by Ann Purser
The Reverend Peter White was trembling. He knew that the rest of his life was at stake here, in this cold, fusty room. The others could probably survive. Barratt was more or less self-employed, comfortably off. The world that Dallas Baer moved in would care little for extra-marital dalliance. In fact, thought the vicar, it would probably enhance his prospects of promotion. Quite a fellow, that Dallas Baer! Whereas he, a supposed man of God, would be out on his ear in the shortest possible time. But first, the scandal, the humiliation. He looked round at the others. The big question, however, was still unanswered. Who killed Gloria? The police had taken Andrew, but the vicar would stake his life on the doctor’s innocence. And yet…
“Which of us spoke most recently to Andrew?” said Gillian Surfleet in a now icy voice. “I had a talk with him yesterday. He was confident. Said none of us need worry. The police were no nearer finding Gloria’s killer and even when they did, it would turn out to be a passing burglar…”
“…passing by the village hall kitchen?” said Dallas Baer incredulously. “Hoping to steal a few mouldy cups and saucers and plastic spoons? Come on, Gillian, he can’t have been serious!”
“Well, perhaps he didn’t say just that, but what he meant, I’m sure, was that the murder was not necessarily in any way connected with our…well, our little business venture. Gloria’s and mine.”
There was a silence, as the men took this in. Then Peter White suddenly got to his feet. He gripped the edge of the table, for all the world as if it were a pulpit. “Look here,” he said in a harsh voice. “It’d be better if we called a spade a spade. You, Nurse Surfleet, were not conducting a ‘little business venture’. You were a Madam and Holly Cottage was a brothel…and Gloria – ” he choked, and the others said nothing, sitting in shocked silence and waiting for him to continue – “and Gloria,” he finally managed, “poor little Gloria, was an ageing prostitute, a victim of us all.”
Gillian Surfleet looked as if she would explode, but she said nothing. The rest stared at the vicar in silence. At last Dallas Baer, man of the world, broke the spell. “Hardly a victim,” he said smoothly. “She was well paid for her services, that I do know.”
He turned and looked at the others, and they slowly nodded. Yes, they had all paid for her time and attentions. But the vicar? This was news to Dallas Baer and Malcolm Barratt. They knew about Andrew Rix, though his involvement had been years in the past. Peter White? They could hardly believe it. He knew about them, certainly, and that was why he was here. But had he…?
It was Dallas again who spoke for the rest. “Um, Peter, old chap,” he said. “Didn’t think that you’d, well, you know, partaken of Gloria’s charms!” He smiled, and then hastily smothered it as he realized that the vicar was near collapse. He had slumped down in his chair and covered his face with his hands. His anguish was answer enough.
Malcolm Barratt, looking at the pathetic figure, felt anger rising. “Gloria Hathaway was a promiscuous bitch,” he said, and held up his hand to stop Gillian’s furious interruption. “She opened her door and legs to all comers – so long as they’d got the necessary to keep her in cars and holidays. God knows when she started it. But by the time we came to this idyllic little hellhole, she was an experienced pro. She fooled me at first – and sex and homo sapiens is my subject! “Do come in, Professor, and have a cup of tea.” Oh, that cooing, virginal voice. Honeyed words to trap the unwary.”
Nurse Surfleet could contain herself no longer. “You hypocritical sod!” she burst out. “As if you didn’t go along with your tongue hanging out! I was there the first time, don’t forget! God, you couldn’t wait to get your pants down! And it wasn’t the first time away from the marriage bed, that was for sure!”
Peter White groaned, and muttered that now he knew where Hell was. It was here, here in this dreadful room. And he deserved to be in it.
“Pull yourself together, Peter,” said Dallas Baer. This was all getting out of hand. A sense of proportion was what was needed. After all, women like Gloria were everywhere and men merely accepted what was offered. And paid for it, too. He didn’t believe in divine retribution. At the moment, all he was concerned with was how they could present an acceptable version of events to the world at large and their wives in particular. As for Gillian Surfleet, she was beyond the pale. Whatever she had suffered through Gloria’s murder, she definitely had it coming to her. A community nurse, after all! He would rather not think about her motives.
