by Ann Purser
Lois put down the phone, and then immediately checked the call. “The caller withheld their number,” said the disembodied voice. Ah well, she supposed her name had been in the local paper at the time. Cowgill had tried to keep her out of it, but intrepid journalists had come asking questions.
“Lois?” It was Gran, swiftly returned from the shop and a conversation with the two strangers. “I asked if I could help them, and they said they were meeting someone. Quite cagey, they were. I reckon I’ve seen one of ‘em before somewhere. Face looked very familiar.”
Lois picked up the local paper, and turned to the property pages. “You don’t think the house is up for sale, do you? The vicarage is nearly ready for Rev Rollinson to go back.” She flicked through the paper, and suddenly stopped. A group of people outside the new church caught her eye. In the centre, standing next to Mayor Jenkinson, and wearing the chain of office of the Lady Mayoress, was the woman down the street. “Look, Mum. This is her, isn’t it?”
Gran nodded, pleased. “Well, I’m glad we got that sorted out,” she said. “Now then, I’m ready for a cup of tea if you aren’t.”
Lois heard her filling the kettle in the kitchen, and thought she might as well be sociable. But the odd telephone call stuck in her mind. “Man in high office,” the voice had said. High office in Tresham? “They don’t come any higher than Mayor,” she said, as she sipped her tea.
“What’s that?” said Gran.
“Nothing,” said Lois, “just thinking aloud.”
“WE‘D BETTER SIT IN THE CAR UNTIL THE MAN FROM Schofields comes. We are a bit early, aren’t we, Jean?” Doreen turned back to the car.
“Why don’t we have a wander up the street and get the feel of the village?” Jean said. “After all, the village in general is just as important as the house.” Privately, she had grave doubts about this idea of the Jenkinsons moving to a village. They were town people, born and bred, and she could not see Doreen leaving behind town amenities. Nor could she imagine her joining the WI, making jam and shopping at the little village store over the road. Still, Long Farnden wasn’t that far from Tresham, and Doreen would probably continue to shop at the supermarket she’d always used. And the dress shop! Jean had felt so sorry for her friend that she’d lent her the money to balance her account without thinking of the ludicrousness of it. There was Howard, rich as Croesus, while Ken and she still had to watch the pennies. Well, she had saved a bit, and knew Doreen would pay it back without fail. She’d promised, and that was good enough.
As if reading Jean’s thoughts, Doreen said, “Should be able to pay you back next week. It was ever so kind of you.”
“No hurry,” said Jean lightly, though in fact she would need the money soon if Howard managed to unseat her from her job. She knew for a fact that he wanted her out, but she hoped it wouldn’t be too easy for him.
“Oh, look, Jean! Look at that dear little shop. Shall we go in and buy something?”
Jean smiled. Good old Doreen. She couldn’t see a shop window without wanting to get out her purse! “Fine,” she said. “There’s still no sign of the agent. And your car is parked outside the house, so he’ll know we’re about.”
They went up the steps and into the shop, the jangling bell announcing their arrival. Josie smiled at them over the counter, and said could she help? Doreen thought quickly, and said she needed a birthday card. Did they stock cards? Josie pointed to the rack of pleasant designs and busied herself with sorting out an order book. After a few minutes, Doreen came up with a card and opened her handbag.
“Are you staying in the village?” Josie said. This was the stock question for people she did not recognise, though one of the women was vaguely familiar.
Doreen shook her head. “No, just looking around,” she said. She was not sure that the old house was officially on the market yet, and did not want to spread rumours that would attract other buyers. If Howard could be persuaded to move quickly, they could probably get it cheaply. She could see already that a lot of work was needed on the stonework and roof. But the ancient mullioned windows and heavy oak door appealed to her already. Small dormer windows indicated a third floor in use, and her imagination was busy with exciting bedrooms for the grandchildren, tucked away under the eaves. It would be a new life all together. The house would mould them into something different.
Jean walked over to the shop door and looked out. If they didn’t leave soon, this girl behind the counter would certainly worm out of Doreen the reason for their visit. She never could keep a secret for long. It had been child’s play to get a confession about her affair with Jean’s husband Ken. Armed with this, Jean had been able to reciprocate, and the pleasant truce between them had held.
