7 Sorrow on Sunday

by Ann Purser

  THIRTY-TWO

  THE NEXT MORNING LOIS WAS ABOUT TO TELEPHONE Cowgill to give him a fact or two, but he rang her first. “Morning, Lois,” he said briskly. “I hope you’re well?”

  “What d’you want?” Lois replied.

  “I’m glad you’re well, because I have a job for you. And no, don’t say anything until you hear what it is.” Lois said nothing. “Lois? Are you still there?”

  “Yes,” she said, “but you told me to say nothing.”

  Cowgill sighed. “All right. Now, this is what it is. I have reason to believe that a farmer called Joe Horsley—”

  “Who lives at Willow Farm,” Lois interrupted.

  “Yes, quite right.” Cowgill’s patience was running out. “Well, I understand from my sources that he and his wife are looking for a cleaner. I’d like you to get in there first. You can make up some tale about a recommendation.”

  “No need,” Lois said smugly. “I’ve been in touch with them already—or, rather, they got in touch with me. I was sending Dot Nimmo to them, but unfortunately, as you know, she’s rather unwell at the moment.”

  “I see. Then you are ahead of me, Lois. Let me know when you’ve allocated a replacement, and I’ll be in touch.”

  “They don’t want a replacement,” Lois said. “They only wanted Dot. I wonder if you know why?”

  There was a silence, and then Cowgill said, “If I do, then probably you do, too. Shall we meet?”

  “Where?” Lois asked. “And when? I’m very busy at the moment.”

  “Ah. Of course, policemen have oodles of time to spare. Name a time and place.”

  Lois thought for a moment. Then she said, “You know the road between Waltonby and Fletching? Just beyond the golf club there’s a small spinney. You get to it across a grass field. Tomorrow, ten o’clock sharp. I’ll be watching for you. And don’t look for my car. I’ll be parked somewhere else.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Ten o’clock sharp.”

  Lois signed off. She looked down at her papers, but could not concentrate on cleaning jobs and timetables. What did she most need to know? What did she know already?

  First, that Battersby and Horsley were in cahoots about something. Probably illegal. Second, Battersby and the Nimmos had fallen out at some time in the past, and the Nimmos had caused the Colonel a good deal of trouble. Third, a young Nimmo had been killed, by a stray horse in dodgy circumstances. Fourth, Dot Nimmo had narrowly escaped death, and might still die, because of a hit-and-run driver.

  Was it likely that Battersby was still out for revenge? Not unless he was unhinged. From what she knew of him, he was far from that.

  What had she forgotten? Darren. He might have much more to say, and so far nobody had been able to coax it out of him. She could try another trip in the car, to see if he gave her a clue. It was worth a try.

  At that moment, the telephone rang again. “Hello? Oh, hello, Floss. How are you feeling?”

  “Much better, thanks, Mrs. M. I can start work tomorrow, the doc says. Is that all right with you, or are you fed up with me being off sick?”

  “Rubbish!” Lois said. “Hold on, and I’ll tell where to go tomorrow morning. Ah, yes. Back to the Hall for you. Mrs. Tollervey-Jones has been asking, and she’ll be delighted to see you. Oh yes, and by the way, have you done anything more about the Battersbys’ horse offer? You could go there in the afternoon, but the horse thing should be settled first.”

  “Dad’s fixed it. He took over, as you can imagine. All arranged, and I can go for a ride any time I like, or if I just want to go down and have a chat with Maisie, that’s all right too. And I’m well enough to do the mucking-out.”

  “Fine,” said Lois. “In that case, could you be there at two thirty as usual? Good girl. Glad you’re better. Bye.”

  So that was settled. Now, she could ring the Horsleys, grit her teeth, and suggest Evelyn Nimmo, sister of Dot. That would be neat, and might even be productive. Best to wait until after she’d seen Evelyn. She might be fine, but even though she sounded good on the telephone, you never knew. She would find out at three o’clock that afternoon. After that, she would ring the Horsleys.

  * * *

  LOIS DROVE INTO TRESHAM, AND WAS IN SEBASTOPOL Street at two. Hazel was taking details from a potential client, and Lois walked through to the kitchen to make two mugs of coffee. Then she perched on a stool until she heard the client leave with a grateful goodbye.

