by Ann Purser
“Are you ill, boy?” Gerald said in some alarm.
Clive shook his head. “Worse than that,” he said. “They’re onto us.”
Gerald, with exaggerated patience, put down his paper and said, “Who is onto us? And what for? We ain’t done nothing wrong. Well, nothing worth worrying about anyway.”
“What about that bloke we knocked cold at the back of the stately home in Farnden? I wouldn’t call that nothing. And it’s his wife and old Dot Nimmo who’s onto us. I saw them this afternoon. Y’know our new plan, thieving stuff from the station platforms. Well, I found a railwayman’s hat lying on a chair, put it on and took one of them litter carts we picked up in the market. Very convincing, I looked, though I do say it as shouldn’t.”
“If you don’t get to the point, you’ll not be saying anything anymore! Where did you see the two women? An’ did they see you?”
“I was pickin’ up litter on the platform. The train just come in, and they must’ve got off it. Next thing, I saw them comin’ towards me, and the Meade woman pointin’ in my direction! I scarpered as quick as lightnin’, and got the cart and meself in the car and drove away like a bat out o’ hell.”
Silence fell. Clive looked imploringly at Gerald, hoping for reassurance that all was not as bad as he thought. Gerald was weighing up everything Clive had said, and decided that, all things considered, the two women had not necessarily seen Clive.
“They could’ve been pointing at anything,” he said. “Were you near the ladies’ toilet?”
Clive thought. “Well, yeah. It was up that end of the platform. Oh well, maybe they didn’t see it was me,” he added with a sigh of relief. “Come to think of it, it weren’t likely, what with me ponytail and the railwayman’s hat, an’ all the tourists milling about. But still, I reckon we should be very careful. If they’re around and about, even if they’re just tourists, we don’t want them recognising either of us.”
After a long pause, Gerald said, “There is one other thing we could do. We could face up to them, ask them what they’re doin’—nicely, y’know—and pretend not to know who the Meade woman is. Perfectly natural for us to say hello to one of Mum’s friends, innit? Then, in the nicest possible way, we could put the frighteners on them.”
Clive looked doubtful, “D’you reckon that’s a good idea? We’ve always kept our heads down, ain’t we? O’ course, you’re the boss, so I’ll go along with whatever you say.”
Gerald rose slowly to his feet. “Right, boy,” he said, “this is what we’ll do. And when we’ve dealt with them, we’ll put our minds to work on what to do about our genial host, Harry himself.”
LOIS AND DOT ARRIVED BACK IN PICKERING, RELAXED AND PLEASED with their journey. Not only had it been a delightful trip, with the scenery and plenty of people to talk to, but they had discovered that the new employee of the North York Moors Railway was not, in fact, an employee at all. None of the station staff at Grosmont had seen him before, but in response to Lois’s enquiries, they very helpfully said they would keep their eyes open for him.
“That’s where your cap went, Tom,” one of them had said to his colleague. “That’ll teach you to be more careful!”
“Could’ve been one of these railway nutters,” answered the hatless Tom. “They’ll do anything to belong to the North York.”
Now Dot and Lois sauntered back through the town, and decided to stop at a café and have tea before they returned to Mrs. Silverman and Ourome.
“What shall we do tomorrow, Mrs. M?” Dot sat back in her chair and gazed out of the café window. The sun lit up the pale honey-coloured stone of the buildings, and the crowds walking by in their brightly coloured summer clothes, regardless of the chilly wind of early autumn, gave her a pleasant feeling of ease and tranquillity.
Lois’s next words dissipated this somewhat, but Dot, as usual, was ready for anything.
“I think we should go for a long walk on the moors tomorrow,” said Lois firmly. “It’s obvious that if that mystery railwayman was Clive, then the Mowlems are staying up there with the romantic Harry. We’ve got the address, and if we pop into the tourist office, I’m sure they’ll give us directions. There’s bound to be parking places, where you can get out and see the view. We’ll leave our car and walk. Should be nice weather, according to the forecast. Have you brought good shoes, Dot?”