“Hey, Doreen! I think that’s the person we’re meeting,” she said. “Come on, let’s go before he drives off again.”
They left the shop, and Josie quickly followed them to the door. She looked across at old Cyril’s house, and watched a smart young man get out of the shiny Toyota. Wasn’t that …? Yep, now he’d taken off his sunglasses, she was sure. He was Sharon Miller’s new boyfriend from the estate agents in Tresham. She was known to be partial to estate agents. So that was it. Cyril’s house was up for sale.
Josie picked up the telephone and dialled. Gran answered, fortunately. Josie was never sure whether her mother’s strictures against gossip were genuine, or just a chance to appear virtuous in a family of gossips. “Hello, Josie dear. Nothing wrong?”
“No, just thought you might like to know those women are looking at Cyril’s house with an agent. So it is up for sale. Yes, Gran, quite sure. Yes, see you tomorrow. Bye.”
By next morning, most of the village knew that Cyril’s house, at present rented by the Reverend Rollinson, was for sale.
NINETEEN
“HELLO? LOIS, IS THAT YOU?” IT WAS A BAD LINE, breaking up, and Cowgill guessed Lois was on her mobile.
“Of course it’s me,” she said crossly. “You can’t have forgotten my voice so soon!”
He had not. Not much in his life these days gave him the same buzz. My God, talk about unrequited passion! Cowgill steadied himself, and said, “Signal’s not very good. Can you get a better one?”
“Hold on, I’ll get out of the car.” Lois sighed. She had decided on impulse to telephone Cowgill, and the impulse was fading. Perhaps she was seeing things where there was nothing to see. But no, strange men did not seek to hire private detectives for no reason. And the Mayor? Wasn’t he one of the most popular, upright figures Tresham had seen for a long time? Not a whisper of corruption or self-seeking?
“Is that better?” She was relieved to hear him say it was, and now wanted to get the conversation over as quickly as possible. “Just a call I had. A man asking if I would make some private enquiries. God knows where he got my name. About an old colleague, he said. Somebody ‘in high office.’ Ring any bells?”
Same old Lois, thought Cowgill nostalgically. Never wasted time. Straight to the point. “The name that immediately springs to mind,” he said calmly, “is Jenkinson. A man of unimpeachable character. Our beloved Mayor.”
“Go on,” said Lois. How Cowgill did love to spin it out. Still, the old thing didn’t have much fun, and she’d smiled at the tremor in his voice when he knew it was her.
“Nothing more to tell,” he said lightly. “Except, perhaps …”
“Oh, come on! I’ve got work to do,” Lois said, impatient now. “Except what? Bribery? Double-dealing? Rape and pillage?”
“Close,” said Cowgill.
“I’m switching off in exactly ten seconds,” said Lois. “One, two, three …”
“Have you noticed a shop opposite your office in Tresham? Name of Rain or Shine?”
“Of course,” Lois said. Then the penny dropped. “And he’s a customer? The chief pillar of the community is into sexy fun with shiny macs and magic moments? So that’s why I saw you there … all part of our brave boys in blue keeping an eye on things, making it safe for the good f
olk of Tresham?”
“All right, Lois,” Cowgill said, laughing. “Enough said, I think. Perhaps you’d just watch out for developments? Just in case? And report back, even if you do despise us for wasting time with harmless peccadilloes when we could be solving murders.”
“Peccadilloes?” said Lois. “Are they the latest in Fergus Forsyth’s stocklist? I must tell Derek. Yeah, well,” she added. “I’ll do what you say. Keep an eye, especially as the lovely Lady Mayoress is looking at old Cyril’s house in the village. Could be an interesting new customer for our Josie. Mind you, she don’t stock no peccadilloes.” She disconnected, glad to have given starchy old Hunter something to laugh at on a dull day.
IT WAS A MORNING FOR CLANDESTINE TELEPHONE CONVERSATIONS, though Daisy’s talk with Howard Jenkinson had not been exactly clandestine from her end. Rupert knew she would ring her old partner, but didn’t want to be there when she made the call. So as soon as he’d gone off to the shop, she dialled the Town Hall and asked to speak to Mr. Jenkinson. To her dismay, a woman’s voice answered. “Mayor’s Parlour,” said the cool voice. “Can I help you?”
