.

  “The Hickson woman. Paula, did you say, Lois? There she was, her tribe all washed and brushed and fidgeting in the pew at the back.”

  “Including Jack Jr.?” Lois said.

  “If you mean that unprepossessing teenager with a hood permanently over his spotty face, yes, he was there, too. Sat staring at his feet most of the time.”

  “How could you see them, Mum?” Lois said. “If they were at the back, and you were in usual place up front, you must’ve been screwing your head round most of the service.” And I bet you weren’t the only one, she added to herself.

  Gran ignored the question, and went on to say how Father Rodney was all over them in the church porch. “Poor woman looked really uncomfortable. That’s the trouble with modern vicars. They try too hard. Puts people off, you know. Now, Lois, get me the milk from the fridge. Time I made the Yorkshire batter. Josie’s coming up for dinner, isn’t she?”

  “Yep,” Lois said. “And she’s bringing a policeman with her.” Derek said, tongue in cheek, that the police had heard that a certain Mrs. Weedon had been seen with petrol can and matches having a go at the village hall, and were wanting to talk to her.

  Gran, who was also Mrs. Weedon, menaced him with a dripping spoon. “That’s enough of that, Derek Meade,” she said. “Quite enough. I know perfectly well that Josie’s policeman is Matthew Vicke
rs, an’ he’ll be off duty, bless him. We must make him really welcome,” she added, and then, remembering her strictures about vicars trying too hard, she resolved not to do the same with a possible grandson-in-law.

  FIFTEEN

  THE SCHOOL BUS STOPPED OUTSIDE THE SHOP, AND JOSIE watched as the little crowd of variously clad pupils climbed aboard. Jack Hickson was still hovering over the magazines, and Josie walked over to him.

  “The bus won’t wait, Jack,” she said. “Go on, run for it.”

  He stared at her, and the lack of expression in his almost black eyes made her feel uncomfortable. “Mind yer own business,” he said insolently. She opened her mouth to tell him he would not be welcome in the shop anymore. She had had enough of his cheek. But he was out of the door and into the bus like a scared rabbit. Except that he was not scared.

  Josie turned back to the counter. Should she report him to his mother? But the poor woman had enough to worry about, and in any case, knew all about her firstborn. No doubt child experts would say he was a casualty of a violent father and a broken home. But the other children were perfectly polite, and certainly Mum seemed to think Paula was making a good job of bringing up a family on her own.

  Jack Jr. made his way to the rear of the bus, where his second-best mate, Jonathan, greeted him with a friendly shove. “Did you get it?” he said, and Jack shook his head. “Silly cow was watching too close,” he said. “I’ll have another go this afternoon, when we get off the bus. Works best if you wait till the shop’s full of kids, then she don’t know which way to look.”

  He pulled a dog-eared magazine out of his school bag and they both huddled over it, chortling at the lovely busty girls. “Why don’t she get tits like these?” Jack said, nodding his head towards a hollow-cheeked fourteen-year-old girl halfway down the bus. He hadn’t admitted it to his sophisticated friend, but he felt drawn to the girl, perhaps because she looked so unhappy.

  “Andorexia,” Jonathan said knowledgeably. “Don’t eat much. Can’t expect big tits without a few cream buns!” And they were off again into husky sniggers.

  As they stopped outside the school gates, Jack stuffed the magazine back into his bag and left the bus. A man stood by the gate, and Jack stopped abruptly, causing Jonathan to crash into him with loud expletives.

  “Hi, boy,” said the man. “Wanna come for a walk?”

  Jack shook his head, his face deathly white. “Sod off,” he said. “I’m goin’ to school.”

  “Never used to be s”keen on school,” the man said. “Got some sweets here. Cheer you up, they will. Sure you don’t wanna come?”

  Jack hesitated, and Jonathan gave him a push from behind. “Get into the playground,” he hissed. “He won’t dare follow. He’s big trouble. You oughta know that. Go on, for God’s sake.”

  Another push got Jack Jr. through the gates. He ran into school without a backwards glance. The man shrugged, put the packet back into his pocket and walked away. “Always another day,” he muttered to himself.

  LOIS CAME INTO THE SHOP SMILING BROADLY. “MORNING, LOVE,” she said. “Lovely weather for ducks.”

  Josie looked out at the sheeting rain, and agreed. “And that young Jack Hickson didn’t have a coat nor nothing,” she said.

  “Jack?” Lois said. “Why did you say that? Didn’t know you were concerned about the Hickson family.” Then she remembered that it had been Josie who suggested Paula for a job with New Brooms. “Well, I don’t really mean you,” she added. “It’s your father and Gran who ain’t got no time for them. Give a dog a bad name, I reckon.”

  “Not much wrong with that family, except for Jack Jr.,” Josie said sadly. “I nearly banned him from the shop this morning. Very lippy he was. It’s almost like he wants trouble.”

  “He’s going the right way to get it,” Lois replied. “Anyway, don’t let’s bother about him now. He’s neither one thing nor the other at the moment, not a real teenager nor a child. His voice isn’t properly broken, even. I shall see Paula at the meeting later on. D’you want me to mention it? Or shall we just see how he goes?”

  Josie smiled. “Good old Mum,” she said. “Feet on the ground. No wonder Matt’s uncle is so smitten.”