“O’ course I have,” said Dot. “Didn’t I go and buy some of them walking boots? An’ two pairs of thick socks, the man in the shop said I should have. God knows when I’ll ever need them again, but we’re here on a mission, ain’t we, Mrs. M, and the large amount of money I shelled out on boots will be worth it.”
“Hint taken,” said Lois with a smile. “Give me the bill, and I’ll let you have the money as expenses.”
Dot did not argue, quite convinced that she was entitled to the payment. Although they were in Pickering partly as tourists, she reckoned her value as Assistant Agent Watson to Mrs. M’s Holmes was considerable.
“So, tomorrow’s Monday, and then we’ll be going back on Tuesday. That means if we want to clinch our job up here, it’ll have to be tomorrow. Better get an early night, Mrs. M. You never know what tomorrow will bring.”
BACK IN LONG FARNDEN, THINGS WERE GOING SMOOTHLY. BUT however smoothly they went, Derek was not happy. The more he thought about the expedition to Yorkshire, the more sure he was that Lois was up to something that had nothing to do with tourism. And Dot Nimmo was not exactly somebody who would be likely to squash any harebrained scheme that Lois had in mind. No, Dot Nimmo was fly and, before her husband drowned, had been used to living what Derek would consider a dangerous life.
He had been gardening all Sunday and now it was evening, and he sat in front of his favourite programme on the television but could not concentrate. Gran came in with two cups of coffee, sat herself down and handed one to Derek.
“Here, drink this. You look like you’ve lost sixpence and found a penny. I suppose it’s Lois, is it? Well, no good worrying, Derek. She’ll not change. I blame her father. He spoilt her rotten, you know. Only child, and the apple of his eye. No wonder she’s wayward and stubborn.”
Derek turned to look at her. He was not having this kind of talk about his Lois. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Gran,” he said. “She’s been a very good mother, wife and businesswoman. Not many can say that. No, it’s just that I’m always uneasy when she’s off on her own. My fault, I know.”
“I wouldn’t call a trip north with Dot Nimmo being on her own!” Gran was stung at his defence of Lois, and continued to accuse anyone named Nimmo of being shifty and untrustworthy. “In the extreme, I should add,” she said sharply.
“You’re probably right, me duck,” he said kindly. “Anyway, they’ll be back on Tuesday, and not much can happen to them in one more day.”
“Don’t tempt fate!” said Gran. “A lot can happen in twenty-four hours.”
NEXT MORNING, WHEN DOT PULLED BACK THE CURTAINS IN HER bedroom, a dismal sight met her eyes. Sheets of rain blew across Mrs. Silverman’s garden, rattling the windowpane and almost obscuring the view beyond the wooden fence. Dot’s heart sank. Would Mrs. M insist on going for their long walk over the moors in this downpour? Well, if she did, it would be the end of them. Dot had visions of lonely, rainswept moorland stretching for miles in every direction, and the pair of them up to their knees in mud.
She showered and dressed quickly, arriving at the breakfast table before Lois.
“Dreadful morning,” said Mrs. Silverman. “I just listened to the forecast, and it’s not good. Rain set in for the whole day for our area. I hope you and Mrs. Meade brought your knitting!”
Dot managed a smile. Best to wait for Mrs. M to appear, and then she would make the decision. “Ah, well,” she answered, and then Lois walked in, looking grim.
“So what shall we do?” Dot asked as soon as Mrs. Silverman had set their breakfasts on the table and disappeared.
“Well, one thing’s certain,” Lois replied. “We
’re not tramping about deserted moors in rain like this. And yes, I listened to the forecast, and there’s no letup today. So here’s what I’m going to do. First of all, I’ll see if Mrs. Silverman can keep us for another day. Then I’ll phone home and say we need to stay until Wednesday. It won’t be easy convincing Derek, but he’ll come round eventually. So we’ll postpone our walking trip until tomorrow, when it should be fine, and do some shopping and visiting undercover things today. Is that all right with you, Dot?”
Dot sighed with relief. “Yeah, it’s fine by me,” she said. “And a very sensible decision, Mrs. M, if you don’t mind my saying. Can you ask them to tell Floss to take on my Wednesday client? She’s done it before, so it’ll be okay.”
