by Ann Purser
Kilburn was crowded, and keeping his eyes down, he walked steadily straight through the village and out on the way back to Pickering. He had no clear idea of what he would do then, except a faint hope that if he could get back to the farm, then Gerald would return to collect him and take him home.
He reached a junction and was momentarily scared by the volume of traffic. He began to walk slowly, keeping close to hedges and fences, until he heard the sound of an engine slowing down, and a black car pulled up beside him.
“Do you want a lift?” said Cowgill. “It’s very dangerous to be walking along here.”
Clive thought the man looked respectable enough, even a bit familiar, and decided to accept the lift. He got in, heaved his bag onto his lap, and the car moved off. It was a great relief to sit down. His feet were sore, and his legs ached. But he must not say anything—just ask to be dropped in the centre of Pickering. Then he could make his way over the moors to the farm without being noticed. He did not expect to find Harry there, though it was still possible, if he’d made a quick recovery. But he knew that even if the house was empty, he could break in and hide until Gerald came for him.
“Where are you heading?” said Cowgill, glancing sideways at him. Looks a real down-and-out, he thought, probably sleeping rough. Ah well, at least I can save him from being run down by a juggernaut.
Clive hesitated, not knowing what to say. But then he had a bright idea. He would pretend to be dumb, and could even wave his hands about in a reasonable imitation of sign language. He brightened at the thought that Gerald would be proud of him! In answer, he shook his head, and moved his hands.
“Don’t you speak?” said Cowgill.
Clive shook his head again, and smiled winningly. But then he thought of a snag. How would he tell the driver where to drop him?
Cowgill unwittingly rescued him. “Do you want to go to Pickering?” he asked, and Clive nodded vigorously.
“By the church, in the centre of town?” More nodding. Clive relaxed, feeling more confident. Maybe he could manage without Gerald, after all.
“Fine,” said Cowgill. “Nearly there.” He was planning to stay one more night, make another visit to the hospital, and ask questions around town. It was a relatively small place, and local gossip should be useful. He wished Lois had not gone home, partly because he loved to be with her, and partly because of her talent in worming information out of unlikely people.
Now they were in the outskirts of Pickering, and Cowgill slowed down. He pulled up in the centre of town and said, “Here we are then.”
Clive got out of the car, then turned to grin at Cowgill. “Thanks for the lift,” he said.
THIRTY-SEVEN
“WHY DON’T WE PUT OUT FLAGS?” SAID DEREK SOURLY. HE had been shunted about by Gran all afternoon, and he was fed up. After all, it had been her idea that he should come home early, and now that he was here, he seemed to be permanently in her way.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she answered. “Go and do something.”
“Like polish the clothes prop, or paint the garden gate?”
“Derek!”
“I’m going,” he said. “I shall be in the workshop, in the unlikely event that I’m wanted.”
Gran watched him slope off into the garden, and wondered what on earth was the matter with him. He had not wanted Lois to go, she knew that. And then the idea of taking Dot Nimmo had met with stern opposition from him. Lois had, of course, done exactly what she wanted, but then that wasn’t so terrible, was it?
She had so much to tell her daughter, but in view of Derek’s mood, she decided to leave them alone together. She would greet Lois, offer Dot a cup of tea, hope that she would refuse and then shut the pair of them in the sitting room and let them get on with it. She might even go round to Blackberry Gardens and have a chat with her friend Joan.
LOIS CRUISED INTO THE VILLAGE, THINKING THAT SHE SEEMED TO have been away for weeks. All the familiar landmarks appeared strange, as if seen after a long absence. But that was fanciful. There were serious things to be done, now that she was back, and by far the most important was to sweeten her husband, who, she knew, would be grumpy.
“Are we there?” said Dot, surfacing and looking round.
“Yep. Home again,” Lois said. “You’ve had a nice long sleep, and should be rarin’ to go with a dustpan and brush tomorrow morning. Though seriously, Dot, I am grateful for your coming with me. Made all the difference. Now, all smiles, please,” she added as she saw Gran standing by the gate. And yes, there was Derek.
