by Ann Purser
“Punctual to a fault, that’s me,” said Lois, hanging up her coat. “You could set your watch by me, Mrs Rix.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure you’re right,” said Mary Rix. “This morning I’d like you to help me make up the beds in the spare room and then give the whole of upstairs an extra good going over. We have friends coming to stay from Sweden and you know how houseproud they are.”
Lois didn’t, but nodded and went to the linen cupboard for sheets and pillowcases. Mary Rix was at her heels and as they passed the firmly shut nursery door, Lois said, “Shall I go round in there with a duster? Freshen it up a bit?”
Mary Rix’s reply was cold. “No thank you,” she said. “No one but myself is allowed in that room.”
“Not even the doctor?” said Lois. “After all, I suppose the baby was his, too?” Oh Lord, that’s gone too far.
Mrs Rix had pulled up short and was glaring at Lois. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said and followed it up with the closest she dared to a reprimand. “I don’t think it has anything to do with you.”
“But Mrs Rix,” said Lois. “I don’t mean any harm,” she continued quietly. For all her reputation, Lois knew when to be gentle. “I’ve worked for you long enough to be trusted, surely? It seems silly if I’m up here with the cleaner and dusters and things not to go in and clean round. I’ll be very careful and you can tell me what’s what.”
There was a long pause, and then Mary Rix’s face crumpled and reddened. “Tell you what’s what?” she said. “I don’t know what is what, Lois, and that’s the truth,” she blurted out. “There’s no baby and never will be. I don’t know why I…” Then she was in real tears and Lois opened the nursery door slowly, taking Mary Rix by the hand.
“Show me,” she said. “It’ll not do any harm.”
It was dark in the room and Lois drew back the curtains, noticing prints of yellow sailing boats on a blue and white sea. A weak wintry sun penetrated the room and Lois led Mary Rix to a chair by the small white wicker cradle. “There,” she said. “I’ll just dust round carefully and you can tell me about it. If you want to, that is.”
Lois felt a pang of deep sympathy for Mary Rix as she lifted up fluffy dogs and plastic ducks, dusted underneath, and then moved on to an unused dolls’ house, the door standing open and all the furniture and tiny inhabitants standing inside, waiting.
“You don’t want to hear my sorry story,” began the doctor’s wife.
“I do,” said Lois simply.
Mary Rix hesitated, and then said, “It’s common enough, but still cruel, for all that. I’d tried so many times for a baby and always lost them in the first few weeks. Then it looked hopeful. I got to five months and could feel her kicking. It was a girl, they told me, when – ” she scrubbed her eyes with a handkerchief and pulled herself together – “when I began to lose blood, and finally miscarried. No baby, nothing to show for those weeks of waiting and hoping. No little person to occupy the nursery we’d finally dared to set up. No little girl for Andrew to spoil and cuddle. Only emptiness inside me and between us in this big old house.” She paused and put her hand over her eyes.
The silence became embarrassing, and Lois said, “Didn’t you try again?”
Mary shook her head, sadly. “I was really too old and Andrew wasn’t keen. He said the disappointment was too hard for me to bear, but I think he meant himself as well. Then we didn’t talk about it again. I shut the door on the nursery and didn’t go in for weeks. After that, I started creeping in here when Andrew was out, just to think about that little one who almost made it. I mean, nowadays they can do wonders with premature babies, can’t they?”
Lois quietly opened the window a notch. “Shall we let in some fresh air,” she said. “It’s a bit stuffy in here. Blow the cobwebs away, an’ that.”
Mary Rix sat for a long time as Lois busied herself about the room. Without realising it, Lois was humming and an ordinary sort of calm spread around the room. It was as if time had started again in that room and everyday life had been allowed in.
Mary Rix sighed deeply and stood up. “Lois,” she said, her voice shaky at first, then stronger. “Next week, I want you to help me turn out this room.”
“Oh, but – ”
“No, I mean it. It’s time. We’ll sort out stuff to take to the local hospital’s premature baby unit. I could do with a sewing room, now I’ve taken up patchwork. We had a demonstration at Open Minds and we’re all at it now! Yes, that’s it, that’s what we’ll do.” She smiled at Lois. “You’re a good girl,” she said. “I shan’t forget your kindness. Now I’ll go and put on the kettle and you can carry on as usual.” She put her hand briefly on Lois’s shoulder, and then was gone, her step firm on the stairs.
