by Lizzie Lane
John poured more tea and Meg shook her head. No, he could not be in her house but he had to be in a house where he felt at home.
‘And don’t tell me where you plan to hide him,’ said John, just as she opened her mouth to speak. ‘Tell me no secrets and I won’t tell any lies. Right?’
‘Right.’ Even to her own ears, her voice seemed far away. She walked away from the police house with a warm glow inside. Not only had John given her a way out of her problem, he was a genuinely caring man and a good friend.
On reaching the gate to Mrs Dando’s cottage, she paused and looked up at the windows. They still seemed vacant, reflecting nothing today except the emptiness inside. It was obvious that Rudy had been happy in the short time he’d spent with Mrs Dando. For that reason she didn’t think it at all odd that he loitered outside her gate, gazing at the house as though fully expecting the old dear to come out of her front door.
Meg recalled Alice’s comments about Ivy’s ghost still living there and, although she hadn’t taken her comment seriously at the time, Meg did wonder if there was any truth in it. Rudy wouldn’t be frightened of the old lady’s ghost so for that reason alone it was the ideal hiding place.
The most difficult bit would be ensuring Lily kept the secret to herself. It did cross her mind not to tell her, merely to say that he was in a safe place, but she’d seen how frantic Lily had become when she thought he was being taken from her. Meg sighed as she entered Bluebell Cottage. There was so very much to consider but she would face the challenge. Mr Amble must not take Rudy, so if she had to hide the dog and lie that he’d run away, then so be it.
Rudy was lying on the floor. He raised his head and wagged his tail in welcome. Meg bent down, stroking between the dog’s ears as she spoke to him softly. ‘Rudy, you’re going to a new home for a while, but only for a little while. You’ll be a good boy, won’t you?’
The tail wagged again. His head went back to the floor and he closed his eyes.
Back at the police house, PC Carter was placing the dishes in the washing-up bowl. There was just about enough water in the kettle to wash the breakfast things and his dinner plate from the night before.
For a moment he looked at that single dinner plate thinking how lonely it looked. One dinner plate. Bachelor meal for one. Up until now he’d never bothered too much about wanting company. He’d had lady friends but none had stirred his feelings to the point of wanting to settle down. Then Meg Malin had come along.
What a kind lady, he thought, taking in a little girl whose background was completely unknown to her. But it was more than that, of course. He wanted them to be more than friends but knew he had to give her time. She hadn’t long lost her husband and he didn’t think her the sort to rush into things. Give her time, he told himself. Be her friend and see where that goes.
Leaving the dishes to drain, he wiped his hands on the tea towel and prepared to fasten his shirtsleeve cuffs. As he did so he thought about what Meg had said about Lily. Nobody could possibly guess what the little girl had gone through. It was even more intriguing to hear that she and the dog had been found together; a little Jewish girl and a dog with a military number tattooed in his ear.
Like Meg, he couldn’t fathom how they’d come together. But whatever had happened had left the little girl without her memory. If only the dog could talk. It couldn’t, of course, but its presence had helped Lily’s progress. In time, as long as the animal was giving her comfort, she might remember even more. The girl and the dog were inseparable and that was a fact.
‘It’s her dog,’ Carter said thoughtfully. ‘Not Ray’s dog. It wasn’t his to sign over.’ The truth of his statement was like being pricked with a sharp pin. He looked out of the window, across the village green to the cottages on the far side and the top of the church tower showing above the trees. It was like a revelation. ‘It’s her dog!’
Feeling akin to St Paul on the road to Damascus, he dashed out of the station house, looking to see if Meg was still in sight. He could just see her about to cross the village green and heading to Mrs Dando’s cottage. He was about to run after her but was accosted by a red-faced Cliff Stenner, who puffed a bit before settling back from a trot into a more refined pace better suiting a man of his age and rotund physique.
‘John. I’ve had a break-in.’
As if that wasn’t enough, the Reverend Gerald James also stalked over, his cassock floating like a pair of black wings behind him. ‘The collection box has been stolen, plus some items from the Harvest Festival Display.’
