Theft on Thursday

by Ann Purser

  “In the bracken round the back of the playing fields was best,” she said out loud to herself, but the vicar stared at her.

  “I beg your pardon?” he said.

  “Oh, sorry—miles away,” she said. If she could keep him here talking, they could get away out of the vestry door. Sandy must have keys. “I’m glad I bumped into you,” she said, laughing a lot—more than it merited—at the aptness of the phrase. “There was something I wanted to ask you.”

  “Couldn’t it wait until tomorrow?” said Brian irritably. He had to get back home before Sandy, so that he could keep up his pretence of knowing nothing.

  “Won’t take a minute,” she said briskly. “Here, look, we can perch on these. No time like the present when there’s something on your mind.” She sat on the edge of one of the damp, narrow benches in the porch, and Brian reluctantly did the same. “It’s about that cross. You know, the one poor old Cyril found. Have you had any idea who they could have been? Derek handed it over to the police, and he’s heard no more.”

  Not a lie, Lois said to herself. Derek hasn’t heard, though I have.

  “I have not had time to follow it up yet,” Brian said stiffly. “Cyril’s funeral is my main concern at the moment.” He had to get away. It had gone very quiet in the church, and any minute the young ones would be coming out.

  “O’course,” Lois said sympathetically. “It’s just that …” She paused, adding vital minutes on behalf of the lovers. She began to splutter, thinking of what was going on inside, and decided to own up. “Well, I’m just delaying you—no other reason for sitting in a dark porch on a cold night, bums getting damper every minute. I thought I’d spare you the sight of Sharon and Sandy busily tidying things up inside and making a quick getaway through the vestry door.” She collapsed, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

  Brian stared at her dark shape against the porch wall. “I saw them,” he said. “Through the vestry window.” She stopped laughing. Then, to her surprise, he said something she would never forget. “I am angry with him,” he said quietly. “It is not something I would have expected of him. But there it is. I must take him as he is, warts and all. I love him like a son, Mrs. Meade. Like my own son.”

  Then he stood up and touched her lightly on the arm. “You’re right,” he said. “The whole thing is ridiculous. But I cannot find it funny. I’m so sorry.” Whilst Sharon and Sandy silently locked the vestry door behind them and tiptoed off into the darkness, Brian and Lois walked side by side down the church path, Lois sober now, and for the moment they were in harmony.

  It was ludicrous, of course, Lois was sure of that as she related the evening’s happenings to Derek. But when she had finished constructing a suitably hilarious account, and Derek and Gran had stopped laughing, she said, “Mind you, I do worry a bit about Sharon. I reckon she’s not been around much, unlike our Sandy, and if he lets her down, it could be nasty.”

  Derek shook his head. “That Sharon,” he said, “keeps a secret or two, me duck. Not quite what she makes out. Ask ‘em down at the pub,” he added wisely. “They could tell you a thing or two.”

  “No doubt,” said Lois sharply. “But she is one of my team now, and I don’t listen to gossip, as you know.”

  Derek raised his eyebrows. That was a laugh. Lois not listen to gossip? But he caught Gran’s warning look, and went back to his newspaper without comment.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “WHEN ARE YOU GOING BACK HOME?” JAMIE ADDRESSED his question to Annabelle, both of them warm and half-asleep on a sofa in the small sitting room at the Hall. Mrs. T-J had gone to London for a few days to supervise the redecoration of her Baker Street flat. “Flat” was something of an overstatement, since it consisted of one room with galley kitchen and shoebox bathroom, but she was redesigning and buying new furniture and generally fulfilling her creative spirit. She would not be back until the weekend, and her granddaughter was making the most of her absence.

  “Dunno,” said Annabelle, opening her eyes. “Why do you ask? Want to get rid of me?”

  “Course not,” said Jamie. “I just wondered. Aren’t you supposed to be going on to some college, or something?”

  “If Grandmother has her way.” Annabelle combed her hair back with her fingers and sat up. “Secretarial. They don’t think I’m up to anything more demanding.”