Mrs. Silverman grudgingly allowed them another day, and Derek, after some protesting, said he supposed that if that’s what they wanted to do, he must put up with it. “Just remember you have responsibilities here at home,” he had said, somewhat pompously, and Lois had laughed. “New Brooms won’t fold up if I’m playing truant for one more day!” she said, and Derek relented. “Enjoy yourself, gel,” he said. “And take care.”
TWENTY-NINE
MRS. TOLLERVEY-JONES WAS FEELING BRUISED. NOT PHYSICALLY bruised, although she had tramped over most of the estate with the agents. Her soul was bruised, she told herself. The thought of no longer owning Farnden Hall and all its farmland and park was like flying over the Atlantic. Although she had done it many times, she always felt as if the journey was too rapid for her soul, which didn’t catch up for a couple of days. Her decision and action had been precipitate, some would say, and she felt that part of her was lagging behind, maybe looking for an escape route.
Now, though, with arrangements made, and a new day dawning, the reality of what it would be like, living somewhere else, was beginning to sink in. No more waking up and wandering to the window to see the sun rise over the park, or the first fall of snow in winter, with hoarfrost on the trees, transforming it into fairyland.
And what about her old mare, Victoria? Would she include her in plans for a new property, either built on a piece of land reserved for the purpose, or buying a suitable house in the village, or another village nearby? In a way, she had too many alternatives.
When she had introduced John Thornbull, her tenant farmer, to the agents, she had been astonished to see that he and Hazel had tears in their eyes. Hazel had impulsively taken her hand, and said they couldn’t imagine anyone else in the hall.
Every part of the house and the estate had memories for her. Was that what she meant by her soul? Memories make up a large proportion of your life when you grow old, she decided. Oh well, she’d have the photograph albums, and at least they didn’t require constant maintenance and eat up all her reserves. The thought of money drew her out of what she now told herself was a sentimental attitude. Money had to be found. She was in debt, and the bank manager wanted his pound of flesh. Once the whole thing was finalised and she was established comfortably elsewhere, her soul would jolly well have to keep up.
She took her breakfast dishes to the sink, and began to wash up. Robert had bought her a dishwasher, but it was useless for one person. By the time she had enough crockery in there to make it worthwhile turning on, all the remains of scrambled egg and porage oats had hardened beyond recall. She never read the instructions to modern aids to a simpler life, and so it did not occur to her to rinse the dishes before stacking the machine. And anyway, she would consider that a stupid waste of time.
This morning, she had work to do. She was due in the magistrates court at nine thirty, and there was a full list of cases. “Just as well,” she said aloud. “Fix your mind on somebody else’s troubles. And who knows,” she added, her spirits rising, “shaking off all the worries of the estate might be a lovely new start.” She went to fetch her coat, and was confronted by the sight of a small herd of fallow deer crossing the park and disappearing into the woods. They were confident, knowing that nothing was likely to harm them.
So what would happen to the estate when she had left? Themed amusements? Family picnic sites? Racetrack for mini-vehicles? She shook her head, almost ran out of the house and in her four-by-four fled away down the drive.
THE MAGISTRATES COURT IN TRESHAM WAS IMPRESSIVE. THE courtroom itself was lined with mellow dark oak, and the windows placed high up, so that people involved in the proceedings of the court should not be distracted from the serious matters in hand. The magistrates bench was in the shape of an elongated pulpit, high up above the rest, indicating the authority of the law of the land. Today, as usual, there were three magistrates. First came a young woman with straight, well-cut hair and aristocratic features, then a middle-aged man with a kindly face and crinkled greying hair, and last but by no means least, the daunting figure of Mrs. Tollervey-Jones, smartly dressed in her good grey coat and skirt, her hair brushed neatly, and more than usual stern lines on her forehead.
“What’s up with the old girl? She doesn’t look too well today,” whispered the young woman to the kindly-faced man as they stood waiting in the lobby.
