by Ann Purser
He pulled a length of narrow rope from his pocket and, putting down the gun for a moment, tied Dot’s hands round the back of her chair. She aimed a kick at his leg, but he was onto her in a moment.
“No you don’t!” he said, stepping sideways. He picked up the gun once more and levelled it at her.
“My foot slipped,” she said, and managed a submissive smile.
“I’m not a fool, Dot Nimmo,” he said. “And nor are you. As long as we remember that, we’ll be fine. So here’s the plan.”
It was a simple plan. He would stay out of sight in Dot’s house, and she would plead illness to her boss, arranging for food et cetera to be brought to her door.
“How long will that last?” said Dot. “People will begin to wonder.”
“As long as I say so,” he said fiercely. “I got people out there’d be very pleased to see me available, as you might say, an’ I don’t mean that in a nice way. I owe a few favours, Dot. I’m sure you know what I mean.” Dot was no fool, and she nodded meekly.
FORTY-TWO
ALTHOUGH THE WEDDING SHOP APPOINTMENT HAD BEEN SOON after noon, and although Lois drove fast back to Long Farnden to drop off Josie before going on to the hall, she was, nevertheless, ten minutes late. A displeased Mrs. Tollervey-Jones met her at the door.
“This is the first time, Mrs. Meade,” she said, “that New Brooms has let me down. I was expecting you at three.”
Lois apologised, but explained the circumstances and said that it would not happen again. “For one thing,” she said, “I’ve only got one daughter, and there’ll be only one wedding dress at the price they seem to be these days.”
“That is neither here nor there,” was the curt answer. “The men from Lord & Francis have arrived, and I shall be glad if you will bring in tea at four. They have another couple of prospective buyers with them, so there will be five of us. And by the way, I appreciate your making an effort to be suitably dressed.”
Suppressing an urge to tell Mrs. Tollervey-Jones the real reason why she was not wearing a pinafore and carrying a duster, she said instead that she hoped the meeting would go well, and if her help was wanted to show the couple round, she would be only too pleased to do so.
She busied herself in the kitchen, setting out the best Royal Worcester cups and saucers, plates and family teapot. The large, elegant butler’s tray was just the thing for the job, and she added chocolate biscuits that she found in a tin. Taking a bite from one, she decided that they were not too stale.
Now wearing sensible flat shoes that she had hastily changed into, she looked at the clock. Five minutes to four o’clock. She picked up the tray and marched through the long passage, backed out carefully through the green baize door and stood outside the drawing room door, wondering how to knock with both hands occupied.
As she stood undecided, she heard a name mentioned in exclamation.
“Norrington!” said a strange voice. “Not Geoffrey Norrington! Good Lord, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones, you should steer clear of that one!”
Lois was surprised that someone had revealed the name of the first prospective buyer, but when she finally negotiated her way into the room, she saw that it had clearly been Mrs. Tollervey-Jones who had let it slip. The agent was looking thunderous, and for possibly the only time in her life, she was blushing guiltily.
“Ah, Mrs. Meade, there you are. Please put the tray over there, and perhaps you would like to pour out tea for us?” Mrs. Tollervey-Jones quickly regained her composure, and silence fell as Lois expertly poured out tea. Thanks to Gran, she thought, for insisting on small household skills!
“Now, Mrs. Meade,” said Mrs. Tollervey-Jones when all were served, “I should be grateful if you would accompany Mr. and Mrs. er . . . er . . .”
“Blenkinsop,” said William helpfully.
“. . . round the house, and then, if it is fine, on a short tour of the grounds. I am sure . . . er . . . er . . .”
“Thomas,” said William.
“. . . yes, Thomas, will want to go with you.” She turned to the rest, and said that Mrs. Meade was an extremely knowledgeable person on local matters, and could answer any questions that Mr. and Mrs. Blenkinsop might have.
Lois said she would be pleased to be of help in any way possible, and left them to their tea. She returned to the kitchen, and sat down at the table. She had a list of things she needed to confirm with Dot, largely times and places they had been whilst they were in Pickering. She took out her mobile, checked that the kitchen door was shut so that she would not be heard and dialled Dot’s number.
