7 Sorrow on Sunday

by Ann Purser

  But Lois pretended not to hear the last question, and said a cheery goodbye. Nimmo was not a name to boast about.

  * * *

  HORACE BATTERSBY DROVE INTO JOE HORSLEY’S FARM drive and parked his car in the stable yard. He got out and looked over at the house. Joe’s vehicle was nowhere to be seen. “Blast!” the Colonel muttered to himself. “I told the stupid idiot I’d be coming.” He walked over to the door and pressed the bell. After a few seconds he heard footsteps, and the door was opened by Margaret.

  Her face fell when she saw him, and she half-closed the door again. “He’s not here,” she said.

  “No matter,” said the Colonel, and pushed his way through the door and into the kitchen. “I’ll wait. A cup of coffee would not go amiss.”

  “I don’t recall asking you to come in!” said Margaret with spirit. “In fact, I’m very busy, so you can just go and wait in your car. Joe might be some time. He’s gone into Tresham to the bank, and then he’ll probably go for a drink with the boys, and God knows what time he’ll be home.”

  “He’ll be here soon,” countered Horace. “We arranged to meet. Now, how about that coffee?”

  His voice was quiet, and Margaret shivered. It was worse than when he blustered. Oh well, she couldn’t physically turf him out, so she put on the kettle and said he must excuse her because she was in the middle of doing the farm accounts.

  “They can wait,” he replied. “Sit down and talk to me, Margaret. It is a long time since we were alone together.”

  Oh God, not that again, thought Margaret. Please, Joe, come home soon—like now. She made the coffee and set it in front of him.

  “Sugar?”

  “No thank you, Margaret. Surely you haven’t forgotten that?”

  Margaret perched on the edge of a chair, and asked after Blanche. “Is she well? Still riding those lovely horses? She was so good with them. I think they really love her.” If I can keep the conversation on these lines, she thought, maybe it’ll be all right.

  “Too soft with them,” Horace said. “Lets them get away with murder.”

  Margaret looked up at him sharply. “What did you say?” The colour had drained from her face.

  “I said,” Horace replied in measured tones, “that Blanche is too soft with the horses. Still, not for much longer. I’m selling them. After the tack theft, it is not worth replacing it.”

  Margaret opened her mouth to say something, but at that moment she heard the sound of a car in the yard. “There’s Joe!” she said with obvious relief. “I’ll go and tell him you’re here.”

  Horace Battersby shrugged. “He knows,” he said to Margaret’s retreating back. Then he laughed.

  * * *

  BLANCHE, MEANWHILE, WAS SURREPTITIOUSLY FOLLOWING Dot around the house, checking on her every move. Dot was aware of this, but had the sense to pretend not to notice. She was practised in dissembling. She had merely said a polite hello, and got on quietly with the work. Bridie had prepared her well, and she was especially careful with the antique furniture and porcelain figures that were Blanche’s prized collection.

  “Do you usually have a cup of tea? Or would you like coffee?” Blanche asked finally.

  “Tea, if that’s awright with you, Mrs. Battersby,” Dot said. Tea was offered first, and so she took that. She wanted to keep on the right side of this woman, at all costs.

  “I’ll call you when it’s ready. Floss usually sits down for a minute or two. Just a little break.” Blanche made it quite clear that the break would be very little indeed.

  When the call came, Dot appeared in the kitchen and proceeded to wash her hands at the sink. “Dust and vittles don’t go together,” she said smugly. Just as well she can’t see my house, Dot thought, and suppressed a smile.

  “Here, dry your hands on this,” Blanche said quickly. It looked like the dog towel to Dot, but she said, “Ta,” and sat down.

  “How long have you worked for Mrs. Meade?” Blanche asked. “I don’t remember her mentioning a new cleaner.”

  “Oh, on and off for quite a while. I’ve been a temp, as they say, but now I’m on the permanent staff. Had one or two clients myself, in a private capacity, in Tresham. I expect you’d know some of them,” she added speculatively.

  “Like who?” Blanche asked suspiciously.

  “Mrs. Parker-Knowles. Up in that posh estate near the hospital.”

  Blanche frowned. “The name does sound familiar. We may have met her through the Conservative Association. The Colonel has been Chairman for ages, and given long service to the party. Is there a Mr. Parker-Knowles?”

