Theft on Thursday

by Ann Purser

  “Good idea,” said Derek, getting up smartly. “We can get the results on the telly.”

  This was not what Lois had in mind. She planned to steer the conversation somehow round to the fiery cross and see what emerged. If, as Cowgill said, Annabelle knew something about it, Lois was sure she could get it out of her. She was very straightforward, and although she had the confident air of a girl whose grandmother was Mrs. Tollervey-Jones, she happily gossiped at the table about village goings-on with apparent enjoyment. Derek turned on the television and settled back in his chair. Lois had forbidden her mother to do any clearing or washing up, and she and the rest sat comfortably wanning themselves by the leaping fire.

  “How cosy!” whispered Annabelle, as she snuggled up to Jamie on the sofa.

  The local magazine programme unrolled inconsequentially in front of them. School football matches, fundraising bazaars, an old man of one hundred years clutching his telegram from the Queen.

  Suddenly Annabelle gasped. The screen was showing an unsteady piece of film, obviously the work of an amateur running hard in half-darkness, following a fleeing group of young men, who were shouting and laughing and raising their fists. “Max!” she said involuntarily, and Jamie stared at her.

  “Someone you know?” he said.

  “No, no, just a mistake,” she replied quickly.

  The scene had changed now to a reporter standing in the same street, but in daylight, a group of children gaping behind him. “This is not the first incident of its kind here in the multi-ethnic area of Tresham,” he was saying. “Broken windows, stones thrown, excrement dumped through letterboxes. These are daily occurrences for people like Mrs. Merrilees.” The camera focused on a grim-looking, middle-aged black woman.

  “That’s enough of that,” said Derek firmly, and switched channels. Talk turned desultorily on sports results and the chances of the Meades ever winning the lottery.

  Jamie looked at his watch. “Better go,” he said to Annabelle. “You OK?” he added, seeing her pale face in the firelight.

  “ ‘Course I am,” she said, and with genuine enthusiasm thanked Gran and Lois for a lovely time. “Wish we could stay here in the warm,” she said with a shiver, “instead of tramping around the streets of Tresham.”

  Lois looked at her closely, missing nothing.

  “Come on!” said Jamie heartily, pulling her to her feet. “Exercise will do you good. Cheero, Mum, see you later.”

  After they had gone, Lois and Gran washed up together. They were quiet, until Gran suddenly said, “Who’s Max?”

  “That’s what I was wondering,” said Lois.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “REBECCA, CAN YOU SPARE A MOMENT?” THE HEAD teacher at Waltonby school appeared at Rebecca’s classroom door.

  The children stared. When Mrs. Thorpe came unexpectedly into the classroom, it usually meant trouble for someone. But she was smiling, so it couldn’t be that. They waited. Rebecca beckoned her in, told the class to get on with their reading books, and began a conversation. Eyes were turned down to books, darting up occasionally to check what was going on. Several children—the usual rebels—began to relax. Then Rebecca, her face flushed, turned to the class and spoke.

  “Mrs. Thorpe would like a few words with you, children. Pay attention, now.”

  All eyes obediently turned to Mrs. Thorpe, who began pleasantly. “I have had a call from a Mr. Mackerras, who works for an estate agent’s in Tresham. He has launched a competition—painting or drawing—for children in our area, and the winner gets a giant construction set to build his own model village! Sandy—he would like you to call him Sandy—wants to come and talk to you about it—well, to all the children in the school, but class by class, as there are various age categories—and tell you what you have to do. What do you think, children?”

  “Yeah!” They reacted with one voice, and the rebels punched the air with small fists.

  Mrs. Thorpe turned back to Rebecca. “Well, that seems pretty conclusive!” she said. “Such a nice young man. It will be a pleasure to meet him. Goodness knows what the agents are getting out of it … It’s not pure philanthropy, I’m sure. Estate agents have such a bad name! But anyway, it’s harmless enough. Right!” she added, “I’ll leave you to get on.”