  “Hi, Mrs. M,” Hazel said, taking her coffee. “Nice to see you here in our small but exquisite headquarters in Sebastopol Street, one of the best areas in town.”

  “Ha, ha. So who was that?”

  “Yet another Mrs. Evans from Chapel Cornyard. The Welsh must have colonized that village a hundred years ago. Now, seriously, how is Dot?”

  Lois told her all she knew, including that Evelyn would be coming in shortly to be interviewed as a temporary stand-in for Dot. “Sounds a nice woman on the telephone,” she said, “but I’d be glad if you’d sit in. Two heads are better than one.”

  “So there’s still a chance that Dot might make it? Funny thing, isn’t it, but I was really sorry when I heard. Awful as she is—sorry, Mrs. M—there’s still something likeable about her, and I reckon if you wanted a job done she’d be solid as a rock.”

  “What kind of job?” Lois asked suspiciously. Hazel sat in this office all day most days, and with her friend living next door she heard a great deal about the goings-on in Sebastopol.

  “Well, you know the day Dot was run over? Nobody has come forward as a witness, have they? Yet I know of at least two people who might have seen the whole thing. Two tearaways who were hanging around the video shop opposite, lounging against that fence. They were there for quite a while, Maureen says. She was watching them out of her window next door, but had to go out before the accident.”

  “And I didn’t see anything until I heard the bugger brake. But, Hazel, surely somebody saw them?

  “Yeah. It was one of these somebodies who told Maureen there’d been two of them in the car. But none of them would talk to the police in a million years, and they’d fix anyone who did.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “God knows. There’s several gangs around here. I keep my head down. It’s safer that way. See no evil, hear no evil, get no evil done to you. That’s why nobody comes forward.”

  “But what’s all this got to do with Dot being solid as a rock?” Lois looked at her watch. Evelyn would be here in five minutes.

  “I reckon if she gets well, she’ll take on the job of finding out who ran into her, and won’t rest until it’s settled—one way or another! Perhaps ‘ruthless as an old terrier’ would have been a better description.”

  The door opened, and in came Evelyn Nimmo. There was little or no resemblance between the sisters. Where Dot was blonde and flashy, Evelyn was mousey and understated. She had a neat brown skirt, with good brown shoes and a cream-coloured jersey—cashmere?—long-sleeved and with a polo neck. Ninety percent of Evelyn was discreetly covered.

  Lois introduced Hazel, and indicated a chair. “Now, first of all,” she said, “what news of Dot?”

  “No news, really.” Evelyn shrugged. “But at least she’s no worse, and still holding on. It’s creepy, seeing her there, alive but not alive, if you know what I mean.” She bit her lip, and Lois said that every day she held on was more hopeful. She had no idea if this was true, but Evelyn’s face brightened.

  They talked for ten minutes or so, and both Lois and Hazel asked a few questions. It quickly became clear that Evelyn was more than suitable for the job. In fact, Lois was worried that she might consider cleaning beneath her. “Are you really sure that you will like this kind of work?” she asked.

  Evelyn shook her head. “Not permanently,” she said. “But if it helps you and Dot, then I shall tackle it with a will. You’ll not find any fault with me. Nimmos pride themselves on being reliable, you know.”

  “Even Nimmos by marriage?” said Hazel.

/>   Evelyn laughed. “Especially us,” she said. “Dot and me have been good pupils. We know what’s best for us.”

  Lois looked at Hazel, who gave a small nod. “Righto, then, I am sure you will do very well, and I’m grateful for your offer. We’ll take some details now, and tell you how we work and all the rules and regs. Then you can start more or less straightaway. I’ve got likely clients, the Horsleys, who are desperate for some help.”

  She watched Evelyn’s face closely, but saw no flicker of recognition of the name. But then, as Evelyn said, she and her sister had been good pupils of their Nimmo husbands.

  THIRTY-THREE

  “GOOD MORNING. LOIS MEADE HERE. IS THAT MRS. Horsley?” Lois had decided to make an early start on her telephone calls. Nothing more frustrating than: “Please leave a message, etc.”

  There was a pause, and she heard a whisper. “It’s for me, Joe.” Then Margaret Horsley said, “Hello, Mrs. Meade. Have you got news of Dot Nimmo?”

