by Ann Purser
DON’T MISS ANN PURSER’S OTHER DIABOLICAL DAYS OF THE WEEK
FEAR ON FRIDAY
“Well paced, cleverly plotted, and chock-full of cozy glimpses of life in a small English village … A fine series that just keeps getting better—a must for British cozy fans.”
—Booklist
THEFT ON THURSDAY
“Clever, engaging, and suspenseful … [The] best Lois Meade adventure yet.”
—Booklist
WEEPING ON WEDNESDAY
“An inventive plot, affable characters, and an entertaining look at village life.”
—Booklist
TERROR ON TUESDAY
“Skullduggery of all sorts greets housecleaner Lois Meade when she opens a cleaning service in the village of Long Farnden … Notable for the careful way Purser roots every shocking malfeasance in the rhythms and woes of ordinary working-class family life.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“This no-nonsense mystery is competent, tidy, likable, and clever.”
—Booklist
MURDER ON MONDAY
“First-class work in the English-village genre: cleverly plotted, with thoroughly believable characters, rising tension, and a smashing climax.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“For fans of the British cozy, here’s one with a different twist. Purser’s heroine is not one of the ‘traditional’ apple-cheeked, white-haired village snoops … The identity of the killer—and the motive—will be a shocker. Fresh, engaging, and authentically British.”
—Booklist
“Fans of British ‘cozies’ will enjoy this delightful mystery with its quaint setting and fascinating players.”
—Library Journal
The Lois Meade Mysteries by Ann Purser
MURDER ON MONDAY
TERROR ON TUESDAY
WEEPING ON WEDNESDAY
THEFT ON THURSDAY
FEAR ON FRIDAY
SECRETS ON SATURDAY
SORROW ON SUNDAY
WARNING AT ONE
S
ECRETS ON
S
ATURDAY
ANN PURSER
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SECRETS ON SATURDAY
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with Severn House
PRINTING HISTORY
Severn House hardcover edition / 2006
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / April 2007
Copyright © 2006 by Ann Purser.
Cover art by Griesbach and Martucci.
Cover design by Leslie Worrell.
Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.
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For Philip
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
O
NE
LOIS MEADE, BOSS OF CLEANING BUSINESS NEW Brooms and experienced amateur sleuth, looked out of her window along Long Farnden’s main street, idly thinking about nothing very much. A car drew up and stopped outside her house, and a man—tall, thin, nondescript-looking except for a slight limp—made his way up to her front door.
She dodged behind the curtains in time-honoured village fashion, and waited until she heard the bell. Then she waited some more until her mother came from the back of the house and opened up. “Good morning.” Gran paused, and Lois heard a soft voice asking for New Brooms.
Time to make an appearance. “Can I help you?” she said, and Gran looked at her crossly. Gran liked to know who people were, and to glean as much of their business as she could before handing them over to Lois.
“I wanted to ask about cleaning,” he said politely, looking from one to the other.
“Then you’ve come to the right place,” said Lois, ushering him in firmly. “Our main office is in Tresham, but I’m happy to see you here. Come through.”
Not to be beaten, Gran followed with an offer of coffe
e, which the man accepted with alacrity. “It’s a cold morning,” he said, “and the heater in my car is on the blink.”
Lois sat behind her desk and picked up a pen. “Now,” she said. “First of all, where’s your house? Got to make sure you are on our patch. People have rung me from Dorset and Yorkshire, but we stick to a radius of about thirty miles around Farnden.” As Long Farnden was in the Midlands, the heart of England, this took in a nice mix of town and country for Lois’s team of cleaners, and had worked well for a number of years.
“Oh, well, that’s fine,” the man said. “The house is right here in Long Farnden. In the new estate off the High Street. Used to be Tollervey-Jones land. All the nobs are selling off their birthright these days!” The man smiled a wintry smile, and accepted a steaming cup of coffee from Gran with obvious gratitude.
“Oh, right. Have you just moved in, then?” Both Gran and Lois knew who lived in every house in the village, but neither had known that any of the Blackberry Gardens lot were up for sale.