As Gran had hoped, Dot refused a cup of tea, saying she had to get back and see what disasters had happened whilst she was away. “Bye, Mrs. M,” she said, getting into the driving seat. “Give us a ring if you’ve forgotten anything.”
“What exactly did that mean?” said Derek, who had come forward and given Lois a peck on the cheek.
“Exactly nothing,” Lois replied. “Just one of the things people say. Anyway, Derek, aren’t you pleased to see me back?”
“I’d have been twice as pleased if you’d come back yesterday, like you said in the beginning,” he said. “Best come on in. Gran’s got the place ready for a proposed visit from the Queen.”
Gran’s heart sank. It was worse than she had anticipated. “And I’ve made a super chocolate cake,” she said bravely. “Plenty for everybody. I am very pleased to see you back, all in one piece, Lois dear,” she added, with a scowl at Derek.
LOIS HEARD THE DOOR BANG SHUT, AND HER MOTHER’S FOOTSTEPS going down the path. They had consumed tea and cake in the kitchen, with only spasmodic conversation. Gran had asked Lois about Pickering, and said she’d like to go there someday. Silence. Lois had said the apples looked nice and ripe, and suggested picking some tomorrow. Silence. After one or two more exchanges of this sort, Gran had got to her feet.
“Joan’s asked me to go round to see her new telly,” she had said. “I should be back around six.” And with that, she crammed a battered garden hat on her head and left.
Now Lois looked at Derek. “So, say it, and be done with it,” she said.
Derek looked at her. “Right, I will,” he said, and then his face relaxed into a broad smile. He put his arms around her and continued, “I love you, Lois Meade, and I have missed you and worried about you more than you might think. I am heartily relieved that you are back, and if you like, we could go upstairs and admire the new curtains.”
“And I can tell you all about Pickering and what we did on our holidays.” Lois grinned, and taking Derek’s hand, she led him towards the stairs.
At that moment, there was single knock at the door, and Josie came in. “Welcome home, Mum!” she said, and then she saw her parents holding hands and looking rather foolish. “Oh,” she said, “have I interrupted something?”
“Yes,” said Derek firmly. “Your mother is tired, and needs a rest. And so do I.”
“Right, yes, of course. I’ll come back later. Far be it from me to—”
“Bye, Josie,” said Derek, and gently directed Lois upstairs.
THIRTY-EIGHT
GERALD MOWLEM HAD THOUGHT HARD DURING HIS LONG journey back from Pickering. He had decided it would be madness to go straight home to Gladys. She was renowned for not being able to keep her mouth shut, and he intended to be hidden somewhere around Tresham where he could wait until things died down. Then he could let his mother know he was nearby, and use her to find out what had happened to Clive.
He had begun to regret leaving him. It would probably have been safer to bring him along, but then again, he thought of his dad’s advice. You’re safer on your own. As he got nearer to Tresham, he thought back over the last few weeks. They’d had a good time at Harry’s, with successful forays into Pickering and around. Plenty of good food and drink, and the telly for entertainment. It could have gone on for years if Harry hadn’t been such a bloody fool! Still, he’d sorted out the old man. He’d need a spell in hospital, probably. Old men didn’t mend so quickly. But then he
would be back home with that stupid dog, and he could carry on as before, like he’d never seen him and Clive.
As he neared Tresham, he saw a sign to Long Farnden and had an idea. He remembered the time he and Clive had gone to the hall to do a bit of thieving, and he’d thought then there must be plenty of places to hide, should the need arise. Well, it had arisen. He signalled turning right, and drove down a narrow lane. LONG FARNDEN 3 MILES, the sign had said. Perfect. He’d be near enough to home, and yet well out of sight. He was confident there would be a place to go to ground. Not even the cops would think he’d return to the scene of a crime! With luck, he could stay there as long as was necessary.
