Foul Play at Four

by Ann Purser

  LOIS WAS CLEARING THE FRONT GARDEN, CUTTING DOWN DEAD flowers, pruning shrubs and brushing up leaves. She planned to have a satisfying bonfire later on. She didn’t hold with homemade compost. “Nasty mouldy stuff,” she told Derek, who tried to tell her she wasn’t making it properly. “Well, why should I bother, when I can get nice clean bags of it from the garden centre?” Derek gave up.

  Now she stood up to straighten her back, and saw Dot Nimmo’s car drawing up outside the gate. What was Dot doing here? She did not encourage staff to contact her at the weekend, unless it was really necessary, and as far as she knew, there were no problems with Dot’s clients.

  “Got a minute, Mrs. M?” Dot shouted from the pavement.

  “Is it urgent?” Lois said.

  “Not life and death, no. But I think you’d like to know.”

  “All right, then. But Gran will have lunch on the table shortly, and she doesn’t take kindly to interruptions.”

  “As I know, only too well,” said Dot, opening the gate and marching in. Of all the members of the team, only Dot could talk to Lois like this, ever since Dot had nearly been killed when, in a villainous attempt to prevent her revealing what she had discovered on one of Lois’s cases, she was knocked down in a deliberate hit-and-run. Then Lois had seen the frail and vulnerable side of Dot, as she lay unconscious in the hospital bed, making such a small hillock under the blanket.

  “Come on into the office, then,” she said. “We’ve got half an hour or so.”

  As always with Dot, it was very useful information. Josie had passed on Matthew Vickers’s car-trashing experience after talking to Mrs. Mowlem, and so Lois knew that the brothers had disappeared. “Did you get out of Gladys where they’ve really gone?” she asked.

  “Not down to the west country, that’s for sure,” Dot said. “But it was something she let slip that gave me a clue.”

  “Let’s have it then. Don’t spin it out, Dot. Remember Gran.”

  “Well, she were telling me about some old geezer who’d been after her for years. Blimey, he must’ve been desperate! Childhood sweethearts, she said, boastin’ about it. You don’t expect me to believe that, I said. Anyway, when old Mowlem got put inside, the old geezer—Harry, he were called—come down to Tresham and said she’d got no excuse now. She could get divorced and wed him. And then she said what was very interesting . . .”

  “Dot!”

  “I”m gettin’ there! She said Harry wanted her to go back with her to his farm in Yorkshire. But she wouldn’t go. Said she didn’t fancy living on a windswept moor, miles away from Tesco’s an’ any other livin’ soul. So she sent him packing.”

  “And?”

  “And her sons, she happened to mention, had always been very fond of old Harry. So there you are!” she concluded triumphantly. “Worth a trip up to Yorkshire, d’you reckon? If you’re interested, I could find out exactly where the farm is, no problem. And without lettin’ on we’re goin’.”

  “Dot,” Lois said, “you’re a marvel. Let me think about it, and then I’ll decide who’d be best to go. D’you want a bite to eat with us? Gran’ll be pleased to see you, I know.”

  “Oh no, thanks very much all the same, Mrs. M. I never mix business with pleasure. I’ll be getting along now. See you tomorrer at the meeting. Bye.”

  SEVENTEEN

  IN THE BLUE BEDROOM AT FARNDEN HALL, FELICITY WAS TRAPPED in a nightmare, struggling to escape from a raging fire in the great hall, and could see herself standing at the top of the stairs. Below, her mother-in-law pranced in and out of the flames, laughing and waving a fiery brand around her head, shouting, “This is the answer! Now we’ll get the insurance money!”

  She awoke in a panic, leapt out of bed and rushed out onto the landing. All quiet, no flames and no choking clouds of smoke. Oh Lord, what an idiot, she told herself. She had been ready to rush downstairs and drag Mrs. Tollervey-Jones out of the flames and upstairs to temporary safety, but now she walked slowly back into her bedroom and drew the curtains back from the window. Her heart was still thumping, and she looked out at a hazy dawn, where there was nothing more dangerous than a fox crossing the terrace on its way to the chicken run.

