by Ann Purser
Ridiculous or not, the thought came in useful, and as soon as she had hung up her coat and collected her cleaning things, she had a good look in the hall cupboard where the Barratts hung their coats. There it was, the professor’s Barbour jacket, and it had quite clearly been cleaned. The ticket was still stuck to the lining with a safety pin, and an unmistakable smell of cleaner’s fluid hung about it. So. He hadn’t wasted much time, or maybe Rachel had taken it for him. Why so quickly after the police had announced their intention of revisiting all Farnden people who had any connection with that horrible evening’s events? But then again, why not? He liked to look the part. Perhaps he needed to wear it to a lunch with county friends, or for going away for a weekend’s hunting and shooting. Lois smiled to herself. Derek did a bit of shooting over the fields outside Tresham, but it was a different thing entirely.
Lois walked into an empty sitting room and called “Cooee!” loudly. She had seen nobody since she arrived, and thought she’d better check for any extra instructions before making a start. No answer. She called again, and still there was silence. Funny, not like them to go out and leave the door open. It was so quiet in the house that she felt a shiver of apprehension. Should she look upstairs? Malcolm might be up in his eyrie, or whatever he called it, and not hear her. Halfway up, she heard a sound and stopped dead. It sounded like someone choking, and she called again, “Mrs Barratt! Are you there?” A muffled sound now, coming from the main bedroom. Lois forgot caution and rushed up, opened the door and marched in. An unlovely sight confronted her. Rachel Barratt was sitting up in bed, a rumpled nightdress clutched round her, her hair tousled and her face blotched and swollen. She was gulping and choking, and tears streamed down her already soaked cheeks.
“Whatever is the matter?” said Lois sharply. She had no time for self-pity, and something told her that this was what she was confronted with. Rachel shook her head violently, indicating that her despair was beyond words. “Oh, come on, Mrs Barratt, it can’t be as bad as all that!” Lois was hearty, reassuring. “Better be getting up,” she added. “Else I shan’t be able to do this room.” Again the shake of the head, and Lois gingerly sat down on the bed beside the weeping woman. “Come on now,” she said, softening her tone with difficulty. “Anything I can do to help?”
After a few minutes of silence, the gulps and sobs subsided and Rachel scrabbled under her pillow for a handkerchief, which she used to dab at her puffy eyes. “Gone,” she said finally, and having managed the word, sat completely still, staring at Lois from blank eyes.
“Who’s gone?” said Lois, though she knew. It must be Malcolm. Only Rachel’s beloved spouse could have caused this depth of misery. Though everyone in the village knew that Prof Barratt was a vain and lecherous nuisance where women were concerned, they also knew that his wife either knew nothing about it, or had decided to pretend it wasn’t happening. Not that Lois had ever heard anything serious about the Prof. It was all flirtation in the pub, groping at parties in dark corners, the car parked in field gateways on summer evenings. Nothing regular, no recognised mistress. It was nothing more than a silly middle-aged man unwilling to acknowledge the passing years.
“Who’s gone?” repeated Lois, and this time Rachel focussed her eyes on Lois’s enquiring face.
“Malcolm, of course,” she said, and then added in a stronger voice, “The bugger’s gone. Cleared out. Vamoosed.”
“You mean he’s gone away?”
“For good, he said. And I told him good riddance, and then when I was sorry, it was too late. He’d thrown some things in a suitcase and driven off like a crazy man down the road. He even forgot to put his lights on…”
“Lucky there was nobody about,” said Lois, and then, inconsequentially. “And he forgot to take his Barbour.”
Rachel said, as if there was nothing odd about Lois’s question, “Well, he wouldn’t want that, would he?”
Lois got up. “I’ll make a drink,” she said. “Then you can tell me more about it.” A sharp look from Rachel Barratt, now rapidly improving, brought her back to the status quo, the exact nature of the relationship between them. Master and servant, thought Lois. Still, worth pursuing Rachel while she was vulnerable. She might have something useful to say.
By the time she returned with mugs of strong coffee, Rachel was out of bed and sitting on a stool in her dressing gown, gazing at her ravaged face in the mirror. “God, I look terrible,” she said, taking the coffee gratefully. “Look, Lois,” she said, “do you mind listening for a few minutes? I can’t tell the girls – they’re not here anyway – and I’ve got to talk to somebody.”
And I’m all there is, said Lois to herself. “Yes, of course,” she reassured Rachel. “Carry on. I can stay an extra half an hour today if necessary.”
The thought of paying Lois extra money for her sympathetic ear galvanised Rachel into action. She began to tell a tale of arguments and quarrelling, a big row about nothing at all, and then Malcolm storming out, shouting at the top of his voice. “He could have woken all the neighbours,” said Rachel, as if, on reflection, this was the worst thing about the whole sordid business.
“But what exactly set off the row?” said Lois. Maybe if Rachel could tell her that, it might lead to something important. Any happening out of the ordinary routine of Farnden life was worth consideration. Maybe it wasn’t just an erring husband. There was something about the way Rachel kept stopping mid-sentence, giving Lois sideways looks. She was covering up, Lois was sure of that. But what?