‘What sort of items?’
‘An apple pie, two loaves of bread and some fruit.’
PC Carter turned to Cliff. ‘And you?’
‘Food and cigarettes. Plus a pair of clean long johns from off the washing line. I did say to Gladys they might just have blown away. I mean, who the bloody hell pinches a pair of long johns? But she won’t have it.’
‘The church was open so there is no sign of forced entry,’ stated the vicar, who, being a great Agatha Christie fan, thought he knew a thing or two about crime in general and murder in particular.
Cliff added details of his own break-in. ‘Whoever it was got in through the cellar window. It’s only a slit, but anyone skinny enough could slide through all right.’
Carter sighed. His revelation about the dog and the little girl had to be put on hold. ‘Right, he said. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
The moment Meg pushed open the gate of Homeside Cottage, Rudy sprinted to the front door. Once there he sat down, head back and his attention fixed on the door as though fully expecting someone to open it. Even though she thought it a useless exercise, Meg tried heaving the big catch upwards. Just as she’d suspected, it wouldn’t budge and there was no big key hanging from a nail at the side of the door.
Most of the old cottages in the village had these old panelled doors that had an iron latch and a huge keyhole for the key, which most people kept hanging from a nail outside. Neighbours went in and out other peoples’ houses at will. Everyone was honest and crime was just something they read about in the newspapers; something that happened in places like Bristol or Bath, anywhere but a village of small population where everyone knew everyone else.
Even though Mrs Dando was dead and gone, Meg had still expected to see an old iron key hanging from a nail. She decided that either PC Carter or Reg Puller might have it, just so they could check on things now and again. Her intention had been to see what it was like inside and perhaps get Rudy used to being there alone, at least in the daytime while Lily was at school. But she certainly wasn’t going to gain entry through the front door.
Seemingly understanding what the problem was, Rudy dashed along the path that led around the side of the house and through an archway of tangled climbing roses into the back garden. Meg followed and found him sitting at the back door waiting for her to catch up. The back door of Mrs Dando’s cottage was protected from the elements by a ramshackle, door-less lean-to of glass and mismatched pieces of wood.
A smell of fermenting apples came from a barrel stowed on a ledge in front of her. Droplets of liquid squeezed out from the barrel tap formed a small puddle on the floor. Meg touched her finger to the oozing tap and tasted it. So, sweet old Mrs Dando had kept a barrel of scrumpy cider out back. Well, good for her!
Rudy was sitting as still as a stone statue, his eyes fixed on the back door. Meg wondered at the training he’d once been given. He was such a gentle dog yet so instinctive and obedient. She also wondered what he was hearing and smelling seeing that she couldn’t.
Meg tried the back door by giving it a gentle push, but it didn’t open either. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she peered in the kitchen window. The curtains were drawn just as they were at every other window. Meg eyed the lean-to, which vaguely resembled a greenhouse. Even though it had no door, it could provide sufficient shelter for a few nights. Being an obedient dog, Rudy would stay here if told to.
‘Just for a few nights,’ she muttered
.
Rudy turned his head. His eyes were unblinking. Nothing else about him moved, not even his tail.
Meg frowned. She couldn’t help get the impression that the dog was trying to tell her something. ‘If only you could speak,’ she said, sorrowfully shaking her head. ‘What is it, boy? What’s wrong?’
Meg looked at the back door. Its dark green paint was peeling away from the wood like strips of skin. Sighing, she got to her feet. ‘We can’t get into the house, so we’ll have to hide you here. Now, shall we do a dummy run, as my Ray used to say when he was in training? You stay here. Stay! Do you understand me, Rudy? Stay!’
She walked backwards at first, fixing him eye to eye as she repeated the order to stay over and over again. Once she was sure he would obey, she walked swiftly to the corner of the house. Once there she turned and looked at him, pleased to see he hadn’t moved. His gaze was fixed on her as though he understood her command but not the reason why. This will be a trial run, she told herself as she strode back to the garden gate and out into the street. Half an hour should do it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Bert Dando had been eating a slice of apple pie when he’d heard the garden gate bang open and seen the lovely Mrs Malin heading for his front door. He’d also seen the dog, that bane of his life. At the sight of it he’d clenched his teeth so hard he’d nearly choked on a piece of pastry. What the devil was she doing here?
