by Ann Purser
LITTLE DID DOT KNOW HOW RIGHT SHE WAS. GERALD AND CLIVE Mowlam drove into Pickering most days, sussing out likely-looking premises where a lightning visit in the middle of the night might not be noticed. They already had a small cache of interesting articles stashed away at the back of one of Harry’s barns. It was the one where he brought in the old bull for the winter, and the boys reckoned nobody was going to bypass this great animal to look in boxes at the back of the pen. No intruder would know that old Buster was past caring about anything other than a regular supply of grub. Harry knew, of course, but that didn’t matter.
They had changed their appearance in small ways. Gerald looked for all the world like a pirate, with his black hair and an infant black beard, and Clive had let his hair grow long, sometimes anchoring it in an elderly hippy–type ponytail. But they were canny enough to maintain a careful lookout whenever in the town. They could spot a plainclothes policeman a mile away, and a sighting of the familiar New Brooms van would have sent them scurrying for cover.
This evening, Harry had once more asked them when they were thinking of leaving. His visit to John Wilson, his neighbour, had had to be postponed, as the poor chap was in hospital, having had a serious spinal operation. He would not be home for some time. So Harry had tried to settle down with the idea that he had two unpleasant lodgers whom he would avoid as much as possible. He even opened up the front parlour—only ever used for special occasions, and smelling of damp and mothballs—and lit a fire there every evening. He did not encourage company, and picked up a secondhand television set off the market. It was old, black-and-white, and did not tempt Gerald and Clive to join him.
But as Harry tramped back across the moor, Jess by his side, resentment had risen again, and he decided to try a bit of pressure. Now entering the kitchen, he said, “I’ve had a call from my cousin Jack. He wants to come and stay for a bit. Keen on hiking. He’d have a couple of friends with him. They’re all in the Yorkshire constabulary, and taking a holiday before the winter sets in.”
Gerald and Clive stared at him. Then Gerald began to laugh. Soon Clive joined in, until Gerald stopped abruptly and got up from his chair. He came close to Harry, and pointed his finger at the spot where the knife had threatened. “Nice try, Harry boy,” he said. “Now you go and watch Blue Peter, and give us a bit o’ peace. We’ve had a busy day.”
“Right,” said Harry quickly. “I’ll let them know. But I can’t stop them calling if they’re walking by. You’ll just have to be prepared to risk it.”
Gerald pointed to an empty chair. “Sit down, Harry, and listen,” he said. “If any members of the Yorkshire constabulary find their way here, and call in to see you, you will never utter a word again. We’ll make sure of that. Oh no, we shan’t kill you—yet—but there’ll be a nasty accident. Farm accidents are common. Bits of machinery flying off and cutting through legs and arms—and throats. Months in hospital, probably. But don’t worry, Harry boy, we’ll look after the farm for yer. And Jess here will help, I’m sure. If not, we’ll have to get a replacement, won’t we, Clive? Sheepdogs are vital on these moorland farms.”
Harry fled from the room, closely followed by Jess, and shut himself in the parlour, locking the door behind him. He was trembling violently, and then something Gerald had said struck him forcefully. There was still a way out. “And it will all depend on you, Jessie love,” he said, fondling her ears.
TWENTY-TWO
ROBERT TOLLERVEY-JONES HAD DISCUSSED WITH FELICITY late into the night the sale of Farnden Hall. Now, still at home after taking the children to school, he called the office and told them he would be in by midday.
To Felicity, he said, “I should ring Mother this morning, don’t you think? That’s what we agreed, didn’t we? To be honest, darling, it was so late I can’t remember all of it!”
“I can,” said Felicity. “You are going to suggest you take over all the preliminary contacts with two or three major estate agents, stressing the need for speed, and then present their reports and proposals to Mother for her to decide who shall handle the sale.”
Robert grimaced. “She won’t wear it, you know. She’ll want to be in on everything, right from the beginning.”
“Well, it’s worth a try,” Felicity said, handing him the phone.
