Theft on Thursday

by Ann Purser

  “Give him a chance,” said Derek. “He’ll want to be up there with the nobs, I expect. Creepin’ to Mrs. T-J. Which reminds me,” he added, “Jamie rang. Said could he bring Annabelle to tea on Saturday, before they go to a film. I said he’d have to ask you.”

  Gran had come in during this last sentence, and said chirpily, “Of course he can, can’t he, Lois? This is his home. Tell him yes, straightaway.”

  Remembering the ear she was supposed to be keeping to the ground, Lois agreed. “Don’t go killing the fatted calf, Mum,” she said. “It’ll embarrass them.”

  Gran bridled. “I suppose I’m allowed to make a cake for them? Is that all right? Or shall we just have bread and scrape?”

  Derek could see trouble brewing, and decided to change the subject. But just as he began to describe his latest job over in Ringford, there was a tentative knock on the front door.

  “I’ll go,” said Lois. She had an idea who it might be, and was right.

  “Um … hello, Mrs. Meade.” It was Sharon, in the pink of health, but nervous.

  “Ah, Sharon. Come in. Go in there, in my office.” Lois followed her in and shut the door. She motioned Sharon to a chair and sat down herself behind her desk. “Right,” she said. “Explain.”

  “I’m really sorry about yesterday. It’s these migraines, you see,” the girl began. “They come on very sudden, and then I’m often sick, and can’t see very well. Only one thing to do then. Go to bed in a dark room and take a pill. Even that doesn’t work sometimes. Anyway, I’m usually all right next day.”

  “Mmm,” said Lois. “Sounds bad.” She tried to look sympathetic, but couldn’t help thinking Sharon sounded as if she’d got all that from a medical dictionary. Still, why should the girl lie?

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Lois said in an even voice. “And how often do you have these attacks? Our clients rely on us turning up, and if you really don’t know when they’re coming on, it’s going to be difficult.”

  “Oh, not very often! Luckily for me …” Sharon laughed, and then immediately stopped when she saw Lois’s unsmiling face. “And sometimes I do get a warning … flashing lights an’ that. If I take a pill then, I can sometimes stave it off. Anyway, Mrs. M, it isn’t more than three or four times a year.”

  “Right,” said Lois. She looked down at her revised schedules. “I’d like you to start with Mrs. Jordan on the new estate—”

  “Oh, please!” interrupted Sharon, “can’t I carry on at the vicarage? I’d really like to do that, and Rev. Rollinson said how much he was looking forward to me goin’ there. An’ what with Hazel expectin’ the baby an’ that, I thought …”

  “You can safely leave the organizing to me, Sharon,” Lois said acidly. She continued, “Well, I suppose you can have one more chance, if the vicar agrees.” It might be useful, after all, to have Sharon at the vicarage, lovesick as she was. If Sandy was in with the Tollervey-Jones lot, arch-gossip Sharon might well pick up something about the followers of the Prince of Darkness. It was worth another try.

  “Now, how about the shop?” Lois changed the subject. “Have you sorted that out, reduced hours an’ that?”

  Sharon nodded. “Oh yes. I’d like to work for you full-time, but I can’t let them down altogether. They’ve been kind to me, and it’s all a bit beyond them now. I’m going in on Saturdays, and now and then during the week. I promised to tidy out that old store at the back. You should see it! Stuff in there from the year dot.”

  Lois sighed. “Just remember, Sharon,” she said, “our rule about confidentiality. If you hear anything that worries you while you’re cleaning, come straight to me. That clear?”

  A huffy Sharon left the house and walked quickly down the garden path. Lois watched from the window, and saw Jamie draw up on his newly acquired motorbike. He took off his helmet proudly and smiled at Sharon. She saw them talking amiably before Sharon finally walked off.

  Lois was about to see if Gran had heard any mention of Sharon’s migraines, when Jamie came into the kitchen and gave her a hug. “Hi, Mum. You OK?”

  “Fine, thanks. Now, let’s hear some more about Annabelle coming to tea on Saturday. What’s the film, and can I come too?”

  “Ha ha. No you can’t, and it’s a spooky film about the devil and black magic and that kind of stuff.”

