Foul Play at Four

by Ann Purser

  “Me? O’ course not, Mrs. M,” Dot said, crossing her fingers out of sight under the table. “I’m not that daft.”

  Beethoven took them safely on towards Pickering, and found Ourome, the bed-and-breakfast where they were to stay. Dot drove in and admired the immaculate little house on the outskirts of Pickering. “Looks clean anyway,” she said. “Oh, look, there’s Mrs. Silverman in the garden. Leastways, I guess that’s her. Yoo-hoo! It’s us, here at last!” she called, and Lois wondered whether Dot was capable of keeping her head down, whatever the circumstances.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THOMAS TRUELOVE AND ADAM GOLDMAN, RISING STARS IN Lord & Francis, arrived in Farnden village well before the time of their appointment with Mrs. Tollervey-Jones, and stopped outside the shop. Adam went in to buy a newspaper and a couple of bars of dark chocolate for Thomas. “Addicted to it,” he had said to Adam. “See if they’ve got Green and Black’s.”

  “I suppose you haven’t got Green and Black’s?” Adam said to Josie, not meaning to sound patronising, but doing so nevertheless.

  Josie replied huffily that she always kept a good stock, as the vicar could not write his sermon without it. She wondered what these two young men in their discreetly luxurious Jaguar were doing in Farnden, but her attention was taken by a troupe of infants brought into the shop by their teacher to buy coloured pencils and improve their money-handling skills. As their eyes were permanently fixed on sweets and they did not care a fig for coloured pencils, Josie often wondered whether the lesson stuck.

  “Well done, Adam. Have a square?” Thomas said, breaking into the chocolate. “Might as well sit here and go through what we know already.”

  “One thing I have to confess,” Adam said, colouring in embarrassment. “I’ve discovered my family has a distant connection with the Tollerveys way back. I suppose I should declare an interest?”

  Thomas laughed. “Up to you. William Drew could take over, if you prefer. It may be best. I’m afraid there’s no possibility of you being in line for the estate! All looks pretty straightforward otherwise, as far as I can see. Did you remember to bring the post?”

  Adam leafed through obvious junk mail, opened one or two letters relating to other properties and then examined an unfamiliar envelope. “It’s postmarked Tresham,” he said, at once curious. “I wonder who it’s from?”

  “One way to find out. Open it.”

  Adam extracted the letter and frowned. “Don’t know the name. Somebody called Norrington. He wants to make an appointment regarding the sale of Farnden Hall. Looking urgently for a property of this kind, he says. Suggests next week, early in the week.”

  “Really? The name’s not familiar. Better see what we can find out about him when we get back.”

  “We should be moving on,” Adam said, looking at his watch. They were exactly on time, the clock in the little family chapel behind the trees striking eleven as they drove through the gates. “Right, here we are,” said Thomas. “I’ll go slowly up the drive, so’s we can get the feel of the place. Wants it sold quickly, did the old girl say? Good time of the year for the photographs. Just look at the colour of those beeches! Wonderful. Shouldn’t take long to move this one, Adam. If not to Mr. Norrington, there are plenty of other likely buyers on our list.”

  ROBERT HAD ARRIVED EARLIER, THINKING HIS MOTHER MIGHT need some support. They sat now in the drawing room, staring out at the approaching car. “It’s not too late to change your mind, Mother,” he said, seeing her hands gripped tightly in her lap.

  “You should know by now, my son,” she said with a slight quaver in her voice, “that once I have made up my mind, I never change it. Robert, they’re coming to the front. Just go and tell them to park around the back, in the stable yard.”

  “Tradesmen’s entrance, Mother?” Robert said, grinning.

  “Just go,” said Mrs. T-J magisterially.

  Robert disappeared, and Paula put her head around the door. “Will you ring for coffee when you’re ready?” she said. “Me and Floss have got it all ready.” She felt important this morning, as if at the hub of a major change in Farnden society. Speculation in the village was rife, and a number of locals were dreading that the old house would be bought by new money, wealthy foreigners or pop stars who would hold wild parties.