MRS. TOLLERVEY-JONES HAD ALSO BEEN AWAKE UNTIL THE SMALL hours. This was the biggest decision of her life, and she was well aware that had she been twenty years younger, it would have been a great deal easier. When she did finally fall asleep, she dreamed that generations of Tollervey-Joneses arose from the dead and dragged her screaming to the duck pond to drown her for a witch.
She had awoken fighting her way out from under the duvet, and been relieved to hear the despised pigeons cooing the advent of daylight.
Now she picked up the phone, and was grateful for the sound of her son’s voice. She was not, however, so amiably disposed towards him when he made his proposal. “Good gracious, no, Robert! I must be in charge at every step. As for choosing an agent for the sale, that is no problem. Your late Aunt Katherine married a Francis from Lord & Francis. Very old and reputable agents, with branches everywhere. Very used to dealing with sales of country estates. I have already been in touch. Extremely nice young man. Knowledgeable and from a good family. I explained everything, and he is coming here tomorrow. Eleven o’clock. Can you be here?”
Back on form, thought Robert. “Hey, Mother, hold on!” he said. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to ask a couple of other agents to submit competitive reports? That is the usual way.”
“I am not the usual client. I want this whole business to be completed as soon as possible. Do try to be here tomorrow. I am perfectly capable of managing, as you know, but . . .” She hesitated, and Robert said quickly that of course he would be there.
“Perhaps I’ll come down this evening, when we can have a preliminary chat,” he suggested.
“Not necessary, dear,” she said. “I have everything at my fingertips. Goodbye now. Oh, and love to Felicity and the children. Goodbye.”
Felicity looked at his face, and could not help smiling. “So?” she said.
“She’s got everything at her fingertips,” he said glumly. “I’m to be in Farnden at eleven o’clock tomorrow for a meeting with Lord & Francis. Aunt Katherine married a Francis, apparently.”
Felicity raised her eyebrows. “Then of course that is settled,” she said. “One fewer decision to make. Thank your lucky stars she’s still extremely sharp.”
“I suggested going down tonight. But she pooh-poohed that idea.”
“Just as well, Robert! It’s the school’s choral concert this evening. You can’t have forgotten? All that singing around the house for weeks?”
“What? You mean Jeeesus Christ, Soooper Star?” Robert broke into song, but Felicity was not impressed.
“Yes, and we have to be there, come hell or high water. Now, shouldn’t you be going?”
“IS THAT MRS. MEADE?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones. Are you feeling better?”
“I am perfectly well, thank you. Now, I need some help here tomorrow. I have a very important meeting at eleven o’clock, and I shall need someone to be in the kitchen and so on for the rest of the day. Estate agents are coming down for preliminaries, and no doubt they’ll be expecting lunch and sundry other refreshments during the day. It would be perfect if Paula and Floss could help out. I am prepared to pay a little more for weekend rates.”
“No need,” said Lois. “We shall be delighted to help an old and valued customer.”
“There will be two of them. And of course, my son Robert will be here.”
“Oh, that’s good,” said Lois sympathetically. She might have saved her breath, since Mrs. T-J replied that she expected him to return by an early train. “With the girls helping in the house, we shall be more than capable,” she said, making it clear that Robert was only a minor figure in this whole enterprise.
Poor Robert, thought Lois. A bit like Pri
nce Charles. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Never to be master of Farnden Hall. Still, from what she had seen of his wife, Felicity, they were a thoroughly urban family, happily settled in London and likely to remain there.
By the time she had called Paula and Floss, and shuffled the rota to accommodate Mrs. Tollervey-Jones, it was lunchtime, and she followed the appetising smell of cottage pie through to the kitchen.
“Any help needed?” she said. Gran replied that the offer was a bit late. Everything was ready and waiting for Derek to come home.
“But he took sandwiches. Needed every hour of the day to finish the job by Monday, he said.”
Gran shrugged. “I told him it would be on the table at one, and left it at that. We shall see.”
“But I made him delicious ham and pickle sandwiches!”
“We shall see,” Gran repeated.
On the dot of one, Derek appeared. “Hi, girls,” he said as he came into the kitchen. Lois greeted him with a stony face.