“No, no,” he replied. “It was my uncle’s house, but he’s too old to live by himself now, and we’ve moved him away to a nice comfortable old folks’ home.”
“What?” said Gran. “You mean Mr. Everitt? That nice old chap who used to take his terrier for a walk every morning and evening?”
The man nodded, and Lois said evenly, “We had no idea he needed help. The village is usually very good about looking after its oldies. Now,” she added, “could I have your name, please?”
“Abthorpe,” he said, “Reg Abthorpe. He had no children, his wife died, and there’s just us cousins to be responsible for him. I’m the only one left in England. The rest emigrated to Australia.”
“So how can we help you?” Lois asked. She looked Reg Abthorpe up and down, and decided for no reason at all that she didn’t like him. She didn’t like his soft, smarmy voice, or his thin, mousy hair carefully trained over a bald patch. She didn’t like his soft suede shoes with quiet rubbery soles, and most of all she didn’t like his smile, his cold, one-sided smile.
He settled into his seat, and spoke with more confidence now. “We promised Uncle Herbert that we’d keep the house in a good state for him. Aired and cleaned, that sort of thing. He thinks he’ll be back when he’s better, poor old lad, but that won’t happen. We just go along with it to please him. After all, it’s his money paying for it! So I wondered if you’d take on the job? Once every couple of weeks should be enough. I’m afraid nobody’s been in for a while, so you may need to do a bit extra at first. We’ll pay, of course.” He smiled at her, and she shivered. “Can you take it on?” he said.
“Yes, of course.” For all her shrinking feeling, she wouldn’t turn away good business, and it sounded like a doddle, once they’d got the place shipshape.
She took down all the necessary information, and said she’d be in touch when she’d worked out her schedules. He gave her an address in Suffolk, and limped softly away down the path to his car. Lois watched him go.
“What a nice man!” said Gran, coming up behind her. “Nice job for Sheila, that one.”
“Hey, who’s cleaning business is this, anyway?” said Lois. “Back to the kitchen, woman, and get busy with the lunch.”
Gran laughed. She and Lois were very alike, and sometimes sparks flew, but on the whole it was a very comfortable arrangement.
REG ABTHORPE PULLED UP HIS COAT COLLAR AND started his engine. It was reluctant, but he coaxed it slowly down the street, turning off to cruise into Blackberry Gardens. He sat for a minute outside the deserted house, and then quickly walked up to the front door, unlocked it and went in, shutting the door firmly behind him. An inventory was needed. After all, he’d never seen the Meade woman before, and for all he knew she might specialize in light-fingered staff who were adept at removing small objects which nobody would notice. There was nothing really valuable in Uncle Herbert’s house, but people flogged the most extraordinary rubbish at car boot sales these days. Seems there’s always a customer for everything, he thought to himself. He took a notebook from his pocket and began to make a list, room by room. He paid particular attention to the freezer.
The task was a tedious one, and it took Reg a good hour before he had finished. He looked at his watch. Half past one, and he was hungry. He’d noticed a pub on his way into the village, and decided on a snack before he returned—not to Suffolk, but to his real home, which was not nearly so far away.
He looked around, checking that he had turned off lights and shut doors. The central heating was turned down low, but left on continuously to keep damp at bay. It would be better once the cleaner was coming in regularly, if only to stir the air. He locked the front door and glanced around at the garden. It must be kept trim, and he made a mental note to check on this. Then he was back in his car and driving down the street towards the pub.
“Morning,” said the publican, Doug. He and his wife were new in the business, and very good at it. They had quickly become popular in the village. Now he welcomed his customer and said, “A bit parky out there this morning! What can I get you, sir?”
“Pint of Best, and what’ve you got to eat? Something hot, if possible.” Reg Abthorpe smiled at Doug behind the bar, his one-sided, chilly smile.
Doug wondered why he felt a draught of cold air. The log fire was burning well, and doors were shut. He drew up the pint, and then went out to order food. “Who’s in?” said his wife, Meggie. “One of the locals?”
Doug shook his head. “Not seen him before,” he said. “Seems all right Here,” he added. “Did you have the back door open just now?”
“Nope, not the day for it.”
