by Ann Purser
“P’raps you’d better try and tell me what’s up,” the old man said quietly. “But not if you don’t want. Nobody’s goin’ to mind you havin’ a cry.”
Marion began to speak, but choked. She tried again, and this time said, “There’s been an accident. A fire …”
“Somebody hurt?”
No answer, but a nod of the head.
“Close to you?”
Again the nod.
“Yer Mum?”
“My son.” Marion clamped her lips together in a vain effort to stop the tears.
“Dear God,” said the old man. He reached out and took her wet hand. “Don’t say no more, dear. You just sit there, an’ I’ll talk. You’ll not be interested, but that don’t matter. I’ll tell you about my old lady, her what’s in a home in Tresham. That where you’re goin’? Yep, well, it all come about like this …”
When the train drew into Tresham station, the old man was still holding Marion’s hand, and he looked at her sadly. He would have to wake her now. Still, at least that bit of the journey had been got through. But she still had a long way to go, in a manner of speaking.
She opened her eyes, and looked puzzled. Then, with a pain in the pit of her stomach, she remembered where she was, and looked out of the window. Brian Rollinson stood on the platform, and she hardly recognized him. His face was a mask, grey and hollow-cheeked. He raised his hand, and moved away to the carriage door.
“Is he meetin’ you?” The old man had struggled to his feet, clasping his suitcase. “Right then,” he continued, “I’ll be off now. Goodbye, me duck. Chin up.” And he moved surprisingly swiftly to the door and disappeared.
“Where’s he gone?” said Marion urgently to Brian, who took her case.
“Who?”
“The old man! I must thank … Oh well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. He was so kind.” She looked at Brian, forcing herself to meet his eyes. Then she put out her hand and touched his arm. “It couldn’t be bloody worse, could it,” she said.
THIRTY-SEVEN
HALFWAY TO LONG FARNDEN, MARION SAID SUD-denly into the silence between them, “Where are we going to stay? Isn’t your house …?”
“Completely ruined,” said Brian. He seemed glad of a chance to speak about something practical. “But there’s a very nice woman—runs a cleaning business in the village—has offered to put me up until I find somewhere to rent. She’s got spare beds now her children have left home.”
“What about me?”
“Room for you, too. It’s a nice old family house, used to belong to a doctor.”
“What’s her name, this cleaning woman?”
“Um, she’s a bit more than that, Marion. A business woman, really. Lois Meade, she’s called. One of her staff cleans—er, used to clean—the vicarage. Sandy took the girl out once or twice.” There, he had said his name. It had just come out naturally, and Brian was glad. Perhaps now it would not be so difficult.
Marion was silent. She felt unreal, as if all this was happening to somebody else, somebody she was inhabiting by mistake. She heard herself say, “Sandy taking out a char? Doesn’t sound like him.” And then wondered how she could say something so awful.
Brian sprang to Sharon’s defence. “I don’t think he saw her as a char,” he said. “Just a pretty girl, and fun to be with. She works in the shop sometimes, too. Her father has a garage in the village. Very respectable folk.”
The initial warmth between them was chilling rapidly. Well, thought Brian, it was more natural. It wouldn’t be long before Marion got around to blaming him. Perhaps rightly? He had not slept at all, although Lois and Derek had been so kind when he had knocked at their door. It had been late, but their welcome was warm. Gran had appeared, too, and in no time he was shown to a pleasant bedroom and told that he could sleep as long as he liked next morning. All night long he had gone over and over his actions before he went to the pub. Had he left an unguarded fire? No. Sandy had accused him of neglecting it, of nearly letting it out. The fireguard was definitely put back. The kitchen, then? Had the cooker been on, with something boiling dry? He could not remember. He wondered if he would ever remember.
Now this morning his thoughts were still confused. He was uncomfortably aware that he had drunk more than intended. His head ached, and beside him in the car Marion was silent again. When they drew up outside Lois’s house, she peered through the window and then curled up in her seat like a child. “I can’t go through with it.” Her voice was muffled by her hands. “I can’t do it, Brian. I want to go home.”