At first she was out of sight to him, though he knew she had to be standing by the front door. Beside him on the floor lay the house keys, the big old iron one for the front and another for the back. On hearing the heels of her shoes clip-clopping along the side path round to the back of the house, he did the same. There was no attic window at the back of the house so if he wanted a clear view he would have to go down to the first floor.
Shoeless, he tiptoed from the attic, down the stairs and along the landing to the back bedroom. Peering through the gap in the blackout curtains, he found himself looking down on the top of her head. She wasn’t wearing a hat, which gave him the pleasure of admiring her glossy hair, as golden as autumn sunlight. He heard her talking to the dog but couldn’t work out what was being said.
He was totally surprised when she left without the dog, telling him to sit and stay and not to move. What was that all about, he wondered? Was the dog there to guard the house? Did she suspect there was someone here and the dog would prevent his escape?
‘Just yer imagination, me old mate,’ he said to himself as he took one of the cigarettes from the packet he’d nicked from the pub and lit it up. Leaning back against the wall dressed in the clean underwear he’d stolen from a washing line, he blew smoke circles up into the room, watching them disintegrate in the cold draught from the window. Good job he’d taken the long johns. He’d been in two minds, but finally took them anyway.
As he smoked he imagined yet again what it would be like to get Mrs Malin alone. Not long now until the village dance. Who was going to notice another bloke hanging around there? Not in the blackout, they weren’t. In the meantime he would cut himself another slice of apple pie and a bit of tinned ham – he’d had enough of corned beef. Shouldn’t feed it to a dog, he reckoned.
That dog. His thoughts went back to it and wondered at Mrs Malin’s reason for leaving it outside his back door. He looked again out of the back window – the dog was still there. Thank goodness he’d brought his haul of food and suchlike up here.
Thinking of the food gave him an idea. A cube of corned beef remained in its tin. He retrieved it from the attic, noticing how dry and even more unpalatable it was than usual, though a dog might eat it. He returned to the back window.
Carefully, very carefully, he opened the window just a crack, wide enough to throw out the piece of dried corned beef. The meat landed just outside the entrance of the lean-to. He saw the dog come out to investigate and was sure the corned beef was eaten.
Bert smiled to himself. He’d been considering various ways of getting the dog out of the way so he could have his wicked way with Mrs Malin. Ultimately he’d prefer the dog to be dead. All he had to do was slice up a bit of corned beef or Spam and sprinkle it with some of the rat poison kept in a bottle under the sink. Yes, he thought to himself. Give meself a minute to finish this fag and that’s what I’ll do.
Unfortunately for Bert Dando, Meg collected Rudy half an hour later before heading off to collect Lily from school, though the child was old enough and more settled now to come home alone. It was just that she wanted to see Lily’s face light up when she saw Rudy.
The outhouse smelled of mouldy rags, turpentine and something else. She wrinkled her nose. Was that mothballs she could smell? The old rags probably. She didn’t usually bother putting Rudy on the lead. He usually followed wherever she led and obeyed immediately. On this occasion he began to whine and paw at the back door, looking up at her expectantly as though waiting for her to open it.
‘We can’t get in, Rudy. There’s no one at home.’
The dog wasn’t easily persuaded. Meg eyed the door wondering if she should try it again. She turned the handle and gave the door a hard shove. The door opened a fraction before it scraped stiffly at the floor. It would take more effort and be noisy if she pushed it. The smell of old food and, again, mothballs came out through the crack.
Rudy thrust his twitching nose into the gap. ‘No, Rudy. We’d better go. Come on. We have to meet Lily from school.’
As expected, Lily was over the moon to see Meg and Rudy. Once they were back in the cosy kitchen sitting in front of the glowing range, Meg made herself a cup of tea and flopped in a chair. She felt so tired.
