Foul Play at Four

by Ann Purser

  “Who was it? Somebody you know?”

  “Not exactly,” Lois said. “There were two of them, and one of them, the driver, looked something like the Mowlem we saw in church!”

  “Oh, cripes,” said Dot. “Then I suppose the other was Gerald, hiding from view. What do we do now?”

  Lois pulled into a parking place in Kilburn, and dialled for the number of the nearest hospital. “Hello? Oh, can I speak to someone about an old man brought in earlier today. We found him in a bad way up on the moor, and the medics came and got him. I’m so worried. Would it be possible to tell me how he is?”

  She put her hand over the phone, and mouthed to Dot that they had gone to find out. “Sounded very nice. Should tell us something,” she added.

  “Ah, yes, I’m still here,” she continued. “What? Oh no! At exactly four o’clock? Oh, God, I’m so sorry. Right, well, thanks for telling me. Bye.”

  “He died,” said Dot flatly.

  “Yep. They tried everything.”

  “You know what that means, Mrs. M.”

  “I think so,” Lois said. “It means murder.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  GERALD AND CLIVE HAD REACHED THE TOP OF THE HILL, AND came out into open countryside. Ahead of them lay two tracks branching off the lane, and Gerald said to pull off and park.

  “Well, what are we doing here?” Clive asked, switching off the engine. “You’ve said nothing at all since we left the farm, except yell at me to turn left, right or straight on. What’s goin’ on, Gerald?”

  Gerald grunted. His mind was in turmoil, ever since he’d caught up with Harry and the old fool had said he was on the way to shop them to his neighbour. He had told Harry he’d better give up on that idea. He was going nowhere, except back to the farm. Harry had started waving the gun about, and Gerald lost his temper. It had been easy enough to snatch the gun away from Harry and give him a crack around the head. Just enough to keep him quiet. Then he had seen those two women coming across the moor, and he had panicked. What the hell had they been doing there anyway? He was certain it was no coincidence. Had they been heading for the farm? And were they onto him and Clive? Only one thing to do, he had thought in the heat of the moment. Get out, both of them, leaving no traces at the farm. Then sort out the two women.

  That sodding dog would have led them to Harry, and they would hurry to get help. Then they’d be off somewhere else. He knew where most tourists went, and two women would very likely be going there, sooner or later. He had remembered that the favourite place was Kilburn, the village well known for its furniture works, all handmade and famous for the original woodworker’s signature mouse carved onto each piece. The mouse man was dead now, but his family carried on. It was a long shot, he had reckoned, but worth it. If they didn’t find them there, he and Clive could be on their way, over the moors, using the narrow lanes.

  “Why did we need to take all our stuff so quickly?” Clive interrupted Gerald’s calculations, and he answered abruptly that it was time they were moving on. He had given the women time to get back to their car, send for help and then be on the road to Kilburn. It was a wild guess; he had realised that when he calmed down. But it was better than waiting for the cops to arrive, and in a way he had been right.

  “SO WHY DID WE HAVE TO STOP IN THAT MOUSE FURNITURE place?” Clive asked. “Traipsing round there wasted a lot of our time, I reckon. We could’ve been miles away. There’s somethin’ you’re not telling me, ain’t there.” Clive sounded accusing, and Gerald snapped back that it had been interesting. “Shame you’re too dim to appreciate it,” he said.

  Gerald had failed to see the women in Kilburn, and from the map he had worked out a shortcut to the Scarborough road, up a winding hill. Then he had seen them, coming towards them in their car! There was no way to turn around, and now, after he had lost track of them, Gerald was beginning to wonder if they were really as dangerous as he had thought. Sure, he had bashed the Meade woman’s husband and Clive had lifted the takings from the village shop, but was that reason enough? They could have got the police onto them, without trekking up to Yorkshire. It could have been just coincidence.

  And how did they know that they were at the farm? Not even Mum knew where they were. Or did she? Perhaps she had put two and two together, and remembered old Harry’s place. That was it. She couldn’t resist telling Dot Nimmo, and that’s that.

  But maybe they had told the police, and were leading the cops to where they thought him and Clive could be found? Perhaps following them had not been such a good idea.