There was no reply, and she left a message asking Dot to call her as soon as possible. It was odd that there was no answer. Dot’s mobile was virtually part of her right arm. “Never without it,” she said often. “What did we do without our mobiles?” Well, whatever it was Dot was doing, she had not answered.
After half an hour or so, the kitchen door opened and Mrs. Tollervey-Jones came in. “Have you kept busy?” she said. “Good. Now, if you would take the Blenkinsops—ridiculous name!—for a tour with the Thomas person, I shall tackle the thorny question of the Norringtons’ financial status with the other one . . . er, William, was it?”
“Perhaps it would have been a good idea to have Mr. Robert here?”
Mrs. Tollervey-Jones bridled. “Good heavens, no. I am perfectly capable of dealing with this lot.”
Lois nodded dutifully, and went out to gather her tour party together.
Unfortunately, the Blenkinsops were not prepared to skip any part of the estate, except the farms, which they said they would come back to another day. So Lois efficiently led the way in and out of bedrooms, utility rooms, stable yard and stables, the cold, damp chapel and muddy kitchen garden.
Mrs. Blenkinsop clapped her hands together like a delighted child at every new discovery, and Lois began to wonder if they would get back to the house before dark.
“That’s about it,” she said, turning up her collar against the cold wind. “This way,” she added, and led them firmly towards the house.
Mrs. Blenkinsop lagged behind, and Lois stopped, waiting for her to catch up. “Oh, Mrs. Meade,” she said, “I knew there was one other thing. We are great ones for visiting National Trust properties, and in one or two we have seen these lovely old icehouses. Very old, of course, prefridge! But they are charming relics of a different way of life. Is there one here? I would love to see it.”
Lois felt like saying they didn’t need an icehouse. Her feet were frozen already. But she said politely that she had never heard anyone speak of an icehouse, but if there was one, she suggested that as the light was fading, she would make sure Mrs. Blenkinsop was taken to see it on their next visit.
DEEP IN THE WOODS, GERALD, BUSY CLEARING OUT THE INTERIOR of his new home, heard far-off voices. He stopped work and listened. Were they coming this way? But no, there was no easy way through to where he was, and in any case, the voices were fainter now, going away from him. He relaxed and carried on with his housework.
FORTY-THREE
CLIVE WAS HUNGRY. HE HAD BEEN THROUGH WHAT WAS LEFT in Harry’s fridge, and that was not much, and when raiding the garden for vegetables, he had found nothing left. They had eaten it all, the three of them. No wonder he had wanted Mum to come and look after him!
After a scary time, soon after he got back to the farm, when uniformed policemen had come looking for him, and had turned the place over in their hunt, Clive had slowly begun to feel more or less safe. Whilst they were there, he had hidden in a place that he and Gerald had earmarked for just such an eventuality. At the far end of the bull’s stall there was a cupboard where they had hidden their loot. It was more of a room without windows, and it was so dark, and the door covered with cobwebs, that it was scarcely visible.
What’s more, thought Clive, grinning as he remembered the searching policemen, you had to get past the great snorting bull, and only he and Gerald knew that the animal was all huff and puff and wouldn’t hurt a fly. Or so the
y hoped! Anyway, the old fellow had only stared at Clive as he had pushed past to reach the cupboard and shut himself in.
It occurred to him now, as he stood in the kitchen thinking about food, that maybe he should feed the bull. He had given it water this morning, but the great beast must need a lot of grub to keep him happy. But as his stomach rumbled, Clive decided his own hunger was a priority. He looked at his situation squarely and saw that, first, he had no transport, except Harry’s tractor, and he had no idea how to drive it. And second, third and fourth, it would be madness for him to show his face in Pickering. They probably had “Wanted” posters out by now, and someone would be bound to recognise him.
