Warning at One

by Ann Purser

  "Before you go, have you seen a friend of Mrs. Blairgowrie visiting Braeside while you've been there? Middle- aged, grey hair, cashmere and pearls. You know the sort."

  Dot shook her head. "Probably a friend of the old duck, helping with shoppin' and goin' to the hairdresser's. That sort of thing. Some do-gooder, most likely. Better be off now, Mrs. M, else I'll be late for our new client. Can't have that, can we?"

  As she made for the door, she turned back and said, "Why d'you want to know about that cashmere woman? You on to something?"

  "Mind your own business, Dot, and get on with what you're paid to do."

  Dot grinned. She was not in the least offended. "So I'll keep me eyes open, then? See you later, Mrs. M. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

  "Go!" said Lois. Dot went.

  FORTY-SIX

  "MORNING, JOSIE! FANCY A RIDE OUT TO SEE MY NEW COTTAGE in the country?"

  "For heaven's sake! You made me jump out of my skin! Haven't seen you for ages." Josie had been stacking lower shelves with tins of tomatoes and pasta sauce, and had not heard Matthew Vickers come in through the open door of the shop. He was off duty, a pleasant, casual young man. It was a lovely morning, bright sun and a fresh wind blowing through the village.

  Josie had been brooding on the row she'd had with Rob before he'd set off for work after breakfast. He'd been asking again about getting engaged, and she had said she was quite happy with things as they were.

  "Well," said Matthew, "how's about it? Can you get Gran to cover for you? It's too good a day to be shut up in a shop. And I want your advice about work to be done on the house."

  "Haven't you got work to do for the police force and the good people of Tresham?" Josie said. "I thought a policeman's lot was not a happy one. Seems to me it's a doddle. Solve a few minor crimes and take a couple of days off. Help a couple of old ladies across the road, and take half a day to recover from such arduous work. Are you serious?"

  He nodded. "Quite serious. Any chance of Gran coming down here? I could go and ask, if you want the might of the law behind you."

  "You're very perky this morning, Matthew Vickers! Have you been promoted, or what?"

  "As good as," he replied. "Looks like I'll get a permanent transfer to Tresham before Uncle retires, so as he can break me in. It's what I've always wanted, especially lately."

  Josie didn't ask him why especially lately. Things were complicated enough. But the idea of being out in the sunshine in the middle of a field, with him, was attractive. "Oh, all right, then. I'll give her a ring. I have to think of a good reason, though. Gran's pretty smart." And she's fond of Rob, she reminded herself.

  After taking small liberties with the truth, Josie persuaded her to take over for an hour or so, and she and Matthew set off in his car. "I told her it was to do with Doug and the police," she said, shamefaced. "So how is the police investigation into old Clem's murder going? Mum's been a bit secretive about it all lately. We had a family conference after Doug was questioned again. She didn't give much away, though."

  Matthew glanced sympathetically at her. "Not too sure myself," he said. "Except my uncle's been like a bear with a sore head lately. His PA says he's impossible to approach at the moment. The rumour round the station is that your mum and him had a ding- dong and he's suffering withdrawal symptoms." He quickened up on a long narrow lane, and Josie cautioned him that she was carsick at speed.

  "What d'you mean by withdrawal symptoms?" she said, as the needle sank back to sixty mph. "There's nothing going on between them! I can assure you of that. So you can squash any rumours of that sort straightaway!"

  "Okay, okay. Keep your hair on. It's just that everyone knows he thinks the world of her, probably fancies her, but would never do anything that was out of order."

  They turned down the rutted track that led to the cottage. "Is that it? That crumbling heap?" Josie was grumpy, put into a bad mood by Matthew's light-hearted view of her mother's reputation. "You must have been crazy to buy that. It'll cost a mint to put it right."

  "I bought it very cheap. Most of the work I can do myself, with one or two mates, and you'll be amazed at the transformation."

  "I certainly shall," said Josie, as she stepped out of the car and turned her ankle on a deep rut. "Ouch! Now look what you've done!"

  Matthew looked at her face, saw that she was near to tears, and realised that she and probably the whole family were under considerable stress. He walked around to her and picked her up bodily. "Light as a feather," he said, and carried her across to the house.

  "Put me down!" she yelled. "Help! I'm being abducted!"

  He was relieved to see her smile, and set her down gently at the front door. "Come on in, little one," he said protectively. "Here, sit down here and rest your ankle."

  "Not on that flea-ridden settee!" Josie said. "And I'm not little, and my ankle is fine. Lucky for you it wasn't a real twist. I don't suppose you've got a kettle around?"

  "Coffee? Tea?" He disappeared into what she guessed must be the kitchen, and reappeared minutes later with a steaming mug. "Sugar in it, for the shock," he said. Josie was about to say she never had sugar in tea or coffee, but suddenly felt swimmy. She sat down, and accepted it meekly.

  "Thanks," she said. "Sorry. It was my fault, not looking where I was going. Sometimes I hear myself sounding exactly like my mother."

  "I've noticed," he said. When the coffee was finished, he put out his hand and asked, "Right, are you ready for the guided tour?"