  “Gerald! Listen!” Clive’s voice was urgent. “That’s a bloody police car, coming this way!” Now the wail of a police car siren was getting louder. It seemed to Gerald to confirm all his suspicions.

  “Get going!” he shouted. “Down that track there, towards the trees!”

  “But—”

  “Just do it!” yelled Gerald, and thumped his brother on the arm.

  Clive obeyed. He drove the old car fast over bumps and ridges, shaking them both alarmingly. At last they reached the trees, and Clive slowed down. “How much further?” he asked.

  “Keep going,” Gerald said, trying desperately to think of a plan. “And watch out for rocks in the road. If we get a flat tyre, we’ve had it.”

  Eventually they rounded the corner and saw the chapel. It was beginning to rain, and Gerald said, “Blimey, just at the right time. Maybe the Almighty is watching over us, after all.”

  “I doubt it,” muttered Clive, and parked the car by the gate. They cursed when they found the chapel door locked, but immediately went over to the outbuildings. With a hefty kick, Gerald managed to gain entry to a dark, damp-smelling interior. He slammed the door shut behind them, and took a box of matches from his pocket. The first two matches wouldn’t light, and he swore. Finally, one flared into life, and they looked around. Nothing of interest, but that didn’t matter. All they needed was shelter for an hour or two, time enough for Gerald to decide what they would do next.

  Clive was exhausted with strain and fear. He knew from Gerald’s mood that they were in trouble. Had a fight with Harry knocked him out cold? There was no sign of the old man when Gerald had returned, forcing his brother to drop everything and flee in the car. No sign of Jess either. He sat down on the cold floor and leaned his head back against the wall. It was no good worrying. Gerald had always got them out of trouble before. God, he was so tired. He closed his eyes, and in seconds was asleep.

  Gerald looked across at him. Stupid idiot! But then, Clive had always been a millstone round his neck. Mum’s favourite, of course, being the baby of the family. Spineless and brainless, that was Clive. Well, now it was time to leave him to his own devices. Somebody would rescue him. They always did.

  Now that a plan had formed in Gerald’s mind, he acted swiftly. He took off his jacket and covered the sleeping Clive, muttering that at least he’d be warm, and then he silently crept out of the building and into the rain. The keys were still in the car, and he started the engine, hoping that Clive would not wake. Turning the car around with difficulty, he went slowly back along the track until he reached the road. Once there he accelerated. He needed to get petrol, consult the map and then head south. He had decided what he would do. The best way to hide from the cops, his dad had once told him, was on your own, and where they would least expect to find you. Back home.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  LOIS AND DOT RETURNED TO PICKERING, DEPRESSED AND SAD. They had tried to forget the tragedy they had witnessed, choosing to go out for supper to an Italian restaurant, where the staff were friendly and encouraging. But when the steaming plates of spaghetti Bolognese, lavishly sprinkled with Parmesan cheese, had been placed in front of them, they picked at it, having difficulty in clearing their plates.

  “Pudding, Dot?” said Lois.

  Dot looked at the menu. “There’s that tiramisu Delia Smith went on about. We could try that. We could have one pudding and two spoons if you like. I don’t think I could manage a
whole one by myself.”

  “Good idea,” said Lois. “Look, I’m sorry, Dot. This hasn’t turned out to be much fun for you, has it?”

  “On and off,” said Dot honestly. “But then, I knew we weren’t on a joyride, right from the time we left home. An’ I reckon we’re not done yet. Okay, so we’re off home tomorrow, but we’ll probably be wanted to give evidence about poor Harry. He didn’t exactly trip over and hit his head on a rock, did he? No, it was squidgy grass all around. Like falling on a wet sponge. And then there’s those two Mowlems. You reckon they were definitely at Harry’s farm. If Harry died so soon in the hospital, he’s probably not been able to tell the police what happened, has he? No, it’ll be a long time before it’s all wound up, if you ask me.”

  The tiramisu arrived, and they started to eat. The door of the restaurant opened, and Lois turned to see a familiar figure approaching.

  “Evening, Lois, Mrs. Nimmo,” said Chief Inspector Detective Hunter Cowgill. “All right if I join you?”

