Fear on Friday (22 page)

Jean thought it best to change the subject, and asked Doreen if she’d got her waterproofs. “Looks like rain over Waltonby way,” she said. “Now, come on, girl. Buck up and let’s go. Your turn to beat me.” She shepherded Doreen out of the house and into her car, and they drove off.

Josie Meade watched them go. She noticed that the Slater woman helped Mrs. Jenkinson into her car as if she was an invalid. Funny, she thought to herself. Mrs. J is usually a nimble old duck, rushing around the place, busying herself at this and that. Then Rupert Forsyth came up the steps, and she retreated from the shop window, bracing herself against the latest complaints about the inefficiency of the Post Office.

L
OIS
‘
S EUPHORIC MOOD CHANGED RAPIDLY WHEN
,
JUST
before lunch, she received a call from Susanna Jacob.

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. M, I won’t be able to make it today. I’m sick, I am afraid.”

“Sick? How sick?” said Lois. “And why couldn’t you let me know before this? How am I to find someone else at this late stage? Have you been to the doctor?”

There was a stifled sob, and Susanna said that yes, she’d had to wait for hours in the surgery, and that’s why she couldn’t let Mrs. M know earlier. It was a flu bug going around, and she was definitely out of action for a few days. She was very, very sorry.

“Not as sorry as I am,” Lois muttered, as she put down the phone. Well, there was nothing for it. She would have to do the job herself. Gran had planned to go shopping in Tresham, and Lois was driving her in, but now that would have to be postponed.

“Never mind,” Gran said obligingly, “we can go tomorrow. It might be nice for you to get to know Mrs. Jenkinson better. She seemed a good sort of woman at the WI.”

This cheered Lois, who had been so irritated with Susanna that her first thought had not been that cleaning at Hornton House would indeed be a good opportunity to get to know Mrs. Jenkinson better.

D
OREEN WAS SURPRISED
,
BUT QUITE GLAD THAT
M
RS
. Meade had come herself. A strange girl, taking over from the experienced Bill, would need licking into shape, but Mrs. Meade was the boss, and would no doubt set standards for the others. Doreen welcomed her, and showed her around the house.

“No rooms we mustn’t disturb?” said Lois lightly.

Doreen looked at her sharply. “No, no,” she said. “That was my late husband’s room, if you remember, for private study.”

Ah, but study of what? Lois thought with a suppressed smile. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll get on, then.”

“Cup of tea about half past three?” Doreen said. Lois nodded. “Thanks, that would be nice. I’ll start upstairs, then. Just forget I’m here.”

She had hoovered the bedrooms, and was just starting on the master bathroom when the telephone rang. She tiptoed out on to the landing, duster at the ready, and listened. Doreen picked it up after a couple of rings, as if expecting the call. “Yes? Oh, it’s you, Jean,” she said. Lois realised she was muffling her voice, obviously suspecting Lois might be eavesdropping.

Lois leaned over the banisters a little, and could hear quite well. “Well, I don’t know.” Doreen sounded reticent. “Much the best thing would be to do nothing. After all, nobody knows you and Norman had talked recently. What was that? No, of course not! I haven’t spoken to him for years. Now listen, Jean. I’m a bit busy just now. New cleaning woman arrived … so I’ll call you back. Bye for now.”

Norman? Lois quickly added “Stevenson,” and realised they could have been talking about the mystery man who
had tumbled downstairs to his death. Why was Doreen so anxious to keep quiet? And why had Jean Slater been talking to Norman? Lois heard Dorecn’s steps coming along the hallway, and scuttled back into the bathroom, where, by the time her employer had reached her, she was energetically scrubbing the big bath.

“Lovely taps, Mrs. Jenkinson,” Lois said. “I expect you must have done a lot inside the house. I came in here a couple of times when old Cyril was sick, but it was a gloomy old place then. Quite a transformation!” She smiled innocently, and Doreen visibly relaxed.

“Poor old man,” she said. “He died in this house, didn’t he. But there’s no bad feelings anywhere. I’m quite sensitive to atmospheres in houses, and I fell nothing like that when I first looked at it.”

“No, well, there was nothing criminal about his death,” Lois said quickly. “And he was a nice old man,” she lied. Her memories of Cyril were of an interfering old busybody, but Mrs. Jenkinson did not need to know that.

“
Your
house belonged to a doctor, I believe?” Doreen said. “And wasn’t there a scandal some years ago, about him and—”

“I worked for him,” Lois interrupted firmly. “He was a good man, and an honest one. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get on.”

Doreen said she’d put the kettle on in ten minutes, and disappeared downstairs, feeling snubbed. Not a very good afternoon so far. First Jean, with her stupid suggestions, and then Mrs. Meade putting her in her place. She picked up a photograph of Howard, placed strategically by the telephone to remind her of all the reasons she had decided to move to Farnden. “You stupid bugger,” she said under her breath. “I wonder whether you went Up or, more likely, Down? Not Up, I’m sure. I doubt if even He could be that forgiving.”

Lois came downstairs when called, and sat at the kitchen table, as instructed. “How are you getting on, then?” Doreen said pleasantly.

“Fine,” Lois said. “This a lovely house, and everything so neat and tidy, it is a joy to work here. No wonder Bill was reluctant to be moved! Miss Ivy Beasley keeps an immaculate house, of course, but she’s an impossible old bird. Only Bill could put up with her.”

“But she won’t be needing him once she’s up and about?” Doreen realised how much she missed Bill’s cheerful confidence.

“No, no, he’ll be coming back in a few weeks. But meanwhile, I’m sure you’ll like Susanna, once she’s feeling better.”

“Susanna?” Doreen said quickly. “Susanna who?”