He thought back to all the round trips he and Gerald had made, looking for likely items to steal under cover of darkness. They had mainly stuck to villages, and never looted the same place twice. As he thought about thumbing a lift and going wherever it took him, he ruled out villages. A town, where strangers were coming and going all the time, would be more sensible. Nobody was likely to notice him amongst the rest.
So, he would get down to the main road and thumb a lift. After all, he’d done it before with that man who’d taken him into Pickering, and nothing bad had come of that. He would go now, and get back by the same means. He must do enough shopping to last until Gerald came for him—if he came for him. If Gerald didn’t, then he would have to think again. The prospect did not terrify him as much as before, and he began to feel again that perhaps he would be able to cope on his own from now on.
The next thing was money. He had a few pounds left, but it would not be enough for a big shop. If he went to a supermarket where they asked if he wanted cash back on his card, he could take enough to keep him going for a good while.
Feeling pleased with himself, he found an old tweed cap of Harry’s, and pulled it down over his eyes. He looked at himself in a cracked mirror in the kitchen, and decided he looked like a man on the run, so he changed the cap to a jaunty angle, smiled approval at himself and set out across the fields to reach the main road, intending to thumb a lift.
It was not until he was sitting comfortably in a lorry driver’s cab that he remembered the bull. He must remember to feed it when he got back.
“Where d’you want to go, mate?” asked the driver.
“Helmsley, if you’re going through there,” Clive said. “I’ve got a car to pick up. Passed its annual checkup by a whisker!”
The driver laughed, and Clive joined in. This life on your own was a doddle, he thought, once you got used to it.
HIS BROTHER, ON THE OTHER HAND, WAS MISSING COMPANY. HE had made the interior of the icehouse habitable, just about, and realised he had not spoken to anybody for several days. He opened the door and listened to the sounds of the wood for several minutes. His sudden appearance had caused a pigeon to fly off with a clatter of wings and an alarmed squawk. Then silence fell, and he imagined all the animals of the forest—it had become a forest in his imagination—motionless, and listening for his next move. He was not a countryman, and had always been glad to return to the busy back streets of Tresham. Silence frightened him.
He turned to go back to the safety of the icehouse, when a more domestic sound came from behind the mound. A tiny mewing sound. He pushed his way through the brambles and heard it again, coming from a hollow stump of a felled tree. He bent down and looked inside. Two almond-shaped, pale blue eyes looked out at him. “A kitten, for God’s sake!” he said aloud, forgetting where he was for one shocked moment. What on earth was a kitten doing in the middle of the forest? Probably picked up by a foraging owl and rejected, dropped in the underbrush, Gerald guessed.
Tentatively, he put his hand out towards it, and it backed away. He peered more closely, but could see no other animals, just one kitten. Ginger, as far as he could make out. A ginger tom kitten, then. He grabbed it firmly and held it against his chest. It mewed pathetically and tried to burrow into his coat. He put his hand over it protectively. “Come on, then, young fella,” he whispered. “A cat’s better than nothing.”
Back inside the icehouse, Gerald shut the door behind him and released the kitten. It shook itself so vigorously that its fragile legs almost collapsed under it. Then it mewed again, and looked straight at him.
Milk, that’s what kittens liked. He reached out to his makeshift larder, and found the half-pint bottle he had brought with him and had not yet opened. “It should be fresh,” he said, smiling at the kitten. “We are in an icehouse, after all.” He poured the milk carefully into the lid of a jar of pickles he’d packed to brighten up a hunk of cheddar, and put it in front of the kitten.
It approached the lid warily, and then began to lap with a tiny pink tongue. Gerald sat back on his heels and watched, and then he heard an unbelievably loud rhythmic sound and realised it was coming from the kitten. It was washing its whiskers with small paws, and purring.
Gerald covered his face with his hands, and tears sprang out from between his fingers. “Clive,” he sobbed, “where the hell are you?”
FORTY-FOUR
HUNTER COWGILL SAT IN HIS OFFICE, STARING AT THE FRONT page of the Daily Telegraph. He was not reading. His thoughts were miles away, up in North Yorkshire, where he had sent his nephew Matthew to pursue the hunt for the Mowlems. Ever since Matthew had become engaged to Josie Meade, Cowgill had felt close to the Meade family, and he had shared with Lois and Gran their anger and concern at the attack on Derek in the stable yard up at the hall.