“I shall be going into Tresham this afternoon,” she said. “I need new walking boots for going to Pickering, and then I’ll call in to see Hazel in the office. She says we have a couple of new clients to see.”
“Ah,” said Derek. “I’ve just remembered. That Norrington chap, where Andrew was going to do some decorating and stuff. He must have recognised my van, and came looking for me. He asked me to give you a message. Said he might have a large contract for you in due course, and wants to come and discuss it with you.”
“Why didn’t he ring?”
“Saving money, I suppose.”
“If it’s Farnden Hall he’s talking about, he should be able to afford a phone call. Anyway, I’ll give him a ring. Thanks, Derek. More cottage pie?”
FOR THE REST OF THE DAY, MRS. TOLLERVEY-JONES WENT through all the papers her husband had kept so methodically in his study. She had had no reason to disturb them since his death, apart from extracting his will, which had been meticulously prepared by solicitors many years ago. It had been unusually straightforward in many ways. The estate had been left to her in its entirety, with provisos for Robert and other members of the family, and restrictions on what could be done with the tenanted farms in the event that the estate should be sold. It had plainly been in Mr. Tollervey-Jones’s mind that this was a very unlikely eventuality. He had a son, and it did not occur to him that in due course he would not want to carry on running the estate.
She set out all the relevant files on the large desk, which was, on Mrs. Tollervey-Jones’s instructions, regularly dusted and polished by New Brooms. Since Paula had started work at the hall, a small vase of flowers had appeared each week on the desk. Mrs. Tollervey-Jones had said nothing, but smiled. Her late husband had suffered terribly from allergies of all kinds, and could not bear the scent of flowers anywhere near him.
John Thornbull, husband of Hazel, who managed the Tresham New Brooms office, held the tenancy of one of the two farms, and retired workers from the estate occupied three small cottages. Details of their secure tenancies were carefully detailed, and all seemed to be in order for the arrival of Lord & Francis tomorrow morning. There was even a yellowing, ragged old map showing the boundaries of the estate, and as far as Mrs. T-J could see, nothing much had changed for generations.
“LUCKY FOR YOU, LOIS, THAT PAULA AND FLOSS CAN DO TOMORROW,” Derek said when he came home for tea. “No chance of you filling in, like you usually do.” He was still sore over Lois’s determination to go off tomorrow with Dot Nimmo to Pickering. “I should have thought it would be just up your street,” he added acidly, “eavesdropping on such an important meeting. Who knows what you might have picked up?”
“Not a lot on who were the two thugs who beat you up!” Lois was stung. Derek was not usually so nasty. Now he pounced.
“Ah, so that’s why you’re off to Yorkshire, is it? Might have known it wasn’t just a treat for Dot Nimmo. I didn’t approve before, Lois, and I don’t approve even more now. Those high moors are dangerous places! Supposing the car breaks down and you’re miles from anywhere.”
“And it begins to snow, an’ a great black dog comes howling through the blizzard, showing its huge teeth and baying for blood. Oh, come on, Derek. They didn’t have mobile phones in Sherlock Holmes’s day, but I’ll make sure Dot’s and mine are charged up.”
Gran was grinning. “I should give up, if I were you, Derek,” she said.
“You’re not me, an’ I’m her husband and head of the family, and if I thought it would do any good at all, I’d forbid them to go.”
TWENTY-THREE
DOT DREW UP OUTSIDE LOIS’S HOUSE, HOOTING LOUDLY AND waving madly, at eight o’clock sharp.
“The silly woman’ll wake the neighbourhood,” Derek said, taking Lois’s bag from her to carry out to the car. He put it in the boot, slammed the door shut and stood glowering at them from the pavement.
“Morning, Dot! Punctual as ever!” Lois said, smiling broadly to make up for Derek’s sour expression.
“And ’ve got me a Satnav,” Dot said proudly. “But you’ll have to programme it, or whatever you do. I can’t say I shall trust it, so there’s a map book in the back there, just in case.”
Lois turned to give Derek a hug and a kiss, but he was halfway up the drive to the house. “Bye!” she yelled. “I’ll give you a call when we get there.” He waved dismissively without turning round, and Dot glanced at Lois. “All right to go, then, Mrs. M?” she said.
