7 Sorrow on Sunday

by Ann Purser

  “Gone shopping,” Joe said quickly. Horace was looking apoplectic, and Joe was anxious that he should not reach for the paper knife, or worse. “I apologize for Margaret,” he said. “She looks as if she’s been on the bottle again. Best if we just hear her out, Horace. God knows what this cleaning woman is doing here, but if you ask me, we should listen to what they have to say and then get rid of them.”

  Margaret burst into raucous peals of laughter. “Hold on a minute, Joe darling,” she said. “I think you’ll find that more difficult than you think. And you, Horace,” she said, turning to him in sudden sobriety, “are going to be doing some talking. Though Lois and me will have some questions, of course. I’ll start, shall I?”

  Horace glared at her, but shut his mouth like a rat trap.

  “First question: would you like to hear what I know already? I’m sure Lois would be interested.”

  Lois nodded. Horace did not respond, and Joe said sharply, “Make it snappy, woman!”

  “Right, then,” Margaret began. “We have two idiots involved in racing scams. Minor stuff, and so far undiscovered. Then they get ambitious, and try something bigger. It goes wrong, and in their charming way, they decide to put the frighteners on anybody who might know about it. Unfortunately, as they couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery, they make a mess of it. Our old friend Dot Nimmo, down on her hands and knees scrubbing our kitchen floor, overhears an incriminating conversation between you two and gets knocked down in the road by a hit-and-run merchant. Never been too fond of the Nimmos anyway, have you, Horace?”

  By now, Horace and Joe were stupefied into silence, and Lois contented herself with waiting. Thunder rumbled around outside the house, and an eerie twilight filled the room. Nobody got up to switch on a light.

  “So these two idiots consider who else they have to silence,” Margaret continued. “Police are becoming a nuisance, and they’ve heard that Mrs. Meade—the cleaning woman—is on the snoop. So another so-called accident is arranged. Mrs. Meade is lucky to escape death, and a dim lad is frightened out of his wits. Well, you’d think they would be content with that, but they are still not sure about the lad. Difficult to know what he thinks or knows. And as he was in the van with the potential snout, he could have seen the twins. Oh yes, I know about the twins,” she added, as Joe’s eyebrows went up. “Your stupid sister is not very discreet, I’m afraid.”

  She paused and looked at Lois. “Now, why don’t you tell them about Darren? And about his mother?”

  Lois had listened with mounting anger. She needed to know now exactly what scam had been so dangerous, even when it went wrong, that so much violence had resulted.

  But how were they to be persuaded to talk? Margaret seemed to know exactly what she was doing, and had handed over to her, so she began to talk, in the hope that inspiration would come to her.

  “Right,” she said. “Now, what can I tell you about Darren Smith? Well, actually, quite a lot. You think he is—was—useless, hopeless and a burden to his poor old mum. Wrong! Darren was a valuable person, a loving son and a trusting villager. People liked him. No malice or jealousy—no greed. Not many like that, are there? He didn’t understand the world around him, though he tried. He was scared by change, and acted like a dimmie to escape into himself. And he loved horses. But you know that, don’t you, Colonel Battersby?”

  Horace stood up, shoving his chair back with a loud thud. “That’s enough!” he shouted. “You can get out, both of you! Everything you’ve said is a lie, and I shall not listen to another word! Get them out of here, Horsley, and be quick about it!

  Lois stood up too. “I haven’t finished,” she said, certain now of what more she had to say. “So you’d better sit down again, and listen. And if you try any violence on either of us, I am in immediate contact with the police.” At least, she thought to herself, I hope to God I am. Cowgill should have been alerted by her aborted call. He would know something was wrong, and she trusted him to go into swift action. She glanced out of the window, but could see no hopeful signs.

  Joe put a restraining hand on Horace’s arm, and both sat down.