Lois finished cleaning the sad little room and moved on to the landing. She shut the door, but then changed her mind. “Let’s see if you mean it,” she said softly, and opened it again, leaving a small draught that made the yellow sailing boats dance upon the blue and white summer sea.
∗
“Hello? Oh, it’s you.” Lois, back home as the telephone began to ring, looked round to see if anyone was listening. “What?…Hunter Cowgill again?…Well, I suppose so, but I haven’t got much…Where, then? Round the back of the bike sheds? No, no, it was a joke…Yes, I’m at the nurse’s on Wednesdays…Difficult? Well, I’ll have to think of something. Shall I come to the cottage back door? And will he wear a red carnation so’s I shall recognise – ” Before she had finished her sentence, Keith Simpson had replaced the receiver.
“Who was that?” said Josie, coming through the door with a miserable expression. “Not Melv?”
Lois shook her head. “No, not Melv. Just someone for me. And for goodness sake cheer up, child. You look like something the cat’s brought in.”
“Funny you should say that,” said Josie, delving into her school bag. “Melv sent me a goodbye present…one of the kids down his road brought it in. Ouch!” she added as she pulled out a spitting kitten, its claws extended and a wild look in its blue eyes.
“Oh God!” said Lois. “That’s all we need – and a ginger tom, too! I don’t know what your father will say.”
“He likes cats,” said Josie confidently. “I’m going to call him Mel, to remind me of my own true love.”
Twenty-Four
Both Barratts were out when Lois arrived the next day, so she used her own key to enter the quiet, tidy house. Her feelings were mixed. She could always get on faster in a house where nobody was at home, but now she felt it was an opportunity lost, no chance of a conversation that might give her a useful lead.
At least I can have a snoop, she thought, as she climbed the stairs to the bedrooms. She paused outside the bathroom, where she usually began, but thought perhaps today she’d start right at the top, in Malcolm’s attic study, and work her way down. Won’t matter, with nobody at home, she said to herself.
The door to the study was open and, feeling suddenly nervous, Lois peeped round the door. “Yoo hoo!” she called. There was no answer, so she went over to empty the waste-paper basket. She recalled Malcolm’s nasty habit of catching her bending whenever he got the chance, and from force of habit whipped round quickly as if to catch him at it.
There was nothing of interest in the bin, but as she dusted his desk she saw an address book open at the ‘P’ page. Idly glancing down the names, her eye was caught by a single Christian name – ‘Pamela’. No surname, no address, just an enigmatic telephone number. Lois recognised the code. Was it Malcolm’s unlucky day? Auntie Ginnie, her mother’s sister, lived in Edinburgh and kept in touch, and Lois knew the code off by heart. Well now, it might be interesting to dial this number and pretend a bit. Better do it from home, thought Lois, oddly scrupulous about wasting the Barratts’ money.
The uneasy feeling that someone might be in the house followed her from room to room. It seemed sad to Lois that she would probably feel the same in all her houses, now that the murder had spread poison round
the whole village. It wouldn’t be any different until the murderer had been discovered and all the circulating suspicions could die down and the village get back to normal.
She found nothing more of interest in the Barratts’ house. In fact, she stopped looking. Can’t do it, she thought. Not while they’re out. It’s not right. Some rules, it seemed to Lois, must be established if she was going on with this. She did not have the legal right to search private property and anyway felt dishonest. Information picked up by chance was fair game…but not this snooping around. She wouldn’t ring that Pamela woman after all, whoever she was. She left promptly and called in at the village shop for a loaf of bread before going back to Tresham. The bread was wonderful here and though the kids preferred Tesco’s sliced white, Derek and she ate the village shop wholemeal loaf as if it was cake. Mmmm…a slice of toast with butter and honey. Lois dreamed of sitting by the fire, indulging herself.
“Morning, Lois!” It was Gillian Surfleet, bustling into the shop with a big smile for everyone. “Finished at the Barratts?”