  “Dead,” said Dot in a funereal voice. “Poor lady is a widder-woman. We get on, though. Perhaps the Colonel will remember. Now,” she said as she got to her feet, “I must get back to work. We like to give value for money at New Brooms.”

  Blanche looked impressed. “Right,” she said. “I won’t keep you.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Dot, as she reached the door, “I meant to ask you. Have you still got them horses? The Colonel used to be a racing man, didn’t he?”

  “At the moment, yes,” said Blanche, determined not to prolong the little break. “Now, what did you say your name was?”

  “Dot,” she answered, and vanished.

  TWENTY-THREE

  HORACE AND JOE STROLLED ACROSS THE STABLE YARD AND Horace eased himself into his car. “Right, then,” he said peremptorily, “it should go well, as long as we all do what we’ve planned. Can you trust the other two? Is it safe to leave that job to you?”

  Joe scowled. “Of course it is. What d’you take me for? I’ve been in this business long enough—longer than you, if you think about it.”

  “What business?” said Margaret, coming up behind Joe. He turned swiftly. “Farming, of course. What else do I know?” He turned back to the Colonel. “You know the way back. Take care in the narrow track through the copse. They say there’s highwaymen in there.”

  After the Colonel’s car had disappeared, Margaret took Joe’s arm. “I wish you wouldn’t have anything to do with him,” she said quietly.

  “You did, once,” Joe said shortly, shaking her off, and strode back into the house.

  * * *

  HORACE BATTERSBY SPED DOWN THE NARROW TRACK, his face dark with irritation. If only he did not have to deal with Horsley. The man was far too arrogant, considering he had little education and a dubious reputation to boot. Horace had seen him lording it over his companions in the Tresham pub, downing pint after pint. Still, they all did that. He sighed. He had to make the best of it. He turned out into the main road without looking to right or left, and heard a furious hooting behind him. Idiot! He accelerated and shook his fist.

  As he turned into his drive in Waltonby, he saw a strange woman getting into a BMW parked by the front door. Who the hell was that? He drew up and got out. But the BMW was too quick for him, and had disappeared out of the drive before he could hail the woman.

  “Who was that?” he said abruptly to Blanche, who stood by the door waiting for him.

  “Hello, dear,” she said. “Did you have a good morning?”

  “Who was that?” he repeated impatiently.

  “Dot.”

  “Dot who?”

  “Don’t know. She’s new with New Brooms. Oh, that’s good,” laughed Blanche. “A new broom with New Brooms!” She was well aware that she was provoking Horace, but felt quite perky after Dot’s visit. She’d dealt with her well, she thought, and the woman had quite a sense of humour.

  “Well, find out,” said Horace. “We don’t want unknowns going through our things. Could be dangerous.”

  Blanche laughed. “Oh, for goodness sake, Horace,” she replied, “what have we got to hide?”

  He didn’t answer, but went swiftly through to his study and banged the door.

  “Old fart!” muttered Blanche, and giggled at her new-found courage.

  * * *

  THE BATTERSBYS WERE IN FLOSS’S MIND AS SHE LAY sweating and shivering b
y turns. Had she dreamed they’d offered her a horse to ride? No, it was Mrs. M who had told her, and she trusted Mrs. M to tell the truth. She hadn’t yet mentioned it to her parents, and certainly did not feel up to telling them now. It was coming back to her now, and she remembered Mrs. M’s face as she told her. It was as if she was reluctant to give her the good news. As if she didn’t think it was good news . . .

  Floss drifted back to sleep, and was awoken after a while by her mother coming in with a glass of hot lemon. “You have to drink lots,” she said. “Try and get it down, to please me.” She had the motherly voice that Floss remembered from childhood. Propping herself on her elbow, she drank a few mouthfuls and then fell back on the pillow. “Leave it there, Mum,” she said. “I’ll drink some more in a minute or two.” She closed her eyes, hoping her mother would go away. She wanted to concentrate on the gift of a horse.