But what to do with the car? Enough people had seen him and Clive in it to make it a recognisable encumbrance. He would have to find a place to dump it temporarily, so that if he needed to get away again, he could use it. There was a back way into the hall estate, he knew, and so turned off down a grassy road that he was pretty sure led to the stables and the old dairy building. He drove very slowly, keeping his eyes open for a place to hide the car.
“Ah!” he said aloud. “That looks like it.” In amongst the tall beech trees, he had spotted a wooden shed, half covered with brambles, and clearly not used. The brambles grew right over the doors, but if he pulled them all to one side, he could get the car in, and then replace the thorny runners so that it looked as if nothing had been disturbed.
“Great!” he said to a curious rabbit. “Safe as houses. Now for a place for me.”
The rabbit disappeared through the bracken, and Gerald stood for a moment, considering his next move. Underground would be good, like the rabbit! He walked slowly on, keeping well away from any sign of the hall and its outbuildings. After a few minutes, he knew he was lost, and stopped to retrieve his bearings.
Then he saw it. In front of him, the ground rose into a mound. A burial mound? No, that was ridiculous. He had to crawl on hands and knees now, to get through near impenetrable undergrowth, until, to his amazement, he saw a wooden door. As with the shed, brambles covered the door, for all the world like something straight from Alice in Wonderland.
He moved closer, and felt himself tumbling forward, down three or four steps, until he was right up against the door. His clothes and bare skin were scratched and torn, but he persisted, tugging and pushing until the door moved. Exhausted, he sat back and rested, peering into complete darkness.
In his pocket, he still had the box of matches that they’d used up at the chapel, and he struck one. In the brief flare, he saw more steps going down into an empty, brick-lined interior, with a domed roof and what looked like a drain in the centre of the floor. An icehouse! He knew for sure that’s what it was. Years ago, when he and Clive were boys, his mum and dad had taken them to Scotland for a week. They didn’t have many proper holidays, and this one was special. They had gone to a stately home, where they trudged round the house, and then been let loose in the grounds. On the tourist leaflet, a little map showed places of interest, and one of these was the icehouse. Built in the sixteen hundreds, it had been used to store ice for the kitchens. Most of it was underground, with steps leading down, and the roof was dome-shaped, just like this one. The boys had shut themselves in to hide from their parents, and had got a roasting when they finally emerged. He could hear Gladys’s voice now, yelling at them and saying they had frightened her half to death.
What better place to hole up? He would need a light and a camping gas stove. And a sleeping bag, and some food. A stream trickled by five yards away, so water would be no problem. All as easy as pie. When it was dark and the old girl had gone to bed, he could go up to the stables. She had a lifetime of junk stored in there, and he was sure he could find what he needed. As for food, well, Boy Scouts knew how to forage, and so did he. But now, he would shut himself in and have a couple of hours’ sleep. His limbs ached with weariness, but he was happy. Everything had gone well so far. His luck was in, and like the rabbit, for the moment he was safe.
HIS BROTHER WAS NOT SO LUCKY. AFTER HE HAD LEFT COWGILL, and begun walking out of town towards the moors, he sat in the edge of a field for a snack and realised too late that what looked like a circle of dry earth was actually a juicy cow pat, and he had dropped down into it. He swore, dragging off his jeans and scraping as much as he could on the lush grass. “Ruddy cows!” he shouted, and then saw a distant figure waving a stick at him and shouting. Muttering more oaths, he pulled on his wet jeans and ran as quickly as he could out of the field. When he was a safe distance from the angry farmer, he stopped, sat on a tree stump and felt in his pocket for the sandwiches he had bought in Pickering. Gone. Must have fallen out in the field! He felt like crying, and found himself moaning for his mother.
After a while, he straightened up, realised that no one was going to help him and walked on in the direction of the farm. It seemed like hours later that he finally opened the yard gate and went towards the back door. It was locked, and there were no lights showing from the windows. Harry was either still in hospital, upstairs in bed or . . . dead? Depressed, hungry and cold, Clive felt all his optimism drain away. Gerald had gone after Harry, had one of his violent rages and done for him. It would be a matter of time before the cops caught up with him, and Clive did not intend to be there. He would vanish, change his appearance completely and start a new life. And this time, it would be on the right side of the law.