Lois nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, and found herself wondering why Gillian was so smiley, so anxious to please this morning. There it was again. Suspicion is an evil thing, creeping everywhere, and she hated herself for her own thoughts about a woman she would have trusted with her life. “Bye, then,” she said, and drove home through the empty lanes. Confused and unable to sort out her own part in all this, she thought of her meeting the next day. Perhaps that would make things clearer. As she drove into the quiet estate and saw her own house, the warm centre of her life, she was tempted to forget all about Gloria Hathaway, not turn up tomorrow, and cancel the arrangement. But then she remembered how much she knew already and what new avenues might open up. Was it her duty to continue? She couldn’t decide, and then thought of Cowgill’s casual warning. She might be in danger herself. The murderer might strike a second time.
∗
Wednesday dawned with a clear, pale blue winter sky. The sun sparkled on the early morning frost in the gardens of Tresham’s Churchill Estate, and Derek leaned out of the bedroom window to breathe in the clean air. A line from a school poem of Josie’s ran through his head: “And chimney cowls like little owls, turn in the morning air.” Lovely, that was. He’d seen one of those turning cowls somewhere on his travels. Farnden, it was. Yes, it was in Lois’s cleaning village. Now which house? He’d done work in several of them. Ah yes, that was it, Miss Hathaway’s. The chocolate-box cottage belonging to poor old Gloria. Well, she wasn’t poor and she wasn’t old, but she was certainly dead, mused Derek with a sigh.
“You at the nurse’s this morning, Lois?” Derek thought he should show some interest, though he was determined to keep any discussion of Farnden to a minimum.
“Yes, as usual on a Wednesday.” Lois was sharp, still in a gloomy mood from yesterday’s confused deliberations. “I shall be a bit late back. Got some shopping to do.” She hadn’t told him about the meeting in Gloria’s cottage. There were quite a few things she hadn’t told Derek about her investigations. She knew he was getting fed up with it all and had lately changed the subject every time she opened it. Now she didn’t try. Well, that was all right. Naturally a bloke didn’t want his brains bothered after a hard day’s work. All he asked for was a good tea, feet up and the television on. If the kids needed help with their homework, he was always willing, but even that was getting difficult for him now they were older. Education was a very different thing from when he was a lad.
“I’ll get me own dinner, then,” he said. “Working in Tresham today, so I could go to the pub and have a sandwich.”
“You needn’t make it sound like a penance,” said Lois. “No doubt a pint or two will go down well with the sandwich.”
“Blimey! What’s eating you this morning? Better go back to bed and get out my side. Anyway, I’m off. See you at teatime.”
He left without kissing her goodbye and this added to the dismal beginning to Lois’s day. She’d be better out of it. Leave it to the police and those who know how to go about it all. Floundering about, she thought. That’s me, and I could be doing more harm than good.
Her mother bore off the kids, with Josie lagging behind, not wanting to be seen in the company of her grandmother. Lois had noticed Josie was quiet this morning. She’s got the hump too, she thought, same as me. Poor kid. Lois remembered the pangs of first love only too well. She emptied the kitten’s tray into the back garden and made a face. Ugh! She thought she’d done with all that. Josie would have to take responsibility. It should cheer her up to be looking after something connected with Melvyn.
Gillian Surfleet’s welcome was as vigorous as always and her face as sunny as Lois’s was dark. “Lovely morning, Lois! Winter mornings like this really lift the spirits, don’t you think. All my old ladies will be just a bit brighter. Sunshine should not be underrated as a cure for depression, I reckon…” She looked closer at Lois. “Speaking of which,” she added, “you don’t look so cheerful yourself. What’s up? Anything I can help with?”
Lois shook her head. “It’ll pass,” she said. “Just a few things getting on top of me. They’ll sort themselves out. Thanks anyway,” she added, and was ashamed at another pang of suspicion. Is she hoping to pump me for what I know? Lois dismissed the thought and got on with her work. She found herself hoping that she wouldn’t find out anything suspicious today. I’ll just have the morning off from being supersleuth, she decided. Maybe I’ll give up altogether. Nurse Surfleet conveniently went off on her rounds after coffee and Lois finished her cleaning a few minutes early.