Rachel’s next remarks, meant to be semi-humorous but not fooling Lois, took her by surprise. “He wanted us to go away for a holiday, straight away, and for several weeks. To Russia, of all God-awful places! I said I couldn’t, wouldn’t and didn’t want to go. And what about the girls? Things would have to be arranged, and why couldn’t we go somewhere nice and warm? Not bloody Russia in the winter!”
So was Malcolm running away? And if so, from what? “What did he say next?” prompted Lois keenly.
“He said if I wouldn’t go, he’d go with someone else, and that was it. Holdall from the cupboard, all his clean underpants and socks, and several shirts…toilet things…and he was gone before I could think again. I don’t think he wanted me to change my mind, Lois. It was like he had it all planned.”
This dramatic outpouring threatened to set her off again, so Lois quickly took the mugs, stood up and suggested a warm shower. “Then you can get dressed and come down. I’ll clear up the kitchen, and by then you’ll have decided what to do. Mind you,” she added firmly, “I know what I’d do.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” said Lois. “He’ll be back before you know it. Men always are.” Rachel looked doubtful, but disappeared into the shower obediently, leaving a trail of sodden tissues as she went.
♦
Lois’s house was also silent, but with a warm, welcoming silence, pleasantly scented with the smell of freesias. Derek had brought them home from some job he was doing at a big house in Round Ringford. “Loads of ‘em in the greenhouse,” he had said. “And this kid – daughter of the house, I think – picked these and insisted I took them. Funny kid…”
“But didn’t her mum or somebody say anything?” Lois had asked.
“Nope. Well, the mother’s one them snotty-faced women who don’t give nothing away. But she could hardly make a scene about a few flowers. You could see the kid was goin’ to catch it, though, once I was out of the way.” Derek had chuckled at the memory. “You take ‘em and enjoy ‘em, Lois,” he’d said. “They could spare a few flowers for the deserving poor.”
Now Lois topped up the vase with water, breathed in the wonderful scent, and finally settled down at the kitchen table with her notebook. She had a good two hours before the rest of the family arrived and demanded her services, so she began by reading through once again what she had written. Stained jackets – vicar, Barratt, (Derek!), Dr Rix. Well, there was something odd straight away. All the stains were in roughly the same p
lace, and presumably made by something that cleaned out easily, as the Prof’s now showed no trace of the mark. Possibly off the underside of car? Check again on Thursday at the vicarage. That would account for the similarity. But is it likely that all would have trouble with their cars in the same way? No, not really. Empty nursery – Rixes’ house. Lois couldn’t remember why she’d noted that, except that she found it creepy every time she passed the door. She wasn’t allowed to clean it, and the one time she’d offered to vacuum through there, Mary Rix had made such a fuss that Lois had never mentioned it again. She knew it was still furnished as a baby’s room. She’d seen Mrs Rix in there one day with the door open, holding a doll and staring out of the window, not hearing Lois approach. Lois had never seen such sadness on a woman’s face and her heart turned over. But what had it to do with Gloria’s death? Nothing, on the face of it, but there was something very funny going on there. Possible trouble between doctor and wife? Old secrets still festering? Lois smiled.
That was a good word. Things rotting under the surface. Villages were like that, in Lois’s considerable experience. All thatched cottages and roses round the door on the surface, but like a muck heap underneath.
There was quite a lot more, odd facts and snatches of conversation that she had noted down, and she realized she had amassed some useful inside information, some of which, in due course, she should probably pass on.
Lois looked up at the kitchen clock and was amazed to see that in ten minutes the first of her brood would be bursting through the door, hungry, irritable and overexcited by the approaching season of goodwill. She sighed. She loved Christmas when it came, but at this stage saw it more as the season of spending, drinking and eating enough to feed two starving families for weeks. Lois stood up, pushed her chair back, and closed her notebook. She put it back in its hiding place, pleased that she had several positive lines of enquiry to pursue. Got the jargon, Lois, she said to herself, and went to the freezer to see what she could rustle up for tea.
∨ Murder on Monday ∧
Seventeen
As Christmas approached, Keith Simpson decided it was time he had another word with Lois Meade before the school holidays and seasonal shutdown put her out of his reach for weeks. He was certain she was beavering away on her own, gathering information about the murder of Gloria Hathaway, and telling him as little as possible. In fact, telling him nothing. There was, of course, nothing to prevent her from her own investigations, but if he felt she was withholding vital information from the police, then he had every right to put on some pressure.
The morning he had caught her in Gloria Hathaway’s house had been proof that she was still very curious. Her feeble excuse about a trapped cat had not fooled him for one minute. However, he’d judged it best to let her off the hook. Well, not exactly off the hook, but play out the line a bit, just to see what she would do next. Trouble was, she was elusive. He knew which houses she went to, but if he turned up asking for her that would give the game away and her clients would stop talking to her at once, suspecting her of colluding with the police. As for her own home, she’d agreed to cooperate with him and Janice Britton only if he promised not to come bothering her family. So far, her idea of co-operation had not amounted to much, and Hunter Cowgill was asking pointed questions. He seemed to be more interested in Lois’s potential, rather than the information garnered from her so far, and Keith himself was still convinced she could be a valuable source if she chose.
