Foul Play at Four

by Ann Purser

  CLIVE, HOLED UP IN HARRY’S FARMHOUSE, THOUGHT OF CALLING HIS mother, but remembering Gerald’s strictures never to tell her anything confidential, he decided to leave it for the moment. Best to get home first, and then follow Gerald’s lead. He had no doubt at all that Gerald had gone home. Like pigeons, we are, he thought. Homing pigeons that always fly back to the loft. His dad had kept pigeons for a while, but after he’d been put away, Gladys had got rid of them to a breeder who lived up the road.

  Now Clive faced his situation squarely. He was safe here for the moment, but the police were bound to come and have a second look. He could hide again, but—

  “Oh, sod it!” he said aloud. The bull. By the time he had returned from Helmsley, he had completely forgotten, and not remembered since. He looked out of all the windows in the kitchen and living room, and could see no signs of visitors, so he unlocked the back door and went out across the yard. He knew where the feed for the animal was kept, and taking a wheelbarrow, he headed for the bull barn.

  “Sorry, old fella,” he said as he opened the door, “here’s food, an’ I’ll top up y’water.”

  He turned to push in the barrow, and the bull was on him. It had broken its tether, and now tossed him up in the air, out of its way. It tore across the yard, through a gate and out onto the open moor. In no time, it was out of sight.

  Clive lay unmoving where he landed. One leg stuck out at an unnatural angle, and a sticky dribble of blood came from the side of his head. It began to rain, and Clive, lying on the concrete yard, still did not move. Soon the wail of police sirens drifted up from the valley below. But Clive did not hear them, not even when they arrived at the gates of the farm.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  “HELLO? IS THAT YOU, LOIS?”

  “No, Inspector, it’s Lois’s mother. Can I help you?”

  “Yes, you can get her to come to the phone as soon as possible. Thank you, Mrs. Weedon.” Cowgill remembered just in time to be polite. Lois’s mother was about as tricky as her daughter, and quite likely to tell him to ring at a more convenient time. But this was urgent, and he tapped his pen on the desk impatiently.

  “Morning,” said Lois. “What now?”

  “Yes, good morning, Lois. I need some information urgently.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Clive Mowlem’s been found. Seems he was tossed by a bull on that farm on the moors. Nobody else there. He’s in a bad way, and it’s touch and go. I’m arranging for his mother to go to the hospital, but I need to get in touch with his brother urgently.”

  “I bet she knows where Gerald is. Have you asked her?”

  “She’s spoken to him, she says, but swears she has no idea where he is. Not far away, so he told her. But those two are congenital liars, so he could be anywhere. Apparently the young one keeps muttering his name, so the medics are anxious to get hold of him.”

  “I’ll get back to you as soon as possible,” said Lois. “But before you go, there’s something else.” She gave him a succinct account of her fears for Dot, born out by the latest message she had had from Dot’s sister, Evelyn. “Time to do something,” she said.

  “Leave it with me,” Cowgill said. “As you say, it looks suspicious. Sardines, did Evelyn say?”

  “Don’t leave it too long,” Lois said. “And don’t go storming in. She may be in danger.”

  “Anyone else there?”

  “No idea,” said Lois. “But I’ll find out.”

  GERALD SAT INSIDE THE ICEHOUSE, MASSAGING HIS LEG WHERE HE had a painful spasm of cramp. There was not much room to stretch out, and he felt depressed. How long should he stay here? Sooner or later someone would come stamping through the undergrowth and find him and Orly. Or else they’d set a trap for him, once Mrs. Tollervey-Jones had noticed the missing food. She had an eagle eye, the old girl, in spite of her age.

  His mobile vibrated in his pocket, and he saw it was his mother again. “Mum? I don’t want you ringing like this. It could lead to me being traced, and I’m not ready yet. What? I can’t hear you very well? Did you say Clive? Oh God, no! The sodding bull! Clive must still have been at the farm. What hospital did you say?”

  Gladys was crying now, and said through her tears that it was touch and go with Clive, and she was going up to Yorkshire straightaway. “He keeps asking for you, Gerald,” she snuffled. And then she was gone, leaving Gerald to make the most difficult decision of his life.