  That nice Paula had put a tea tray with a kettle on the table by the window, and she switched on to make herself a cup of tea. Too late to go back to sleep now, and anyway, she had to admit she was reluctant to restart the nightmare. She shivered, and reached for the wrap hanging on the back of the door. Put there by considerate Paula, no doubt. Paula and Andrew had both been in that extraordinary conference and were in favour of Mrs. T-J staying on and developing tourism in the park. Paula probably knew the old girl well, and sensed how big a wrench it would be for her to sell up. But it was the only practical option, bearing in mind the pressure coming from the bank.

  Setting up children’s farms and adventure playgrounds cost money. Even resurrecting the pheasant shoot—a suggestion made by Mrs. Meade’s husband—would take time and yet more money. But on the positive side, all these suggestions for diversifying could help to sell the estate.

  Felicity planned to go back to London later on in the day. Robert and the children would be missing her, and she could report on how well New Brooms would continue to look after his mother. She was still not altogether sure how he felt about the estate. They could have a sensible talk about yesterday’s brainstorming session in the kitchen, and then wait for her mother-in-law’s decision.

  MRS. TOLLERVEY-JONES, SOUND ASLEEP IN HER OWN BEDROOM, was rudely awoken by the same pigeons that had lulled Felicity to sleep. She yawned and rubbed her eyes. All these years I’ve listened to those wretched, useless pigeons and still cannot sleep through their morning racket! She remembered a colleague on the bench telling her to get some of the new plastic strips with long spikes specially designed to prevent pigeons from landing on windowsills. She also remembered telling her colleague that she had at least forty windows, and how much was that going to cost?

  In any case, their favourite perch was the parapet on the roof. And if truth be told, she thought, if I got rid of them, the unaccustomed silence would probably wake me just the same. Just one more problem. She sighed. More and more reasons to sell the estate were stacking up in her mind. She looked around her room. Would she miss those gloomy prints of that smug-looking sphinx and strings of camels crossing the Sahara? No. Or the fly-blown photographs of Niagara Falls and Salt Lake City, taken God knows how many years ago by adventuring Tollervey-Joneses? That one in a bowler hat looked as if he was about to jump into the foaming falls. Wasn’t he renowned for populating his village with babies who looked exactly like him? No, she wouldn’t miss any of it. It could be a new start. She would divest herself of everything except what she chose to live with in her declining years.

  She looked at her bedside clock. Would Robert be up already? He should be, with those noisy children to get off to school. She lifted the telephone and dialled the London number.

  “Robert? Have I woken you? Ah, I thought so. I can hear their dulcet tones! Listen, my son. I have come to a decision, and unless you can think of any reason—very serious reason—why I should not do so, I have decided to sell the estate. There will be a great deal of work to be done, but I leave that to you and your contacts. Robert? Are you still there? Yes, well, sooner the better. I think Felicity is coming back today, so do take notice of her advice, my dear. Very sensible girl, that one. What? Oh yes, all right. Hello, both of you! You want a pony? Take Grannie’s advice, and have a guinea pig instead. Goodbye!”

  Robert shooed the children into the kitchen to have their breakfast, and postponed thinking about his mother’s call until after he had taken them to school. But one thing stuck in his mind. Her voice had sounded strong and cheerful.

  By the time Felicity arrived home in the late afternoon, Robert had already achieved a considerable amount towards putting Farnden Hall estate on the market. He had contacted an old school friend who was the senior partner in the most prestigious property age
nts in town, and set up an interview with him for tomorrow.

  He had jotted down a list of clients who had made large profits in the past year, and had happened to mention they were planning to retire to the country. A surprising number nursed this ambition! One of them, he knew, coveted an estate in the Midlands that included a highly rated horse-racing course. Perhaps he could interest him in the idea of creating his own on the Farnden estate?

  EIGHTEEN

  THINGS WERE NOT GOING WELL AT HILLTOP FARM. HARRY had come home, tired and depressed by the poor prices fetched by his sheep at market, and found Gerald and Clive sitting in his big kitchen, warming their stockinged feet by his Rayburn turned up to full heat, and eating doorstop sandwiches they had made with the last of his home-cured ham.

