by Ann Granger
'Picked the bloody lock, I bet!' muttered Ron from his post at the window. 'Miss Oakley keeps the key on her key-ring, I know that.'
Now that the desk was open, the interior pigeonholes could be seen to be filled with all kinds of papers. Jan looked round, causing Ron to dodge back, fearing he'd betrayed his presence. But when he ventured to look again, it was to see that Jan had found himself a chair which he'd pulled up to the desk and now sat, carefully going through the documents, odd letters and bills with which the desk was stuffed.
Ron moved away from the window and stood unhappily with the shears forgotten in his hand. What to do? Tap on the window and give the fellow the fright of his life? Wait until the Oakleys returned from the shopping expedition and drop a word in their ears? Keep watch and see what else Jan might do? Then, when all the evidence was assembled.
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present the Oakleys with it at some later date?
He returned to the window. Jan appeared to have found what he was looking for and was eagerly scanning a large stiff sheet of paper. Another such lay by his hand. As Ron watched, Jan nodded, folded up both papers and returned them to envelopes which he put back in the pigeonhole from which he'd taken them. He pulled down the roll-top and satisfied himself the lock had clicked into place. He then walked out of the study.
Ron remembered he was on his way to the old tackroom. He set off there, deep in thought and very dissatisfied.
The tackroom had been swept out and rearranged by Ron, but signs of its original use remained in poignant reminder of a lost heyday. Wooden pegs protruded from the walls where once harness had been stored. There was, even now, a very faint smell of saddlesoap, tobacco, hoof oil and the acrid odour of horses. Ron sat on a bench to attend to his shears. His whole figure and attitude were no different, had he been aware of it, from that of the stablemen who'd once sat here to buff up leather and polish brass.
Ron worked automatically, his mind busy. The visitor had been poking about in things which were none of his business, he had no doubt about that. Ron was beginning to regret that, through his hesitation, he'd missed the chance to tap at the window and let Jan know he'd been seen. On the other hand, if he'd accused Jan, the man need only reply that he was acting with his cousins' permission. He could tell Miss Oakley when she returned, but the point was, should he? Jan would deny it, if taxed. There would be a nasty family row and it wasn't after all, Ron's family. He decided to think about it. He couldn't let it go. Jan had to be dealt with and stopped from snooping like that but in a way which would cause the ladies minimum distress. Ron bent his mind to the problem.
About half an hour after this, as Ron was back clipping the yew with his newly-oiled shears, he was surprised and disconcerted to see Jan himself emerge from the house. He walked towards Ron with his springy athletic stride. He wasn't wearing jeans today but fawn slacks and a patterned sweater. Going to a party? thought Ron grimly.
Jan had drawn level and stopped. 'You're hard at work, Mr Gladstone.'
He looked so thoroughly pleased with himself that Ron had to bite back a snappy response. He had made up his mind to speak to Jan himself about the incident in the study and say nothing to the sisters. They'd only be upset. But Ron hadn't yet worked out just what he was going to say to make it clear that whatever game the visitor was up to, Ron had rumbled it. It would take careful wording and Jan had caught him on the
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hop. Ron had to content himself with a nod and a muffled, 'Yes!' Jan didn't take the hint. Tm going to walk into Bamford. It's a pity
there's no bus service out here. I could have gone with my cousins in
their taxi but it would have been a squash.'
And you wanted the house to yourself, thought Ron, so you could pry
into things undisturbed. 'Off you go, then!' he said to Jan, wishing that
Jan's departure could be made permanent. 'I've got work to do. Can't
stand here chatting to you.'
But the fellow still stood there and had a funny smug look on his face.
He was obviously keen to impart some piece of information. 'I'm going to see a girl,' Jan said. 'She's invited me to tea.' With that he marched away, leaving the astounded Ron staring after
him.
'Well!' exclaimed the gardener. 'I don't know who that might be, but
whoever she is, she wants her head seen to.'