  DOT’S KITCHEN STANK OF SARDINES, AND SHE SAID SHE FELT SICK. “You’d better go and have a lie down,” her captor said. “I’ll be up in a minute. D’you want a cup of tea?”

  Dot nodded, and went slowly up the narrow stairs. She desperately wanted to hurry, but knew that would arouse suspicion. Once in her bedroom, she relaxed. Alone!—but for how long? She went to the window and looked out, up and down the street. Then she saw a car approaching, definitely slowing down outside her house. Mrs. M! She pulled up the sash window as quietly as she could, and when Lois got out of the car, she waved madly with one hand, and with the other put a finger to her lips to signal not to shout.

  She could hear him starting up the stairs, and knew it was too late to get a message out. Then, just as she was about to leap onto the bed and pretend to be asleep, she heard the sound of slipping feet, then a crash of broken crockery, and loud cursing and swearing as he tumbled back to the floor.

  “Mrs. M!” yelled Dot, returning to the window. “I’m coming down.”

  She pelted down the stairs, risking life and limb on the broken crockery and the prone figure, and rushed to the front door. But then she realised she had no key. He had taken all the keys and put them in his pocket. Tough little Dot, one of the bravest, looked round and saw him coming unsteadily towards her, his fist raised. “Can’t get out!” she yelled. “Go for help!” And then she burst into tears, and sank into a heap on the floor.

  BERT MOWLEM STEPPED OVER DOT, SHOUTING AT HER THAT IF she breathed a word about him, he would make sure she regretted it. “For always!” he shouted as he unlocked the door and ran off down the street.

  “Who’s that?” said Hazel, going to the office window. Lois had just rushed in and was on the phone, trying in vain to talk to Cowgill. She put down the phone, and joined Hazel. “Where? Can’t see anybody,” she said.

  “Probably running for a bus,” Hazel said. “D’you want a cup of coffee whilst you’re waiting for Cowgill?”

  “Might as well,” she replied. “Looks like he’s busy for once. I think I’ll go back up to Dot’s house. Something bad is going on there.”

  “There’s not much you can do on your own,” Hazel said. “Best wait for reinforcements.”

  In the end, Lois did not need to leave the office. After ten minutes or so, a wild-looking figure arrived, looked furtively behind her and sat down heavily on Hazel’s chair behind the desk.

  “Dot! For God’s sake, what’s happened?”

  “He’s gone,” Dot said. “Done a runner.”

  “Who has?”

  “Bert. Bert Mowlem. Gladys’s husband. I know, you thought he was in prison. Well, he was, and he ain’t now. I dunno whether he’s escaped or been released. All I know is he’s got to keep his head down for a bit. He says there’s one or two so-called friends who’ll be after him, once they know he’s out. Needs to make a plan, he says. So he landed on me. He thought I’d keep him safe, for the sake of old times in our schooldays. God knows where he’s gone now. Is that coffee?” she added, and helped herself to three large sugars.

  BERT SLOWED TO A STEADY WALKING PACE, LIMPING A LITTLE from his crash down the stairs. It would be stupid, he thought, to attract attention by running through the market day crowds. No, he’d keep an even pace, and maybe stop to look in the occasional shop window. He was relying on Gladys being at home, but in case she’d come to market, he kept his eyes peeled for her.

  Only yards away from his house, he saw a taxi draw up. He bent down to fiddle with his shoelace, and watched. Gladys came out, all dressed up, and got i
nto the taxi. It drove off, and Bert straightened up. He still had his house key in his pocket, and he walked casually up to the door and let himself in.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  “DAD?” “Yeah, it’s yer father. Where is everybody, Gerald? Yer mum’s gone off in a taxi, and there’s no sign of you and Clive. Where are you, boy?”

  “Never you mind where I am. Where are you, Dad? I suppose you’re out—on parole? Skipped, ’ave you?”

  “All legal an’ aboveboard. If you’d kept in touch, the lot o’ you, instead of leaving your poor ole dad to fester in prison by himself, you’d know I am out for good. There’s nothin’ wrong with trying to find out where yer family is, is there?”

  “I can’t—” Once more the signal went. Gerald supposed it was lucky there was any signal at all here, practically underground.