  Why hadn’t the Battersbys spoken to her first? Oh, yes, she remembered Mrs. M saying they were anxious not to break New Brooms rules. Cleaners accepting gifts, and all that. It made it more difficult for her to decide, though at heart she was thrilled at the idea of having her own mare to ride and care for. Expense, that would be another factor. Horses were expensive things, and her salary was not huge. She’d have to check that the Battersbys didn’t want rent for the stable and field. And then there’d be new tack. There was none of that left in the stables. Vet’s bills and feed supplements. Farrier to keep hooves in good nick. Her mind got stuck on farriers, and she wandered off into a hazy dream about a curly-haired young farrier who’d run off with a rich wife in Fletching, leaving behind young daughters and a sorrowing husband . . .

  * * *

  DOT HAD ALSO BEEN THINKING ABOUT THE BATTERSBYS. She was pleased with herself, and as she drove into Tresham, deciding to go straight to Mrs. Parker-Knowle, she reckoned she had made a good start. Then she passed the entrance to Sebastopol Street, and changed her mind. Just time to dash home and eat a sausage roll. It had been a cup of tea only with Blanche. No delicious shortbread biscuits or slice of date and walnut cake. She backed the car and turned into Sebastopol Street. As she went by the video shop, a couple of youths parked outside watched her until she stopped outside her house.

  The kitchen clock, thick with dust, told Dot that she had ten minutes to spare, and she took a sausage roll from its packet. It was well past its sell-by date, but she habitually took no notice of these arbitrary limits. As she said to her sister Evie, “Sausage rolls don’t suddenly go rotten at midnight, do they?”

  “Like Cinderella,” Evie had said, and they’d cackled at this shaft of wit.

  Time’s up, Dot said to herself, and left the house. She looked at the car. Something not right. “Oh, sod it!” she said aloud. She walked round the car, and found a bright yellow triangular clamp attached to her offside wheel. There were no parking restrictions in Sebastopol Street. She looked up and down the street. Not a soul in sight. Still, there wouldn’t be, would there? She sighed, and went back into the house. Dialling a number, she reflected that anyone else would have sent for the police. But not a Nimmo. She laughed wryly, and said, “Stan? Is that you? Help needed.”

  She told him about the clamp. “It’s the cheap one, with a padlock. I can’t move it. Can you get up here? Yeah, cut it. Damage? Nope, can’t see anything. Ta very much. See you.”

  Next she phoned Alice Parker-Knowle, and said she’d be a bit late. Reassured that Alice was not unhappy about this, she went out to look once more at the car. There was something else—a scrap of paper tucked under the windscreen wiper. “‘Mind yer own business, Dot,’” she read. “‘Or else.’”

  Dot looked closely, and then screwed it up and put it in her pocket. She scowled. Fools! They don’t scare me that easy, she thought, and waved to the garage truck now speeding up Sebastopol Street.

  * * *

  “YOU GOT ENEMIES, DOT?” ASKED THE MECHANIC, AS he unloaded tools.

  “What do you think?” said Dot. “Won’t take you a minute to cut through that,” she added confidently. “I could’ve done it meself, ’cept I’m due at my next client, an’ I don’t have the tools.”

  Stan had the clamp removed in seconds, and said, “Better check there ain’t no scratches nor nothin’.” He examined the bodywork carefully. “No, you bin lucky,” he said. “This time. Who d’yer reckon done it, then?”

  “You know as well as I do, Stan,” she said. “But they don’t bother me. It’s one of the other lot that done for my Haydn. Police are sayin’ it was a tragic accident, with that loose horse. But I know different. Horses don’t bolt into the road for no reason.”

  “You on the warpath, then, Dot?” Stan was grinning affectionately. “If I hear anythin’ I’ll let yer know. The others might know somethin’. I’ll spread it around.”

  Dot delved into her purse, but Stan waved her away. “Don’t be daft. Gotta stick together, us lot. Save yer pennies, Dot. Never know when yer might need a penny.”

  “More like ten pence nowadays,” Dot replied, and laughed heartily. “Thanks, anyway, Stan. Mind how y’go.”

  She locked up her house and drove off, looking from side to side along the street, but she could see nothing. She was certain someone would have seen the culprits, but Sebastopol kept itself to itself. Might be dangerous to do otherwise. Ah well, the message would get round. She expected to be left alone from now on.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  LOIS HAD NOT MENTIONED IT, BUT SHE PLANNED TO DROP in on Mrs. Parker-Knowle while Dot was there, just to make sure that everything was going as would be expected from a New Brooms cleaner. The fact that Dot had worked there before joining the team made her slightly uneasy. Everything about Dot made Lois uneasy! Dot Nimmo was, as Gran would say, a law unto herself. Lois drove through the town and out towards Meadow Crescent.