Meredith would have agreed with him. She should never have let Juliet talk her into this. So ashamed of her weakness was she that she hadn't told Alan anything of Jan's proposed visit. She watched him drive away with Paul, waving them off with a nonchalance she didn't feel.
Back in the kitchen she prepared to entertain Jan. Meredith picked up a packet of chocolate sponge mix and read through the instructions with deepening gloom. She could, of course, nip out and buy a cake but she felt that if you invited someone, you ought at least to give them some homemade food. The trouble was, cooking wasn't her strong point. But the instructions seemed simple enough. Add an egg. Add so much water. Beat it all up and put it in the oven.
Meredith did all this but the mixture didn't look right. She poured it into a tin (ought it to be that runny?) and shoved it into the oven. As she washed up the mixing bowl she composed a speech which would persuade Jan to abandon his harassment of the Oakleys. She lined up the points in her argument. The sisters were old. Despite what Jan may have thought when he arrived, he must be able to see for himself they were poor. William Oakley, the mutual ancestor, was viewed by them with abhorrence. This bit was going to be difficult. Jan didn't like any reference to William being a murderer. Meredith would have to say the sisters had been told a quite different version of the story Jan had been told. As a result, his relationship to them was something which they found embarrassing. He must realise that to use it to try and extract money was
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dishonourable. What's more, it was useless. They didn't have any.
The timer on the oven buzzed. Meredith took out the cake. It didn't exactly look like the picture on the packet, but much smaller and oddly shaped, rising to a point. The appearance wasn't improved when she iced it. The icing kept running off. She scooped it up and put it back until most of it adhered, then put the cake in the fridge to set the icing quickly before it all ran off again.
She had just completed this manoeuvre when the doorbell rang.
Jan was on the step. To her horror, he was holding out a large bouquet of brightly coloured blooms.
'Thank you,' she said weakly, taking it. 'Do come in.'
But he'd already walked past her into the house and was appraising his surroundings. He looked unimpressed.
'It's my partner's house,' said Meredith hastily. 'We're going to sell it and buy another.'
'Ah, the policeman. He isn't here?' Jan looked around him enquiringly and, Meredith fancied, with just a touch of apprehension.
'He's gone to a football match. He'll be along later.' Quite a bit later. He'd probably go for a pint with Paul after the match or go back to visit his sister and her children. She didn't expect Alan to turn up before some time this evening, but it was better that Jan thought he might walk through the door at any minute.
'This is really kind of you, to invite me like this.' He was smiling at her.
Meredith reminded herself the plan was to persuade Jan to do as they all wished, and this involved being nice to him. T know what it's like to be a stranger,' she told him as she urged him towards the sitting room. 'Do go and make yourself comfortable. I'll make the tea.'
In the kitchen, she quickly rehearsed her lines. Provided she could keep the conversation going as she intended it to, there shouldn't be a problem getting Jan to listen. Whether she'd get him to agree to abandon his plans was another thing. She feared Juliet had overestimated her powers of persuasion.
Jan was relaxed on the sofa, one arm stretched along the back, when she brought the teatray in. He was slightly flushed and she suspec
ted he'd been investigating the room and had hurriedly sat down when he heard her approach. She handed him some tea and, although he'd looked a little startled at the sight of it, a slice of the cake.
'Very nice,' he said politely but with some difficulty as the mixture seemed to be sticking to his teeth.
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Meredith thought it a good moment, while he was occupied, to begin her prepared speech.
'Look, Jan, I want to be frank with you,' she said. T did think you might be at a loose end today and would like to share a cup of tea. but I do have another reason for asking you to come along this afternoon.'
If she'd thought he'd be surprised at this, she was wrong. He was nodding, as if she'd spoken as he'd expected, smiling at her almost as if they shared some secret. He'd managed to swallow the cake and now set down his cup. 'Sure, I understand. I've been thinking about it, too.'
'About your cousins? About the sale of the house?' She was taken aback, not thinking he'd be the first to broach the subject.