“I wanted to speak to Mr. Jenkinson,” said Daisy firmly. She was not about to be intimidated by a mere secretary. “It’s personal.”
“May I have your name?” The cool voice was icier. It was Jean Slater, at her efficient best. “We have to be careful with security, you know,” she added. Who was this woman? One of Howard’s many ex-flutters? And why did she want to speak to him now?
“Just tell him I am his old friend Daisy.” That should be enough. And what business was it of this nosy female, anyway? Daisy had long experience of being discreet when needed. “He’ll not be pleased to have missed me, and I haven’t got all day, dear.” That should fix Miss Icicle.
It did. Jean decided this would be an entertaining one. “Call for you, Howard,” she said. “Your old friend Daisy. Nice to keep in touch with old friends, isn’t it?” She put him through before he could reply.
“What a coincidence!” he said heartily, as he heard Daisy’s voice. “I was thinking about you the other day. Remembering the fun we used to have! Ah, those were good old days.”
“Not so much of the old days,” said Daisy. “You’re still looking pretty chipper yourself, Howard. And I’m not looking so bad meself, though I says it as shouldn’t. Anyway, plenty of fun to be had, even if we do have a few wrinkles, you and I!”
Howard shifted in his Mayoral chair, a creaking leather-covered seat that looked very like a modest throne. “Glad to hear it,” he said encouragingly. “Now, what can I do for an old friend, Daisy?”
“It’s more what I can do for you,” she replied softly. “Any chance of you popping in here in Farnden one day soon? On your way to somewhere, perhaps? My Rupert’s out a lot at the moment, so he’ll be sorry to miss you, but I can make you very welcome …”
“Er, hem, yes, Daisy dear, I’m sure you can,” Howard said in a whisper. He could see the door between his parlour and Jean’s office was not quite shut. He’d better bring this conversation to a quick close.
But Daisy had not finished. “Of course,” she said, “it’d be really nice if you could do me a little favour in return for a warm, very warm, welcome?”
“Certainly. Nothing easier.” So that was it. The Forsyths were hard up and needed money. Business not doing so well? He couldn’t believe that. Anyway, better sign off straight away and find a way of calling in on her. Doreen had been keen he should look at the Farnden house, but he obviously couldn’t take her to the Forsyths! Maybe it could somehow be arranged. He assured Daisy that anything he could do to help would give him great pleasure. “For old times’ sake,” he said, and as he put down the phone he heard her laugh. “And new times’ sake too, Howard,” she chuckled. Then he heard a click, the unmistakeable click of Jean disconnecting from the same call. Surely not! He knew she was obsessively curious about his private life, of which she had once been a part, but would she stoop to listening in? Yes, she would. Howard resolved that Jean must be moved on as soon as possible.
The door between them opened, and she came in, bearing papers. “Time to get down to work, Howard,” she said. “I expect you’ll be pleased to be free of all this bureaucracy at the end of your term of office. Give you more time for golf and other pleasures.” She dumped the papers down on the desk in front of him, and departed.
Howard winced as the door slammed. “Yes, Jean Slater,” he said under his breath. “Your days are numbered.”
TWENTY
DOREEN HAD NOT TOLD HOWARD THAT SHE AND JEAN had already seen the Farnden house. She knew he would explode. He took the lead in all things, and would consider it an insult to his head-of-the-family status. The young estate agent had grinned, but promised that he would treat their preliminary visit as a secret. Doreen got the impression that this was not the first time he’d been sworn to secrecy, and she didn’t trust him. But it was the best she could do, and had already planned her excuses if Howard should find out.
Now, sitting at the breakfast table, she was surprised when he said, “Might as well pop over today and see that house. I’ll give the agents a ring from the office.”
“Oh, good,” said Doreen, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. Howard always took up a cautious position the minute he suspected she was keen. “Shall we go this afternoon, then? Will you be free after lunch?”