  “Nothing much, I’m afraid, but she is still holding on, and we’re all hoping against hope. No, I’m ringing to ask if you still want some help, because Dot’s sister Evelyn has kindly offered to fill in for her. She’s a very nice woman, and, of course, also a Nimmo.”

  “Married Handy’s brother,” Margaret said. “Yes, I’m not sure I’ve ever met her, but I know her name. Could you hold on a minute?”

  Lois said of course she would, and waited. She was sure that Margaret was asking Joe what he thought. Was one Nimmo as good as another for their purposes? Snooping purposes? Finding out more about Lois Meade?

  “Are you still there, Mrs. Meade? Well, I think that would be fine. I’m sure Evelyn would do a good job, if not better! When can she start?”

  Lois made the arrangements, and said goodbye. Now it was all set up. She was spying on the Horsleys, and they were spying on her—and probably on several other persons unknown to Lois.

  The telephone rang, and it was the tenant of the house in Tresham that Lois and Derek had ended up buying with some of the lottery money. The woman was fuming. “I can’t stand it any longer,” she said. “All day and every day, from five o’clock in the morning. Bloody thing crows non-stop, and it’s right under our bedroom window! And don’t say it’s up to your agents, because they told me to ring you.”

  “A cockerel? In that little back yard? No wonder you’re fed up. We’ve got a couple over the fields from us, but we tolerate that. Nice sound at that distance. Country sounds, and all that. Have you asked the neighbours to get rid of it?”

  “Several times! They say it is the old man’s pet. He’s had it for years, and he’d be heartbroken if they got rid of it. They’re lying, o’ course. It only started up a couple of weeks ago. We tried ear plugs, shutting all the doors and windows, putting on our radio to drown it out. But it pierces everything. So, Mrs. Meade,” she added in a forthright voice, “unless it goes, we do. We’ll pay up any rent owing, and I reckon you’ll have trouble getting another tenant, unless the agents show them round in the middle of the night! Goodbye!”

  Lois looked at her watch. It was nine o’clock, and she had to meet Cowgill at ten. One more call. “Morning, Mrs. Smith. Just calling to see how Darren is.”

  “He’s fine, Mrs. Meade, thanks. We had a chat with Mrs. Battersby in the street, and he seems calmer now. Even talking about gardening again!”

  “D’you think he’d like to come for another drive? I’ve got to take Jeems to the vet this afternoon, and could pick him up on the way back. We could take Jeems for a walk by the river.”

  “He’d love that! What time?

  “Three o’clock-ish. Good. I’ll see you then. In a bit of a dash now, so I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  With the crowing cockerel on her mind, Lois went into the kitchen where Gran was ironing. “Know anybody who wants a cockerel with a loud voice?” she said.

  “Are you daft? Nobody in their right minds would want a flaming cockerel. Useless things. You tell me what they’re good for? Chickens don’t need them to lay eggs.”

  “If you’re a breeder, you’d need one.”

  “Yeah, and as eggs seem to have more cockerels than hens in them, breeders can easily hatch their own. They prefer it. Keeps the breed pure.”

  “How do you know so much about chickens? We never had any on the Churchill estate in Tresham.”

  “I was a girl once, y’know. Had an aunt—you remember Aunt Polly—who lived on a farm. We went there for holidays, and I helped with the chickens. So there, Miss Lois! Anyway,” she added, “haven’t you got any work to do? No idle housewives to interview?” Gran punished one of Derek’s best shirts with a twist and a shake, and then began ironing it with her usual dexterity.

  “I’m here in the vain hope that my dear mother might make a quick coffee for me. I have to go out in a minute or two.”

  “Then make it yourself, dear daughter. You can see I’m busy.”

  Lois smiled, and put on the kettle. “I expect you’d like one?”

  Gran nodded. “Thanks. Only one sugar. I’m cutting down.”

  “It’s contentment makes you fat—not that you’re fat,” she added hastily. “But supposing you had a crowing cock outside. Awake at dawn, waiting for the next piercing blast, that’d soon get the weight down. I’ve got to do something about the tenant in Tresham, so keep your ears open for somebody living in the middle of nowhere, with a fondness for chickens. Now,” she added, draining her coffee mug, “I must get going. Back for lunch. Thanks for your help.”