He decided to take another turn around the Hathaway cottage and if he happened to see Lois in the village, well and good. All most irregular, he worried. Still, at the moment he had no option but to play it Lois’s way, and keep his Inspector informed.
♦
Lois unloaded Nurse Surfleet’s clothes from her washing machine and glanced out of the window. High clouds and a fresh, cold wind. Rain had been forecast, but there was no sign of it yet. She fetched-the peg bag and went out into the back yard, where she fixed the washing line and began to hang out the wet, cold clothes. The wind blew a pillowcase slapping against her face, and she swore, wishing she’d put them in the drier as usual. But, as her mother frequently reminded her, waste not, want not, and if the wind would dry the clothes, why waste money on electricity? Lost in such thoughts, Lois did not at first hear the faint knocking. It grew louder, and she turned around. It seemed to be coming from Gloria’s cottage, and she peered up at the window where the sound came from. The window opened and she saw Keith Simpson beckoning to her and nodding fiercely. Blast! She’d been keeping out of his way, too busy with Christmas looming to have had time to think much about Gloria Hathaway. She turned away. Best to ignore him. She took the now empty basket and was about to return to the house, when a thought struck her. If she went over there now, it would be an opportunity, however constrained, to look around the cottage again. It might be her only chance.
She took a quick look around. Nobody on the footpath and Nurse Surfleet not due back until lunchtime. She put the clothes basket in the kitchen, locked the door, put the key in her pocket, then went through out to the path at the back of the cottages and into Gloria’s back garden. Not a soul in the street and only Keith’s car parked outside. Lois headed for the back door, which she saw stood ajar, and slipped inside.
“Up here, Lois,” said Keith’s voice, and she climbed swiftly up the stairs.
As she reached the top, she said, “This had better be something good, fetching me over from…” Her voice tailed away, as she saw a man who was not Keith Simpson sitting at Gloria’s dressing table, his back to the mirror.
“Morning, Mrs Meade,” said Hunter Cowgill. “Very nice of you to come over. We shan’t keep you long.”
After Lois had recovered from the shock, and Keith had introduced his Detective Inspector, something like a conversation eventually got going. Lois was angry. She was angry about being tricked by Keith Simpson, she was angry with this cool, polite policeman for putting him up to it, and she was still very angry with the police in general for turning her down. Every time she saw a woman in police uniform she felt a stab of anger. It should have been her. Still, it was clear they wanted her now, but in a very different way.
“You’ve had an unusual arrangement,” said Hunter Cowgill mildly. He suggested that Keith should now go and keep a lookout downstairs.
Dismissed, thought Keith Simpson, and reluctantly withdrew. It had been his idea, after all.
“What arrangement?” said Lois. “There wasn’t any arrangement with Keith and Janice. It was just informal. I’d tell them if anything came my way, and they’d tell me any bits that might help me put things together. In any case, nothing much has happened lately, either way.”
“I know,” said Cowgill. “That’s why I’m here. I’d like you to step it up a bit. I can give you some lines to go on and you can feed back to me what you discover. You’d be recompensed of course.” He was not prepared for Lois’s reaction, and recoiled.
“What!” she spat out. “Me a bloody grass! You must be off your trolley, mister!”
“No, no,” said Hunter Cowgill. “You’ve got it all wrong.” His patient voice was the final straw.
“Strikes me I’ve got it exactly right!” she yelled at him from halfway down the stairs.
At the foot, Keith stood, barring her way and looking very uncomfortable indeed. “Hear him out, Lois,” he said pleadingly. “It’s not grassing, not like that at all.”
“It’d be something new, a try-out,” said Cowgill from Gloria’s bedroom. “At least listen to what I’ve got to say.”
Lois’s face was scarlet and her heart thudding in her ears. What the hell would Derek say? She shook her head, and advanced towards Keith Simpson, who did not move.
“There could be another murder,” said the cool voice from upstairs. “Always a danger. We need to move on pretty fast now. Your help could be vital, Mrs Meade.”
For God’s sake, thought Lois quickly. It’s not my business. I don’t even live here! But th
en, I have made it my business, my cleaning business, and that’s why they want me. Duty? Is that what he’s getting at? Oh, to hell with it. She turned around and went slowly back upstairs. “Go on, then,” she said. “Explain.”
Hunter Cowgill smiled then. “No money, then,” he said. “Nothing to do with grassing, something different. Just information. It’ll be a bit one-sided, I’m afraid. Rules are rules. But I can guide you along lines of enquiry, help you put together what you know. You are interested in that, aren’t you? And all under strict cover, of course. That’s vital for both sides. You’d have to be aware of possible danger to yourself. I’m not saying it will come to anything, Mrs Meade,” he added. “Considering your exceptional position in this village, it should, in my view, be given a try.”
There was a long silence while Lois thought about it. This was different from dealing with Keith Simpson. He was a lowly constable, and she felt quite at ease with him, and with Janice Britton. But this man was an inspector, a boss. Oh well, she thought finally, he’s just a man, like all the rest, and she nodded. “OK, give it a try,” she said, and sank down on to a frilled bedside chair.