  She ignored his hand and stood up. It did not take long to inspect the small rooms, with their peeling paint and wormeaten floorboards. "The stairs don't look safe to me," Josie said.

  "We shall start with those," Matthew said. "It'll be fun doing it. Are you any good at painting? When it's all solid again, I'd love you to come and choose some colours."

  "You want Mum's new recruit for that," Josie said. "Andrew thingummy is an interior decorator. Very good, so I'm told."

  "And very expensive, I expect. Anyway, I don't fancy Andrew thingummy."

  Josie looked at him. "Don't," she said. "You know it's not on, Matthew."

  He nodded. "I know. But I'm a patient man. Meanwhile, if you can paint walls, it'd be a lot cheaper than Andrew thingummy."

  The tension in the air slowly evaporated, and they returned to the car. Josie was quiet on the way back, and when they stopped outside the shop, he said finally, "Penny for 'em, Josie."

  She shook her head. "Most of the time at the moment I'm thinking about Doug and how on earth we're going to take the heat off him."

  "Leave it with me," Matthew said quietly. "I'll have a word with Uncle, and see if we can restore normal services between him and your mum. And the minute I hear of any developments, I'll let you know. I do care for you, Josie, but you probably don't want to hear about that at the moment."

  "Thanks," she said. "And thanks for taking me out. It was a lovely break, and I know the house is going to be great. Eventually. 'Bye . . . and take care."

  FORTY-SEVEN

  "SO WHAT'S ON THIS MORNING, MUM?" JAMIE SAID. HE WAS sitting in his dressing gown, hair tousled and face unshaven, eating a mammoth Gran breakfast, while she stood over him, smiling proudly.

  "Bet the boy doesn't get good breakfasts when he's on the move all the time. What do you think, Lois?"

  "What? What did you say?" Lois was examining the contents of a letter Gran had put beside her plate. It was a letter with a questionnaire from the museum. Had they enjoyed their visit? Was there good accessibility? Were the guides and room stewards helpful and well-informed?

  "Do you know about this place, Jamie?" she said. She told him about the WI visit, and Derek supported her in describing the curious and interesting exhibits. Jamie said that he remembered going in a school party. The general consensus then had been that it was a dusty, dreary, boring old place, full of old ladies and waxwork dummies, and you couldn't always tell the difference.

  "Museums not in your line, then," Lois said. "I th
ought you might like to go, but I won't bother to ask. Still, I've got work to do today. I expect you'll be wanting to look up old mates."

  "Might even do a bit of ferretin'," he replied. "I've got one or two ideas I want to follow up."

  Dear Jamie, thought Lois. He always was a nice, helpful lad, and now here he is, quite confident of solving the Clem Fitch murder in a couple of days. Still, not to discourage him. Any of us could come up with vital information.

  "So what are you doing today, me duck?" Derek said. "Apart from work, I mean. Time for a coffee with the girls, or shopping for a new outfit?"

  Lois looked at him pityingly. "Poor old Derek," she said. "You must wish you'd married one of those nice normal women."

  "Don't fish for compliments," Derek said, smiling lasciviously at her. "You know you're the most fanciable female I ever met, and I wouldn't swap you. Not even for Dot Nimmo," he added, and went off out of the kitchen whistling.

  "So who's in for lunch and who isn't?" said Gran impatiently.

  "I'm in," Lois said, "but I know Derek's over at Waltonby doing a big job. He'll be gone all day. I shall be out this afternoon." She looked at Jamie, who said better count him out for lunch. He'd probably be tied up somewhere. "An old girlfriend," he said to Gran.

  "Huh," she said. "Old girlfriends are more interesting than old grandmothers. I realise that."

  "Dunno about that." Jamie smiled. "You know her well. Miss Enid Jacob, my very first piano teacher, and the source of much-needed inspiration and encouragement."

  Lois laughed. "One up to Jamie," she said. "I'll leave you two to finish the game. It's work for me, I'm afraid."

  She picked up the museum questionnaire and escaped to her office. There was a leaflet enclosed, and she looked through it once more, remembering all the things she had seen that day, but chiefly the room steward. Lois had a clear mental picture of the female steward, wearing a cashmere twinset and a string of pearls, with neat grey hair and a familiar face. It was this nagging memory that decided her to make a second visit to the museum after lunch.

  THIS TIME THE RECEPTION AREA WAS EMPTY, EXCEPT FOR THE friendly man behind the desk. He seemed to be a permanent fixture, Lois thought. He'd probably taken early retirement and now found this a congenial way of passing the time. He greeted her cheerfully, making it clear he remembered her with the other WI ladies. "Wasn't it your mother who gave us such a wonderful performance on the pianola? Not with you today?"

  "No, she's slaving away at home—at least, that's how she sees it," Lois replied, and added that she'd like to have a wander round on her own if that was allowed. One or two things she'd like to take another look at, she said.

  "No problem. There's always someone about if you need help. We have a new caretaker, Mrs. Pat Morne. You may run into her. We are very pleased to get the right person so quickly."