  Lois was dumbfounded, but Dot was made of sterner stuff. “If you like,” she said, “but we ain’t coming apart, are we, Mrs. M?”

  Cowgill chuckled. “Still the same old Dot,” he said, and turned to the waitress. “Linguini, please,” he ordered, and turned back to Lois. “Been busy, I hear,” he said. “And now there’s been a suspicious death. A poor old farmer murdered on the moor. It’s the stuff of Sherlock Holmes,” he added. “But I don’t think we can blame a baying hound for this one, can we?”

  “Oh, shut up!” said Lois, finding her voice. “We’ve had a rotten day, and can do without you turning up and being jokey! And why are you here anyway? Nationwide hunt for the murderer? Well, we’re off to bed, so you can talk to us in the morning.”

  “I’m hoping you’ll talk to me,” said Cowgill mildly. “I believe you have a lot to tell, Lois dear. I’ll see you at your lodgings at nine thirty. Meanwhile, won’t you keep me company and have a coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” said Dot.

  “No thanks,” said Lois, and rose to her feet. “Come on, Dot. We’ll get the third degree tomorrow.” She reached the door and, as she left, looked back at Cowgill. He was smiling, and blew her a kiss.

  NEXT MORNING, LOIS GOT UP EARLY. AROUND EIGHT O’CLOCK SHE rang Derek, and told him they hoped to be home around six o’clock that evening. “We’re not hurrying,” she said. “We’ll make the journey part of our little break. Lots to tell you. All well at home?”

  “Fine here,” he said. “There was a bit of a rumpus up at the hall yesterday, after we spoke to you. That ex-client of yours, Norrington, turned up there quite late in the evening and demanded to look around the attics. Said he had a plan for them, and needed to take measurements.”

  “What a cheek!” said Lois. “What did Mrs. T-J say?”

  “Tried to get rid of him, but he insisted. I got this from Floss, who rang last night to check when you’d be back. I think she was a bit worried about the old girl. She’s been told to take it easy, so Norrington was the last person she needed to see. Anyway, it was all smoothed over, and Floss is going up early today to make sure she’s all right.”

  “He’s a fool,” said Lois. “If he’s not careful, she’ll decide to refuse his offer, however high he puts it. She’s a stubborn old bird, as we know. Anyway, love to Gran—and you—and we’ll see you this evening. Bye.”

  Derek put down the phone and frowned. Lois sending love to Gran, and him? Perhaps she had read his thoughts. Anyway, he’d be glad to see her back home, and then, he hoped, she would concentrate on New Brooms, the family and nothing else.

  WHEN DOT CAME IN FOR BREAKFAST, LOIS WAS GLAD TO SEE HER looking fresh and fully made up. “Sleep well?” she said.

  “Slept the sleep of the just,” Dot said, settling herself at the table. “Now, we’ve got himself coming to see us at half past nine. I’m going to nip out early, if that’s all right. One or two souvenirs to get—presents for friends an’ that. I’ll be back in time for Cowgill. Okay, Mrs. M?”

  Lois nodded. She was glad of the chance to do some quiet thinking. Dot was a great companion, but regarded silence as a challenge to fill it. So now she could put her mind to several points that needed resolving, not least the probable movements of the Mowlem brothers. After poor old Harry, and his confrontation with him on the hill, they would certainly have scarpered, and now could be anywhere.

  Cowgill arrived ten minutes early, before Dot was back. Lois, annoyed, asked Mrs. Silverman if it would be all right to use her lounge to have a private talk with the gentleman. The landlady was not pleased. In fact, she felt the sooner those two women left for home, the better she would like it. They were up to something, she was sure, and did not approve of her guests entertaining strange gentlemen, even if it was nine twenty in the morning.

  Five minutes later, Dot returned. She hesitated outside, and then walked defiantly into the lounge.

  “What’s that!?” said Lois.

  “What does it look like? It’s a dog. Its name is on its collar and it’s called Jess. It belonged to that Harry, an’ I’ve said I’ll take it.”

  “And keep it?” said the astonished Lois.