He shook his head. “Don’t know,” he replied. “She’s been off duty for a while. But I did see in the local paper that Farnden Hall is up for sale, so she’s probably going through the horrid business of moving house. Supposed to be the biggest cause of nervous breakdown, along with retirement. Ah, off we go.” Then the usher said, “All rise,” and the three walked in and settled themselves, the man flanked by the two women.
The first case was a motoring offence. An elderly man of eighty-two had parked his car in a side road, and had scraped the side of a neighbouring vehicle. Then he had walked away to keep an appointment with his optician. As he swore he had not noticed the scrape, he had not reported it to the police. His bad luck was that there was a well-known lace-curtain busybody lurking by her window, and she had been only too pleased to do so.
MEANWHILE, GLADYS MOWLEM SAT IN THE WITNESS ROOM, which was freezing, and tried unsuccessfully to buy a beaker of hot chocolate to warm herself up. She was to give evidence in a case of vandalism in her street. A couple of girls done up to look like zombies had deliberately thrown bricks through the window of an old man living at the end of the road. She had gone out after them, but they had disappeared. Now they had been nabbed, and were up before the bench on a charge.
When Gladys’s teeth began to chatter with the cold, the doorman took pity on her, and allowed her to move to another room. He left the door open, and she was delighted to eavesdrop on a conversation going on nearby. She recognised the voices immediately. One was a friend of hers, Dolly, who was a Victim Support volunteer, and the girl she was supporting, the victim, was already familiar to Gladys as Trish, an ex-girlfriend of her son Gerald.
Everbody knew everybody in certain quarters of Tresham, and Gladys was very familiar with Dolly’s voice, usually heard calling “Time, gentlemen, please!” in the bar of the Worcester Arms. She and Trish were just gossiping now, as far as Gladys could tell, and when she caught the name “Gerald” in their conversation, she decided to join them. She stood at their door and smiled. “Mornin’, ladies,” she said. “You was talking about my lads, an’ I couldn’t help hearing. Nice to see you again, Trish, though not in these surroundings! You heard from the boys lately?”
Trish said she hadn’t, and it wasn’t her choice to be here. “That silly old fool in his car, that’s what. Anyway, where’s Gerald and Clive gone then?” she asked, and firmly assured Gladys that she now had a really nice boyfriend and wasn’t in the least interested in where Gerald was holed up. “In trouble again, is he?” she asked.
“Don’t ask me,” said Gladys. “They don’t care about their ole mum,” she continued. “But they’ll turn up one night after dark, starvin’ hungry and full of tales of what they bin up to. I reckon they’re in Yorkshire, but I ain’t sure. Their dad’ll be out soon, and it’d be nice if they was home to welcome him. Mind you, I reckon some of them crooks are more comfortable in the nick than the
y are in their own homes these days! Not in the case of my ever-loving husband, o’ course.”
Dolly glanced out into the corridor, then returned and shut the door, putting her finger to her lips. “You ain’t meant to be in here, Gladys Mowlem, but since you ask, I can tell you there’s rumours flying round the pub that your boys have scarpered because they done a grievous bodily job over at Long Farnden. I reckon it’ll be months before you see them again!”
The door opened, and the court usher looked in. The first case was under weigh, and she was here to escort Trish into the court. But before she could say a word, Gladys interrupted piteously, asking if the nice lady could tell her where she should be. “I know it’s not in this room,” she said. “I just got lost, and these ladies were tryin’ to help me out.”
After establishing that Gladys was a witness in the third case to come up, the doorman appeared and escorted her back to her rightful place, where she asked if she could have a nice hot cup of tea whilst she pondered what she had just been told by Dolly.
THIRTY
ROBERT WAS WALKING BRISKLY ALONG FLEET STREET TO THE underground station, hoping to catch an early train home. His case had gone well, and he felt pleased in the way that he always felt pleased if he considered justice had been done.
“Robert Tollervey-Whatsit!” Robert stopped dead and looked around. An overly smart figure stood before him, grinning from ear to ear. He was a big man with a florid complexion, and Robert was quite sure he had never seen him before.
“I’m sorry?” he said stiffly. It was as well to be careful with strangers approaching unawares. Family members of convicted criminals had several times in his career followed him, full of ire and bent on revenge.