“I wish Andrew was here,” said Peter White, visibly pulling himself together and sitting up straight in his chair. “He would know what to do.”
“I know what to do,” said Malcolm Barratt. “We have to find the murderer, and then all attention will be diverted from us and on to him…or her.” He could not stop himself glancing at Nurse Surfleet and she glared back at him. “Now, let’s be constructive,” he said. “How shall we begin? Who would be the best person to help us out?”
The trouble is, thought Dallas Baer, we all suspect each other. Even the vicar could have done it. None of us have convincing alibis, and all of us have motives, however slender, as in my case. And none of us believe that Andrew Rix could have done it. Why, then, had the police taken him? For what he knew? For some reason that none of the rest of them knew?
“I know who’d be the best person,” said Malcolm Barratt suddenly. “Lois Meade.” He shushed Nurse Surfleet as she began to protest, and continued. “Lois cleans in all our houses. An objective observer. We are, let’s face it, all under suspicion…not yet, thank God, by the police, but here, amongst ourselves. Lois sees everything and hears most things. She could tell us things, if we said we wanted to help solve the murder, and drew up a list of questions agreed by us all.”
Dallas Baer sighed. “Not a chance,” he said. “Lois Meade wouldn’t give you the time of day, let alone information picked up on her rounds. No, that’s a non-starter, Malcolm.”
The room became silent again, as they realized they had got nowhere. Then it was Nurse Surfleet’s turn to make a suggestion. “Suppose we wait a couple of days,” she said. “Let’s see what happens to Andrew Rix and then meet again? He might be home and cleared of any involvement by now. Meantime, Lois is with me tomorrow. I’ll see what I can get out of her. She probably does know something, and has more than likely put two and two together. Could be quite awkward, in fact…”
There was a touch of menace in her voice that made Peter White shiver. “I should not want Lois worried in any way,” he said firmly. “Or harmed. She’s had a lot of family problems lately, and it would be most unacceptable for us to bother her in any way.”
A little authority had crept back into his voice and Gillian Surfleet’s agression subsided. “I wouldn’t worry her,” she said sulkily. “Just ask her a few questions. We’re good friends, Lois and I,” she added, with a smile that hinted at unpalatable secrets.
Soon after that, with nothing much having been achieved, they broke up the meeting and drifted back into the pub. Dallas Baer and Malcolm Barratt ordered more drinks and began to talk in loud voices about golf, deceiving no one, least of all Don Cutt. Gillian Surfleet and the vicar left straight away and outside Peter White put his hand on the nurse’s arm.
“I meant what I said, you know, about Lois,” he cautioned. “God forgives us most things, but unkindness is, in my view, the eighth deadly sin.”
Gillian Surfleet shook off his hand angrily, and marched off down the street towards her cottage. How dare he! She was smouldering with dissatisfaction at the way the meeting had gone. They thought they knew everything, those men. If they knew what she knew, all of it, they’d be a damn sight more worried than they were now!
♦
Sitting by her window, Mary Rix watched Nurse Surfleet go by, briefly lit up by the street lamp, and wondered whether she should go to the door, call her back and ask her to come in and keep her company. At least Gillian knew the whole story. She had been there, through it all. Mary knew how Gillian had felt about Glori
a Hathaway. She had felt so sorry for her. It was still a mystery to Mary how that spinsterish, self-regarding woman could have inspired such love and loyalty. She had led Gillian astray, if you looked at it clearly. How the poor thing must have suffered! A much-loved village mainstay, forced to guard a secret that could destroy everything she had built up since she arrived in Farnden.
It had probably been a kind of blackmail. Once Gloria realized how much Gillian cared for her, she would have used that affection without a qualm. And when the awful blow had struck Mary, when she could not deal with the revelation on her own, Gillian had been wonderful. Practical and understanding. She had handled the whole thing with discretion and tact. It had been made easier, of course, by Gloria Hathaway’s ruthless unconcern for anybody but herself. She just wanted things smoothed over and back to normal as soon as possible. Gillian had organized it all, and had comforted Mary, knowing that at that particular time it must have hurt her dreadfully. I wanted my baby more than anything in the world, Mary remembered, watching Gillian’s disappearing back, while Gloria, that wicked woman, had cared for nothing.