  A BMW was parked outside Alice Parker-Knowle’s house, and Lois drew up behind it. She looked at her watch. Three o’clock. Dot should be nearly through by now. She walked up the driveway and rang the bell. “Come in, Mrs. M! Door’s not locked . . .” It was Dot’s voice, and Lois immediately objected to the familiarity in her tone. She should be at the door, opening it politely, and ushering her in to see Alice P-K. That sounded like a bottled sauce: P-K Tomato Sauce. She pushed open the door.

  “In here!” called Dot, and Lois followed the voice. A dreadful sight met her eyes. Alice and Dot sat either side of a coffee table which bore a neat tea tray, with a plate of chocolate biscuits, clearly much depleted.

  “Cup of tea?” Dot said cheerily. “I’ll get another cup. You sit there, Mrs. M.” Dot disappeared off to the kitchen. Alice looked at Lois’s face and whispered quickly, “Don’t be cross, Mrs. Meade. We have had this arrangement since she began. I like her company. She cheers me up. If you like, I’ll pay a little extra.”

  Lois sighed. “No need for that, Mrs. Parker-Knowle,” she said.

  “Do call me Alice, please, Mrs. Meade—Lois . . . I do dislike formality among friends. I regard Dot as a friend, and I’m sure you will be one too.”

  “Yes, well, we’ll see. But thank you, Alice. Apart from the social side of the job, are you satisfied with Dot’s work?”

  “Oh, yes, she’s an excellent cleaner. You are lucky to have found her, Lois.”

  At this point, Dot, who had crept up close to the open door to listen, now appeared, smiling and carrying a cup and saucer. “Here we are then. Now, what have you been telling Mrs. M?” she said. “No complaints, I hope!”

  Lois couldn’t believe her ears. She had never had an employee like Dot, and it was a going to be a challenge. “Not so far,” she said with a frown.

  The conversation ranged from cleaners Alice had known to Dot’s tragedies with the men in her family. Lois purposely blocked questions about her own personal life, and was beginning to think it was time to go, when she heard Alice say, “And wasn’t it strange that Dot should have been cleaning at the Battersbys? We knew the family, years and years ago.”

  Lois sat u
p straight. “How interesting,” she said. “Did you know them well? Where were they living then?”

  Alice then recounted what she had already told Dot, about the farm and the family, and Horace’s military career. This time she also mentioned the spinster sisters who had done good works in the town, and had become a legend. “You’ll have seen Battersby Road on the Eastern Development? Named after them.” Lois knew it, but said that most people kept away from that side of town unless they had a very pressing reason to go there. She also knew from Gran about the spinster sisters, but she kept quiet.

  While Alice was talking, Lois noticed that Dot was also very quiet and seemed to be concentrating hard on what she was saying. This was unusual, as Dot could not resist interrupting whatever was being said with a contribution of her own.

  “Of course,” Alice said, coming to the end, “Dot could tell you some stories about the Battersbys.” Lois was still looking at Dot and saw her shake her head almost imperceptibly at Alice. She made a mental note to hear those stories later.

  * * *

  DRIVING AWAY FROM MEADOW CRESCENT, LOIS LOOKED in her rear-view mirror. Two youths were in conversation on the pavement opposite Alice’s house. As she waited at the corner for the traffic to clear, she glanced again into the mirror. One of the youths was walking across the road towards Dot’s car. He leaned across the windscreen as if to clean it, and Lois saw that he had a spray can in his hand. Ah well, maybe Dot had asked them to do it while she was working. But why, as she watched, did the pair of them scarper at top speed?

  Lois reversed into the nearest driveway and went back to look at the BMW. Sure enough, the windscreen had been sprayed, but not with detergent. A message had been left for Dot in bright purple: SHUT YER TRAP DOT!

  At this moment, Dot came rushing out. “What’s up, Mrs. M?” she shouted. Then she saw her windscreen and her face hardened. “I’ll have ’em lynched,” she muttered under her breath.