  “Josie!”

  “Sorry, sorry! Just that Matt says the lads at the station know that Cowgill’s always in a better mood when he’s made a call to Long Farnden.”

  “Change the subject,” Lois said firmly. “Did he have any news about the village hall? Any ideas about who might be having a go at burning it down to the ground?”

  Josie shook her head. “If he did know anything, he wasn’t telling me,” she said. “He’s very strict about that. Off duty means just that. And police business is confidential.”

  “Doesn’t stop him having a normal conversation about village matters, does it?”

  “We got better things to talk about, Mum,” Josie said, and that was that.

  PAULA WAS ENJOYING HERSELF. LOIS HAD SENT HER UP TO FARNDEN Hall, where Mrs. Tollervey-Jones had sighed with relief on seeing her. “Mrs. Meade telephoned earlier about Floss being unwell,” she said, ushering Paula through the kitchen door. Tradesmen’s entrance, thought Paula, and then reminded herself that Mrs. T-J was a JP on the magistrate’s bench in Tresham and might well have come across Jack Sr. in her work in the family court. She had had to go to the doctor with her wrist when Jack had slashed her. She was pretty sure that he hadn’t meant to do it, but he was blind drunk at the time and his hand had slipped. That’s what he had said, anyway, and this is what she had told the doc as he treated her. She could see he didn’t believe her, but there was nothing more she could say.

  In a way, it had been a relief when Jack Sr. had left. Being on her own was hard, but at least she could concentrate on the kids and not worry about keeping them out of Jack’s way when he was in the drink.

  Now she picked up a tiny porcelain foxhound, one of a group surrounding a finely modelled horse and rider. As instructed, she took great care and replaced them all exactly as she found them. Mrs. T-J had gone into the village, and Paula wanted everything to be perfect for when she returned. This job with New Brooms was heaven sent, and she intended no fault would be found with her work.

  “Don’t open the door to anyone,” Mrs. T-J had cautioned her. “Not even a policeman.” The ghost of a smile crossed her face. “When you’ve been a magistrate for as long as I have,” she added, “you are bound to have made an enemy or two.”

  It was so peaceful and quiet, Paula thought, and perched on the edge of a spindly legged chair for a moment. What must it be like to be the old girl, living in luxury, not a care in the world and never a worry about where the next penny was coming from?

  A sudden snort from an armchair at the other side of the room startled her, and she jumped to her feet in alarm. Then she saw it was a fat old spaniel, white and liver colored, lumbering across the room towards her, wagging its tail. She bent down and fondled its velvety ears. “You made me jump,” she said. “Must get on,” she continued, and picked up the wax polish and duster and headed for the door.

  As she crossed the hall with its chessboard black and white tiles, her eye was caught by a figure walking up the gravelled drive. As he approached she watched him with growing apprehension.

  “Oh, God!” As he came closer, she recognized him. “No, no, no!” she yelled, and ran out of the hall, down the passage and into the kitchen. She checked the door was locked, and then shot the bolt in the scullery. Then she heard the front doorbell. He was keeping his finger on it without pausing, and Paula stuck her fingers in her ears. She cowered behind the larder door and prayed that he would go away.

  Then she heard the blessed sound of Mrs. T-J’s car sweeping into the stable yard. She ran quickly to the long windows and saw the figure retreating rapidly across the park and disappear into a thicket bordering the road. Her heart was thudding, and she made a desperate attempt to pull herself together.

  “Paula? Are you there? All well?” Mrs. T-J was in
a good mood. She had put a card in the shop window advertising for an under-gardener to help out Bob, who was certainly in need of assistance. With the present job situation, someone was bound to apply, and all she had to do now was find a way of explaining the need for an assistant to the old man who had been tending the gardens at the hall for what must be more than fifty years.

  “Ah, there you are. Are you all right? You look a bit surprised. Surely I told you I would be back? Only been to the village, you know.”

  “I’m fine, thank you, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones. Just this dear old dog.” She bent down and patted the spaniel. “Gave me quite a start. She was asleep in the big chair, and I hadn’t noticed her until she snorted!”

  “Dog lover, are you?” Mrs. Tollervey-Jones smiled. Splendid, she thought. Must tell Mrs. Meade that she can send Paula Hickson anytime she liked. Hickson? A familiar name, surely? She shook her head, and called the spaniel to offer a biscuit treat from the shop.

  SIXTEEN

  LOIS HEARD THE DOORBELL, AND WAS NOT SURPRISED TO SEE Paula Hickson on the front step.

  “Hope I’m not too early?”

  Lois smiled, and said she was on the dot of noon, and to come in. “The others will be here shortly,” she said. “They come in dribs and drabs, according to what time they finish work. Sometimes clients want a bit of extra done. The customer is always right!” she added. Then she took a good look at Paula. She was neatly dressed, but pale, and when she fumbled in her bag to find a notebook and pen, Lois noted that her hand was trembling.

  “Are you all right, Paula?” she said. Perhaps it was nervousness at her first day in a new job.

  “Oh, yes, I’m fine,” Paula insisted, though she still felt considerably shaken by her husband’s sudden appearance at the hall. She was dreading what he might do next, but was making a huge effort to concentrate on Mrs. Meade and the prospect of meeting the others on the team.