  BY THE TIME REBECCA HAD CALMED DOWN THE CHILDREN, finished a day’s teaching, called in at Farnden shop and noted that Sharon Miller was monosyllabic in serving her, she arrived home exhausted. All through the day Sandy Mackerras’s competition had reared its head in the school. At lunchtime, the school secretary had enthused, and in the playground the children gossiped like old women. The news spread after school amongst the mothers and fathers waiting for their excited children. Rebecca was glad to be home in her quiet cottage, collapsed on the sofa and mindlessly watching television. However, it was too banal and irritating and she switched off. Why was Sandy doing it? Surely not just to have an excuse to see her for longer than the usual choir practice? No, that was ridiculous, although …

  Bill came stumping in, his hands red and frozen from the cold. On his way home from cleaning at the Hall, he had helped the vet with a lamed sheep caught up in barbed wire, and he had scratched his wrist. “Got the kettle on, love?” he said, rinsing his arm under the tap.

  Rebecca got to her feet. It would have been nice, wouldn’t it, if just for once he had asked how her day had gone. She made the tea, and put his muddy boots on newspaper to dry.

  Should she tell him about the competition? No, any mention of Sandy Mackerras seemed recently to prompt nothing but contempt from Bill. He would hear no good of him. Rebecca expected Bill to resign from the choir at any moment, but he didn’t. Each week he attended with a grim face, sang his part with extreme accuracy and skill, and said nothing. But his face said it all. If—as often happened—Sandy smiled directly at Rebecca, or complimented her on her sight-reading, Bill’s expression would radiate ill-will. And Sharon too! Rebecca was no fool. She knew Sharon fancied Sandy, and that he had taken her out once or twice.

  Well, why not? He was attractive, unattached and trawling a new area. The poor girl was green with jealousy. If only she knew. Rebecca had heard tales of some of Sandy’s more hair-raising exploits in Tresham clubland. Mind you, she reassured herself, not wanting to think badly of him, he had apparently been taken up by the Hall set. Perhaps he would have a go at Annabelle T-J next—maybe she should warn Mrs. M. Jamie Meade was known to be keen on the girl, though local gossips didn’t give much for his chances.

  Rebecca returned to the sitting room, ready to relate an amusing incident from school, nothing to do with Sandy Mackerras. But Bill flicked on the television, and slumped in his chair. “Sshh!” he said. “I want to watch this. Tell me later.”

  LOIS WALKED SWIFTLY DOWN TO THE SHOP. IT WOULD be shut in five minutes, and she needed stamps. The post office cubicle was closed all day, but Mrs. Carr always kept stamps in the till. The door was opening as she approached, and the vicar emerged. His usual smile of welcome was muted. “Hello, Lois,” he said.

  “Afternoon, Rev. Rollinson,” she replied. For God’s sake, he’d not been in the village five minutes before it was Christian names all round.

  “I’m glad I met you,” he said. “We have a date for Cyril’s funeral. Next Thursday, half past two. I expect there’ll be a big turn-out, and his sister has unexpectedly wanted to make a bit of a do of it. Asking for the choir, and some of Cyril’s favourite old songs to be played on the organ. She also requests ‘Abide With Me’ to be sung as a solo. I said I was sure one of the excellent singers in the choir would be glad to oblige.”

  Oh ho, thought Lois. That’ll put the cat among the pigeons! Our chief pigeon will certainly expect to be asked. But then there’s Sandy’s obvious yen for Rebecca, so he’ll probably ask her. Should be interesting. She made a mental note not to miss choir practice this week.

  “I shall certainly be there, but not as soloist,” she said, smiling modestly. There was no answering smile. He seemed to be
in a dream, but suddenly he turned on his heel and shot off without another word. As she opened the shop door, she noticed Sandy’s car pass by at speed. The two of them still not getting on too well? None of your business, she told herself, and laughed.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Meade. Glad to hear you’re cheerful. Most of my customers today have been very cast down.” Criticism oozed from Mrs. Carr’s tone. She made a great show of tidying up the shop, ready to close. “What can I get you?” she said, and her impatience at finding Lois wanted only stamps was clear. Lois felt her usual guilt at making infrequent use of the shop, when she bought almost everything at the Tresham supermarket. She was not alone, of course. Most people did the same. But she knew that village shops teetered on the edge of insolvency most of the time. She’d miss it if it had to close, and so would most of the rest of the village. From her point of view, it was a valuable source of information; gossip, Derek would call it, and so it was, most of the time. But in her work with Cowgill, it became more serious.

  “I expect you’ll be going to poor old Cyril’s funeral on Thursday?” she said contritely.

