by Ann Purser
Lois sighed. “And a Merry Christmas to you too, Miss Abraham,” she muttered, and moved off. It took her only fifteen minutes to see the piano, approve it, and be on her way again.
By the time she reached home, Derek had come back from work, the job completed. He was holding a great bunch of flowers, which he handed to her at the door, pecked her on the cheek, and said, “Sorry, gel.”
She breathed in the flowery scents and thanked him with a forgiving smile. It had been a nice thought, but on reflection, she’d rather have had one of his lovely bear hugs and done without the flowers.
Seventeen
“Did your lot do a really good search?” Lois looked closely at Hunter Cowgill. It was very dim in the old barn, with only a thin beam of daylight filtering through the dirty window. She thought he looked shifty. “Did you get the helicopter out, an’ that?” she persisted.
He shook his head. “They were busy that night, with people trapped in floods all over the county. Not too impressed with a glimpse of a white face and a tumbling shape in the mill stream.” His voice was apologetic. The truth was that Constable Keith Simpson and another young recruit had tramped through the muddy fields either side of the stream for about two hundred yards, then returned to the mill and had a cursory look around, and given up until next morning. Then they’d asked old Abraham a few questions, got some very dusty answers, and gone back to report nothing amiss.
Lois was cross and frustrated. She was certain she had seen something – no, more than something, she had seen a body, unless it was still alive, in which case it was a very inert human being – being tossed about in the torrential stream. “I didn’t imagine a face,” she said, glaring at him. “Maybe I might’ve taken an old cardboard box for a body, with my heated imagination…”
“No need to be sarcastic, Lois,” said Cowgill mildly. “We do our best under very difficult circumstances.”
“As I was saying,” continued Lois, “I might have mistook a biggish shape for a body, but not a face! Blimey, I know a face when I see one! An’ that was a face. Still, if you’re not interested…” She turned towards the door. It had not been convenient for her this morning. The dog was off-colour and was allowed to stay in his basket, and there was no reason why she should be walking in the playing field without him. She’d felt a thousand eyes on her as she tramped down and across the footpath to meet Cowgill. When he’d phoned, she had tried to get out of it, but he’d said it was urgent.
“Just a minute, Lois,” Cowgill said now. “We are still looking for Edward Abraham, and it is important we find him.”
“Couldn’t it have been him in the stream?” said Lois, speaking as if to a three-year-old.
“Yes,” said Cowgill flatly. “It could. And you’d have been right to be angry with me. But there’s been a sighting since.”
Lois thought of what she had seen in the shadowy entrance to the mill. It had definitely been Enid, but the other? She had thought it must be the old man, but she wasn’t sure. Perhaps she’d not tell Cowgill about that. The more she knew of Enid, the more she liked her. If it was possible to guard her against painful police questioning, she would try to do what she could.
“Where has he bin seen?” she said.
“Outside Fletcham, crossing the railway line,” he replied. “He was seen by someone who knows him fairly well, but only from a distance. Not conclusive, but a reasonable chance.”
“He could have hitched a ride,” said Lois. “The road runs along by the rail track there for about a mile.”
“True,” said Cowgill seriously. “But he doubled back, apparently, and disappeared into the woods.”
“Our woods?” said Lois.
Cowgill nodded. “Alibone Woods,” he confirmed. “So that’s why I would like you to ask Enid Abraham if they ever picnicked there…You know, ask her casually, in conversation. It is possible she knows where he is, and would warn him. I know you’ll do it right, Lois. Would you mind?”
“Of course I mind! She’s one of my staff,” snapped Lois. “In any case, I’m sure your brave boys have searched the woods?”
Cowgill sighed. “Yes, we have,” he said patiently. “And found nothing. But there might be some hidden place they found, she and Edward. They used to go everywhere together, apparently. Anyway,” he continued, “we can’t do the full bloodhound bit. He’s not committed murder or abducted a child, so far as we know. Only fraud and intimidation are on his sheet at the moment, so I need some way of getting information from Enid without her knowing she’s giving it. That’s where you come in.” He put out a hand and touched her arm lightly. She backed away and he laughed. “Oh, for God’s sake, Lois!” he said.