“The truth is that Derek is not too happy about our going off into the unknown. But he’ll come round. He always does, bless him,” said Lois.
“I saw old Hunter Cowgill yesterday,” said Dot, as if the two things were unconnected. “He stopped me in the street and said I should move my car off the double yellow line if I didn’t want yet more points on my licence. He’s a nice man, deep underneath! Asked after you, of course,” she added slyly.
Lois changed the subject. “Now then, you know the way to Tresham, so I’ll get busy setting the Satnav. Do you want a man’s voice or woman’s?”
“Man’s, of course. Nice to have a man in my car again. Not that my Handy knew the way to anywhere! No sense of direction, that man.”
“You must miss him, Dot,” Lois said, suddenly aware of a change in their relationship. With Dot at the wheel, about to share a few days with her, they could no longer be boss and team cleaner. “And then you lost your son in that dreadful accident. Not a good time for you, one way and another.”
“In a funny way, and I wouldn’t say this to nobody else, Mrs. M, I miss my Handy more than our son, Haydn. He was slow, as you know, and somehow always in trouble. Handy used to say he weren’t quite slow enough. Backward, we used to call it. People thought he was cleverer than he was, an’ that was half the trouble.”
“Right!” said Lois briskly, sensing that Dot’s spirits were sinking. “We’re ready to go now. Ready to receive instructions?” She touched the small screen, and a ribbon of road began to disappear as they went along. Then the voice said, “At the next roundabout, take the third exit,” and Dot’s face was a study.
“Cor! Does he hear me if I answer?”
“No, but you can answer anyway. I have conversations with my Prudence.”
“Okay then. Message received, um, um, Beethoven!”
“Well, go on then, take the third exit,” said Lois, chuckling as they approached the roundabout.
“SO I’D BETTER BE OFF TO WORK, GRAN,” DEREK SAID, PULLING OUT yesterday’s sandwiches from his bag, and then putting them back in again. “These’ll be fine for me today,” he said as Gran took a loaf from the bread tin ready to start cutting. “I hope that Dot Nimmo will remember to take a break now and then. Nothing worse than losing concentration at the wheel.”
“Lois will see she does,” Gran said comfortingly. “Now don’t you worry, Derek. They’re a tough pair. And Lois has inherited my good common sense, thank heavens. Her father had none at all, you know? I spent all my time squashing his rash
ideas! O’ course, he said Lois took after him, but I didn’t agree. Not then anyway,” she added darkly.
“Great,” said Derek, thinking nobody knew better than Gran how to put their foot in it.
LOIS AND DOT CHATTED EASILY AS THEY DROVE STEADILY UP THE Al north. “I like this road better than the M1 motorway,” Dot said. “It’s got more things to look at. And lots of history,” she said. “Highwaymen, holding up coaches and demanding yer money or yer life!”
They approached the now much-modernised Ram Jam Inn, and Dot said she remembered her dad taking her fishing nearby when she was about six. “We went with me Uncle Charlie,” she said. “It rained cats and dogs all day, and we just sat there on the riverbank. Never caught a single fish!”
“Not all day?”
“Nope. They packed up around teatime, and took me to the Ram Jam. They were really nice there. Dried me off, and we ’ad scones and jam and cream, and a huge pot of scaldin’ hot tea. Funny how things come back to yer, ain’t it? It didn’t look nothing like this, o’ course,” she added as they parked. “Still, they might do us a toasted teacake an’ a cup of coffee.”
Settled by a wood fire, they tucked in. Leaning back in her chair, Dot said they’d made a good start, anyway. “Mrs. M?” She could see Lois frowning and staring across the room. “You seen somebody?”
Lois shrugged. “Dunno,” she said. “That bloke over by the window, on his own. I reckon I’ve seen him before somewhere.”
“Not me,” said Dot. “Complete stranger. Maybe he’s on the telly? Could be you seen him in something?”
“Maybe,” Lois said. She looked closely at Dot. “You didn’t happen to tell Cowgill about our little trip, did you?”