  Lois set off, leaving the light, modern reception area, and entering the world of rural Victorian England. She felt quite at home in the parlour, and had a few tentative runs on the pianola. There were no sounds of voices, no unruly parties of schoolchildren. She reckoned she might be the only visitor in the museum. After sticking out her tongue at the predatory hawk, she moved through to the schoolroom. Ah, here was someone, sitting at the teacher's desk, busily writing. "Good afternoon," Lois said politely.

  A startled face regarded her. The man stood up and smiled. "You are the new infant teacher, I presume, madam?"

  Blimey, thought Lois. Look at him, all dressed up in the right clothes. They do things really well here. She smiled back and said, "Not bloody likely!" She was totally unprepared for what happened next.

  "It was like he was beamed up!" she said afterwards to the woman in the next room. "Just disappeared with a horrified look on his face and faded in front of my eyes, and then he wasn't there at all!"

  The woman wore a steward's badge, and introduced herself as Maisie Jones. "Never mind, dear," she said, as if it was an everyday occurrence. "He's a friendly ghost. Never seen anywhere else but the schoolroom. Most visitors think he's a steward, playing the part. He doesn't usually disappear until they've gone out of the room. You must have said something to offend him!"

  "I did," said Lois, mortified. "Still, I can tell Derek I've seen my first ghost. It's funny it's not more frightening, isn't it? You got any more in the museum? Like a woman in a cashmere twinset and pearls? Very neat-looking. Bit creepy at the same time?"

  "Oh, goodness, no! That's not a ghost. It's our new caretaker. She's a bit superior for a caretaker. Probably calls herself site manager or something. She's somewhere around. Do you know her?"

  "Not really," said Lois. "She's a friend of a friend. I just thought I'd say hello."

  "You're bound to meet her. I'll tell her you're here if she comes through. Would you like me to come along with you, as you're all alone? Some visitors would be screaming their heads off after seeing old Schoolmaster Perkins."

  Lois said she would be fine. She thanked Maisie Jones, and walked on. Next she was in the street of shops, and this was where she genuinely wanted to take another look. Each one was so crammed with authentic bits and pieces that she'd not had time with the WI to see it all. She was most interested in the stationery and postal service, but she wandered first around the ironmonger's, full of wonderful tools she'd never seen before, and tins of lethal-looking stuff for killing every pest in the house and garden. Then she entered the Victorian post office, and thought to herself that this was the least changed of all the shops. Perhaps it was the more dignified atmosphere there, indicating clearly that this was not a shop but an important nationwide service. Even now Lois felt slightly intimidated, as if she had joined one of those long, snaking queues in big town post offices, waiting for a free window.

  But this postmistress was as still as a waxwork. Or was she another ghost? Lois looked at the woman sitting behind the counter, and realised it was indeed a waxwork, with that nasty pale face. But this one was not dressed in authentic costume. Maybe she was a chuck-out from Madame Tussauds, and they hadn't had time to find her a black bombazine dress. Lois looked again. A neat Liberty print blouse, and at the neck . . . a string of pearls. A half-finished mug of what looked like cold tea stood on the counter in front of her. Lois's heart quickened. Was it a waxwork? It was certainly very lifelike, but unmoving, and its head had been fixed at a funny angle. As she watched, the figure slid slightly to one side, until it rested against the cupboard beside the high stool. Its arms flopped off its lap.

  Lois was rooted to the spot. It was not a waxwork, but a real human being. More deathlike than lifelike. In other words, it was the new caretaker, and she was now a genuine relic of the past.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  LOIS SWALLOWED HARD. SHE FELT SICK, AND HER FEET WERE like lumps of lead, unwilling to move and take her flying to fetch help. Common sense told her that this woman was past help. As she stared, the corpse began to slide again, and Lois almost panicked. But it did not go far before stopping in a slumped position. The face was still visible and Lois realised she could get a good look at it.

  She tried to imagine it without the diamanté glasses and grey curls. That neatly waved hair looked like a wig, anyway. And was that a faint blue shadow round the jaw? Still, lots of women of a certain age began to grow vestigial beards and moustaches. She narrowed her eyes so that just the face was in focus.

  Oh, God, it's him! It's the skinny man, dressed up as a woman. So that's how he disappeared. Well, it worked. It was not true that she had never suspected, but her suspicions had never gelled into the truth. She turned away, knowing that she must tell the manager before more visitors arrived and were frightened out of their wits. Then she would have to phone Cowgill. Blast! Maybe she could just inform the police in general. But of course that wouldn't work. He would be told, and have the perfect reason for getting in touch with her.

  As she began to walk back towards the reception area, a movement caught her eye. She was in the schoolroom, and said in a loud voice, "Bugge
r off, Mr. Schoolmaster!" The lighting was very low, and she thought the figure went towards the door that she had just been through. She dismissed it from her mind. Something much more important to do now.

  The manager was still in reception, and took her news remarkably calmly. "Lead the way, Mrs., er . . ."

  "Meade," said Lois. "We'd better hurry before new visitors arrive. You'll not be able to write this one off as a ghost."

  They went through the parlour into the schoolroom. No moving shadows now, and Lois walked on into the street of shops. The post office was about three shops down, and the manager took her by the arm. "Are you all right? I can take a look on my own, if you'd rather."