“Jacob. Used to work in the Town Hall. Really loves the cleaning job.” Lois looked curiously at Doreen, whose hand holding her mug suddenly shook, and she slopped tea on to the table.

“Yes, well,” Doreen said, mopping up the puddle. “I expect she’ll need at least a couple of weeks off. Flu, didn’t you say? I wouldn’t want her coming here until she’s completely free of infection.”

“I wouldn’t dream of allowing her back too soon,” Lois said. “No, I’ll come along myself, if that’s all right with you.”

“Much better idea,” Doreen said. “Then we can talk again about this … this Susanna girl.”

Later, when Lois walked over the street to the shop, she said to Josie, “I need to talk privately to you. And Gran. Little job for you both. I’ll come back after you’re closed, if you’re not going to the wholesaler’s.”

Josie shook her head. “Nope, come and have a cup of tea. I’ve got some new expensive biscuits we can try. See you later then, Mum.”

Now what’s she cooking up, she thought, as she watched her mother hurry out of the shop and disappear up the street.

G
RAN AGREED RELUCTANTLY TO ASK AROUND HER
friends in Tresham. “It’s very unlikely they’d know Susanna Jacob,” she said. “Her family are nobs. The likes of my lot are not in the same social whirl.” She added sourly that Lois should have found out all she needed to know before hiring the girl.

“She had very good references,” Lois snapped. “I just need to know a bit more about her background. But don’t trouble yourself.”

Gran bridled. “Of course I’ll ask,” she said. “If it’s a help to whatever it is you’re doing.” Lois didn’t react, but changed the subject. “Josie’s got some new biscuits we’re trying out after closing time. Why don’t you come down?”

Gran shook her head. “I’ll be cooking our tea. Derek’ll be hungry—he was having a sandwich for lunch. Working miles from anywhere on a barn conversion. No, you go, and sound out Josie on your own.”

Lois sighed. Not much got past her mother. She went through to her office and shut the door. “Hello? Is that you? Oh, good.” Lois put the phone to her other ear and
picked up a pencil. “So how much have you found out about Norman Stevenson? What do mean, ‘nothing much?’ I thought you were well on his track? Anyway, I know from your voice that you’re lying again. So just listen. If you’re not straight with me, that’s it. Do your own investigations.” She slammed down the receiver and glowered at it. A minute passed, and then, as she expected, it rang.

“Lois, for God’s sake don’t be so touchy,” Cowgill said. “And okay, you’re right, we’ve been in contact with the locals up there, and they’ve found something interesting. Stevenson was being blackmailed. During the search of his flat, one of our boys found a bundle of letters. Threats of exposing something or other, and demanding money. We’re doing tests, of course, and following that up.”

“Blimey,” said Lois, perking up. “What did the letters look like?”

“Why?”

“Never mind why! Aren’t I allowed to ask a question?”

“Of course you are, Lois. I haven’t seen them, but our boys describe them as in square white envelopes, addressed in blue ballpoint capitals. That’s all I know at present.”

“Right,” said Lois. “No wonder poor old Norman wanted me to snoop on His Worship. Probably thought the letters had something to do with Jenkinson. So how did Norman die? Not natural causes, then?”

Cowgill sounded disappointed. “Well, yes, actually the doctor said it was his heart. Probably went upstairs too quickly. He was pretty unhealthy, apparently. So yes, death due to natural causes. No suspicious circumstances. Sorry, Lois.”

Lois said she had quite enough to do to turn up dark and dirty facts about one murder, thanks very much. Norman Stevenson was a sad character, from the sound of it. But yes, she would bear in mind the blackmailing letters.

“G
OOD AFTERNOON
, M
ISS
B
EASLEY
.” L
OIS HAD KNOCKED
and the door was opened by a neat little woman with a
friendly smile, who announced herself as Doris Ashbourne, Miss Beasley’s oldest friend. She had led Lois through to the kitchen, where Ivy Beasley sat by the range, comfortably settled with a cup of tea and slice of cake at her elbow.

“Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Meade,” said Ivy. “Not coming to tell me your cleaner’s gone back to Yorkshire, back to farming where he belongs?” There was a gleam in Miss Beasley’s eye.

Doris turned apologetically to Lois. “Ivy’s feeling a lot better,” she said. “Your lad has done her good, I reckon.”

“Rubbish!” said Ivy.

Lois laughed. “He’s a good sort,” she said.

“It’s a good worker I want, never mind a good sort,” snapped Ivy.

“Something you’re not satisfied with?” said Lois with assumed concern. She’d handled all sorts in her time, and this one was easy. Besides, she wanted something from Miss Ivy Beasley. “That’s why I’m here,” she continued. “To make sure everything’s going well with you and Bill.”

Miss Beasley stared at her. “Of course it is,” she said. “So don’t you go changing him around with some useless young girl.”

“Ivy, no need to be …” muttered an embarrassed Doris.

Ivy rounded on her. “Well, Doris,” she said firmly, “you remember that young slip of a thing—her that was a home help from Social Services? Came to you when you were poorly? More trouble than she was worth!” Doris agreed meekly, and Lois stepped in.

“All my cleaners are experienced and well-trained,” she said. “Been with me for years. Except for Susanna, and she’s new. But a very nice girl, and turning out well. Cleaning is a bit of change for her, of course. She used to work at the Town Hall, in the Mayor’s office. Wanted a complete change, she said, and so far she’s shaping up satisfactorily.” Lois sat back, and was rewarded by a quick exchange of glances between the two elderly women.

“Susanna who?” said Doris Ashbourne casually. It was
a poor attempt to disguise the obvious sudden interest of both of them.

“Jacob,” said Lois. “Father’s a solicitor. I expect you’ve heard of the family, being real locals, apparently. Him and his father before him with offices in Tresham.”