  “It’ll be the end of the feudal system in this village, I reckon,” Floss said to Paula when she returned to the kitchen. “It is amazing how it’s lingered on, isn’t it? Most people look up to the old duck as a kind of matriarch up at the big house. Mind you, Paula, she encourages that. But nobody can say she hasn’t done a huge amount for the village in her time. They’ll miss her on the magistrates bench when she retires.” Floss laid out coffeepot, cups and saucers, brown sugar lumps and cream. “No biscuits?” said Paula.

  Floss shook her head. “Not the done thing,” she said.

  “What about the parish council? She’s practically glued to the chairman’s chair. Been there for years, hasn’t she?”

  “Not sure about that. There’s probably an age limit for staying on. They’ll be a pretty hopeless lot without her, I should say. There’s something about these old families,” Floss said. She was fond of Mrs. T-J. They had a love of horses in common, and Floss never found it difficult to talk frankly to her.

  “What? You mean they were bred to govern?” said Paula, laughing. “I don’t know what my Jack would say about that. He’s a longtime socialist, you know.”

  “Well, he’s happy enough to work for Mrs. T-J in the garden. Been really helpful to her, so she says. I suppose his job will be at risk, once the sale gets going.”

  Paula frowned. “Don’t say that! He’s had a hard time, and he loves coming up here. And most of the time he don’t take anything for the hours he puts in. Says it’s peaceful and full of echoes of grander years. Did you know they used to have peaches and apricots in the greenhouse and prepare trugs full of vegetables to take into the kitchen for the cook? Mrs. Tollervey-Jones told him that years ago the gardener’s boy would bring in a bunch of herbs neatly tied with string alongside the veg. Must have been a lovely way of life. If you were rich,” she added.

  The drawing room bell over the kitchen door rang. “Time for coffee,” Floss said. “Do you want to take it in?”

  “Wouldn’t mind,” said Paula. “I can tell Jack how the other half lives,” she added, smiling at Floss.

  In the drawing room, the preliminary introductions had been made, and Robert stood by the door to help Paula with the coffee tray. She put it down on the table and had no idea whether she should stay and pour out, or leave it for Mrs. Tollervey-Jones. Kindly Robert had noticed her dilemma. “Won’t you pour for us?” he said. This saved Paula having to say, “Shall I be Mother?”—which was what they always said at home.

  “And I’m sure we can manage some biscuits, Paula,” said Mrs. T-J.

  IN THEIR MUCH LESS HISTORIC DRAWING ROOM IN FLETCHING, the Norringtons were poring over back numbers of The Field magazine, comparing large houses, with or without estates, to get some idea of comparative prices.

  “We can never afford this kind of money!” Melanie said. “I don’t know why we are looking.”

  “Do you want to go for Farnden Hall or not?” said Geoff.

  “It’d be my dream house,” she replied. “But it is a dream, isn’t it?”

  He looked at her over the top of his glasses. “I want it, Melanie. And as you know, I always get what I want.” Except for children, if we don’t count one or two illegitimate ones, he added to himself with a grin.

  “I’ve done all the calculations, and I reckon we could do it. I’d have to develop the estate, of course. Turn it into a moneymaking enterprise. But that could be a real challenge for both of us. Wouldn’t you like to be lady of the manor? I must say I can see you happily taking it on.”

  “But would we be accepted?” she said hesitantly. “You know, by the people working on the estate already? And the village people? They’re a snobby lot, so I’ve
heard. Would we be really happy living such a different life?”

  “It’d be what we make of it. I’m not looking to be another huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’ squire.”

  “But those things could earn us money,” Melanie said, suddenly full of enthusiasm. “We could get the pheasant shoot going again, let out fishing permits for the lake, have the first meet of the hunt here, so’s you could get to know some good business connections. Oh, Geoff, is it really possible?”

  “I’ve asked for an appointment with the agents next week, so we shall see.”

  “I expect it’ll be months before things can be settled,” Melanie said.

