Tragedy at Two

by Ann Purser

  “So where did they go?” Lois said.

  Alf shook his head. “Don’t know, me duck,” he said. “They’re the sort that give the Roma people a bad name. Somebody said they’d seen them selling things in Tresham market. Fly-b’nights, they are. Picking up a living in any way that comes handy, and not all of it the right side of the law. You want to keep well clear of them.”

  Lois took a deep breath. “D’you reckon they were the ones who attacked Rob?” she said.

  “I doubt it,” Alf said. “A couple of cowards, both of ’em. That sort always are. They let that dog do their fighting. Unless, o’ course, they were drunk. Like your Rob. Anything could’ve happened then, couldn’t it?”

  Lois was silent. She realised that Alf had not told her anything she did not know already. She finished her tea and began to get up.

  “Just a minute, Lois,” Edwina said. “I can tell you a bit more about them two.”

  Alf stared at her. “What d’you mean, gel?” he said. “Did they threaten you?”

  Edwina slowly stuttered out the story of the money paid over to keep them quiet. She did not mention Sam, the reason for their blackmail. She said she had caught them stealing chickens, and they had said they’d set the dog on her if she said anything to Alf.

  “I was scared,” she said. “I know I should’ve told you, but he was really scary. Anyway, it was only the twice. Then they were gone.”

  Lois and Alf stared at her. “You poor thing,” Lois said. But Alf said nothing. He frowned, looked down at his clenched hands, and got up from his seat, shoving the chair back behind him so that it fell over with a crash.

  “Alf!” Edwina said. “Where’re you going?”

  “Out!” Alf said in a hoarse voice, and he was gone, banging the kitchen door behind him.

  Edwina was pale, and turned to Lois. Her hands were shaking. “What shall I do?” she said.

  “You’d better tell me the real reason he blackmailed you,” Lois said. “Then we might know better what’s to be done.”

  But Edwina shook her head and composed herself. “Best leave it to me,” she said. “Alf’ll calm down. He always does. He’ll be fine when he comes back. Sorry he went out like that, Lois, but it’s his way of dealing with it. Better than losing his temper with me, anyway.”

  Lois shrugged. If she did not want to tell her the truth, that was her affair. But she was sure Edwina was hiding something, and guessed the blackmail was about something much worse than stealing chickens.

  THIRTY-SIX

  HAVE YOU TOLD THE POLICE ABOUT YOUR BUNCH OF FLOWERS, Mum?” Josie faced her mother over the shop counter next morning. There were no other customers and Josie meant to persist. Lois had evaded the question once before and now said nothing.

  “Mum?”

  “Well, no, not yet,” Lois finally admitted. “I was waiting until I’d seen Alf.”

  “Why Alf Smith? What’s he got to do with Mark Brown?”

  “Nothing, really. But one of the gypsies—one of the ones who did the pub quiz that night—was set on by a gang of lads as they went home. Alf was a real friend to the gypsies, and I wondered if he’d heard anything more from George. That was the one who did the quiz.”

  “Like if Mark Brown was one of the lads?”

  “Yep. Exactly.”

  “And?”

  “Alf was a bit suspicious of me,” Lois said. “I asked him about the two roughnecks with the pit bull terrier, and he told me a bit about them. But something Edwina said upset him and he stormed out.”

  “So now you’ll tell your friend Cowgill. Promise, Mum. That message on the flowers was very nasty.”

  “Could be teenage spite, trying to frighten me off,” said Lois. “It don’t necessarily mean I’m in danger.”

  “Mum!”

  “All right, Josie. I’ll have a word with Cowgill. But you know what the cops are like. They’ll want to take the card, analyse the writing, drag Mark Brown into the cop shop again, an’ that’ll be more trouble for his parents.”

  “And a good thing, too!” Josie was fast becoming angry with her mother, and decided to play a last card. “Perhaps I should tell Dad,” she said. “Maybe he could do something.”

  “Good try, m’love,” Lois said, and, picking up her groceries, she left the shop.