He leaned across and gently took both her hands. “Marion, my dear,” he said. “We have to go through this together, somehow. You have every reason to hate me. I took your husband away, and now I have failed to look after your son. But I loved them both. We have that in common. It is all we have. Useless to ask you to trust me, but I will do my best to make it as easy as possible for you. The Meades and Gran Weedon are good souls.”
She stared at him, her eyes full once more. “All right, then,” she said finally. “Let’s go.”
LOIS WAS NOT THERE TO MEET THEM, BUT GRAN HAD A gift for making people comfortable, and Marion and Brian found themselves settled in armchairs in the warm sitting room, with cups of coffee and the door shut tactfully as Gran retired to the kitchen.
Marion spoke first. “There’ll be arrangements to make.” She could not bring herself to say “the funeral.”
“The main things, date and time and so on, are taken care of,” Brian said. The cup rattled as he put it down into the saucer.
Marion noticed. Good, she thought. He’s very shaky. Suffering, no doubt, all over again. Well, that’s justice.
“I was sure you’d have details you wanted to discuss, about the service—readings, hymns, that sort of thing.” Brian was terrified. He was usually so good at this bit, consoling the bereaved with his confident expertise. Now he was on tenterhooks, waiting for Marion to burst out at him, accusing him of … well, of the worst thing she could think of. He ploughed on, suggesting suitable music, and perhaps a reading or two she might approve. “The girl I was telling you about, Sharon Miller, plays the church organ, and I’ll ask her to pop in so we can discuss it.”
Suddenly Marion stood up. “We’re not planning a bloody party!” she hissed. “So just shut up! You’ve ruined my life twice now, and I don’t ever, ever want to talk to you again! Sandy will be buried in our town, next to his father, and I’ll find another parson to take the service. You can stay away. As far away as possible. I never want to see you again. Ever!”
She rushed blindly out of the room, looked wildly about her in the hall, and ran down the passage towards the kitchen.
“Ah, there you are, dear,” said Gran, wiping her wet hands on a towel. “Now, sit down in this old chair—move the cat—and we can have a bit of a chat. That’s it, put the cushion behind your back. Now, I’ll just get this in the oven and we can relax.”
LOIS HAD RECEIVED A TELEPHONE CALL FROM COWGILL early on. She’d reluctantly agreed to meet him in Alibone Woods, but said there was nothing to tell him. This was not strictly true, as she knew he would be interested in the party in the Hall stables. He’d want to know about Annabelle, too, and what she was doing back in Farnden when her grandmother was away. She wondered whether to tell him the vicar was living temporarily with them. It would sharpen his interest, without a doubt. There’d be questions he’d want her to ask. She could not deny that a tiny part of her charitable offer had been self-interest. With Brian Rollinson in her own house, much was bound to emerge in casual conversation. There would be no need for formal questions.
At breakfast, after the vicar had gone to the station, she had asked Gran casually if she knew anybody in Tresham called Cockshutt. Her reaction had been instant. “Do I!” she said. “If it’s the Cockshutts who used to live down by the river, then there’s quite a lot I could tell you.”
“Could be them,” Lois had said, and listened to a succinctly told tale of generati
ons of Cockshutts following in the family tradition of sailing close to the wind in numberless nefarious practices. “So Darren is no exception,” she’d said. Gran didn’t know exactly which one he was, but there were rumours of a Cockshutt who’d made good, unlikely as it seemed. “Well, made money, maybe,” Lois had muttered, “though not much good.”
All of this she could relay to Cowgill, who probably knew most of it anyway. Cockshutts had doubtless been known to the Tresham police for years.
She parked off the road in her usual place, and thought how much more visible a white van must be than her old brown car. She shrugged. This meeting would be a quick one, and after that he’d have to find another place to meet. But not that barn behind the playing field! That had caused enough trouble several years ago …
He was waiting for her, by the old tree stump. His face lit up, in spite of himself, and he said, “Ah, Lois. Good morning.” Even in an old anorak and Wellington boots, with her dark, shiny hair tied back severely from her face, she scrambled his mind so that for a second he couldn’t think what on earth he wanted to ask her.
Lois sniffed. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and something fell to the ground. She bent down to pick it up, and said, “Go on, then. You start.”