Hunter Cowgill was waiting for her in Gloria’s back garden and allowed himself a small smile. His wife had given him hell this morning for breaking a bottle of milk, and the sight of Lois, fresh and slim in her working overall, pleased him. “This way,” he said briskly, and led her into the damp kitchen. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said, and Lois couldn’t resist.
“Is that an offer?” she said, and was delighted to see the Inspector blush.
“I’ll ignore that,” he said. He led the way into Gloria’s bedroom, and grimaced. “This whole cottage needs opening up and cleaning properly,” he said. “Let’s hope it won’t be too long before we can turn it over to the executors to put it on the market.”
“Might be difficult to sell,” said Lois. “What with the previous owner being murdered, and that.”
“But not in the cottage,” said Cowgill. “It wasn’t on the premises. Anyway, let’s get down to business.”
After a few seconds hesitation, Lois made a decision. It was neither a good nor a bad decision, as it turned out. Perhaps a bit of both. “There is something,” she said. “Might not be news to you, but I’ve noticed some funny stains on one or two jackets in houses where I go. All in the same place, on the sleeves,” she said. “And I think I know where the marks come from.”
Cowgill looked disappointed. “Creosote,” he said. “Off Gloria’s front porch. We were on to that one ages ago.” He sighed, and then added, “Still, it was clever of you to spot it too, Lois. Just for the record,” he added, “tell me which jackets you’re talking about.”
Lois answered flatly. “The vicar’s, the doctor’s, and Prof Barratt’s. And all had good reasons for standing in Gloria’s porch.”
Cowgill nodded. “Yes, we’ve checked on those,” he said. “Professor Barratt is the weak one, but he does – ” and they chorused together – “deliver the village newsletter.”
“Goes to every house,” added Lois sadly. “Ah well, not much help, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, never say that,” Cowgill consoled.
He sounds quite human, Lois thought.
“You never know where enquiries might lead. One thing connects up with another and before you know it the trail is hot,” continued Cowgill.
A jealous wife and a dangerous fall downstairs might make it hotter. Or a shrine to a long-lost baby? Something was stirring again. I can’t help it, Lois real
ized. Nosiness or duty, I can’t help it. Whichever, Lois cheered up. She told him about Evangeline’s fall and Dallas’s odd reaction. “Might not mean anything,” she said, but he looked interested and made a note in his book.
“Keep your eyes open there,” he said. “Anything else?” She thought of the Rixes and their sadness, but decided to keep that to herself for the moment.
She shook her head and said, “Well, now it’s your turn. What were you going to tell me?”
“Ask you, I said.” Cowgill was back to being professional again. “It was something I wanted to show you and see if it rang any bells.” He did have something to tell her, but that could wait.
“Well, come on then. Show me.”
Hunter Cowgill walked over to the small cabinet by Gloria’s elaborate bed. He opened a drawer and fumbled at the back. “They missed this when they searched the place,” he said, “and I found it afterwards, tucked underneath.” He handed her a small photograph, dog-eared at the corners. It was no bigger than a credit card, but the picture was clear; a close-up of a new baby, wrapped in an intricately woven shawl in its cradle. It was touching and tender, as all new babies are, and Lois felt her heart contract.
“Oh God,” she said, and then looked up at Cowgill, who was watching her closely. “Was it hers?” she said.
∗
It was not that impossible, Lois reasoned as she drove home. After all, Gloria Hathaway was known to go off on long holidays, for several months, so Nurse Surfleet had said, which was easily enough time to have a baby. But would this private, self-reliant and selfish woman have chosen to have a baby out of wedlock? Gillian Surfleet had talked a lot about Gloria lately, building up a picture in Lois’s mind. She was a pain, that was for sure. Gillian had had no hesitation in describing a difficult neighbour. But a secret baby? No, not the Miss Gloria Hathaway known by the village of Long Farnden.
It could have been a god-child, Lois considered. Certainly not very precious to Gloria, if she had shoved it to the back of a drawer. She turned into Byron Avenue, resolving to get back to her neglected notebook after a quick snack. She slowed down and saw a car parked outside her house. It was a familiar car, and Lois frowned. He must have found a quicker way back to town. It was Inspector Cowgill’s car and she could see his tall, commanding figure at her front door.