  “Yep,” said Dot. “That’s it. It’s a sheepdog, o’ course, an’ there ain’t many sheep in Tresham. But it’ll be all right. I can take it on walks in the park. It’s a she, and she’s quite a nice old thing, don’t y’think?”

  After Mrs. Silverman had said dogs were not allowed, and insisted on Jess being put in Lois’s car, they finally got around to answering Cowgill’s questions. He knew better than to try and hurry Lois. She would take her time, and he relied on her loyalty to tell him what she knew. Well, most of what she knew.

  Lois had told Dot to leave the talking to her, unless she had anything urgent to say. “I shall just tell him the facts,” she had said. “But if you disagree, tell me later.” Dot was not satisfied with this, and had said that if she had something to say, she had always thought the best thing was to come out with it at once. In the event, they both did a great deal of talking. Starting back at the time Josie’s shop was burgled, Lois gave a clear and factual account of what had happened, all except the truth of why they were here in Pickering. She knew Cowgill would have realised the possibility of danger, and disapproved.

  So Dot’s presence came in very handy, and when she saw what Lois was up to, she invented a nasty attack of flu that had laid her very low, and said that Mrs. M had brought her to Pickering for the good Yorkshire air and a little break from work.

  There was a short silence after this, as Lois resisted the temptation to laugh at Dot’s barefaced lies, and Cowgill considered how to proceed without alienating the pair of them. Then he shifted in his chair, cleared his throat and spoke seriously, largely aiming his questions at Lois.

  “What exactly did you know about these two men? They were acquitted of burgling the shop, and you discovered that Dot knew their mother. Then Derek was attacked at Farnden Hall. What made you think his attackers were the same two men?”

  “Their van,” Lois said. “Derek saw it, of course, and he described it to Josie. She reckoned it was the same as the one outside the shop. Low-life thieves, the pair of them. And now murderers.”

  “Lois!” Cowgill raised his eyebrows and took a deep breath. “My dear, you cannot assume that at this stage.”

  “Oh yes I can,” said Lois. “I can assume what I like. It’s for you to abide by the rules. I’m just telling you the facts. Harry was murdered. One of them two murdered him.”

  “Quite right,” said Dot loyally. “And we’ve told you all we know, so it’s about time you went off and caught up with ’em, before they do any more damage.”

  Cowgill sighed. “Mrs. Nimmo,” he said. “Do you think you could round up a cup of coffee for us? Tell the old dragon that I’m a member of the family, come here to break some bad news. Or whatever you like. Invention is clearly one of your many skills. Then you can leave us for a bit. I shan’t be much longer.”
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br />   Dot looked at Lois, who nodded. “See you in a minute,” she said.

  The coffee arrived with a disgruntled Mrs. Silverman. “I like my guests to leave by ten o’clock on the day of departure,” she said huffily as she left the room.

  “Now then,” said Cowgill. “We won’t waste time, Lois dear. I am not even questioning your motives for travelling miles to a charming tourist town in Yorkshire. I only want to know exactly who you think wounded the farmer and why, and where you think he might have gone to now. There are two of them. Which is the leader—there is usually one—and are they likely to split up? As for their past misdemeanours, we will catch up with them later. As of now, we have an old man viciously attacked. That must come first.”

  “And his dog,” said Lois.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Cowgill. “Did you say ‘dog’?”

  “That dog with Dot. She was Harry’s. If you catch up with the two thugs, you’ll know which one attacked him. Just let the dog go. She’ll show you.”

  Cowgill nodded patiently. “Ask Mrs. Nimmo to leave the dog with me. And the rest?”

  “They’re brothers, as you know, and Gerald is the leader. He takes his young brother about with him. Protects him, Dot says. I doubt if they’d split up. Gladys would never forgive Gerald if he left Clive behind.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  CLIVE WAS VERY TIRED. HE HAD WALKED AWAY FROM THE chapel and down the long, twisting hill to the main road. Uncertain which way to go, he headed towards Kilburn, walking on the verge, and sometimes turning into a gateway to rest. One car stopped, and offered him a lift, but he shook his head, saying nothing, and hurried on. He couldn’t trust himself to get into conversation with a stranger. His tongue would run away with him, and if the driver was sympathetic, he might well blurt out the whole story.