  “Good,” said Lois. “Now I have to tell you about Mrs. Smith. You don’t know much about her, do you? But she knows about you. She is floored with grief at the moment. Can’t eat anything, can’t sleep. She looks like a ghost, she’s that pale. Darren was her only son, and her life. Husband left. No support for her. She’s scraped and saved to give Darren all the help she could get. She loved him, Battersby; she loved him more than you could ever love anybody. She understood everything about Darren, everything that happened to him and everything he tried to tell. And she’ll get you. And so will I, and so will Margaret. So now, the best thing you two can do is tell us whatever you decide is the truth about that last scam. Tell your version first, before Mrs. Smith gets angry, forgets about squires and council houses, and tells all she knows to the cops.”

  Horace’s thoughts were whirling. He couldn’t let Joe speak, because the idiot would give away the whole thing. These two women could run rings round Horsley. So now he had to tell them something. He had to think quickly. Just tell them enough to make it sound convincing, and then, if necessary, deny it all later. After all, it would be his word against theirs . . . and that wretched Smith woman. But, as so often before, he underestimated Joe Horsley. Just as he began to speak in a conciliatory tone, Joe interrupted.

  “Margaret,” he said, “if I tell you what the bloody stupid idea was, will you agree to keep it to yourselves? If I promise to give up gambling, and get us out of debt . . . and be nicer to your dad? And can you keep her quiet, too?” He gestured towards Lois, then pointed at Horace. “Take no notice of him,” he added. “I’ll tell the truth, I promise, if you’ll do what I said . . .”

  “Tell us first, Joe,” Margaret replied, managing to look soft and pliant. How could he be so stupid as to think she—and Lois!—would agree? But she could see he was desperate and nudged Lois to go along with her.

  Without looking at Horace, Joe began. It was a sorry story, and a cruel one. Horace had begun to see how well Darren could ride and control horses, even frisky ones, and had come up with a plan that would earn them real money. They would train the lad to ride so well, with practice sessions over the fields, that they could enter him in a point-to-point. But there were strict rules and regulations about races and jockeys, including point-to-points, so they decided to apply for a rider’s qualification certificate, but not in Darren’s name. Even in his racing gear, with goggles and helmet, they knew he might just be recognized by someone.

  “Horace said to put him down as his son. It would be OK for Darren to ride then,” Joe said, avoiding Battersby’s eye. “Said he could be his long-lost son. He laughed about that. Said the hunt secretary was a nincompoop and would never question it.”

  “And Darren was thrilled,” Lois said scathingly. “Keep going.”

  “I told Horace that I doubted if Darren could get past officials an’ that. He was unpredictable and could do anything. Go into one of his trances.”

  “But Horace knew better?” Margaret asked soberly.

  Joe nodded and continued, “Said not to worry; that he could deal with Darren. Get him to learn the right things to say. It’d be a doddle. Battersby thinks he’s God,” Joe added, looking at Margaret. “Can do anything he wants.”

  Margaret got the message, and smiled. “A long time ago, Joe. So what happened?”

  “Bloody disaster, that’s what happened. Battersby planned it all. Member of the right hunt, horse was registered, hunted it the right number of times. It was a dozy old horse, and had never come anywhere in a race when Horace rode it. But Darren could work miracles on it. Unbelievable! You could see him up there smiling and saying things to it, and the old nag went like the wind!”

  “So, then what happened?” Lois looked out of the window again. Still no sign of Cowgill. Best to spin this out as long as possible.

  “We’d have a big bet on Darren a
nd his snail-type nag, and get great odds. Bingo! We’d have a share out and nobody the wiser. Nothing illegal, Horace said. I reminded him about the false identity, but he laughed again and said he would claim a one-night stand with Mrs. Smith. I knew it would never work, and we’d be in trouble.”

  Now Margaret was getting impatient. “And it didn’t work. Why?”

  “Because Battersby is not God, and Darren was never in a million years going to be able to cope with it all and make us rich. The actual race day, with all the rituals and rules, would crucify him—and us. I tried to tell him it was no good and we’d better drop it. But Colonel bloody Battersby was all-powerful, and then he pushed Darren too far.”

  “Shut up, Horsley, for God’s sake! D’you know what you’re doing, man?”

  “Yes, I do,” Joe replied quietly, looking steadily at Margaret. “He couldn’t believe there wasn’t a way of making the lad talk like a parrot. So we carried on, and all seemed to go well. Darren knew he was going to the point-to-point and would have a ride, but not in a race. That was all he knew, and that’s what we told his mother. The rest of it would be masterminded by Horace once we got there.”

