by Ann Purser
But when she went into the kitchen, neither of them was there, and the breakfast things had been cleared away and washed up. She could see them wandering about the garden, and then they disappeared down the path towards the little gate and the footpath. Sod it. Still, she supposed it could wait. Meanwhile, back to the business of cleaning people’s houses. She returned to her office.
“Bill?” Lois could hear Rebecca in the background, yelling that she was off to school. “Is it a bad moment? It’s about today’s meeting. Can you come half an hour early? You finish at the Hall in time, don’t you? Good, see you later.” Lois took a pen and began to jot down some notes that had nothing to do with cleaning.
Murder or accident? Probably murder. Why? Anyone could have started that fire.
Sandy’s enemies? Bill: angry about Rebecca; the vicar: angry at Sandy being so foul to him; Mr. Nameless: angry about his girl/wife being shafted by Sandy; Max Wedderburn?
Max Wedderburn: Fascist thug, arsonist, crafty snake—but what did he have against Sandy? S. had been to Wycombe meetings. Why? What was the attraction for a bloke like Sandy, who loved nothing better than a few jars in the pub with the lads?
Sharon Miller: What!!!
Annabelle? Oh, for goodness sake!
Or none of these?
Lois heard Gran coming back from the shop, and called out to her. “Coffee time, Mum! I’ll make it, while you unpack the shopping.” She slipped her notes inside a folder and went to see what tit-bits Gran had picked up from the gossips this morning.
BILL ARRIVED A GOOD HALF-HOUR EARLY, AS INSTRUCTED, and joined lois in her office.
“What’s eating you?” said Lois casually. She’d heard the rumours about Sandy and Rebecca, but did not know how serious it had been.
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Right, then let’s get down to business.” Lois knew better than to quiz Bill. He was a typical Yorkshire lad—tough, loyal and private. He’d worked for her for a long time now, sharing his domestic duties with helping out at the vet’s. She had never had reason to criticize his work, and was fond of him.
“I want to talk to you about Sharon Miller,” she said. “I know I’m breakin’ my own rules, discussing one cleaner with another, but we’ve got a problem here. You may know more than I do, about her social life an’ that. She’s a bit of a silly in some ways. But there’s no real harm in her, and I know she’s frightened out of her wits.”
“Has she got any?” said Bill, and in spite of himself, grinned.
“Yes, well, her work for me is fine. In her daffy way she cheers up clients, and does the job efficiently. I’d like to keep her on, and I need to know what’s going on with her.”
“Have you tried asking her?” Bill’s mind seemed to be elsewhere.
“Yes, of course I bloody well have!” Lois was losing patience. “Look, Bill, if you’d rather not help, just say so. I can ask one of the others. Maybe Hazel will know. But she thinks about nothin’ but babies at the moment, bless her. And the others, Bridie and Enid and Sheila, they’re a different generation and don’t really know Sharon. So you were the one I hoped would help. But never mind …”
“Hey, wait a minute.” Bill squared his shoulders and seemed to come to a decision. “Sorry, Mrs. M,” he said. “Got a bit of a problem myself at the moment. I think it’s only fair to tell you. Me and Rebecca have come to a parting of the ways. I’ll be returning to Yorkshire—on my own—shortly. Don’t know exactly when, but soon. I’ll work out my notice, of course. I was going to tell you later, but now seems the best time.”
“Bill!” Lois was shocked. The ground was giving way under her feet. Her rock, her Bill, was going! She clutched at straws. “But surely you haven’t decided … you and Rebecca have been together for such a long time … and your work at the vet’s … what would you do if you go back?” Her thoughts raced. This was the last thing she needed. “Well, thank you, Sandy Mackerras!” she continued angrily, with no thought of respect for the dead. “It was that little toad, wasn’t it? Started flirting with Rebecca at choir and went on from there?”
Bill said nothing, but stared down at his big, capable hands.
In for a penny, thought Lois, and continued, “And then the spoilt mummy’s boy dumped poor old Sharon, breaking her heart. Mind you, that’s—”
“Easily done?” completed Bill, and looked at Lois. His eyes were moist, but he managed a grin.