The family had wanted to take no action, no official action, but he knew that Lois’s prime motive for helping him out—and more important, for her trip to Pickering with Dot Nimmo—was to track down the brothers and make sure they paid for the attack.
So far, searches had failed to track down either of them, but he had no doubt it was only a matter of time. He had sent Matthew to join the hunt because he, too, would be feeling an extra compulsion to see that justice was done for his future father-in-law.
His thoughts switched to Tresham, and to Gladys Mowlem. From what he already knew about the brothers, the one person they would be likely to contact was their mother, although she was a woman renowned for her inability to keep secrets. A number of felons had been rounded up as a result of her loose tongue. She was not exactly a police informant, but because of her contacts amongst the criminal fraternity, members of his force often dropped in for a cup of tea with Gladys.
He stood up, folded up his newspaper and moved to the window. It was raining, and umbrellas jostled for position on the pavement below. It was time, he decided, for Gladys to have a visit from the chief detective inspector.
GLADYS, UNAWARE OF THE IMMINENCE OF AN IMPORTANT VISITOR, sat in her back kitchen, her feet up on an old milking stool, drinking a cup of instant coffee well sweetened with two heaped teaspoonfuls of sugar, and reading with relish the latest scandal to emerge about her favourite television personality.
“Well I never,” she said aloud. “He’ll not get away with it this time! And her an Honourable!”
Cowgill’s firm knock at her door startled her, and she got to her feet. “Now, who’s that?” she said. The sudden thought that it might be one or both of her sons sent her scuttling along the passage to the front door. She drew back the bolts and opened it a crack. Peering out, she saw an unfamiliar man in a raincoat and broad-brimmed hat.
“Wotcha want?” she said truculently, then saw the man was holding out an identity card. She recognised it from regrettably long familiarity with the local police. So this was a plainclothes one. She sighed, opened the door wider and beckoned him in.
Cowgill introduced himself, and he could see she was suitably impressed.
“May I sit down for a moment?” he said. “Perhaps we could have a little chat about the boys. I haven’t seen them lately,” he added in a friendly voice that suggested they all inhabited the same social gatherings in town.
Gladys was not fooled. The appearance of this important cop meant that whatever the boys had done, it was serious
. She was immediately on the defensive, and said they had gone off without telling her where they were going. “They’re grown men now, Inspector,” she reminded him. “Their old mother is the last to know where they’re working. But they are good boys, always sending money for housekeeping an’ that.”
This was such an unlikely piece of fantasizing that Cowgill knew he could not expect the truth from now on. But never mind, he could always sift the wheat from the chaff, and gain something useful.
“What work are they doing at the moment, Mrs. Mowlem?” he asked pleasantly.
“Oh, this and that,” Gladys said. “Whatever comes up, really. It’s not easy these days to earn an honest living.”
“Let alone a dishonest one,” said Cowgill in the same bland tones.
“Wotcha mean!” replied Gladys. “My boys are good boys.”
“Come now,” said Cowgill, his voice sharpening. “You must remember the rather frequent occasions when they have been up before the bench, accused of theft or trespass?”
“And maybe you remember that they’ve never been sentenced to more than a small fine, Inspector Cowgill.” Gladys frowned. She had been going to offer him a cup of tea, but now decided against it. But she did intend to find out just what he knew about the boys. More than she did, she guessed.
“I agree they’ve never been done for grievous bodily harm, or anything approaching that.” Cowgill paused, and then added, “So far, Mrs. Mowlem, so far.”
“Wotcha mean by that?” And him sitting there like a nodding Chinaman ornament. Still, there was no point in antagonising him.
Cowgill knew they were now engaged in a battle of wits, and changed the subject. “Terrible morning out there,” he said casually. “Did you have a holiday this year? Get away to the coast? I know people who are taking holidays in this country instead of abroad this year. The budget cuts are hitting us all.”