She smiled faintly. “Sorry,” she said, and then added hesitantly, “Well, if it would really help, I could get around to it somehow. She’s offered to teach piano to Jamie, so there might be an opportunity. I’ll try, and give you a ring. Can I go now?”
He smiled at her, an unusually broad smile. “Don’t know why I bother with you, Lois Meade,” he said.
“I do,” she answered, and added that she thought it would be best if they went back to meeting in the woods, whatever the weather. She didn’t feel safe from prying eyes in the barn.
He replied that in that case he’d get some new Wellingtons, and they parted on more reasonable terms than usual.
§
Derek was working on a new job, rewiring an old house being restored to life twenty miles the other side of Waltonby. Restoration jobs were a big part of Derek’s work these days. Young couples, with big salaries and even bigger expectations, were roaming the villages looking for old, decrepit properties to convert. It was a mystery to Derek why anyone would want to drive for a couple of hours each day before getting to work, but this is what a lot of the men did. It wasn’t like that with the new lot at Bell’s Farm, he knew that. Mr Charrington was the new vet, and, Derek had heard, was popular with the farmers.
This house had been empty for five years, but before that no money had been spent on it for fifty years. Derek took out his sandwiches and a flask of coffee. Too far to go home to dinner, and anyway, he quite liked to sit quietly and read the paper for half an hour or so. But today he couldn’t concentrate. He’d heard the telephone ringing in Lois’s office after breakfast, and she’d rushed to answer it, carefully shutting the door behind her. He had loitered around outside, pretending he was looking for a needle Gran had dropped and couldn’t find.
“Leave it, Derek,” Gran had said, passing by on her way upstairs. “It’ll turn up.”
But he’d continued to peer down at the floor, moving backwards and forwards outside Lois’s door. He had heard her voice, but not the words, until she said, louder, “Oh, all right, then, give me an hour and I’ll be there. But for God’s sake make sure we’re not seen.”
He’d gone cold all over, and felt sick again. Before she came out of her office, he was off in the van, going too fast on his way to work. Now he sat staring blindly at fuzzy newsprint in a cold, dismal house, and wondered what the hell he was going to do.
§
Enid Abraham also sat miserably in a cold, dismal house, but now it was early evening, and the only light came from a dim overhead lamp in a frosted glass shade, a cold, unfriendly light. She looked around the dingy room, and said sadly to her father, “It’s years since we did any decorating, Dad. Do you think we could have this room freshened up? I’d be happy to contribute, now I’m earning.”
Walter Abraham had come in his old, darned socks, stamping his feet on the worn rug to warm them up. He looked across at his neat, pleasant-looking daughter and felt the familiar pang of guilt. Poor Enid. She’d have made somebody such a good wife…and mother…maybe given them some grandchildren…had a happy, normal life. But then, he thought, excusing himself, how was he to know that Mother was going to turn so difficult. It was an illness, he knew, an illness of the mind, and there were doctors for that sort of thing. But she would never see anybody, not even when she’
d got bronchitis that time. Enid had looked after her so well that she’d recovered without needing medical help. No wonder Enid had been upset when she too was shut out.
The morning after the flood and storm, he’d had to tell Enid that Mother didn’t want anyone, not even Enid, to go in her room any more. They could leave her food and necessaries outside, and she’d pick them up them when they’d gone away. And her washing and contents of the commode…that was to be put out in the same way.
“But Father!” Enid had said. “How will she manage? And what have I done? I thought she’d got used to me going out to work. It hasn’t made any difference to the way I look after her. She’s not gone without, not at all.”
Walter had nodded and tried his best to placate Enid. “Let’s try it, dear,” he’d said, “just to keep her happy. Last night’s terrible storm seems to have made her worse. Give her time and she might forget about it, and we can get back to normal.”