  “What the bloody hell do you think you two are doing here?” he had said. It was true he was very fond of Gladys, but for her two layabout sons he felt nothing but contempt. “And,” he had continued, “how did you get in? No, don’t answer that. Breaking and entering is what you’re good at, isn’t it? About all you are damn well good at!”

  Now, six days later, they were still there. They had blackmailed him into allowing them to stay, saying that if he wouldn’t cooperate, they would scupper for good his chances with their mother. They had even assured him that if he was friendly, they could persuade Gladys to see what an eligible bloke he was. “Harry and Gladys!” Gerald had said, laughing. “Got a kind of ring about it, ain’t it, Clive?”

  “And I believed him,” muttered Harry to himself. He was out with his sheep on the empty moorland, with his faithful sheepdog, Jess, working instinctively as usual. She don’t really need me, Harry thought as he watched her rounding up a ewe determined to run in the opposite direction.

  Harry had taken to working out of the house as much as possible. Any suggestions he had made that the two might do some jobs around the farm had been received with mocking laughter. Then, last night, after he had said that it was time for them to leave, he had added that if they wouldn’t go, he’d be forced to get the police.

  An ominous silence had greeted this, and then Gerald had stood up and come very close to Harry. “I don’t think so,” he had hissed, and Harry saw a wicked-looking knife flash in his hand. Then he felt the point of it on his chest, and in terror he had raised his hands in surrender.

  “All right!” he’d choked, “no need for that. Just let me know when you’re ready to go.”

  Dark thoughts filled his head as he trudged back towards the farmhouse. He had to find a way out of this. He walked into the kitchen and found his two unwelcome guests playing cards and drinking his whiskey. When they ignored him completely, he made his way slowly upstairs.

  In the silence of his room, he sat and thought for a long while, until finally he got into bed, hoping that sleep would come. Ten minutes later, he heard footsteps on the stairs, and shot across the room to lock his door. Just before midnight, still awake, he had a flash of inspiration. Many years ago, he had been a keen member of the local branch of the National Farmers Union, and had a good relationship with his neighbouring farmer, John Wilson. He had lost touch, but knew that John had remarried and had two strapping sons, both of whom were farming with him.

  By “neighbouring,” local people meant a good twenty miles away, down a narrow road that each winter was cut off by deep snow. But it was not winter yet, and tomorrow, Harry had thought, as he finally drifted off into sleep, I shall slip off without them two knowing, and pay a long overdue visit.

  “YOU MUST BE MAD,” DEREK SAID AS LOIS ANNOUNCED AT BREAKFAST next morning that she was thinking of taking two or three days off and persuading Josie to go up to Yorkshire with her.

  “Why Yorkshire?” said Gran. “What’s wrong with Bognor?”

  “Bugger Bognor,” said Lois in the immortal last words of King George V of the United Kingdom.

  “Well, really, Lois,” Gran said. “There’s no need to be offensive.”

  “But Gran’s right,” Derek said. “Why Yorkshire?”

  “Because I’ve never been there,” Lois said. “And nor, I’m pretty sure, has Josie. There’s marvellous scenery and very nice people, and amazing ponies running wild, and plenty of things to see. York’s got the Minster and the Railway Museum . . .”

  “Hey, wait a minute!” Derek said. “You sound like a guidebook! What on earth would you want with the Railway Museum? Or wild ponies, for that matter?”

  Lois flushed. “Are you saying we shouldn’t go?” she said, and Derek recognised the warning signs of a challenge.

  “Of course not. Go where you want. There don’t seem much of a reason for Yorkshire, that’s all. Have you asked Josie?”

  “Not yet. But she could do with a break, after the thieving. She keeps up a brave face, but I know she was really shaken. And now there’s the Norringtons been done over. Those thugs could come back here. Apparently a shop over the other side of Tresham was done twice in two weeks. Makes her nervous, I know.”

  “All right, you win,” Derek said.

  “So shall I manage the shop while you’re away?” asked Gran hopefully.

  “You can help Floss. She did well last time. Seemed to enjoy it. So I’ll ask her again.”

  “When are you going?” Derek would not admit it, but he would not be comfortable until Lois was safely back. He did not wholly believe her reasons for going, suspecting that Cowgill would be behind it somewhere.