  “Don’t you care?” said Jamie, who blindly considered his love as one of the most witty, articulate and intelligent girls he had met. “And anyway, you haven’t said when you’re going home. Your folks must be back from America by now?”

  “Yep,” she said. “Had a card from NY today. Mum’s back next week.”

  “And your dad?”

  “Ah, yes. Dad. He’s staying out there, apparently. With a lady called Dory. What kind of a name is that?” she added, and then to Jamie’s horror, burst into sudden and desperate tears. He put his arm around her and did his best to comfort her.

  “Never mind,” he said, in what he realized was his mother’s voice. “Could be just a temporary blip.”

  Annabelle shook her head and buried her face in Jamie’s chest. “No,” she said in a muffled voice, “Mum says she wouldn’t have him back if he was Noah and the only man left above water.” Jamie felt her shake, and feared more tears. But then she spluttered, and he saw she was laughing.

  “That’s better,” he said with relief.

  “Just the thought of Dad as Noah,” she said, pulling away from him. “He’s got a beard, you know,” she added. “Looks more like an old goat than the brave sailor, though.”

  She got up and crossed the room to throw another log on the fire. “I do love fire,” she said, spreading her hands to warm them. “It’s clean, isn’t it, the way it eats up everything.”

  “Leaves ash, though,” said practical Jamie. “Somebody has to clear out the grate. My dad does at home, or sometimes Gran. I think she’d like one of them gas fire jobs, but we all stick out for the real thing.”

  Annabelle was silent for a minute. “You’re a real family, aren’t you,” she said. “You always talk about ‘we’ … must be really nice. I wish I had a brother.”

  “You’ve got me,” Jamie said gallantly. He stood beside her and they both stared into the flickering flames. “Talking of fire …” Jamie was hesitant, and did not look at her.

  “What about it?”

  “I just wondered … that half-burned cross we found that night behind the church … do you know anything about it? I mean,” he added hastily, “have you heard where it might have come from … from your other friends, an’ that?”

  “What friends?” Annabelle was sharp. She frowned at him. “What are you suggesting, Jamie?”

  Definitely a tinge of Mrs. T-J there, he thought. Might be best to change the subject. But Mum had asked him to keep his ears open, and anyway, he was curious himself. “Well, you know, there’ve been rumours—daft magic rites, like in the films. That kind of thing,” he tailed off lamely. To his relief, she laughed.

  “Oh, that,” she said dismissively. “You mean that Tresham lot. Waste of space, most of them. I went along once, but I don’t do that stuff. Dressing up and chanting and passing round this and that … half of them were high before it began. No, I shall steer clear of that lot. Pathetic, really, but they sound pretty nasty when they get going.” She looked closely at Jamie. “Who wants to know?” she said. “Somebody on their tail?” He didn’t answer, and she continued, “Because if there is somebody, I don’t want to be the one who told. Not good news for me. So don’t pass it on to anyone. Anyone at all,” she repeated firmly. “And now can we change the subject? D’you want a drink? We can go and raid the fridge.” Annabelle was cheerful now, efficiently plumping up cushions and putting the room to rights.

  “Just one thing,” Jamie said slowly.

  “Oh, Jamie. Give it a rest.”

  But Jamie persisted. “You know on the telly the other night? When we were at my house. There was a news clip of thugs in Tresham, runnin
g away from some bit of bother. You said ‘Max!’ like you knew him.”

  Annabelle was silent. She looked suddenly very young, like a schoolgirl up before the headmistress. “So?” she said finally.

  “Was he Magic Max, the one who asked you to go with them that once?”

  For a moment, Jamie thought he had gone too far—she had an icy glint in her eye.

  Annabelle said, “If you must know, yes, it was. But I told you, Jamie, I have nothing to do with them now. Either you believe me … or we’d better not see each other again. I am not a liar.”

  Jamie nodded. “I believe you,” he said simply. “Come on, let’s go and get tea. By the way,” he added, “have you thought any more about joining the choir? You might like it. There’s no practice on Thursday—tomorrow—’cause of Cyril’s funeral. We’ll have done enough singing. But next week …”

  Annabelle opened her blue eyes wide, and laughed in the uncomplicated way he loved. It was still a child’s laugh, spontaneous and loud. “Me?” she said. “Jamie darling, I can’t sing a note!”