  “Not for me then,” said Lois, grinning. “Anyway, why don’t you and Annabelle come a bit earlier, and we can have a good chat. Get to know her …”

  Jamie frowned. What was his mother up to? All this good chat stuff was not like her at all. He shrugged. “Yeah, well, let’s not get too heavy. Just make sure Gran bakes us a cake, then it’ll be fine.”

  Gran’s smile of triumph lit up the room.

  TWENTY

  AS CYRIL WALKED SLOWLY UP THE ROAD ON HIS WAY to unlock the church for choir practice, he slid on a patch of slimy leaves, swore and shivered. It was quite dark, and the one light in the village street—a dim, low-wattage lantern outside the shop—lit up only a small circle on the pavement. A cold wind blew through Cyril’s coat and chilled his old bones. He’d be glad to get home again by his fire. A load of good logs had arrived yesterday by tractor from the Hall. Say what you like about Mrs. T-J, he thought, as he opened the gate into the churchyard, she looked after them that were needy in the village. He’d offered to pay last winter, but she’d looked down her long nose and said, “I hope I know my Christian duty, Cyril. Those who have, should give to those who have not.”

  Cyril had not been too pleased at being thought of as an object of charity, but his countryman’s instinct for prudence and common sense came to the fore, and he had thanked her kindly, touching an invisible forelock. He plodded up the path to the church, needing no light. He could have done it blindfold. He’d been verger for years, and his father before him. The church was an old friend, and he had no fear of the damp, cold interior which took hours to warm up, even with the heaters on full blast.

  As he approached the porch, a shadowy movement down by the tower caught his eye. Vandals? There had been quite a spate of it in the village lately, and the Neighbourhood Watch had asked everybody to be on the lookout.

  Cyril stepped on to the wet grass and made his way round to the back of the church, where broken tombs and headstones lurked in the undergrowth of untrimmed bushes and shrubs. No buildings overlooked this part of the churchyard, and nobody bothered with it. He realized with surprise that a flickering light eased his path. He began to walk forward, and then stopped dead. Gawd Almighty! Yards away from him a group of people, cloaked from head to foot in light-coloured robes, faced a single, much taller figure, who held aloft a pole, surmounted by a cross. It was a large cross, outlined against the dark sky and burning with a fierce Satanic fire.

  Cyril gasped, and they heard him. He began to run, but twisted his ankle, and collapsed on to the grass. “Hey! You there!” He watched helplessly as they fled, leaving the fiery cross burning in the long grass.

  Cyril attempted to get up, but the pain was bad. He tried calling out until he was hoarse, then fell back into the grass. After a while, he began to shiver as the damp cold penetrated his clothes. He tried again: “Help! Anybody there? Help! Round here!”

  “Cyril! Where are you?”

  Oh, thank God. It was Mrs. Meade, arriving on time as usual. “Here, missus!” he shouted, and in a few seconds Lois had found him. “Cyril! What on earth’s been going on?” Then she looked past him and saw the fire still spluttering in the long grass.

  “What the … Oh, Cyril, it’s a cross!” Lois shuddered. She took a step forward, but could not go any nearer. She stood transfixed in front of the burning image. Then she remembered the old man. First things first. She got him to hold on to her, and managed to help him round to the church door. Two narrow benches stretched either side of the porch, and she sat him down carefully. “Give me the key,” she said. “I’ll open up and put the heaters on, then we’ll take you home. And I’ll get Derek,” she continued wi
th sudden relief. Derek would know what to do.

  They half-carried Cyril home, got him upstairs and into his bedroom. He firmly refused all help to get into bed, and said he would be fine. He had only wrenched his ankle. He’d see how it was in the morning, and get help if necessary. Lois and Derek returned to the church, and found other choir members looking down at the cross, now smouldering in the wet grass.

  “That’s nasty, gel,” Derek said. “Very nasty.” He bent down and gingerly picked up one end of the cross.

  “Careful!” Lois said. “You’ll burn yourself!” Or something worse, she said to herself.

  Jamie, standing by his father’s side, echoed her thoughts. “That’s evil, Dad,” he said, and shivered.

  “Don’t talk rubbish,” said Derek. “Some kids muckin’ about, that’s all. Still, could have caused a real fire. Did Cyril see who they were?” he asked, turning to Lois.