Normal! That was a joke, thought Enid now, as she waited for her father to answer her plea for brightening up the place. Normal at Cathanger Mill was getting through the day without storms and tantrums from her mother – though it was true she’d been better under her new regime – and coping with household tasks with an ancient old vacuum cleaner and an even older Calor gas cooker. None of this would have mattered so much to Enid if there’d been occasional cheerfulness, a few jokes and maybe even a visitor or two, well chosen, who would dispel the awful gloom for an hour or two.
“We can think about it, Enid,” her father said now. “Perhaps in the spring, when the lighter evenings come. I could get some paint and have a go. Wouldn’t take much. And maybe you could make some new curtains.” His heart twisted as he saw her face lighten. Such a small thing needed to cheer her up. And worst of all, he knew he’d never do it. If only things had been different, Edward could’ve helped them such a lot…
“Come on, Father,” said Enid, drawing him nearer to the fire. “I’ll get you some dry socks, and we can have a game of crib when you’ve warmed up.” He had taught her to play when she was a little girl, and she had always loved the game. They had an old pottery cribbage board, and used sharpened matches to peg up the scores. The dog-eared cards were familiar old friends, and when they found time to play their worries retreated and were kept at bay for a hour or so.
“Any news from Edward?” said Enid, taking a chance on her father being mellow enough to discuss the usually taboo subject. He certainly seemed to have changed lately, more inclined to listen. Sometimes, she thought, he even appeared…well, not exactly frightened, but wary of her.
He shook his head. “Heard nothing,” he said. “Best to forget him, Enid. I suppose he was never any good, but your mother couldn’t see it. If we’d been harder on him when he was a lad, he might’ve made something of his life. Now then,” he added, visibly shrugging off thoughts of his only son, “I’ll change m’ socks, and then we’ll have a game.”
Eighteen
Christmas Eve, and excitement in the Meade household was mounting. The kids had been on holiday for several days, and were plunged into a frenzy of shopping, wrapping and squabbling. Josie and Douglas claimed to be too old and mature for squabbling, but had frequent spats with Jamie to keep him happy. Or so they said. On the subject of the piano, both were sceptical.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jamie, of course you’re not getting a piano. D’you think Mum and Dad are made of money?” Josie was merciless. She knew Jamie had a sneaking hope that a piano would miraculously appear, and though she quite fancied having a go on the keyboard herself, she thought it her duty to save him from disappointment.
Gran knew, of course, that late that evening men would arrive and somehow hump a piano into the sitting-room without anyone waking up. She was to stand guard at the top of the stairs and steer any night-walkers back to bed with a well-rehearsed excuse for the noise. She had been looking forward to it, to being part of the fun and seeing Jamie’s face next morning. But she was increasingly aware that things were not right between Lois and Derek. There was a palpable chilliness in their conversations, which were not frequent, and she had noticed that Derek hadn’t once given Lois one of his usually frequent cuddles.
“Shall we keep the telly on?” Lois said now, as Derek brought his mates into the room to show them where to put the piano. “It would cover the bumps and bangs.”
“What bumps and bangs?” said the chief remover indignantly. “We’ve borrowed a proper trolley, and you’ll be amazed at our skill.”
He winked at the others, and Derek patted him on the back. “Very good of you, boy,” he said. “Let’s get movin’, then.”
A piano is a cumbersome and weighty thing, and the two steps up to the front door nearly defeated the removers. In the end, Derek improvised a strong ramp, and finally the piano was in place. “Looks really good there,” said Lois. “That was where the Rixes had theirs.”
The chief remover remembered the village scandal causing the doctor to move away. “How do you know where they had the piano?” he said. “Andrew Rix was a doctor wasn’t he? Did you know them?”
“I used to clean for them,” replied Lois. “I thought everybody knew that.”
“Course you did. I remember now…and you helped them a lot in other ways, so I heard.”