  “Bet you can,” he said, unwilling to acknowledge any possible shortcomings. “Anyway,” he added, “let’s raid the kitchen—come on—lead me to the crumpets.” She relaxed, and said she reckoned he’d had enough crumpet for one afternoon. He patted her tightly jeaned bottom, and they raced downstairs like a couple of children without a care in the world.

  AFTER A MORNING BUSILY SORTING PAINT COLOURS AND swatches of curtain fabric, Mrs. T-J cut herself a sandwich and went to fill the kettle. No water. A faint hissing in the tap, and that was all. She tried all the taps, but they were the same. The water supply seemed to have dried up completely. And the rain outside was torrential!

  She checked with others in the building, but they were fine. No trouble with the water. Several offered her a bucketful to flush the loo. She returned to the flat and tried again. No water. Frustrated and angry, she telephoned plumbers from a list in Yellow Pages, and none were prepared to come out for at least a week.

  There was nothing for it. She would have to go back to the country and try to organize something from there. She stormed out to her car, stepping in a deep puddle as she went, and set off for the motorway. Her right foot was sodden and cold, and she could hardly see beyond the car in front. She turned on Radio 3 and encountered a piece of modern music so assaulting to the ear that she snapped it off again straightaway. Radio 4 was no good. It was some worthy little drama about dreary miners and accidents down the pit. She drove on, and at last, with only one more junction to go, she began to relax. Then she felt a wobble in the steering. She was having trouble holding the car steady. It could be only one thing. A flat tyre.

  Incandescent with rage, she managed to manoeuvre the car on to the hard shoulder and drew to a bumping halt. It was nearly dark now, and she took out her mobile phone. There was no signal. At this point, generations of Tollervey-Joneses, landowners, rulers, men of influence in all parts of the world, rose up before her. She narrowed her eyes, opened the door and set off in the teeth of a howling, rain-filled gale for help.

  BY THE TIME HER TYRE WAS CHANGED AND THE MOTOR-WAY finally left behind, she approached the Hall in no mood to be trifled with. As she came into the entrance hall, she was surprised to hear voices coming from the drawing room. She frowned, and walked forward quietly to see who was in there. Visitors? No one was expected. The door was ajar, and she peered through. What on earth was going on? She could see Annabelle, piling butter and jam on to what looked like … yes, she was using the Georgian silver muffin dish always kept locked in a cabinet for display! And her companion? Of course … Mrs. T-J snorted now, and was heard. Of course, it was that village boy, turning round from the fire, still on his knees and clutching the precious toasting fork that had been her great-aunt’s.

  “Grandmother!” Annabelle was the only one not struck dumb. “Goodness, we weren’t expecting you! But never mind,” she continued, with a presence of mind that made Jamie vow to be true to her for ever. “Never mind, come in and have tea with us. You’re sopping wet, poor thing!” And then she took control, fetching another cup, and dry slippers and a towel to rub wet hair. And to Jamie’s amazement, Grandmother sat meekly by the fire, drank her tea and ate her crumpets, and said not a word. So that was all right, wasn’t it?

  JAMIE, ON RETURNING HOME TO HIS FAMILY, GAVE THEM an edited version of events. But when he came to the end, and described Mrs. T-J’s apparent capitulation, he knew in his heart that it was not all right. In fact, he was quite sure it was all wrong.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THURSDAY MORNING, AND THE WHOLE VILLAGE PRE-pared for Cyril’s funeral; not just old friends and neighbours, distant relations, civic dignitaries and representatives of his old regiment, but also those who wanted to be seen to be there.

  The passing bell began to toll, and Lois shivered as she made her way to the church. It was a mournful sound, one bell ringing insistently, reminding the village that this was no ordinary morning. It had been one of Cyril’s duties, and he had solemnly seen many an old friend on their way with his doleful ringing. Out of respect for an old customer, Mrs. Carr had announced that she would not open the shop until two o’clock. Sandy Mackerras had been allowed time off, and members of the choir had made arrangements to be free for their part in the service. Lois had helpfully revised the cleaning schedules.