  “Not if what I’ve heard is right. The old dear has run out of money apparently. Needs to sell as quickly as possible. The agents will pull out all the stops. It’s amazing what they can do when there’s a few million at stake. We might even get it at a good price. Leave all that side of things to me, sweetie. Now, I must be off. I need to get a haircut in town. Can’t go to Lord & Francis looking like a spiv!”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  LOIS AND DOT HAD UNPACKED THEIR SMALL CASES, DOWNED strong hot cups of tea with Mrs. Silverman and then announced their intention of walking into town to have a good look around. “We’ve got a couple of hours before everything shuts up,” Dot said.

  “Where should we go first, Mrs. Silverman?”

  “There’s a nice museum, and the church is very interesting,” she said. “Or you could just wander where the fancy takes you. Plenty of lovely old houses and public buildings. You could go on the steam railway tomorrow. We’re a very historic town, you know. Here,” she added, going to a table in the corner of the lounge, “here’s a few leaflets to help you choose. You’re not here for long, so you’ll not want to waste your time.”

  Dot and Lois glanced through the leaflets. Dot said she’d like to see round the shops, and Lois said perhaps they could have a quick look in the church first. She was aware that this was supposed to be a treat for Dot, but wherever she went, she loved to look at the church and its surrounding graveyard, feeling closer to the people and their lives and deaths than in a carefully planned museum. She was also aware that few people shared her enthusiasm.

  “The church?” said Dot unbelievingly. “What d’you want to see that for? One church is much like another, Mrs. M. No, you come along with me, and we’ll explore. I expect we’ll be going up to them moors tomorrow?” She winked at Lois, who said they’d have to see what the weather was like.

  “Anyway,” she said, shepherding Dot towards the front door, “let’s get going. We’ll pop in somewhere for a snack. Can we have a key, Mrs. Silverman?”

  Mrs. Silverman’s expression hardened. “I expect my guests to be back reasonably early in the evening,” she said. “I shall be in. You only have to ring the bell. But if you insist . . .” She looked at Dot, dressed to kill, and Lois, very attractive but more sober in appearance, and began to wonder what was the real reason for their visit. After all, they seemed an oddly assorted pair . . .

  “A key would be very useful, thank you,” Lois said firmly. “Then we shall not have to disturb you.”

  “Very well,” said Mrs. Silverman, opening a drawer in the hall desk and fishing out a key. “Breakfast is from eight to nine o’clock. Enjoy your visit,” she added grudgingly, and turned to retire to her kitchen.

  “Oh, one more thing,” said Lois. “My mobile number’s on this card, if you need to get hold of us whilst we’re out.” She handed her a “New Brooms—We Sweep Cleaner” card and, ignoring Mrs. Silverman’s raised eyebrows, left with Dot and set off towards the town centre.

  “She’s a bit of a misery, ain’t she?” Dot said.

  “Probably a widow, earning her keep and missing her husband.” She realised too late what she had said, and watched Dot’s face fall.

  “Yeah, well,” Dot said slowly. “It ain’t much fun, being widowed. Depends on what your late beloved was like. My Handy was a good husband, in his way. But he was always involved in dodgy deals, and I never knew when he’d be phoning me up from the cop shop, asking me to take in his pyjamas.”

  Lois laughed. Then she stopped suddenly, just as they reached the flight of steps leading up to the looming church. “Don’t look round, Dot. Pretend to be taking a stone out of your shoe.”

  “Why—”

  “Just do it,” hissed Lois. She stood apparently nonchalantly whilst Dot fiddled with her shoe. Turning in a full circle, she said quietly, “You can stand up now. Have a quick look over there by the café. That bloke. Him in the baseball cap and dark glasses.”

  Dot obediently looked, and then turned back to Lois. “We seen ’im before,” she said. “Walk on, and we’ll see if he follows.”

  Lois walked slowly up the steps and into the churchyard. She stopped at the foot of another flight of steps into the church, and looked round at Dot, who was following reluctantly, glancing back every now and then. “I don’t like creepy churches, Mrs. M,” she said when she reached Lois. “An’ that bloke has crossed the road to our side. He’s stopped at the bottom of the steps, fiddlin’ with his cap.”

  “Could be a complete stranger,” said Lois. “Or more likely, one of Cowgill’s men keeping an eye on us. I wouldn’t put it past Derek to tell him where we’d gone. Come on, you’re safe with me.”