  “Oh, I should think next week sometime. Dot Nimmo is looking up a good bed-and-breakfast place she knows up there. Maybe next Friday? Then we could come back on the Monday after the weekend. That should be long enough.”

  “Long enough for what?” snapped Derek.

  “For a restful break, of course! Blimey, would I take Josie with me if I was heading for a dirty weekend? Honestly, Derek!”

  “WHAT, YOU AGAIN?” SAID GLADYS MOWLEM AS SHE OPENED THE door and saw Dot Nimmo standing on the step. “Haven’t seen you for years, and then you keep turning up like a bad penny. To what do I owe the honour this time?” Gladys was beginning to suspect that Dot had an ulterior motive for her repeat visits. She was almost sure it had something to do with her boys. Well, she could keep Dot Nimmo at bay.

  “I brought you this arnica cream stuff. Does wonders for bruises, so my sister Evelyn says. I reckon that tumble you took were really bad. Here, are you going to ask me in? I can tell you how to use the stuff.”

  Gladys held the door open wider, and reluctantly admitted Dot. It was kind of her to think of it, and she could certainly use something to take the soreness out of her bruises. “Come in the kitchen. I’ve just made a pot o’ tea. Nice and strong. D’you want a cup?”

  Dot bravely drank the tea, which, as she said later to Lois, was so strong the spoon could stand up on its own. She made it last, and steered the conversation skilfully back to Gladys’s suitor in Yorkshire.

  “You know you told me about that Harry of yours,” she said. “That’s been nigglin’ away in my brain—what’s left of it. I’m sure I knew ’im from way back. Was he ever a pal of my Handy?” Handel Nimmo, Dot’s late husband, had had many friends, not all of them law-abiding citizens.

  “Very likely. He knew all that lot at Tresham Technical. They were all in the same class, and were always in trouble. Harry’s parents, Higgins they were called, won a lot o’ money, and bought a farm up in Yorkshire. His dad’s lifelong dream, Harry said. He were very unhappy himself. Had to leave all his school friends. They kept in touch, some of’em.”

  “I suppose it was very different for Harry, up there in Yorkshire?”

  “Different! I’ll say it were different! Right in the middle of nowhere. High up on them moors, and the nearest town God knows how many miles away. Poor kid. It weren’t fair.”

  “I went visitin’ a place called Pickering once,” said Dot casually. “I think that was Yorkshire. Gateway to the moors, they called it. Like going back a hundred years!”

  “That was it! What a coincidence! P
ickering—that were the name. I remember that because there’s some people in Long Farnden of that name. Pickering, that was it. Not that poor little Harry saw much of the place. Stuck on the farm most of the time. Still, he settled, and now he wants me to settle with ’im! Not a chance, I said, last time he come down.”

  “You might like it, Gladys. Rich farmer, brand-new four-by-four for his lovely bride? A man to warm your bed. That’s what I miss most,” she said nostalgically.

  “Electric blanket’s just as good,” Gladys said with a cackle. “Now, Dot Nimmo, you must have jobs to do. Thanks for bringing this stuff. I just rub it in, do I?”

  She showed Dot to the door, and then returned to the kitchen, satisfied that she had let nothing slip that would harm the boys.

  Dot parked up the road from the Mowlems’ house and took out her mobile. “Mrs. M? We’re getting close. Nearest town is Pickering, and Harry’s name is Higgins. All we got to do now is look in the right phone book. D’you want me to do that? Oh, right, you do it on the computer, then. Let me know how you get on. I told Gladys I’d been to Pickering, and that was true. We stayed in a very clean bed-and-breakfast, I remember. I’ll find out if it’s still there.” Dot was reluctant to be left out of the case, and cheered up when Lois said that would be very helpful. Soon as possible, she said.

  NINETEEN

  “OH, YES, AND I FORGOT TO TELL YOU, MUM RANG AND ASKED if I’d like to go up to Pickering in Yorkshire for two or three days. She thinks I need a break.”

  Josie and Matthew were sitting in his car outside the shop. They had seen a scary film in Tresham, the story of smash-and-grab thieves who left a trail of grief and disaster around the Southern states of America. Now she was putting off the moment when she had to go into the empty shop and her flat above.