Lois frowned. “There’s not much the network doesn’t know, is there?” she said. Derek hurriedly butted in. “Now then, lads,” he said. “What’re you going to have? Gran’s got some eats ready in the kitchen, and there’s every form of alcohol known to man. So come on, let’s get stuck in.”
Lois lingered behind. She lifted the lid of the piano and put her fingers on the keys. She wouldn’t play any notes, in case the kids heard, but in her head she could hear music, the piece that Mary Rix used to play when she was feeling happy. She had her troubles, but she sorted them out in the end. Perhaps Lois could do the same with Derek.
An hour or so later, when it was after midnight and Christmas Day had officially arrived, the men kissed Gran and Lois enthusiastically under the mistletoe and, leaving them clearing up in the kitchen, tiptoed with exaggerated stealth out into the night.
The last to go paused briefly in the hall. “Here, Derek,” he said. “Looks like a letter caught up in the door curtain.” He handed it over, and Derek forced himself to take it. He had glimpsed the handwriting, and recognized it.
Nineteen
Anna, the au pair, had finally stopped crying, and Rosie Charrington heaved a sigh of relief. It was all so silly and unnecessary. They had said she could go home for Christmas, had aired the subject thoroughly weeks ago, and the girl had been insistent that she wanted to see an English Christmas. She’d obviously had snow and robins, carol singers and jingle-bells in mind. But at the farmhouse, surrounded by mud and raw weather, Christmas Day for Anna was clearly a sore disappointment. Added to that, her parents had telephoned early that morning, but the line had been so bad she could hardly hear them. She’d started crying then, and hadn’t really stopped until after the big family lunch.
“She’s spoiling it for the children, Sebastian,” whispered Rosie. “What more can we do?”
The sun was shining weakly over the sodden garden, and Sebastian had an idea. “Send her out for a walk,” he said. “She could take the dog, commune with nature in Cathanger woods, that sort of thing. Cheer her up no end. These Swedes are a gloomy lot.”
“She’s not Swed – ” But Sebastian had drifted off to sleep in the armchair once more. Rosie decided his idea was worth a try. She went up to Anna’s room and knocked on the door.
§
Anna picked her way in borrowed Wellingtons, dragged along by the Labrador impatient to reach the woods where he could be taken off the lead. What a dreadful day! She had now reached a philosophical state where, realizing things could get no worse, she was storing up details to relay the utter awfulness of it to her parents when she went home. When the dog, released at the edge of the wood, tore off after a rabbit and di
sappeared, she smiled. Things could get worse, after all. She plunged into the thicket, calling out fruitlessly for the dog to return.
At the other side of Cathanger wood, a tall, thin figure in a long black coat, shrouded in a thick scarf, crossed one of the rides and pushed through the undergrowth, shunning the footpaths and tracks where ramblers and locals walked in summer. Today he was more or less safe. Nobody in their right mind would attempt to penetrate the wood on Christmas Day. Water stood in deep puddles everywhere, and even the grassy dells, which looked dry, proved to be boggy and treacherous. Still, the air was fresh – extremely fresh – and he decided to turn back soon, just in case.
The wood was familiar to him, and he had just reached an open space where he planned to stop and retreat, when a large black dog came crashing out of the trees. He froze, and so did the dog. Seconds passed, and neither moved. Then the dog inched forward, lowering its body and flattening its ears. The man stayed absolutely still. Only when he heard a voice, a girl’s voice, calling loudly and getting nearer, did he move. Then he crouched down and said quietly, “Here, boy. Come on, here. That’s it, nothing to worry about. Here, there’s a good dog…”
The dog relaxed. It was a family dog, used to children, and nobody had ever been unkind to it. It moved slowly towards the man, and its tail began to wag imperceptibly. The man saw the signal of friendship, and brought his hand out of his pocket. He was holding something hard and bright, and when the dog was within reach, just as the girl emerged from the trees, he raised his arm and brought it down with such force that the dog was felled instantly. Then he moved towards the girl. But she was younger, fitter and very frightened. She turned and ran, screaming.