  The door stood open, and at once they realised there was a service in progress. Lois took Dot’s arm and led her to sit in a pew at the back of the church. To her surprise, Dot immediately fell to her knees and covered her face in an attitude of prayer. Blimey, Lois said to herself, never thought Dot was a churchgoer. Lois herself had, when a small girl, been taken by her grandmother to services once or twice, but was not at all confident that she would know when to stand up or sit down. But no matter. Dot would lead the way.

  “How long are we going to stay?” Dot asked in a stage whisper, which caused several heads to turn around disapprovingly.

  “We’ll see,” Lois murmured, and opened the prayer book handed to her by the verger.

  “Evening prayer,” whispered Dot. “Page sixty-six, Nunc Dimittis. ‘Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace,’” she sang in a surprisingly sweet voice.

  Lois did her best, but her attention was elsewhere. She was waiting for footsteps at the back of the church. They would be clearly audible on the tiled floor. Sure enough, as they reached “and to be the glory of thy people Israel,” there were the sounds of someone walking on tiptoe behind them. She turned round quickly and saw the shadowy figure of a man who crept in and then seemed to vanish into the dark side aisle.

  “Was that him?” Dot was standing straight, her eyes fixed on the altar and saying mostly the right words, but here and there they differed from the Apostles’ Creed. “‘Maker of heaven and earth,’ where has he gone?” she continued. Lois gave up trying to shut her up, but answered in like manner as softly as possible. She established that she wished to stay to the end of the service, when they could hang about until the man emerged from wherever he was hiding. She intended to accost him.

  “‘. . . the forgiveness of sins,’ and won’t that be dangerous?” sang Dot.

  “‘. . . and the life everlasting,’ and no, it won’t. ‘Amen,’” answered Lois.

  The service came to an end, and the vicar reminded the congregation that tea and coffee were being served at the back of the church. “I do hope you will all stay,” he said. “We have one or two new faces, and we would love to welcome them to Pickering and to our church.”

  “There you are, then,” said Dot. “We have to stay, I suppose. Eyes peeled now, Mrs. M. Can’t see any sign of him yet.”

  Lois and Dot tried hard to monitor the comings and goings of the congregation, but were surrounded by well-meaning welcoming members of the church. By the time most had gone, they realised sadly that he could easily have slipped out without their noticing. But why should he do that, if his mission was to follow them? No, he must still be skulking in a side chapel. Lois excused
herself from a conversation about cairn terriers with the dog-loving vicar, and walked swiftly up to the chancel, where she had seen an elaborately carved door. If that led to a useful hiding place, she intended to investigate. She pushed open the door quietly, and peered in.

  He was there, seemingly absorbed by two recumbent stone effigies, a knight in armour, and his lady, a little larger than life-size, lying close together with their hands folded in prayer. Lois crept in, followed by Dot, meaning to take the man by surprise, and saw that the small room was a chapel, with pews and an altar. An enormous wooden clock with no hands and a dark face hung on the wall in one corner.

  “Excuse me,” Lois said loudly.

  The man turned, and Lois saw that he had a pale face, a ponytail protruding from under the baseball cap and an unlikely-looking moustache. He also looked terrified. “Wotcha want?” he said in a hoarse voice.

  “Um . . .” For a moment Lois was stuck for something to say. Of course he was not a cop. No cop would be so scared-looking, not with the might of the law behind him.

  Dot was quick to answer. “What d’you think you’re doing, following us around? We saw you outside. And don’t say you weren’t, ’cos I know from long experience when ’m being followed.”

  The man made to push past them and escape, seemingly too scared to argue.

  “And don’t I know you?” Dot continued. “I’ve seen you before, nothing surer. Where do you come—” But before she could finish her question, he had pushed past them and left the church at a quick trot. There were still parishioners lingering in the porch, and one of them tried to stand in his way, thinking he had been after the church silver or the collection plate. But the man was as slippery as an eel, and ran off down the street, disappearing round a corner.

  Lois and Dot were still standing in the lady chapel, and Dot took Lois’s arm. “Are you all right, Mrs. M?”