‘What have you been doing?’ she murmured after gratefully sipping some tea. Closing her eyes, she lay her head back and almost dropped off to sleep. ‘Oh, come on,’ she muttered, as she opened her eyes. As she placed her cup and saucer on the table, a button popped off the side fastening of her dress. ‘Blow it! Not another one!’
Her gaze drifted to the photograph on the mantelpiece of Ray in his air-force uniform. Four months he’d been gone. Four months since they’d last gone to bed together and made love … And then it dawned on her. Four months! Why hadn’t she noticed?
The answer came swiftly. Because you’ve been too absorbed in getting Lily sorted out to notice that something isn’t quite right with you. It had been more than four years since she and Ray had got married and decided to start a family immediately – only a baby hadn’t arrived. And now, with Ray gone and having fostered a child, here she was. After all this time, she was pregnant!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
PC John Carter solemnly inspected both burglary scenes, not that there was much evidence to go on. Anyone could walk into the church and take whatever they wanted, and Cliff Stenner freely admitted that he never actually locked the back window, his reason being that it was very small and therefore only a very small person could squeeze through.
Carter shook his head. ‘I’m not so sure. Somebody with slim hips could slide through. An adolescent perhaps?’
Cliff had to agree. ‘Nobody my size,’ he added, rubbing his stomach to emphasise the fact he was a bit on the large side.
Carter suggested to the vicar that he might like to lock the church door. The vicar was horrified. ‘I cannot withhold help to anyone who needs it. The church door has to remain open to any troubled soul who wishes entry.’
While he was with the vicar, the policeman sniffed the air. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, I smell mothballs,’ he remarked.
The vicar pulled in his chin as though the policeman had landed a punch on it. ‘Well, it certainly isn’t me! My wife will not allow such things into the house – or our wardrobes! No. It certainly isn’t me.’
It wasn’t that strong a smell, but taking a deep breath, he had noticed the same smell at the pub. ‘Ever use mothballs?’
Cliff shook his head. ‘Camphor! Can’t stand the stuff.’
Both men insisted their clothes were scrupulously
laundered. Cliff was even more resolute than the vicar. ‘Only my funeral suit is kept in mothballs, and even then it’s taken to the dry cleaners in Bath when I’m in need of it, and it’s kept upstairs in the spare-room wardrobe.’
The fact that only money and food had been stolen – plus some cigarettes from the Bear and Ragged Staff – brought PC Carter to the conclusion that the theft had been carried out by a vagabond, a tramp hiding out in the countryside, and whoever it was smelled strongly of mothballs. He voiced his conclusion to both Cliff and the vicar. Both men agreed with him.
‘There are so many homeless people nowadays, what with the bombing,’ stated the vicar. ‘There are kind people about who give them cast-off clothes – hence your smell of mothballs, Constable.’
‘And quite a few deserters unwilling to die for their country,’ added Cliff with resolute scepticism. ‘Heard of one over Dursley way, living rough in a disused cow byre.
Carter nodded thoughtfully. ‘I think you’re right. Food is more valuable than anything nowadays, though the perpetrator did nick the money in the collection box. That couldn’t have been very much – could it?’
‘No. I’m afraid not,’ replied the vicar.
‘Just in case it was kids, I’m going along to the school this afternoon to give the youngsters a good talking to – just in case.’
PC Carter didn’t dwell too long on the string of crime in his beloved village, except to wonder about the smell of mothballs. He would indeed be calling in at the school and asking Miss Pringle’s permission to give the kids a talk on the sin of stealing and not owning up to a misdemeanour – more of a deterrent to future petty crime than presently applicable. On his way there he would drop in on Meg Malin and tell her what had popped into his mind regarding their dealing with Mr Amble.
The balmy autumn days were behind them now, the air today crisper with a foretaste of winter. Gold, bronze, red and yellow leaves still clung to the branches of trees. The leaves looked like blobs of paint against an azure sky. Here goes, he thought as he pushed open the garden gate of Bluebell Cottage, where a few remaining bees collected nectar from late-flowering blooms and spiderwebs hung in gauzy splendour from withering leaves.