  “I can’t believe this,” said Lois, shaking her head. “How could anyone be so . . . ?”

  “It gets worse,” Joe said. “We got him up on the horse, just for the feel of it, a while before the race. Horace was giving him instructions, and I could see the lad didn’t understand. Then he started his warbling and twiddling his hands.”

  “Horsley! If you say another word, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

  “You’ll what, Horace?” Margaret said. “Shut up, and let Joe finish.”

  Joe passed his hand over his eyes, as if trying to blot out the memory. “Horace lost his temper,” he said. “He’d got his silver-topped stick—always carried it—and whammed the horse on its backside, yelling at Darren that he was a bloody moron. Even he couldn’t lash out at Darren, and the horse was the next best thing.”

  Silence followed this.

  “And the horse bolted,” said a quiet voice. They turned around swiftly, and saw the door pushed open. It was Blanche. She calmly took another chair and Lois and Margaret made a space for her to sit down.

  “The horse bolted,” she continued, “right out of the racetrack and across the fields. Horace had the presence of mind to withdraw it from the race officially, and spread the word that a nearby vehicle backfiring had caused it to bolt. Sometimes Horace has the luck of the devil,” she added wryly. “Nobody was about to see what happened. Only me . . . and Joe. But Horace’s luck was running out, anyway. One of the race officials knew him from way back, and was very suspicious of this so-called son. They were looking for you, Horace. There was no chance Darren was going to ride. I heard they’d decided to let it rest, after you withdrew him. Wheels within wheels, I expect. Lucky old Horace.” These mild words were said with such venom that Horace winced.

  “So what happened to Darren?” Lois asked.

  “By the time we got to where the horse had come to rest, Darren was nowhere to be seen. Horace wouldn’t wait. I was sent to look for him, and then find my own way home. Such a gentleman, our Horace,” she said, looking at him coldly. “I couldn’t find him and in the end allowed Horace to persuade me that Darren had been given a lift home by a friend. I left it there, when I should have checked with his mother. I can’t forgive myself for that . . . You know the rest, Mrs. Meade. As for Mrs. Horsley, I have no idea of her part in it, and I don’t care. She’s welcome to him,” she added, nodding towards Horace.

  None of them spoke for several seconds, and then Margaret reached into her pocket and brought out a small instrument. “It records,” she said smugly. “It has recorded everything that’s been said. So me and Lois will be going now.”

  Joe looked beaten by Margaret’s betrayal, and said nothing, but Horace jumped to his feet. “Give me that thing at once!” he shouted, and rushed round the desk towards Margaret. Joe came to life and grabbed Horace from behind. His hands were round the Colonel’s throat, and Margaret screamed.

  At this point, there was a thunderous knock on the door.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  THE GROUP SAT MOTIONLESS UNTIL FINALLY LOIS STOOD up. “I’ll go,” she said, and opened the door, hoping against hope it would be Cowgill. It was. And by his side, a triumphant-looking Dot Nimmo, who walked straight in towards Horace’s study.

  “There they are!” she yelled. “Don’t any of you do anything stupid! We got a posse of cops out ’ere in the yard!”

  Cowgill looked acutely embarrassed, and said, “If you would just stand to one side, Mrs. Nimmo, I do want to talk to these people.” Then he said in an aside to Lois, “Gran suggested Dot, who knew exactly where you’d be. Are you all right?” She nodded, and they followed Dot into the study.

  Dot sat herself down on a stool by the big bookcase that she had polished with such care, and folded her arms. She looked around with a satisfied smile on her face, and Margaret began to speak.

  “Before you start, Inspector,” she said, picking up her recorder, “I think you’ll find most of the answers to your questions are in here.”

  Cowgill looked across at Lois, and she said, “True, if it worked.”

  “May we try a sample, Mrs. Horsley?” Cowgill suggested politely.

  Margaret switched it on, and sat back, waiting for the incriminating evidence to start. They all waited. Nothing. Margaret shook it, and pressed buttons. Still nothing. Lois frowned, and shifted uneasily in her seat. Surely . . .