  “Nope,” she replied. “He said they were all covered up, even their heads. What’re you going to do with it?”

  The rest of the choir stood by, watching silently as Derek moved the cross upright. Mrs. T-J came forward, ready to take charge. “I think you can leave this to me, Mr. Meade,” she said. “Just lean it up against that gravestone, and I’ll have someone deal with it in the morning.”

  “Oh no you don’t,” muttered Lois. She put a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “You take it away, love,” she said quietly. “Never know who might come back to collect it. Look there …” She pointed to the ashy mark on the ground. The grass had been burned into an unmistakable image of a cross. “That’ll be enough for the police,” she said.

  Sandy Mackerras, who had been strangely quiet, now spoke in a voice of authority. “Come on, then, choir,” he said. “Back to the church. Time to sing, and frighten the shadows away.”

  “Time for exorcism, don’t you mean?” said Bill Stock-bridge coldly.

  Rebecca grabbed his hand. “Don’t be silly, Bill,” she whispered. “You heard what Derek said. Just kids, mucking about.”

  But Mrs. T-J, on reaching the church porch, stopped and turned to Sandy. “I think I must be on my way,” she said distantly. “Enough time wasted already. I have a great deal to do, you know. If I were you, I should cancel tonight’s practice.”

  There were murmurings of dissent, and Sandy said jauntily, “No, not at all! We won’t let a few stupid kids mess us about, will we, choir? Sorry you can’t stay, though,” he added quickly. “See you next week, I hope.”

  Watching Mrs. T-J walk with hurried steps down the church path, Lois’s thoughts were churning. She took out of her pocket a small screwed-up square of soft cotton she had picked up by the burning cross. Under the porch light she straightened it out and saw a letter embroidered in the corner. It was A. A for Annabelle?

  “Sorry, Sandy,” she said swiftly, “I think I’d better go and check on old Cyril, make sure he’s done what he’s told. I’ll be here next week. Bye all.” She slipped away and found Mrs. T-J at the church gate remonstrating with Derek, who had shoved the cross into the back of his van. “This is really unnecessary, Mr. Meade,” she said, and Lois grinned to herself. Derek didn’t take kindly to that kind of talk.

  “Maybe,” he said flatly. “But we’ll let the police decide that, shall we? Goodnight, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones. Are you comin’ with me, Lois?” he added.

  She shook her head. “I’ll just check on old Cyril, then I’ll be back home.” Derek drove off without another word, leaving Mrs. T-J standing uncertainly by her car.

  Lois walked quickly down the street, and, turning into a farmyard entrance, stopped in the shadows and took out her mobile phone.

  “Hello? Oh, good, it’s you. Sorry to interrupt your evening.”

  “I’m working, Lois. A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.” But Cowgill sounded quite jolly, and Lois wondered if he had a bottle at his elbow. No, not Cowgill, she decided, and gave him an account of what had happened in the churchyard. His voice became serious at once, and Lois was glad she had telephoned.

  “Mrs. T-J wanted to hush it up,” she said. “Tried hard to persuade Derek not to do anything. I reckon she knows who they were.” Lois was reluctant to tell him about the handkerchief. Suppose it was Annabelle’s? What would that do to Jamie? On the other hand, did she want her son mixed up with that disgusting lot?

  “You still there, Lois?”

  “Yes, I am. There is just one other thing …” And she told him. “Keep it safe, Lois,” he said. “I’ll collect it next time we meet. I know it’s difficult, with Jamie, but I’ll be discreet.” I’d do anything for you, Lois, he said to himself, except break the law. Bend it, maybe.

  There were no lights in Cyril’s house, and Lois relaxed. He’d gone to bed, as instructed, and she would see him early next morning, first thing, before he could go off gardening or some other stupid thing.

  NEXT MORNING, LOIS HURRIEDLY ATE A BOWL OF CORN-flakes, pulled on her duffel coat and shouted to Gran that she’d be back shortly. She half-ran down the street to Cyril’s house, knocked on the door and waited. No reply. He’d probably not heard, being more than a little deaf. She knocked again. Still no answer. She frowned. The curtains of his sitting room were open. He lived mostly at the back of the house, sitting by the old-fashioned range in the kitchen to keep warm. She peered in and could see through the open door. No sign of Cyril. Damn! Surely the old man had not got up and gone out already? She knew he was an early riser, but not with a sore ankle? She knocked once more, and hearing no movement inside, tried the door handle. To her surprise, it opened.