Never gives me a chance, thought Cowgill ruefully. But that was right. She wouldn’t be his Lois any other way.
She was staring down, and he said, “What’ve you got there? Looks like a ball …”
It was a ball. A very small, plastic ball, muddy now, but discoloured by smoky black soot.
“I picked it up. I remember now,” Lois said. “I trod on it near the vicarage. It was dark, and I put it in my pocket. Then forgot it.” She rubbed it against her jacket to get rid of the mud and soot.
“Ugh!” she said, looking more closely. “It’s an eye! It’s horrible!” She held it up, and Cowgill could see now quite clearly. It was an eye, realistically made in clear plastic, with a rolling inner eyeball, the white part delicately laced with scarlet veining, and in the centre a menacing blue pupil with black iris. As Lois turned it in her hand, the eyeball swivelled appallingly so that it still stared at her.
“I’ve seen them before,” he said with distaste. “The grandchildren had one, and my daughter took it away from them. She put it in the bin, I think. Very nasty indeed.”
Lois wasn’t listening to him. She was thinking about eyes, about a wandering eye that swivelled independently from its fellow. Sharon Miller.
“It might be nastier than you think,” she said slowly. “Think where I found it. Nobody at the vicarage has children. Why should it be there? Doesn’t it remind you of something … somebody?” She hesitated. Perhaps she would speak to Sharon first, if he didn’t respond.
“No, it doesn’t,” he said, puzzled. “The most likely thing I can think is that children were playing with it in the churchyard and it bounced over the wall. These things are extremely bouncy. Dangerous, really. Another reason my daughter—”
“Fine,” interrupted Lois. “I’m sure you’re right. Anyway, let’s get on. I’ve got things to do.”
He asked her a number of questions then, about the people seen watching the fire and what she knew of Sandy Mackerras. He said they had found mercury in Cyril’s stomach, and were still working on the mystery of how it got there. It had been only a trace. Had she heard any more about the old man’s movements before that night? And what about Sharon Miller and the Cockshutt lout?
She told him about the party at the Hall, but kept to herself her vague thoughts about the eyeball. Speak to Sharon first, and then maybe she’d have something to tell him. But there was something else.
“We saw Annabelle Tollervey-Jones,” she said. “She drove past us as we walked home from the fire, Derek and Jamie and me. Jamie saw her, and got upset. I thought she was supposed to have gone back to London, and so did he. Her gran’s away, so she wasn’t visiting her. Funny, her being back on the night of the fire. I don’t know if she saw us, but she gave no sign.”
“Annabelle?” Cowgill was all attention. “Are you sure it was her?”
“I told you,” said Lois impatiently. “Jamie saw her, and he was sure. He should know, shouldn’t he?” Why was Cowgill suddenly so interested in Annabelle?
“Right,” he said, and took her arm. “Time to go. You’re busy, and I must make a call. You’ve been very useful, Lois, as usual. We’ll keep in touch.”
But not by holding on to me, thought Lois, shaking off his hand. “Next time,” she said, “find a nice quiet, warm place where nobody goes. This wood is not good for old bones,” she added, and regretted it at once. Poor old sod, he’d never done her any harm, never overstepped the mark. “Not that that applies to either of us,” she said quickly.
Too late, Lois, Cowgill reflected sadly. Professionalism took over, and he went rapidly to his car. They left more or less at the same time, and she noticed that he branched off at the turn to the Hall.
THIRTY-EIGHT
HOW COULD HE HAVE BEEN SO STUPID? BRIAN Rollinson sat where Marion had left him, close by the fire in Lois’s sitting room. What had made him think Sandy’s funeral would be in Farnden? He sighed. Wishful thinking, probably. Or just general derangement. He had an odd sensation of floating just above the ground, not properly connected to what was going on. Should he follow Marion and apologize?
He got up and opened the door quietly. He listened. There were voices coming from the kitchen. Gran and Marion. He heard Gran laugh gently. Oh well, it was probably all right then. For the moment. Perhaps they wouldn’t mind if he joined them.
Gran looked up as he stood in the kitchen doorway. “Come on in, Vicar,” she said. “Coffee’s still hot. I’m sure you could do with another cup. Sit yourself down.”