But he was shaking his head. 'My cousins? Why do you want to talk about them? I came here to see you. You wanted to see me. That's what it's all about, isn't it? Clever of you to get rid of the policeman. We certainly don't need him!'
'Now look here," Meredith said quickly, 'let's get this straight. I asked you here to talk about your cousins. Alan's my partner. He and I are thinking of selling this house. Selling a house is a major project. It's a very stressful time for anyone.'
Jan was nodding as she spoke. He eyed the cake, but thought better of requesting another piece. 'OK, you don't have to tell me that. I know. So what? I'm here to help them.' He said this with that familiar complacency which again stopped Meredith briefly in her tracks. Did he really believe this? Clearly subtlety would be lost on him. She wasted no time on it.
'I'm sure you want to help them, but so far, you only seem to have alarmed them. I understand you've made some claim on the property.'
Jan dusted off his fingers and shook his head. 'You've been speaking to Miss Painter. She's a very fierce lady!' He chuckled. 'Unfortunately, she's quite misunderstood my interest. I could, of course, make a claim on the property under the terms of my great-grandfather's will. But I've no intention of doing so. My cousins need to sell the house. I understand that perfectly. It's in a very bad state of repair and all the rooms - ' he grimaced ' - are very cold. There's no proper heating, only a gasfire in each room, quite inadequate. To be honest with you, Meredith, it's made me very sad to see the dear old house in such a sorry state. However he shrugged. Tt can't he helped. What can't be cured must be endured -isn't that an English saying?'
'Yes,' said Meredith faintly.
'I'm all for them selling it,' he said. 'May I have another cup of tea?" He held out his cup.
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Meredith poured his tea rather absently, splashing it into the saucer. 'When you say you're not intending to make a claim on the property, does that mean you don't expect to get some share of the money from the sale?'
He smiled, the gold tooth flashing. 'Well, it would be very nice if my cousins felt they could be generous. I don't say I don't need the money -but I don't expect it. I understand their situation. They're in sadly reduced circumstances.'
'You don't?' This was contrary to everything Juliet had claimed.
'No. And now, we don't have to talk about this any more, do we?' he leaned forward. 'After all, it's not the real reason you've asked me here, is it? I've also been trying to think of a way in which we might meet again.'
'I'm sorry, but you've got this all wrong!' Meredith began in alarm.
Jan ignored her protest. 'Pretty clever of you to send your policeman to a football match.' He patted the sofa. 'Come and sit here by me.'
'Of course I'm not going to sit by you! Are you deaf? Listen, I'm not interested in you! I asked you here to talk—'
'Don't give me that.' There was an odd flicker in the depth of his dark eyes. It gave her a split-second warning of what was coming.
As he dived towards her, Meredith snatched up the teapot and threw it in his face.
It was only half-full, not as hot as it had been, and most of it went down his shirt, but he let out a wild yell and swore, or she presumed it was swearing, in Polish. He gasped, 'You English bitch! You can't do that to me. I'll show you—'
Meredith snatched up the cake-knife. It was an old-fashioned one she'd found lying about in a kitchen drawer. The edge was serrated but the tip came to a sharp point.
Jan froze, staring at the knife. For a brief moment his reaction hung in the balance. She held her breath, but didn't flinch. She mustn't look afraid, she knew that. But she was afraid, not just of what he might do, but of what she might have to do to stop him.
Then, with one of those sudden changes of mood of which he was capable, Jan shrugged. 'Frigid Englishwomen,' he sneered at her. 'Everything they say is true.'
'Out!' she ordered crisply.
'All right, all right. It wasn't going to be anything worth staying for, anyway, was it?'
He walked to the door in his jaunty way. She heard the front door
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slam and from the window, saw Jan striding off down the street. Only then did she begin to shake uncontrollably.