  “Cyril?” She stood at the foot of the stairs, and repeated her call. “Are you OK, Cyril? It’s Mrs. Meade here …”

  The silence was not right. Her knocking and shouting would have woken him by now, even if he’d been deeply asleep. Her heart began to thud, and she climbed the stairs slowly, calling his name as she went, more to break the awful silence than in expectation of an answer.

  It was dim on the landing. A grubby net curtain completely covered the small window overlooking the back garden, and in the half-darkness Lois tried to remember which of the closed doors was Cyril’s bedroom. She was fairly sure it was at the front, and as she pushed open the door, the old story of Goldilocks and the three bears surfaced ridiculously in her head. “Who’s been sleeping in my bed?” Well, she could see who was sleeping in this rumpled bed. It was old Cyril, half-hanging over the edge. But he wasn’t sleeping. He was quite clearly dead.

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE MOST DIFFICULT TASK THAT MORNING FOR LOIS was keeping Gran away.

  “But I wasn’t very nice to him! He tried to chat me up, be friendly, and I was sharp and not very kind.” Gran was almost in tears, and Lois forcibly restrained her from running out of the front door, down the street and into Cyril’s house, where by some miraculous afterdeath delay, his spirit could accept her apology and she could rest easy.

  It had been a gruesome morning. Cyril had not had a calm release from this life. Those who would tidy him and arrange the ritual of the dead could not get away with “he passed away peacefully in his sleep.” There was vomit everywhere. He lay screwed up in a tight ball, his face showing the agony which must have preceded his poor old body giving up the struggle. Lois had thought first of cleaning him up, giving the whole place a New Brooms going over. But then she remembered that nothing must be touched.

  After her telephone calls, first to the doctor and then to Cowgill, the village constable arrived in the vanguard of all the rest. Then a procession of bland-faced professionals marched through Cyril’s cottage and made their examinations, wrote their notes and took their pictures. Last of all came Hunter Cowgill, his expression grim and authoritative.

  “Morning, Lois,” he said quietly. “Don’t say anything now. We’ll meet later. They’ll take your statement. Stick to the facts. Leave it to us now, we’ll make all the arrangements.”

  She mentioned Gran, and said she’d better be getting back home. Cowgill nodded, an
d added sotto voce, “Ring me this afternoon.”

  With one last glance at the cruelly twisted body of old Cyril, Lois said a silent goodbye, and a “sorry” on behalf of Gran, and left the cottage, walking back home with misty eyes. She passed the churchyard, and on impulse went in. Without thinking, she made her way to the small gravestone with the poisoner and her gullible husband just visible. “She done ‘im in”—Cyril’s voice echoed in her head and Lois shuddered. Who or what done Cyril in? The stomach bug, was it?

  IN THE SHOP, SHARON WATCHED AS THE PROCESSION ARRIVED, and then, in dribs and drabs, finally left. “What on earth’s going on, Mrs. Carr?” she said. It was her morning on duty at the shop, and tomorrow she was due to clean at the vicarage, an assignment she was looking forward to with mixed feelings.

  “Old Cyril has passed away,” the shopkeeper said. “Poor old man had that rotten infection that’s going about.” News spreads fast in a village, and what the village shopkeeper doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing.

  “Then why all the police and that lot?” Sharon frowned. From her diet of lurid library books, she knew that an old man dying of a bug did not need the police. Doctor, ambulance, undertakers, certainly. But the police? She shook her head. “Something funny going on there,” she said.

  But Mrs. Carr said that it could be a matter of course, when circumstances were unusual. After all, hadn’t Cyril been perfectly all right the night before? Sharon agreed. She had seen him after all that palaver up at the church, and apart from twisting his ankle, he was fine. “Last thing I heard him say was to Mrs. Meade, telling her to ‘get those young buggers who were messing up his churchyard.’ She took him home, you know, saw that he was comfortable and told him to rest until she came round in the morning.”

  “Perhaps she should have got him to a doctor last night.” Mrs. Carr put the final tin on a pyramid of baked beans.