  So Dad was out. Probably lying low for a bit. There were plenty of former cronies of his that might want to sniff him out. Debts to be paid, matters to be settled.

  His phone rang again. “Dad? Look, I’m out of circulation just now. I’ll be in touch. But there’s something you ought to know. Clive’s had a nasty accident. Up north, in Pickering. Yeah, Yorkshire. That’s where Mum’s gone. It’s serious. You could go. Me? Dunno yet. Bye.”

  The kitten jumped up on Gerald’s lap, and rubbed its head against his hand. “Orly boy,” he said, and sniffed hard. “What the hell am I goin’ to do? Clive’s nigh unto, and askin’ for me. Dad’s just outa prison, and if I get caught, I shall be in his cell by t’morrer.”

  He sat for a long time, stroking the kitten until it stopped purring and fell asleep. Then he heaved a deep sigh. That’s it, then, he said, putting Orly down carefully on his cap, requisitioned to make a soft bed. He dialled his home number and waited until his father answered.

  “It’s me again. I’ve decided to visit Clive. With you. This is what we’re goin’ to do. You come here where I am, bring me some different clothes an’ a pair of sharp scissors. Are you listenin’? Yeah, I said scissors. Now, here’s how to get here.”

  MRS. TOLLERVEY-JONES HAD BEEN BUSY. SHE HAD WALKED AROUND the house all morning, from room to room, making lists. Furniture to be moved to the new house, stuff to go up to Christie’s auction rooms in London, a small amount to Robert and Felicity. It was a huge task, but she was not daunted. In fact, she considered it was quite cathartic. A new start, ditching all the clutter of her past life.

  Time for something to eat. The list making was going to take all day, and she should have a rest and sustenance. The doctor had told her that her “funny turns” had been a timely warning of the need to slow down. She had heard somewhere that one of the things most likely to cause ill health or a breakdown was moving house. Well, she did not intend to follow that route. She would tackle things in a measured way. After all, she had only herself to think about.

  She opened the fridge to take out milk for coffee, and looked in surprise at the bottle. Surely there should be more than that left? She shook her head. She had no recollection of leaving only half an inch in the bottom of the bottle. Perhaps she should go into town and borrow a library book on memory training!

  A sandwich, then. There should be cold chicken left over from yesterday, and she could use some of that creamy horseradish sauce the children had given her for her birthday. At the time, she had thought it a very peculiar present. But now it would be useful.

  Not much chicken! She must have eaten more than she thought. Ah well, enough for a quick snack. Then she would take the old dog out for a short walk before getting back to her lists.

  With the newspaper propped up on the now empty milk bottle, she ate her sandwich and munched an apple. She smiled to herself. No carefully laid tray with dainty cloth and glass of wine. No, in the new life she would pare down all the ridiculous frills. She fetched a piece of cheese from the fridge, remarked on the smallness of the piece left and ate it with her fingers, together with two cherry tomatoes ripening on the windowsill.

  Must go shopping tomorrow, she reminded herself and wrote a note to that effect. At the foot of the page, she wrote, “PS. Gone for a walk. Baxoon.” Mrs. Meade was coming over sometime today to help her sort things out. She had a key, and would be able to let herself in.

  The sun was out now, and the sky washed a clear blue. Calling her dog, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones set out for a brisk walk. She went through the kitchen garden, out through a gate at the end of a grassy path and into the wood.

  “Come on, dog!” The poor old thing was finding it hard to keep up, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones noticed. Never mind, she would have a lovely warm kitchen in the new house, with a new bed to sleep in. She waited patiently, and then slowed down her pace. After they had been walking for fifteen minutes, she was about to turn around and retrace her steps to the house, when out of the corner of her eye she saw something move. Too big to be a fox. She stopped, and called the dog to a halt.

  “Who’s there!” she called in an authoritative voice. It was a man. She could see that now. A big man, and he was fast disappearing into the trees.

  “Fetch!” she said, taking a ball from her pocket and throwing it expertly in the right direction.

  The old dog started off obediently, and Mrs. Tollervey-Jones followed. They came to a narrow path, the undergrowth newly flattened down, and she knew at once where they were heading. The old icehouse, buried under brambles and neglected for years. At one time, when Robert was small, he and his friends used it as a den, and nobody was allowed near it. She had respected this, and when Robert went off to university, the den had been forgotten.