Snatching up the knife had been a purely reflex action. She'd been threatened and she'd grabbed a weapon. Suppose he'd called her bluff? Would she have used it? This, she thought, is how murder is done, that easily. What would she have pleaded? Self-defence? One thing was certain: Alan must never know. She didn't think Jan would tell anyone he'd been routed by a cake-knife. Not that he really had been. Rather, he'd seen she was really angry and it formed no part of his plans to find himself locked in a local cell. Meredith took the remaining cake back to the kitchen and put it in a tin. There it would probably sit until she remembered it and threw it out. Then she drew a deep breath and rang Juliet.
'He's been and before you say anything,' she began immediately, 'it didn't work.'
'Why not?' came Juliet's truculent response.
'Why? For Pete's sake, what am I? A miracle-worker? It didn't work because he's too smart. He doesn't deny that it would be nice, in his words, if his cousins gave him some money, but he can see their circumstances and so he doesn't expect it. Not a penny.'
'WhatT came in a howl down the phone line.
'Of course,' Meredith tried to be fair, 'it could be he's realised we're all ganged up against him and he's backing down.'
A snort. 'Don't you believe it! He's got another trick up his sleeve.' Juliet's voice was incredulous.
T don't know what to believe. All I know is, after that, he tried his luck with me and I threw him out. Juliet, you are not to tell a soul about that. Alan would flip if he knew.'
'So would Damaris and Florence. Meredith, when you say he tried his luck, how, um, insistent was he?'
'Not as much as he might have been. His brain clicked in in time. Jan's not one to spoil any plans he's got by needless rough stuff. He's a thinker, our boy. Still, the sooner he's on the plane back to Poland the better.'
'Now what?' asked a glum Juliet.
'Perhaps we should talk to Laura again? Get her to tackle him. All I know is, I've done absolutely all I can do. Someone else is going to have to settle Jan's hash.'
Damaris and Florence had spent a long afternoon in Bamford. Apart
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from the supermarket, Florence had visited the hairdresser to have a biannual trim and Damaris had set out to purchase underwear. There was, fortunately, still a small shop in Bamford which sold proper vests and knickers.
While waiting to be served Damaris studied with fascinated bewilderment a mannequin decked in the briefest scrap of material to preserve decency below the waist and a sort of wired effort to support the bust. The plaster figure wore sheer black stockings which stayed up without suspenders.
'Here you are, Miss Oakley,' said the elderly shop assistant, displaying a pair of
capacious lock-knit bloomers on the glass counter top. They were in a style called, inexplicably, after a period of French history, directoire.
'What?' said Damaris. 'Oh, I'm sorry. Yes, those will do very well.'
The assistant's gaze flickered scornfully at the mannequin in its diaphanous scanties.
'Silly thing, that,' she said, 'but we've got to keep all the modern stuff in stock. The girls don't wear anything else these days.'
'None of it can keep them very warm,' observed Damaris, thinking, But you don't feel the cold when you're young. Your blood is warm. Your skin tingles. You are alive.
'They'll pay for it later in rheumatism,' said the assistant comfortably.
Outside the shop two young girls stood gossiping on the pavement. She supposed them sixteen or seventeen. One wore jeans and what appeared to be a man's tweed jacket, rather old and probably bought at a jumble sale. She had long dark hair twisted in many narrow ringlets, rather like a Restoration beau. The other girl, in contrast, had short flame-red hair sticking up in spikes and wore a flowing black skirt patterned with scarlet poppies, over heavy boots. The pair of them giggled hilariously over something.
Damaris thought with shock, I don't believe I was ever young. Oh, young in years, but never in behaviour. We Oakley girls were well brought up. We Oakleys must never give cause for scandal or gossip. We Oakleys must never show lack of moral fibre.
It was only as she grew older, really quite a bit older, well into middle-age, that Damaris had understood her parents' obsessive need for respectability, for decorum, for dependability. It was a necessary veil to obscure the truth, that over Fourways and the Oakley family stretched the skeletal hand of a cruel, foul crime. They lived in the shadow of a murder. They must pay the price, all of them and for ever, for William Oakley's sin.