  When she had gone, Josie turned over in her mind what had been said. Something lurked in the back of her mind, something that she hadn’t taken up with her mother. Oh, yes, it was something about Edwina upsetting Alf. What had she said? Josie remembered the spat between Alf and Sam Stratford in the shop, and frowned. Edwina, Alf . . . and Sam? Could it have been? No, that was quite ridiculous. They were too old for that sort of thing.

  The shop door opened and Josie was surprised to see her brother Douglas arrive. He was carrying an empty gas cylinder and looked thunderous.

  “Hi, Doug!” Josie said. “What on earth are you doing with that?”

  “We’ve had some power cuts in Tresham,” he said shortly. “And last night was the last straw. This is empty, as always when you need it. The evenings are chilly, an’ Susie complains. She’s a chilly mortal, bless her.”

  “There must be gas cylinders in Tresham? Did you try the garages?”

  “No, I wanted to see you anyway. How are you feeling now? We wondered if you were up to coming to a movie with us? We could have a pizza first, and make an evening of it.”

  Josie smiled. Douglas had always been her favourite brother. She considered Susie was lucky to get him. There was such a difference in their ages, and Josie hoped that the impending marriage was a good idea.

  “Thanks, thanks a lot, both of you,” she said. “Actually, I’ve just accepted an invitation to see the film. Maybe when there’s a new programme?”

  “Who’re you going with, then?” Douglas said, surprised. Maybe with Mum and Dad, that was most likely.

  “Never you mind,” Josie said. “He’s just a friend, and couldn’t be more respectable.”

  Douglas raised his eyebrows. “Right,” he said. “Fine.”

  “So you’ll ask me again, won’t you,” Josie said.

  After she’d exchanged the gas cylinders and they’d had a chat about nothing much, Douglas left. Josie looked at the telephone for a couple of seconds, and then dialled Matthew Vickers.

  COWGILL WAS IN HIS OFFICE, STANDING AT HIS FAVOURITE PLACE BY the window, looking down on the street. He was puzzled. This Rob Wilkins case was taking much longer to clear up than he had anticipated. He had to tread carefully when speaking to Lois, or to Josie, for that matter. Lois’s daughter was becoming wonderfully like her mother.

  But Cowgill had thought right from the beginning that Rob had been a weak sort of man, easily swayed, and he had not been at all surprised to see from the records that he had been given a warning after causing an affray in Tresham late one night some time ago. Drunk, he’d been. How had this apparently meek and mild man kept his other self from Josie? Ah well, he wouldn’t be the first to play Jekyll and Hyde.

  He turned around as there was a knock at the door. “Come!” he said.

  Matthew Vickers put his head around the door. “Can you spare a moment, sir?”

  Cowgill nodded. He was very punctilious about not allowing Matthew to deviate in any way from the routine and regulations of the police station, just because he was his nephew.

  Matthew came in and shut the door. “It’s about the Rob Wilkins case,” he said. “Anything new? I’m hoping to take Josie Meade to a movie and it would be nice to be up to date on where we are. Sir.”

  Cowgill shook his head. “I’m still certain it is connected with those gypsies in some way. There is something you probably don’t know, and had better keep to yourself.”

  “Of course, sir. I am not a junior recruit.”

  It appeared that he had not heard much about the other side of Rob’s character, and Cowgill decided not to make too much of it. He was not at all sure he approved of Matthew’s date with Josie. Still, as far a
s he could gather, she hadn’t agreed to go. “Just be very careful,” he began, and then Matthew’s mobile rang.

  Cowgill watched as a broad smile spread over his nephew’s face. “That’s great,” Matthew said. “I’ll pick you up around six thirty. Best bib and tucker! See you then. ’Bye, Josie.”

  “She’s agreed to come with you, I gather?”

  “Yeah—that’s really good. I was hoping I’d be able to help her face her bereavement, but worried that it might be too soon.”

  Not to mention hoping to lure her to your lonely cottage in the middle of nowhere, Cowgill thought. The lad might have more luck with Josie than he, Cowgill, had had with her mother. But enough of that. He felt quite cheered up, wished his nephew a jolly evening, and dismissed him.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  A COUPLE OF DAYS LATER, DEREK WAS ON HIS WAY HOME WHEN he came upon a cyclist whizzing along in the middle of the road. He slowed down and waited for him to get to the side of the road. The fool must have heard the van coming up behind him, but he remained in the middle of the road and Derek hooted crossly at him. To his annoyance the cyclist kept going as before.