Marion didn’t look at him, but stared down at the table.
“We were just talking,” continued Gran. “Marion was telling me about where she lives. Sounds a very nice place. We shall go, of course. Lois and Derek will want to, I know.”
“Go?” Brian said stupidly.
“To the funeral,” said Gran. “We can give you a lift if you like.”
He glanced quickly at Marion. “Well, I’m not sure that I’ll be able to … er …”
She looked first at Gran and then at him. “I’m sorry, Brian,” she said flatly. There was a pause, and then she continued, “I’d like you to be there. I’d like you to take the service … if it wouldn’t be loo …”
“Oh … oh, well … yes, of course, Marion … um, er, thank you.”
Gran nodded approvingly, and said that it was time she got on with cooking the dinner, and maybe they’d like to go out for a breath of air. They could walk out of the gate at the bottom of the garden, round the footpath to the stream, and come back without having to meet anybody.
She watched as they disappeared down the garden path, and shook her head sadly. Marion had told her everything. Or nearly everything. Poor woman. It must have been hard for her, bringing up Sandy on her own. He’d been only two and a bit at the time of Gerald’s accident, and Marion had found it easy enough to give a convincing account of that. Later, with Brian’s co-operation, they’d managed to keep his and Gerald’s brief love affair secret from the boy. Gran thought that Marion had told her all, but of course she had not. She had kept to herself that impulsive moment when she’d thought it time a convalescing Sandy should know the whole truth.
The plan for Sandy to lodge with his godfather for a while had been Marion’s. “If only I’d had second thoughts about that,” she’d said sadly to Gran. “He’d still be here, wouldn’t he?” She’d swallowed hard. “I don’t know why I suggested it. Well, yes, I do know,” she had added, in an attempt at perfect honesty. “I thought Sandy’s presence—and he did look very like his father, you know—would disturb any peace of mind that Brian had managed to find. Not a praiseworthy motive …”
It was going to be a long haul for everybody, and the most useful thing Gran could think of was to make s
ure they were all well fed. Jamie hadn’t eaten much at breakfast, and she planned a sustaining meal for this evening. Something up with the boy. He hadn’t forgotten Annabelle, she was sure of that.
AT THE MUSIC SHOP IN TRESHAM, JAMIE WALKED through to the little office and spoke to the plump, kindly proprietor. “You don’t look so good, Jamie,” she said. “Feeling all right?”
He shook his head. “I think it might be a touch of flu,” he said. “Sore throat, shivery, achy bones, that stuff. I wonder if I could slip off now …”
She was a motherly soul, and sent him away immediately. “Let me know if you need more time,” she said. He hadn’t been himself for a while. She’d noticed he was distracted, and had made one or two mistakes in the shop. He’d sold an empty CD case to a stroppy woman who’d demanded that “that oik” should deliver the missing CD to her that day. Something was wrong with Jamie, and she guessed it was not flu.
It had begun to rain as Jamie started up his motorbike and set off for Farnden. Then, at the turn to the Hall, he branched off and, like Cowgill, followed the little lane until he came to big stone pillars at the Hall entrance. The gates were open, and he drove steadily up the long drive, curving round to the stableyard. There was no sign of life. Mrs. T-J must still be away, then. He parked his bike and peered through all the windows. The horses greeted him with pleasure, nuzzling his hand, looking for food. Somebody must be looking after them, he guessed. A pile of dung steamed in a barrow by the stable door.
He was convinced Annabelle had been here, but could see no trace of her. Then he remembered the empty cottages. It was worth a look. Best to walk, he considered, rather than advertise his presence on the bike. It would be safe enough here in the yard.
He set off down the grassy track, noting encouraging tyre marks. As he approached the cottages, he stopped. There was certainly a car outside. In fact, there were two cars, and one of them was Annabelle’s. The other he did not recognize. He quickly pushed through the hedge and continued through the spinney bordering the track. Close now to the cottage garden, he heard voices, and two figures appeared. One was Annabelle, and his heart leapt. The other was … wasn’t it? … yes, it was. Mum’s cop. What on earth was he doing here? Whatever it was, Jamie judged it best to keep himself hidden.