“Sharon’s heart’s soon mended, luckily,” agreed Lois. “It’s them books she reads. But Bill,” she said, and now she was serious, “don’t decide definitely yet. Rebecca is probably still shocked. Maybe it will take weeks. But if you still want …?”
He nodded. “Then I should hang on for bit. These things blow over. She’s a sensible girl, and he was a shit.”
He nodded again, reluctantly. Then he shook off the subject, and said, “So what do I know about Sharon? Only that she was mixed up with those thugs—Maxie boy—and was there the night of the fire. She was seen. An’ then there was Sandy. Sharon went head over heels, as you know. Very upset that he dumped her. What else? Oh, yes, and out of her head, apparently, the fire night. Mind you, she can’t take it. She’s anybody’s after a couple of shandies. If she’s scared, it’ll be of Maxie’s lot. Especially of him. As long as he’s around she’ll be dead scared. She knows too much, probably.”
A knock at the door, and Gran’s welcoming voice put an end to the conversation, but Lois reckoned it had been a worthwhile half-hour.
COWGILL SAT IN HIS OFFICE, WITH A CUP OF COLD COF-fee in front of him, deep in thought. It was an odd business. A house destroyed by fire—no, not just a house, a vicarage—a body as a result, a bunch of town nasties, and a village heaving with rumour and suspicion. But did he have a crime? More specifically, did he have a murder? He was pretty sure the fire had been started by Cockshutt and his acolytes, but he had no proof. As yet. Young Mackerras could have been trapped, but it was unlikely. Accidental fire takes a while to get going, unless there was an explosion—gas, or something. But nobody heard anything. A big strong boy like that should have escaped with no trouble.
But why should those pathetic thugs go for Sandy Mackerras? They were a nasty lot, certainly, but not murderers. Too cowardly. The KKK that Darren and his boys slavishly followed had never hesitated. The Klan had hanged blacks, beat up Jews, homosexuals, anybody who didn’t fit their skewed ideas. But Darren Cockshutt? He was a glorified playground bully who would run shit-scared if a real man faced up to him. Then he remembered his stricture to Lois. Don’t underrate Cockshutt. No, he should not forget that.
Witnesses. Nothing useful had emerged yet. Cowgill thumped his desk, and said aloud, “A reliable witness! Somebody must have seen something.”
“Do you need anything?” A pleasant-faced policewoman put her head round the door.
“Yes, I do. But nothing you can provide, thanks.” He grinned at her, and got up from his desk. “I shall be out for the rest of the day,” he said, and made for the lift.
MRS. COCKSHUTT, WATCHING FROM BEHIND THE grubby lace curtains, knew it was the police when an anonymous black car drew up outside her house down by the river. She’d had plenty of experience. She opened the door and said, “What d’you want?”
“Your Darren,” said Cowgill, keeping the door open with his weight. “And don’t tell me he’s not here, because I know he’s not. I’ve been to his scruffy hole and he’s not there, either. So where is he, Mrs. Cockshutt?”
She shrugged, her eyes narrowed. Darren could be anywhere. “He don’t tell me where he’s goin’. Never has,” she added proudly. “Always independent, our Darren. So you’ll just have to go on looking. Why d’you want him, anyway?” she added, curiosity getting the better of her.
Cowgill smiled a smile totally without mirth. “Never you mind,” he said. “Just stand aside and let me in. We’ll have a nice chat about Darren’s friends.” He gave her no chance to answer, but brushed past her, wrinkling his nose at the stale air
that met him.
FORTY-SIX
SHARON MILLER STOOD AT A BEDROOM WINDOW IN the Hall, staring out. She and Bill had been sent to do a big clean-up for Mrs. T-J, who had returned with a spring-cleaning bug. It was misty, and the trees in the park were like shadowy giants moving slowly towards the house. Coming to get me, thought Sharon, and shivered. She was sleeping badly, having nightmares about Stan and his threats. What would he have said to Max? And would it have satisfied him? After all, he was in big trouble. Everything would be bound to come out, whether Sharon shopped them or not. But Max would blame her.
She continued to clean the big panes, trying not to look at the trees and fighting tears. Surely the police would arrest Max soon and tidy everything up. Once he was taken care of, she was sure Stan and the others would crawl back to where they came from. Until that time, she was not safe.