Doug shrugged, and decided he’d imagined it—or someone had walked over his grave …
“Not very busy today,” remarked Reg, as a plateful of steaming fish and chips was placed in front of him.
“Weekdays, not many about,” Doug said. “The occasional travelling salesman, or the weekly lunch for the Darby and Joan club—highlight of the week, that is.”
“So weekends is your busy time?” The fish and chips were disappearing fast.
“Yep,” Doug replied with a smile. “We get the regulars then. Darts and bar skittles, husbands and wives come in then, and we do well on the food. Food’s where the money is in pubs these days. Leastways, until we have the smoking ban.” Doug returned to his usual spot behind the bar and leaned on the counter. “You’re not local, are you?” he said, his curiosity getting the better of him.
Reg shook his head. “Just passing through,” he said. “I’m one of your travelling salesmen,” he added, and Doug asked quickly what he was selling.
“Don’t worry,” Reg said, thinking rapidly. “Nothing that you’d be likely to want. It’s stuff for computers and office systems. That kind of thing.” He was rather proud of this sudden inspiration. It sounded convincing, and Doug was unlikely to question him further.
“Oh, yeah,” said Doug, sounding relieved. “All double-Dutch to me, I’m afraid. Now then, can I get you another pint?”
Reg refused, saying he was driving, and it would be just his luck to meet a policeman with nothing better to do than to breathalyze him.
“Far to go, then?” Doug asked.
“Mmm,” Reg replied, getting to his feet and feeling for his wallet. “How much do I owe you then? It was very nice, just the job.”
After Reg Abthorpe had left, Doug cleared away the plate and glass and went out to his wife. “He’s gone. Might as well close up. We’ll not get anybody else now.”
“What did you find out about him?” Meggie said. It was a big part of the fun in running a pub to ask questions and discuss the answers. Meggie came from a family of publicans, and would not have been happy in any other job. Long hours on her feet were no problem, and her cheery smile and delight in small talk had made her many friends in the locality.
“Not a lot.” Doug busied himself stacking the dishwasher. Then a thought struck him, and he turned to Meggie with a frow
n. “You don’t think he could’ve been some kind of inspector?” he said.
“I didn’t see him. What did he look like?” Meggie regretted she had not gone through to the bar to see for herself.
“That’s the funny thing,” Doug said slowly. “I can’t think of anything much—just a nondescript sort of bloke. I think he had a bit of a limp, but hardly noticeable. Nothing you’d remember him by. Except …”
“Except what?”
“His smile,” said Doug. “It was sort of one-sided, and very chilly. His eyes stayed cold. I like a bloke who smiles with his eyes.”
“Well, we’ll probably not see him again. Unless he’s an inspector and makes a bad report. But those fish and chips were fresh as a daisy, and his plate looks as if he licked it clean. So let’s get on with the work, and then we’ll have a sandwich and a nice cup of tea.”
Doug did as he was told, but for the rest of the day that chilly smile returned to make him shiver.
TWO
MONDAY MIDDAY, AND THE NEW BROOMS TEAM Assembled in Lois’s office in Long Farnden: Hazel Thornbull, nee Reading, and her mother Bridle; Enid Abraham from the mill; and Sheila Stratford, farmworker’s wife and Waltonby born and bred. Jean Slater was the most recent member of the team. She had been involved in a very unpleasant episode that had all but destroyed her life, and Lois had been not at all sure about employing her. But she had given Jean a probationary period, and so far she had been an exemplary worker.
Bill Stockbridge had not yet arrived. He had telephoned to say he was held up at the vet’s, where he worked part-time. Lois had wondered if, now that he was a married man, he would give up cleaning and get a more lucrative job. But his wife Rebecca was still teaching in Waltonby village school, and he had declared he had no intention of giving up a job he enjoyed. Lois had been pleased. Bill was a steady young Yorkshireman, and she relied on his good common sense.
“Shall we start? Bill can catch up when he arrives.” Lois began to go through the schedules, and then came to the new client. “There’s this house in Blackberry Close,” she said. “It’s empty—well, nobody’s living there—and we have to keep it clean and tidy. It was old Mr. Everitt’s house. He’s gone into a home somewhere.”