Howard had his answer ready. “Well,” he said, as if thinking it out, “I do have to be in Waltonby at five. School Open Evening and I’ve promised to look in, informally, so there’s no need for you to come. Saves them buying a bouquet, and all that! So maybe the best tiling … yes, that’s what we’ll do … we’ll go to Farnden separately, in two cars. Then you can come home after we’ve seen the house, and I can go on to Waltonby. I’ll be in my own car, not the limo, so I can meet Ken at the golf club after that. We’re hoping for nine holes before supper.” Brilliant, he congratulated himself. That would give him plenty of time to call on Daisy.
What’s he up to? thought Doreen. He had that shifty look she knew so well. Still, she didn’t much care, as long as they could get an offer in on the house before anyone else. “So I’ll see you there, then,” she said. “Will you suggest four o’clock?”
“Let’s make it two thirty,” said Howard casually. “I’ll see you outside the house. And don’t get your hopes up too high,” he could not resist adding. “It’d be a big change for both of us, living in a village. It’ll take a lot of thinking about.”
Not too much, Doreen muttered. She had already made up her mind. The house was full of character and potential, and she wanted it. She wanted to live there, and be a somebody in her own right. Mrs. Jenkinson, President of the WI, Parish Councillor, maybe even join the church choir. That’d be one in the eye for Howard!
“Is that okay, Doreen?” Howard stood by the door, briefcase in hand, frowning. Doreen shook herself out of her daydream, and nodded. “See you later,” she said, and poured herself another cup of tea.
LONG FARNDEN WAS LOOKING ITS BEST. AS A CONSERVATION village it had the minimum of new building, and what there was had been discreetly placed in a small estate behind the church. The only real eyesore was the new vicarage, which had been rebuilt at the least possible cost to the church, and was just as ugly as the one destroyed in the fire. There had been some problem with insurance, and corners had been cut.
But the rest of the village, its golden stone houses glowing in the sun, seemed welcoming and cheerful as Doreen drove down the long main street, pulling up outside old Cyril’s house. It was like coming home, already! She looked into her driving mirror, and saw Howard’s sleek car pulling in behind her. He got out swiftly, and tapped on her window. “Out you get, pet,” he said. “Nobody here from the agents yet?”
He was in tycoon mode, and pulled out his mobile. “Hello! Jenkinson here. Where’s your chap? I made an appointment, and I expect it to be kept.”
Before there was time for a reply, the
Toyota appeared, and the young man was with them. “Sorry,” he said humbly. “Got held up in traffic.”
“I came the same way,” Howard said, “and there were no hold-ups. Anyway, let’s get going.” He looked up at the old house, noting the need for re-pointing and the slipping slates. “Don’t suppose it will take us long,” he added, and took Doreen’s arm. “Lead on, then,” he ordered the agent, and they followed him into the house.
It was more of a success than Doreen could have hoped for. Howard was clearly pleasantly surprised. The vicar was out, but the agent had a key and permission to show buyers around. Rev Rollinson was a tidy man, and had loved the old house. He’d redecorated much of it, and had found a sympathetic home for his lovingly collected antique pieces. “I bet the vicar doesn’t want to move into that dreadful new house,” Doreen said, looking round at vases of flowers and real paintings on the walls. She made a mental note to visit the gallery in the village. Her own reproductions of old masters and scenes of holiday places they had visited would not do for this house. She and Jean could have a lovely time tracking down originals. Mind you, originals cost money.
“Up we go, then,” Howard said. He began to see himself living here, inviting friends from the Club to dinner in the beamed dining room, with its old stone fireplace. A leaping log fire in the winter, some really good wine. Yes, it was looking good.
The bedrooms were pleasant, all white and full of sunlight. “Not really much to do inside, is there?” he said to Doreen. “Quite a bit needed on the stonework and roof, I reckon, but we could live in the house more or less straight away.” He looked down into the back garden, and saw an orchard of old trees, a sloping lawn running down to a stream. Oh yes, he could see them in the summer, out on the terrace with tinkling glasses of Pimms, watching the dog playing ball with the grandchildren. They didn’t have a dog, of course, but that was easily fixed.