A sharp noise behind her caused her heart to race, and she spun round. “Oh, it’s you, Bill,” she said, hand to her mouth.
“Who else?” said Bill, frowning. She looked terrible, white as a ghost. “Came to tell you it was coffee time,” he continued. “You feelin’ all right?”
She nodded. “You made me jump,” she said. “Come on, I need a break.”
After coffee, Bill said he would help her tackle Annabelle’s room. It was a tip, with clothes everywhere, muddy riding boots on the unmade bed, and doors and drawers spilling their contents on to the floor.
“Slut!” said Sharon. “Jamie Meade wants his head examined.”
“Love,” said Bill sadly. “Love is blind, Sharon.”
“I know,” said Sharon, “but not that blind.”
“Here, give us a hand,” Bill said. He was on his knees by the bed. “There’s something shoved under here. Better get it out before the mice nest in it.”
They cleared a space, and then pulled out a bundle of whitish cloth, rough and hairy to the touch.
“What the hell?” Bill held it up, and Sharon made a face.
“Not Annabelle’s usual gear,” she said. “What is it?”
It was a robe, and—like Christopher Robin’s dressing gown—it had a hood. But it was not nearly so innocent, as Bill immediately saw. Sharon, he realized, had not yet recognized it. But its unmistakable shape and the pointed hood sent chills through him.
“Best put it back,” he said.
“But why?” Sharon took it from him and held it up against herself.
“Give it to me!” Bill said sharply. His voice alarmed her, and she paled.
“It’s something to do with … you know … with the fire an’ that, isn’t it. I saw …”
“Just forget it, Sharon,” he said briskly, rolling it up and pushing it under the bed, deep into the other rubbish hidden there. “Come on, let’s get going on these curtains.”
LOIS SAW BILL’S CAR DRAW UP OUTSIDE AT LUNCHTIME, and wondered what was wrong.
“Got a minute, Mrs. M?” He followed her into her office and gave her a succinct account of what he had found. “I remembered the fiery cross in the churchyard,” he said, “an’ us talking about the KKK. I looked ‘em up—used to be very powerful in the States. Terrorized loads of people who didn’t suit them.”
“And the rest,” said Lois, nodding. “Violent and mad. The fiery cross and the fire, and now you’ve found this. Scary, Bill.” She was quiet for a moment, thinking of Jamie. Cowgill had said Jamie might be in danger. And nothing sorted yet. Where was that Max, and why hadn’t Cowgill …
Bill said quickly, “D’you reckon we should tell the police?”
“Leave it with me,” Lois said firmly. “I’ll see to it. Thanks for telling me. You did the right thing. Oh, yeah, and what about Sharon? No chance of her keeping her mouth shut, is there?”
He shrugged. “I told her to,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean much.”
“Not so sure,” said Lois. “Somebody’s given her a nasty fright lately, so maybe she’ll be a bit more careful. Anyway,” she added lightly, “how’s it going at the Hall? No complaints from Madam?”
“Give her time,” said Bill.
“EVERYTHING SORTED, THEN,” MARION SAID. SHE AND Brian were in the crypt café of Tresham church, amongst retired ladies with shopping bags and gossip to share.
“Yes … well, um, there may be a bit more delay than we thought.” Her face fell. Brian struggled on. “Tests to be done by all the experts. But when that’s all clear, we’ll re-fix the date of the funeral. After the police have finished all their investigations. On the day, Sandy will be taken to your house, then you and the others can follow in cars to the church. I’ll be there, Marion, waiting for you. I know that may not be much comfort to you, but I’ll do my best. I promise you that …”
She looked bleakly at him. “Can I stay on in Farnden for a bit longer?” she said. “It’s a rum do, isn’t it. Enemies for so long. I’ve hated you for years. And now, because of … well … Now it’s all gone. I don’t feel anything much, but I’d rather be here … with you around. If we’ve got to wait.” She looked across the table at him, at his grey, lined face, his cheeks even more hollow than usual. His fingernails were bitten to the quick, his shoulders hunched. He was a beaten man, and some of it was her fault.