  Finally, at the turning to Farnden Hall, he swerved off to the left and disappeared. For two pins Derek would have followed and given him a piece of his mind, but he was tired and hungry and anxious to get home. He thought the man looked familiar, but with all that Lycra and an all-concealing helmet, it was difficult to be sure.

  MARK BROWN CONTINUED AT SPEED AND CIRCLED ROUND TO THE stable yard at the back of the hall. He looked up at the windows along the first floor, and was rewarded by the sight of Sally waving and smiling. Hooray, she was in a good mood! He parked his bike out of sight behind the end of the stables, and waited. After a few minutes, the back door of the house opened, and Sally beckoned him in.

  “She’s off magistrating,” she said.

  “She’s what? Thought you did that in the privacy of your own bedroom,” he said.

  Sally laughed long and loud. Her laugh was very loud, and sometimes irritated Mark. But all the girls of her kind laughed like that.

  “Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly,” Sally said in a silly voice.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” she replied. “Just come on in quickly. We can go to my room and listen to some music. By the way,” she added. “That shiny getup is very sexy—all is revealed!” Her laughter pealed out into the yard and Mark looked around nervously. He scuttled into the kitchen and she shut the door, patting his bottom as he passed her.

  She led the way across the lofty entrance hall, with its chessboard of black and white floor tiles, carefully washed every Friday by Sheila from New Brooms. He followed her up the wide stairway, which became a T-junction at the top, with a long corridor stretching to right and left. Sally turned right, and halfway along she opened the door to her room and beckoned him inside, her finger to her lips. “There’s other people in the house,” she whispered. “Including ghosts . . .”

  Mark’s eyes widened. “You’re not serious?” he whispered back. He had been determined not to feel overawed by the grand house with its myriad of passages and doors firmly shut, but the oppressive atmosphere made him shiver. A sudden deep barking startled him even more. Blimey, it was the Hound of the Baskervilles! Well, he was no Sherlock Holmes, and he sat down on the edge of Sally’s bed trying to conceal his shaking hands.

  She appeared not to notice, and switched on her player. Loud music filled the room, and she laughed. “Now we can shout if we like,” she said. “They’re used to me making ‘that awful noise,’ as the old girl says.”

  “You mean Mrs. Tollervey-Jones? Who else is there here?”

  “A deliciously handsome young man—no, not you—who comes to garden a couple of days a week. Doesn’t do much digging and that sort of thing. Likes riding round on motor mowers and Aunt’s latest toy. He persuaded her to buy a quad bike thing, like farmers whiz around on. He can wind her round his little finger.”

  “Don’t like the sound of him at all,” Mark said. “Who else? He’s not much in the house, presumably?”

  “Oh, cleaning women come and go. And Aunt’s committee friends. You know the sort.” She opened a drawer in her dressing table and pulled out a small bottle. “Need a little encouragement?” she said, and shook the pills inside.

  TWO MEN WALKED SILENTLY THROUGH THE SPINNEY OF POPLARS that grew along the kitchen garden at the rear of the hall.

  “Are you sure she’ll be out?” Sid walked a couple of paces behind Harry, relying on him to know the way. If Sid had had his way, they would be miles away from Long Farnden by now. But Harry insisted that there were still rich pickings to be had locally, and they were happily settled where they were by the old barn. “S’long as you keep yer stupid head down!” he had warned Sid. “An’ let me do all the talking.”

  Harry had crept all round the hall one night, and said the stables were not locked and except for one, where there was a rusty old nag, they were used as storerooms for all sorts of promising goodies. Now they had a couple of big rucksacks and if surprised by the old girl, planned to say they were walkers hoping for a drink of water to see them on their way. “We can say we’re lost, Sid,” Harry said. “An’ you can put on that innocent look o’ yours that always works with old ladies.”

  “Supposing she asks to see inside the bags?” Sid seldom questioned Harry, but this job looked to him fraught with danger.