  Bill, Rebecca, Jamie and Mrs. T-J were all in the vestry, putting on their scarlet robes. Old Gladys, long-time friend of Cyril and former organist, had let it be known that she was extremely offended at not being asked to play, and arrived at the church early. She sat in a front pew, and glared disapproval at Sharon, already at the organ playing a selection of Cyril’s favourite songs. “No idea how to play those old tunes,” Gladys muttered to an old crone sitting beside her. “Making a right mess of ‘Moon River’—got the timing all wrong!” She smiled nastily, cheered up by knowing she could have done better.

  The church filled up, until folding chairs were hastily fetched and set out in a side aisle. Conversation was subdued but vigorous. There were waves of recognition from one side of the church to the other. Babies were soothed, coat collars turned up in the draughty church, comments passed on how much older so-and-so looked in the dusty light coming through grey glass windows. A few brave souls hummed “Moon River,” and a tear or two fell, remembering old Cyril and his eccentric performances on his own Hammond organ.

  Then silence fell. Sharon glanced around and received her signal from the undertaker. She brought the recital to a gentle close, and put her hands in her lap.

  “Jesus said,” a loud voice proclaimed from the porch, and heads were bowed. Brian Rollinson, tall and spare, his face shining with certainty that Cyril had gone to a far, far better place, began to pronounce the soul-stirring words: “I am the resurrection, and I am the life; he who believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and whoever lives and believes in me shall never die.”

  Lois looked around, her spine tingling, and saw the vicar heading the sad procession, his white surplice fresh and immaculate, his head held high. Undertakers bore Cyril’s coffin, crowned with flowery wreaths, slowly up the aisle towards the chancel. Following were Cyril’s sister and her daughter, and a small group of people, distant relations, who were complete strangers to the assembled villagers. As the coffin passed slowly, some choked and fumbled for their handkerchiefs. Lois sniffed, told herself not to be a fool, and was unable to stop hot, salty tears running into her mouth.

  She turned her head again to the back of the church, hoping to conceal her weakness from Gran. Her eye was caught by a tall, pale-faced young man, dressed all in black and wearing dark glasses. Who was that, then? He was standing partly concealed by the stone font, and squeezed into a corner by a group of local children drummed up from the Sunday School, where Cyril had been an unpopular helper. Lois felt Gran nudge her.

  “Don’t stare, Lois.” Gran was dry-eyed, being no stranger to funerals and death, and stood quite
straight, her expression calm. Lois peered at her through watery eyes, and was amazed to see the ghost of a smile on her lips. Gran handed Lois a tissue. “He’d love to be here,” she whispered.

  Lois took the tissue and nodded. She made a mental note to ask her mother if she knew the black-clothed young man. In a church full of people wearing black, there was no reason why he should stand out, but he did. The dark glasses? Probably an affectation, but there was something else. Something about the way he stood, chin jutting out, hands gripping the back of the pew in front. Her attention was taken again by the vicar, speaking in a pleasant voice, with just the right amount of solemnity.

  The service went smoothly. The choir sang, not too lustily as befitted the occasion, and “Abide With Me” was a success. Mrs. T-J held on to the ends of lines a fraction longer than was necessary, as was her custom, and Rebecca kept her alto harmony respectfully muted.

  Brian Rollinson had worked hard at the address. He believed in portraying the departed in as true a light as possible, emphasizing good works and achievements, but also raising an affectionate laugh at the natural blemishes in every human character. Cyril was dealt with kindly, and with good humour. The atmosphere in the church warmed up slightly, in spite of chilly gusts of air from the bell tower.

  Finally it was time for the bearers to shoulder the coffin once more, and all were invited to take refreshment in the village hall after the committal. Not everyone went up to the windy cemetery, but those who did stood silently and tearfully as an old soldier from Cyril’s wartime regiment sounded the Last Post from a high point among the graves.