“Brian,” she said, in a firmer voice. “I have something to tell you. It’s quite important … well, very important, I think. It’s going to be difficult, but here is not the place. Shall we get going? Can you think of somewhere quiet and private, where we’ll not be interrupted?”
The sun was shining warmly when they emerged from the crypt like pale-faced spirits from the underworld. Brian said, “My church. We shall certainly be private there.”
“Right, the church it is,” she said, still in the same brisk voice. It was only when they were back in Farnden, and Brian opened the heavy oak door, that Marion’s voice faltered again. “Sure nobody will want to come in?” she said.
“Nothing surer,” said Brian ruefully. “Come on, we’ll go into the Lady Chapel.”
The sun streamed through the stained glass windows, casting coloured shadows on the bleached stone floor, and motes of dust spun in the disturbed air.
“Shall we just sit quietly for a few minutes? Collect our thoughts, and ask God to guide us?”
Oh dear, thought Marion, if he’s going to bring God into it, it’ll be even more difficult. She was confused enough about what was right and what was wrong. But she sat obediently in the hard wooden pew next to him and bowed her head. She had not prayed for years. She concentrated on how exactly she was going to tell him what she had kept secret.
“Fire away, then,” he said, sitting back in the pew and smiling as reassuringly as he could.
“Right. Well, um, it’s about Sandy.” Brian said nothing, but nodded gently.
“You know what we said at the time, when Gerald left me to come and live with you. About us never telling Sandy about all that? About you and Gerald? And the accident, and Sandy not needing to know?” Again Brian nodded.
“Well, he wrote to me a couple of months ago. Said somebody had told him a bit of gossip that had upset him. It was about you and Gerald. But mostly about you maybe having had a hand in the accident. He was very angry with me for not having told him any of it, and said he needed to know the truth.”
“And did you? Do you believe that what I told you is the truth?” Brian’s voice was very quiet. There were no sounds in the church, as if mice in the corners and birds in the rafters were holding their breath.
Marion nodded. “Yes, Brian. I believe you,” she said. Then a gate slammed.
“What’s that!” said Marion, starting out of her seat and looking towards the door.
Brian sighed deeply. “The churchyard gate,” he said. “Someone’s coming. It may be one of the ladies to do the brasses and flowers. Oh dear,” he continued, looking at Marion’s stricken face, “I’m so sorry, my dear.”
Brisk steps marched into the church. “Who’s that?” said a sharp voice.
Brian ros
e wearily to his feet. “Good morning, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones,” he said. “I don’t think you’ve met Mrs. Mackerras? Sandy’s mother. We were just having a quiet time together.”
For once in her life Mrs. T-J was nonplussed. She stuttered her apologies and asked Brian if he would like her to come back later. He shook his head. “No, no, I know your time is precious,” he said. “We’ll leave you to it. Gran will have lunch ready, and woe betide us if we’re late!” He could see that Marion was near to tears, and he put his hand through her arm, guiding her gently towards the door. “There’ll be time later,” he whispered to her. “So sorry.”
They walked slowly out of the church, and Mrs. T-J watched them go. She had a most unaccustomed prickling in her eyes, so took out her cleaning things to attack the brasses with extra vigour.
FORTY-SEVEN
MAX COCKSHUTT WEDDERBURN SAT ON THE BLEAK sand dunes and looked out to sea. He was not impressed. Miles and miles of bugger-all. Except water, and he hated water as much as he loved fire. It was a grey, chilly day, and the wind blew over his cropped head, making him shiver. He struggled to his feet, and walked with difficulty along the powdery sand for a while, seeing nobody, and although he knew this was the best possible thing, he was desperate for the sight of a human face, or the sound of a voice. He was not sure how much longer he could stand this place.
He pulled his thin jacket closer around him, and looked back over the last few days. What the hell had gone wrong? Sandy had taken responsibility for dripping petrol all around the vicarage, and the description of the ferocity of the fire proved that he’d done that well enough. But the stupid fool had never meant to commit suicide. He knew that too. The Society’s part in the plan had been executed meticulously, as always, according to reports from henchman Stan. Its survival depended on that, and now it looked as if an outsider—because Sandy Mackerras had definitely been an outsider—had fouled it up.