  “We scarper. Quick as we can,” Harry answered. They came into the neatly planted kitchen garden, through a small gate and into the stable yard. Harry was about to make for the nearest stable when Sid stopped. “Listen!” he said. “What’s that music?”

  Harry looked up at the back of the hall. “It’s only that chit of a girl,” he said. “Look—her curtains are drawn across. Stoned out of her mind, you bet. Probably got one of her mates up there. They’ll not notice us. Specially if you don’t make no noise, you idiot!” Sid had walked straight into an old bucket standing beside the stable door.

  Harry was right on all counts. They filled their rucksacks with all kinds of saleable loot, from old books to ancient umbrellas and rusty garden tools that would shine up a treat. Sally’s curtains remained drawn, and they had the yard to themselves. Until the horse suddenly began to neigh, a loud, frightening sound.

  “That’s enough, innit?” Sid said, anxious to be gone.

  “No hurry. There’s another cupboard here,” Harry said. “You’re used to horses, for God’s sake! It’s hungry, I daresay. Gi’ it a mint. You always got a packet in yer pocket, ain’t yer?”

  This time, Harry was wrong. The horse was snickering now because it knew the sound of its owner’s car coming up the long drive to the house and Mrs. T-J always greeted her old friend before going into the house.

  “Christ!” said Harry, as he heard the engine noise, and looked around for Sid. But Sid had gone, fast as a greyhound, through the kitchen garden, the spinney and across the field, leaving Harry, who was not so quick on his feet, to lumber along behind.

  MARK, PRONE BESIDE A SNORING SALLY, ALSO HEARD THE CAR. He flew across to the window and peered from behind the curtain. “Sally!” he said. “Wake up! Your aunt’s back!”

  She didn’t move. Out for the count, thought Mark, and took another look into the yard. To his surprise he saw Mrs. T-J hop nimbly out of the car and take off round the back of the stables, followed closely by the Hound of the Baskervilles, which had cleared its compound fence with ease and was running beside her.

  Mark saw his chance, and, cursing his tight-fi tting cycling gear, he stumbled out of Sally’s room, down the wide stairway and out of the kitchen door. He’d hidden his bike as usual, and retrieved it quickly. Before there was any sign of Mrs. T-J returning, he pedalled for his life down the drive towards home and safety.

  “Where’ve you been?” his mother said, as he banged into the house and collapsed on a chair in the kitchen. “You look as if the devil was behind you!”

>   “That wouldn’t surprise me,” said his father. He looked scornfully at his son, and vanished out into the garden.

  “So what’s happened? I thought you were going into town on your bike?”

  Mark shook his head. “Got a flat tyre,” he said. “Had to mend it on the side of the road. No bugger stopped to help.”

  “Don’t swear,” Nancy Brown said automatically. She didn’t believe her son. From long and wearying experience she knew he was lying. She also knew that it was useless to try and get the truth out of him.

  Mark stood up. “I’ve got some work to do in my room,” he said. “See you later,” he added, and clumped upstairs. There was a short silence, and then the familiar unmusical thud-thud filtered through the house. Nancy sighed and rubbed her eyes.

  I wish I could get away from the two of them, she thought, not for the first time.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE NEXT DAY DAWNED SLOWLY. BY EIGHT O’CLOCK IT WAS barely light, with heavy grey skies and rain sheeting across Lois’s garden, blown almost horizontally by a strong gale-force wind.

  “And I’m supposed to be fixing an array of security lights outside that new mansion. Y’ know, that monstrosity that’s gone up where Boreham’s old farmhouse used to be,” Derek said, standing by the window.

  “Not in this downpour!” Lois said. “Elec and water don’t mix. I won’t have you brought home shrivelled and scorched,” she said. “I smell breakfast,” she added. “Let’s see what it’s like when we’ve eaten Gran’s special.”

  She was halfway down the stairs when the telephone rang.

  “Hello? Is that Mrs. Meade?” For a moment, Lois could not place the voice. “It’s Mark Brown here.”

  There was a silence, and Lois waited for him to say more. In the end, she said, “What can I do for you, Mark?”

  He coughed, and then in a hoarse whisper said, “Can you spare me a few minutes this morning? Got something to tell you. Could be important.”