A loud knock at the door startled her, and she looked out of the window to see who it was. Andrew! She rushed to open it, hugging him in relief, regardless of what had gone before. Questions tumbled out of her, but all he said was, “Didn’t have my keys, Mary. Sorry. Think I’d like to sit down for a few minutes. Bit of a gruelling time…”
She led him into the warm kitchen and he sat down at the table. “I’ll make some coffee,” she said.
Andrew shook his head. “No thanks,” he said.
Mary sat down next to him, and quietly took his hand. She said nothing, because she could think of nothing to say. She’d always waited for him to take the lead. He wouldn’t let her down now.
After some minutes staring at the darkened window, he turned to look at her. “Mary dear,” he said. “I know now. I know who it was…who killed poor Gloria.”
“So do I, dear,” she said. “I’ve known for quite a while.”
∨ Murder on Monday ∧
Thirty-Seven
Gillian Surfleet looked at the kitchen clock. Ten past nine. It was very unusual for Lois to be late and Gillian felt nervous, suspicious that someone could have got at Lois and warned her off coming to her house this morning. She shook herself, told herself not to be so stupid. The whole thing was descending into ridiculous melodrama, she thought. That meeting last night had been a good example. Peter White, who should know better, wallowing in self-pity, Malcolm Barratt just out to save his skin at all costs, and Dallas Baer, a cold fish if ever there was one, quite sure that he had done nothing out of the ordinary, merely indulged in a little bit of stuff on the side and no harm done.
But harm had been done. Gloria had been strangled in a dark, steamy kitchen, in a state of silent terror. Gillian was sure of the terror. Gloria had never liked the dark, and left lights burning all night ‘to keep the bogies away’, as she had said. She would have been steeling herself in that kitchen with its blank, dark windows, hurrying to make tea for the women, desperate to get back to the safety of the brightly lit hall, where that woman had been droning on about milking cows, or whatever it was. If only she had been there that night! Well, she had been there, in a way, and had done nothing. She would never forgive herself. She had been getting ready to go over to Ringford, and had watched the dark shadow go along the footpath past her cottage and up to the village hall, knowing quite well who it was. She had followed a few paces behind, softly, in her nurse’s shoes. Then she had stood and waited. And when the screams came, she had turned tail and fled, back along the footpath and into her cottage, shaking from head to foot and gasping with fear at what had been done, and at her own connivance. It was connivance, to do nothing. And then she had seen the shadow returning, and still had stood in her dark kitchen, peering through the window, immobile. Had she wanted Gloria dead? She dare not even ask herself that question.
Twenty past nine and still no Lois. Gillian went to the telephone, dialled Lois’s number and waited. No reply. Well, perhaps she was on her way, after being held up by one of the children, or a traffic jam in Tresham, or a flat tyre on the road. Or a visit to the police station…
“Morning!” It was Lois at the back door, voice cheerful and apologetic. “Sorry I’m late. Josie again, not feeling well, and deciding to stay at home. So I had to make sure she wasn’t lead-swinging and then leave her some food, and by then…”
“No bother, Lois. Don’t worry. I was just worried that you might be ill.”
Lois pulled off her coat and hung it behind the door as usual. “Soon catch up, anyway,” she said. “Are you out this morning…how’s that old lady in Ringford?”
It was all so normal. How could Gillian begin to find out what Lois knew? It was almost as if Lois had decided to forestall any awkward questions. She kept up a stream of inconsequential remarks until she had all her cleaning things ready and then disappeared upstairs to start on the bathroom. Gillian could hear her singing tunelessly, and shrugged. She could wait. Maybe at coffee time the opportunity would come. She had changed her appointments around so that she could have the whole morning free. Perhaps if she got out some old photographs and left them on the table, that might start some useful conversation. She took out a green, leather-bound album, and opened it. She turned to a page where a young woman half-smiled at the camera, holding a tiny, new-born baby in her arms.
It was herself, in better days, and she was smiling at Gloria, who had reluctantly taken the picture.