  Suddenly Horace laughed. “She forgot to switch it on!” He laughed until he choked. Blanche picked up a glass of water from his desk, and threw the contents at him. “Do be quiet, Horace,” she said.

  “Ah,” Cowgill continued, not in the least perturbed, “well, never mind. It was a very good idea, Mrs. Horsley. Well done.”

  “I’ll say good day to you then, Inspector, and I hope that’s the last we’ll see of you,” said Horace, standing now. He brushed off the water and quickly recovered his old bombastic self.

  “I think not, Colonel Battersby,” Cowgill said, more firmly now. “Whatever has been said here will have been recorded in several good memories. Mrs. Horsley and Mrs. Battersby and, most usefully, Mrs. Meade, who is an independent witness.”

  He looked across at Lois, but she was staring with unabated dislike at Colonel Battersby.

  “Even so,” Cowgill resumed, “I shall be asking all of you a number of questions. I have, of course, had information from other sources. We have not been idle, Lois,” he added quietly, then continued, “For a start, I need to ask you, Mr. Horsley, about anonymous calls I have received from a young man in Birmingham, who is not as anonymous as he thinks.”

  “Little sod!” said Joe. “What did he say? And what else did he tell you, Margaret?”

  Margaret was not allowed to speak. Cowgill immediately wound up the meeting, and issued instructions to his “posse” of men waiting outside. When all was quiet, only Dot Nimmo and Lois were left in the house with Cowgill.

  “Fancy a drink, Mrs. M?” Dot said cheerfully.

  Lois looked at her garishly made-up face and remembered the prostrate Dot with tubes suspended over her unconscious form. “You’re on,” she replied. “The pub round the corner is good, according to Derek.” She turned to Cowgill. “I expect I’ll see you later,” she said.

  “Most certainly,” Cowgill replied, and watched the two women walk down the drive, wishing he was Dot Nimmo, who had taken Lois’s arm and was laughing with her.

  * * *

  IT WAS NOT FAR TO THE PUB, AND AS LOIS AND DOT reached the door, the storm broke. Rain fell in sudden torrents and the two women were glad to walk into a cheerful atmosphere of light and warmth, and the heady smell of hops and malt barley.

  “So now you can get back to work and family,” Dot said, looking fondly at Lois.

  “Derek will be pleased,” Lois said. “And so will I, Dot. I must say that spell in hospital really s
hook me up. I haven’t told anyone else, but there were moments when I thought of giving up.”

  “Do you mean New Brooms?” Dot asked cunningly.

  “You know exactly what I mean,” Lois said. “Anyway,” she said, lifting her glass, “here’s to us, and a bit of peace and quiet.”

  Dot clinked glasses, and said seriously, “There is one thing I haven’t told you, Mrs. M. It’s about Haydn.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Dot. I’m sure chief sleuth Cowgill is close to finding who, if anyone, was behind that accident.”

  “There was nobody else. It was just a loose horse,” Dot said flatly. “I think I saw the chance of pinning something on Battersby, but he did that for himself later. No, it’s not that. D’you know what they found in Haydn’s van?”

  “No; Cowgill doesn’t tell me anything more than he has to.”

  “It was full of saddles and bridles and all that stuff. It were Haydn who done the thieving, him and his gang of scum. They used him, Mrs. M. Threatened him, an’ that.”

  “But Cowgill didn’t say a thing! Why didn’t he tell me? When did you find out? Did Haydn tell you what he was doing?”

  “No, o’ course not, else I’d have said! No, the police told me. I was so ashamed of him, and upset at losing him at the same time, that for two pins I’d ’ave done meself in. But that bloke Cowgill, who’s got the hots for you—no, let me go on—he took pity, and said they’d keep quiet if I did, seein’ as Haydn was dead anyway. Couldn’t keep the accident out of the press, o’ course, but they wouldn’t release the bit about him bein’ the saddle thief. Stay mum about it as long as possible. O’ course, they knew who the others were, and got ’em. Mind you, when I saw sense, I can’t say I was surprised about Haydn. Once a Nimmo, always a Nimmo.”

  “I see,” said Lois, reluctant to believe Cowgill capable of doing such a kind deed. She ignored the suggestion that she and he had something going.