  Gran watched Lois drive off at speed, and wondered how to take her last remark. Could have been a rebuke, or the reverse. Lois always was a tricky one, just like her father.

  * * *

  COLONEL BATTERSBY WAS IN HIS DEN WHEN THE CALL came from Joe Horsley. “Horace? Joe here. Looks like it’s going to be OK. The old bat is still alive—just—and her sister Evelyn . . . Oh, you know her? Well, she’s offered to help out the Meade woman until Dot revives. What? Oh yeah, there’s very little chance of that. The lads did a good job. She’ll have got the message all right! So I’ll get to work on Evelyn and keep you posted. What? Margaret? No, she doesn’t know much. And I don’t want her involved. Got that? Right.” He rang off without saying goodbye, and Horace Battersby shrugged. His affair with Margaret had ended long since, and he would have thought that fool Joe would’ve got over it by now. Still, as long as he did what he was told, all would be well.

  Blanche came in with a request. “When will it be convenient for Floss to clean in here?” she asked. “Now, for instance?” That sharp little extra shocked Horace. She would never have spoken like that to him before. But before what? What had changed her into this really quite uncooperative person? Dot Nimmo. That one visit from Dot Nimmo had done it. Wretched woman!

  He stood up and faced Blanche. “Why not?” he said. “I’ll have a walk round the garden and Floss can call me when she’s finished. Nice to see her back, isn’t it?”

  Blanche, who had been waiting for the explosion, nodded and turned to go out. One up to me, thought Horace. Then Blanche stopped, looking out of the window.

  “Come here, Horace! Look—isn’t that Darren? He’s come back!” she said, and rushed out of the room. She called to Floss that she could clean the study now, and added that she was going into the garden to speak to Darren.

  He was in the walled vegetable garden, weeding an empty bed ready for planting. Blanche approached slowly, giving him time to see her coming. He straightened up, and smiled at her. “Doing gardening,” he said. “Lovely morning, Mrs. Battersby.”

  Blanche could have wept, she was so pleased to see him, gentle and confident again. “It is a lovely morning, Darren. Nice to have you back.” She knew she must tread warily. It would be very easy to frighten him away again. Still, it had not been she who had frightened him before, and so she chatted to him about the weeds, and what they would plant there, and whether he would like a coffee now or later.

  As she walked back towards th
e house, she saw Darren’s mother hurrying up the drive. “Mrs. Battersby!” she said, hoarse and out of breath. “Have you seen Darren? He’s gone missing again!”

  “No, he hasn’t,” said Blanche quietly. “He’s in the garden, weeding. He’s humming, like he used to, always the same tune. He seems very happy again.”

  “Grand Old Duke of York?” Mrs. Smith subsided on to a garden seat and put her face in her hands. Blanche sat beside her for a minute, saying nothing. Then Mrs. Smith gave a long sigh and looked up. “Sorry, Mrs. Battersby,” she said. “I was terrified, I don’t mind telling you. Terrified he’d gone again and this time wouldn’t come back. Anything could happen to him, you know, when he’s on his own. When he was little, one Sunday morning we’d left the front door open, and he went out in his pyjamas and bare feet, and disappeared. I was frantic. My husband—he was still at home then—just said he’d come back sooner or later, but I went mad.”

  “What happened?”

  “I rang the police, and they said, well, fancy that, there was a little boy sitting on the low wall outside the police station in his pyjamas and a policewoman was on her way to collect him. It was Darren, thank God. I’m not a religious woman, Mrs. Battersby, but I reckon God was looking after him that day.”

  “Maybe today, too,” Blanche said gently. “Are you happy to leave him here, then?”

  Mrs. Smith nodded. “I shouldn’t say this, Mrs. Battersby, but could you keep the Colonel out of his way? Darren calls him ‘the big man,’ and seems very frightened of him. I am sure there’s no reason,” she added hastily, “but if it’s possible . . . you know . . .”

  “I’ll see what I can do, and will warn my husband to be very quiet and kind to him if they do meet. Goodbye then. We’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “I’ll be round to get him about one o’clock, if that’s all right. Mrs. Meade is taking him for a drive and a walk around three o’clock.” Mrs. Smith patted Blanche on the hand and added, “Thank you, my dear.”