♦
Josie was not feeling ill at all, of course. In fact, she felt very well, alert and excited. Melvyn had phoned, luckily while Mum and Dad were out, and arranged to meet her this morning in the shopping centre.
“Best place for a secret assignation,” he’d said, to make her laugh. “Lose ourselves in the crowds. Never be noticed that way. I’m longing to see you, Josie,” he’d added in a different, softer kind of voice. “I’ve missed you a lot.”
“Me too,” Josie had replied, looking at herself in the mirror that hung above the telephone and thinking that she looked a lot older than fourteen, nearly fifteen, specially with her hair this way. “See you then,” she’d said. “I can get rid of Mum OK and get the bus. I’ll be there.”
Melvyn was already there when she walked up the long street, with its tall palm trees and sparrows flitting in and out. The sun was shining through the glass roof, and it felt warm and springlike. Josie saw him, leaning up against one of the pillars, reading a newspaper. His familiar good looks gave her a happy jolt. There’d never be another like Melvyn, whatever Mum said. He was special. She walked softly up to him and stood close, saying nothing. He looked down at her, smiling.
“There you are, then,” he said. “Let’s go.” He took her hand and led her down the long sunlit boulevard, out into the car park, and up to a car that she recognised as the one they’d taken to Yorkshire. He held the door open for her, laughing and attempting a formal bow. Then he started up the engine and cruised out of the car park and took the road in towards Tresham.
Josie thought she had never felt so happy. Melvyn was driving with one hand, the other stroking her leg, sending thrills of excitement through her. He put in a tape and turned up the thudding music until Josie felt her mind whirling away to the hypnotic beat. It was not until the car slowed down and stopped, that she saw where they were. It was the deserted back road that led down to the canal.
“Come on, Jose,” said Melvyn, grinning at her. “Time for a surprise.” He took her hand and pulled her out of the car, slamming the door and locking it.
She stood looking at him, her happiness evaporating fast, and a horrible, creeping fear taking its place. “I don’t want to go to that place,” she said, her voice now like a little girl’s. “Take me home, Melvyn. We’ll be in trouble if we go there.”
Melvyn still smiled, as if he had not heard.
“I’ve made some improvements,” he said. “Wa
it ‘til you see. All mod cons.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek, and drew her along beside him.
When they reached the factory, she stopped, snatched her hand away, and said, “No, Melvyn. Not in there. Please!”
He took no notice, and put his arm around her shoulders. “Come on, daftie,” he said. “You gotta trust Melvyn. He’ll look after you.” And in spite of her protests and attempts to turn around and run, he manoeuvred her into the warehouse and shut the creaking door behind them, taking a key out of his pocket and locking them in. “Cosy?” he said, as he led her to that same deserted room. It was indeed transformed. Clean and tidy, with furniture arranged neatly in place. Melvyn had made a home. “Just for you and me, Josie,” he said. “Now sit down there, and I’ll get us some dinner.” He opened a cupboard and took out paper bags and cans of drink, setting it all out on a table. There were proper plates and glasses, knives and forks, and two chairs ready for them. Josie sat down mechanically, her eyes glazed with terror at being trapped. When she wouldn’t eat, Melvyn drew his chair up next to hers and fed her titbits, as if she was a recalcitrant child. Finally, he pulled her to her feet and put his arms around her. “Our own home, Jose,” he said. “Nobody can get us here. We’re safe here, for as long as we want.”
Josie was shivering now, and Melvyn took her over to a new, garishly covered sofa. “There,” he whispered close to her ear. “Have a rest for a bit.” Then he opened another cupboard and took out a bright pink blanket. It was clean and he spread it carefully over her. “See?” he said. “Everything we need. Just you and me, Jose.”
She looked at him pleadingly. “I want my Mum,” she said.
He did not seem to hear and instead walked over to the table in a purposeful way, sat down, and began to read a magazine.
♦
“Who’s that, then?” said Lois obediently. She was sitting at Nurse Surfleet’s kitchen table, her coffee still too hot to drink. Just my luck, she thought, to have to look at a load of old snaps. Why do people do it? As if I care. Then she stared harder at the picture on the page Gillian was shoving towards her.