  This was too much for Mrs. Carr to resist, and she stopped brushing up the day’s detritus from the floor. “Oh, goodness yes,” she said. “Known him for years and years. He was my best customer. Bought everything from me,” she added pointedly.

  “Such a shame,” Lois said. “He seemed in good shape, considering his age. Always out with Betsy, twice a day up to the church, regular as clockwork.”

  Mrs. Carr nodded. “I would have said there was not a lot wrong with him. Suffered a bit with his stomach—indigestion, trapped wind, all that kind of thing. But that’s one of the blessings of old age, I used to tell him. You’ll find the same one day, Mrs. Meade,” she added with relish. “And anyway,” she continued, “he never had it so bad as to kill him! He could control it with what he ate, and some of my specials.” She laughed. “Could’ve made a fortune, if I’d invented them,” she added.

  “Specials?” said Lois incredulously. She knew her mother relied on tablets from the shop for bouts of colic. Harmless enough, she’d always thought, but not the cure-all Mrs. Carr seemed to imply.

  “I swear by them,” the shopkeeper said, picking up her broom. “Now, you’ll have to excuse me, Mrs. Meade. I have work to do.”

  “Thanks,” said Lois. “See you on Thursday, then. Should be a good do, according to the vicar. Old songs, an’ that.”

  Mrs. Carr nodded. “Moo … oon River” she sang tunelessly. “That was his favourite, poor old dear.” She wiped away a tear with the edge of her overall, and Lois made a quick getaway.

  That’s quite enough of that, thanks, she muttered to herself, and set off for home and sanity.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  CHOIR PRACTICE WENT EXACTLY AS LOIS HAD ANTICipated. She arrived early to settle up with Bill for honey he had brought for her from the gardener at the Hall. She paid him, and noticed that he did not have his usual smile for her. “Feeling all right, Bill?” she said. “Don’t want any more dramas at choir practice.” He grinned quickly, and said no, he was fine, it was the thought of putting up with that idiot for an hour. She did not need to ask who he meant.

  When all were gathered, Sandy announced the arrangements for next week’s funeral, and before he could turn to Rebecca, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones said with saccharine emotion, “Dear old Cyril, he loved that hymn. ‘Abide with Me’ was his favourite. I often used to sing it with him while I did the flowers and he cleaned up the church. Quite a duo, we were! Yes, of course, Sandy, it would give me great pleasure to sing it once more for an old friend.”

  Lois looked at Sandy, waiting for the next move. Was he outsmarted? For a moment she thought Mrs. T-J had won, but then Sandy smiled. “Just what I had in mind,” he said, “and how appropriate that we should be able to produce a duet for Cyril, just as in the old days you remember so clearly!” An appreciative rustle came from the choir. What was he up to?

  “I would like you, Mrs. T-J, to take soprano in the first verse, with Rebecca singing the alto part, then full choir on verses two, three and four, then Jamie and Bill finishing off with due solemnity in the last verse. Jamie will sing the tune, and Bill accompany … if you could manage the tenor part, Bill?” He looked maliciously at Bill, knowing that this would be difficult for him, being a bass.

  But Bill stared back at him and nodded. “Fine,” he said. “No problem.”

  Mrs. T-J spluttered and made a last-ditch attempt to regain the limelight. “But don’t you think a soprano solo in the last verse would be more touching … and if Cyril’s sister has specifically requested a solo?”

  “No,” said Sandy flatly. “But thanks for the suggestion. I’m sure Cyril’s sister will be delighted. Now, let’s have a go at it. Ready, Sharon?” He flashed a smile across to the organ, and Sharon returned it with enthusiasm.

  “Usual introduction … first two lines?” she said.

  “You’re a wonder,” said Sandy. “What should we do without our Sharon, eh?”

  Mrs. T-J glared at him. “Perfectly well,” she muttered, so that only her neighbour could have heard.

  Finally, the others drifted away. Only Sandy, Sharon still at the organ, and Lois, who had dropped all her music, were left in the church. “Here, let me give you a hand,” said Sandy. He knelt on the stone floor beside Lois, and reached out a hand … and quite deliberately let it rest warmly over Lois’s for several seconds.

  Ye gods, randy little devil! thought Lois. “I can manage, thanks,” she said, scooping up the books and sheets of paper in an untidy heap and shoving it in the plastic bag that did duty for a music case. “I’m off,” she said. “See you at the funeral.”