  With no thought for her own safety, Mrs. T-J pushed her way through the brambles and finally came to the icehouse. The door was not quite shut, and she put her stick into the opening and prised it open. At first, she saw nothing but darkness, but then, as her eyes adjusted, she could see two shapes huddled into the back of the interior.

  The kitten slipped out of Gerald’s hand and jumped to the floor. It trotted over to Mrs. Tollervey-Jones, purring loudly. Then it saw the dog, and fled back to safety.

  “That’s my kitten,” Mrs. Tollervey-Jones said. “Got taken off by an owl. Saw it go. What do you think you are doing here? I suppose you know you’re trespassing?”

  In a swift move, Bert went to one side of her and Gerald the other. In a firm grip, they pulled her in and shut the door behind her. The dog was left outside. Well trained, it sat down to wait.

  “WHAT A DAY!” DEREK SAID AS HE SAT AT THE LUNCH TABLE with Lois and Gran. “After all that rain, and now you’d never believe it. Warm as toast out there, out of the wind.”

  “Pity we can’t all drop everything and take a drive out,” Gran said.

  “You can do that in the rain. A nice long walk would be better,” Lois said. “But unfortunately I have to go to the hall to help the old lady sort out her treasures, and I presume Derek has to get back to work? So that leaves you, Mum. And Jeems, of course.”

  Gran stiffened. “I suppose you’ve not noticed that great pile of washing waiting to be ironed?”

  “You’ll just have to make do with opening the kitchen window,” said Derek soothingly. “And anyway, Lois, why are you wasting time following her majesty around with a clipboard at the ready? I thought you had admin to catch up on?”

  Lois stood up. “Blast,” she said. “Look at that ladder, and these were new tights on this morning.”

  “Mrs. T-J is shortsighted,” said Derek. “They’ll do, surely?”

  “Can’t let standards slip,” said Lois loftily. “I shall go and change, and then be gone to the hall. I’m not shortsighted, thankfully, and I can see that the more I can help the dear old thing now, the more work she’ll put our way when she moves.”

  Derek sighed. “You win,” he said. “As usual. Just be careful, that’s all I’m saying. Some of them attic floors are downright dangerous. Every kind of beetle’s been gnawing away up there for years.”

  FORTY-NINE

  JOSIE SAW HER MOTHER GO BY IN THE NE
W BROOMS VAN, AND wondered idly where she was going. Not to Tresham, so no summons from the wedding shop. She was probably off to visit a new client, or rescue Dot Nimmo from the clutches of a dissatisfied customer. Gran had said this morning that she’d been proved right. Lois had been mad to have anything to do with that Nimmo lot. Nothing but trouble.

  She went out to the stockroom and came swiftly back when she heard the shop door open. Since the Mowlems had made their snatch and grab attempt, she had been much more careful. But this time it was a welcome customer.

  “Matthew! You’re back!” She rushed around the counter and straight into his policeman’s arms. “Wow! I wouldn’t like to be escaping from you,” she said, eventually trying to free herself.

  “Yep, I’m back. Left one very sick Clive Mowlem in a hospital bed, and now the hunt is on for his brother. I just wanted to drop in and warn you that we think he’s now around these parts, and what’s more, his father is out of prison and also back in town.”

  “Ye gods!” said Josie. “Should be a shoot-out anytime now, then?”

  “Hope not,” said Matthew seriously. “There’s been enough damage done. One old man killed, and a young one at death’s door. That’s enough to be going on with, Josie love.”

  “What happened to Clive?”

  “Seems he was up at that farm by himself, and must have released the bull. It tossed him, and then escaped. Left him lying unconscious.”

  “Who found him?”

  “A neighbouring farmer. He saw the bull, and him and his son caught it. Knew it belonged to old Harry, apparently, and took it back. That’s when they found Clive. He hasn’t come round properly since. Just keeps saying his brother’s name, over and over. That’s why we have to track down the lovely Gerald. So just be extra vigilant. If he does show up here, don’t let on you know him. Just phone at once.”