THIRTY-NINE
MRS. TOLLERVEY-JONES SAT IN HER DRAWING ROOM, LOOKING around and trying to decide which pieces of furniture she would take with her, and which would have to be sold. She had decided to have a big, well-publicised sale of whatever contents of the house remained after she had moved. Now that she had made the big decision—to sell the estate—the smaller ones were not so difficult.
The grand piano? No, there would not be room in the village house. But she could not be without a piano, and considered whether to buy a new one or pick up a good secondhand instrument at one of the big piano sales in London. It was chilly in the high-ceilinged room, and she decided to light the fire that was already laid. Her thoughts took her back through pianos she had known. The Bobart grand she had now was certainly not her favourite. It had a jangly tone, and was difficult to bring up to concert pitch. No, the one she had liked best had been a heavy old Bluthner that was mellow and easy on the fingers.
What had happened to that? Her husband had disposed of it when he bought the grand for her birthday. Probably out into the stables, with all the rest of the unwanted junk. Perhaps she would find it, and have it restored. An upright would fit nicely into her new drawing room.
The telephone interrupted her thoughts. “Mrs. Tollervey-Jones? William Drew, from Lord & Francis. This is really just an update of where we have got to.”
“Specifically,” said Mrs. Tollervey-Jones, “where we have got to with the unlovely Norrington.”
“Now, now!” said William jovially.
Mrs. Tollervey-Jones stiffened. “Just get to the point, Mr. er . . . er,” she said coldly.
“Right, fine. Well, regarding Mr. Norrington, all seems to be going very well. He has cast-iron references, so far, and with your permission, we would like to go ahead.”
“Are you saying there have been no other enquiries?” Mrs. Tollervey-Jones had been well schooled by her husband. Make sure you always have backup when taking big financial decisions.
William coughed. “Yes, indeed,” he said. “We take every precaution. A very nice couple, again with all the right credentials, are keen to have a look at your estate. When would it be convenient to bring them along? There will be no need for you to be present, unless you would like to meet them. Thomas and I will do everything that is necessary.”
“Except to see whether you would be happy seeing them take over your former life.”
“Quite so. Shall we say tomorrow afternoon, around three o’clock?”
Mrs. T-J considered this. She had no appointments tomorrow and, except for hunting in the stable for a piano,
nothing much to do. She approved the plan, and said she would see them tomorrow at three o’clock precisely. Meanwhile, she added, would they bring with them an interim report on their negotiations with Norrington.
“Phew!” said William to Thomas as he ended the call. “Marvellous woman! Don’t make ’em like that anymore.”
WHEN MRS. TOLLERVEY-JONES HAD FINISHED WITH WILLIAM, and the flames were leaping merrily in the fireplace, she reminded herself of her intention to contact Lois Meade. The woman should be back by now, she decided. She had been irritated to find that Lois was away, just at the time when she needed to plan her move to the village house.
Lois was deep in papers in her office when the phone rang. It was amazing how in such a short time, things had piled up for her to deal with.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones,” she said, forcing herself to be polite. In Lois’s experience, a call from the old lady always spelled trouble. But in this case, it was good news. Mrs. Tollervey-Jones wished to have a discussion with her as soon as possible, in order to make a plan for moving to the village house. More work for New Brooms.
“And that reminds me,” Mrs. Tollervey-Jones added, “my future home in the village is at the moment named ‘Olde Timbers.’ As you, with your impeccable taste, will be instantly aware, this is totally unacceptable. Perhaps you could give some thought to an alternative. I have asked my son, Robert, and his wife, Felicity, and they say that whatever they suggest will be turned down, so they are leaving it to me. Oddly enough, Mrs. Meade, I can think of no really suitable name.”