  Sharon watched her go. She had not been within sight of the two crouching figures and so had no idea why Mrs. M had gone off in what looked like a huff.

  “Difficult woman,” said Sandy lightly, coming over to the organ. “Not like my dear little Sharon …” He leaned over, and she turned to meet his kiss.

  “You were a bit naughty with Mrs. T-J,” she whispered. His hands were busy now, and she gulped.

  “Old bag,” he muttered. “Come on, Sharon,” he added thickly, “let’s go somewhere private.”

  “Nowhere more private than the church. Everyone else has gone.” She was half-scared, but determined. At last life was living up to fiction. “Nobody comes in here after choir. And you’ve got the key, haven’t you?”

  He looked at her in admiration. “Right-o,” he said. “You make us somewhere comfortable, and I’ll lock us in.” He pulled her up from the organ stool, and kissed her again. “Mmm, quick as you can,” he grinned, and walked down the aisle to lock the big oak door.

  Lois, halfway home, remembered she’d left her purse in the choir stalls in the church. Damn! She turned around and ran back through the dark street, up the narrow path and past the poisoner’s gravestone. Puffing into the porch, she turned the big iron handle. Blast! They must have gone already and locked up. She stood wondering whether to get the key from the vicarage, when she heard an unmistakable high-pitched giggle, followed by a loud masculine shout. Sharon and Sandy. Well! Lois was not easily shocked, but the idea of the pair of them having it off under the noses of all those religious statues and stained glass saints took some swallowing.

  BRIAN ROLLINSON LOOKED AT THE LITTLE CHINESE clock on the mantelshelf over the fire, and checked the time with his watch. Funny—Sandy should be home by now. He’d said he would come straight back after choir practice, as he had some office work to catch up on. No, he wouldn’t be going down to the pub tonight. Brian had been pleased, thinking they could have a companionable couple of hours without television. Just the two of them, reading and working, and he’d make some creamy hot chocolate to keep them going. Sandy had been very cool with him lately. Brian knew there had been a hold-up with Sandy’s plans for the flat, and guessed this might be the reason. He stood up, and went over to the window. It was dark, but he could see by the light over
the gate that nobody was around. Perhaps he was coming back through the churchyard and in the back gate, by the vicar-only path. Could he have been delayed? And by what? Brian remembered the fiery cross, the ashy scar in the grass. “Oh, no,” he said aloud. His imagination conjured hooded figures, hysterical chanting, human sacrifice …

  Grabbing his coat, he left the house and went swiftly and silently through the churchyard, round to the back of the church. Nothing. All quiet there, then. He relaxed, and told himself he was a fool and should know better. Then he saw a faint light shining through the vestry window. Someone had forgotten to switch it off? He could leave it until the morning—indeed, would have to, since Sandy had his keys. But where was Sandy? The choir had obviously gone home a while ago. Could it be burglars? There had been a spate of church burglaries lately, and parishes had been advised to tighten security. Not that there was much to steal in Long Farnden church, Brian reminded himself. But still, it wouldn’t look good if thieves had got in easily and trashed the place.

  He walked over to the window, feeling his feet getting wet in the long grass. He was cold, and wished he’d never come out to look for Sandy. As he stood on tiptoe, he could just sec into the vestry.

  So that’s it. He’d come out to look for Sandy, and now he’d found him. Snugly cushioned on a pile of choir robes lay Sharon Miller and Sandy Mackerras, clearly obeying God’s injunction to be fruitful and multiply.

  There was only one thing for it, and that was to go back home and pretend to know nothing. Sandy was a grown man. He was also Gerald’s son, and all he had to remember his friend by, and he had no wish to alienate him. And although at the moment, he despised Sandy for his sacrilege, he knew this would pass. He retraced his steps, but went round by the front porch to check the lock—he wanted no one else to see them—where he collided with Lois Meade.

  “Steady up!” said Lois, leaning against the wire door that kept birds out of the porch. “All locked up, vicar,” she added, speakly loudly in an effort to warn. Thinking quickly, she had decided it was no business of hers to thwart amorous adventures, and a few instant pictures had unrolled in front of her mind’s eye—peculiar places she and Derek had found for the same purpose. The unsuitability spiced it up a treat. She remembered that with warmth.