The Penningtons (14 page)

The mother said, ‘A foreign accent, you mean?’

‘Not exactly.’

The daughter said, ‘Only Dilys could answer that, Mr Cresswell.’

‘Never mind, Miss Dutton. I appreciate your time.’ He sighed. ‘If he turns up at the soup kitchen again we’ll be waiting for him!’

‘A dab hand. Oh yes! Rough puff, too. Even pie crust! My daughter once won a prize at the village fête for a game pie! She can turn her hand to anything, my Edie can. She should be married by now instead of waiting hand and foot on a useless old man!’ The old lady held her crochet work up to the window and peered at it with obvious dissatisfaction, muttered something then rolled it up and stowed it in her knitting bag.

Then she turned to the police constable and, assuming a determined smile, said, ‘If you’ve finished with your questions, Mr Cresswell, Edie can make us all a nice cup of tea –’ she gave her daughter a triumphant smile – ‘and you won’t say no to a biscuit!’

SEVEN

A
lmost to the minute Steven Anders arrived on the doorstep and rang the bell. While he waited he stepped back a pace or two and glanced up at the front of the house which had impressed him with its size and location and made him grateful that this was not Miss Letts’ home. That would have put her way out of his reach.

The small front garden was neat with a strip of lawn and what was left of the summer’s flowers – sparse hollyhocks, marigolds and wallflowers. He had remembered to remove his cycle clips, which now were in the basket of his cycle, and carried a file which he hoped made him look businesslike. As he waited, he glanced at his reflection in the bay window, removed his hat and smoothed his hair carefully. The ring was finally answered and as the door opened he straightened his shoulders and smiled broadly.

‘Miss Letts!’

‘Mr Anders!’

They smiled at each other.

He said, ‘I’ve come about the signature.’

‘Oh yes. Please come in.’ She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. ‘Mrs Maynard wishes to join us.’

‘Ah!’ His smile wavered and he pulled a face but stepped inside.

‘May I take your hat, sir?’

‘Thank you.’ He winked.

Trying not laugh, she took the hat and hung it on the hall-stand. ‘This way, please.’

He followed her into the sitting room which was elegantly furnished and smelled of beeswax polish but there were ashes in the grate and the aspidistra on the broad window ledge looked in need of water. A leather-edged blotter and an inkstand had been placed on the large table which stood in the centre of the room. He had brought a copy of the original sheet and he now produced this from the file with a flourish. In fact there was nothing at all wrong with the original – this had simply been a ploy to meet her again in circumstances other than the office but Mrs Maynard would never know that.

A tall woman joined them, announcing herself as Dilys Maynard and he shook the outstretched hand. Another of the original Penningtons, he thought with interest. She seemed less formidable than her sister-in-law, however, and her slight frown and flustered manner suggested that she was distracted by the interruption of his visit.

With a thin smile she told Steven, ‘You will have to be more careful in future!’

For a moment he was at a loss for her meaning but then he remembered. ‘Ah yes! The tea I spilled on the original form?’ He contrived to look chastened. ‘I certainly won’t do that again!’

They all laughed politely.

He said, ‘Miss Letts has been very kind to allow me to—’

‘Truly, it’s no trouble, Mr Anders.’ Daisy smiled at him briefly.

He swallowed hard then laid the sheet on the blotter.

Daisy signed her name carefully and returned the pen to its place on the stand.

‘Thank you so much, Miss Letts.’ He was hoping that Mrs Maynard might offer a little refreshment which would prolong his visit but she said nothing.

He said, ‘Well, that’s a relief. I’ll be off home. My trusty steed awaits!’

Mrs Maynard smiled. ‘Your bicycle, I presume.’

He nodded.

Miss Letts said, ‘I’ll show you out, Mr Anders.’ And led the way back to the front door. Behind them Mrs Maynard was walking back towards the kitchen. Miss Letts whispered, ‘She’s going back to the kitchen.’

Recognizing his chance now that it had come, he whispered quickly, ‘I don’t suppose you could meet me one Saturday. We could have tea together.’

‘I might be able to if Mrs Maynard goes back to her own home. How could I let you know?’

He pulled a card from his pocket. ‘Ring the office and ask for me.’ His throat was dry with excitement and his voice sounded strained. ‘Say you are Miss Letts and you need to speak to me. I don’t always work all day Saturdays but sometimes I stay later to study for my exam. What about you?’

‘At the moment I work every day but if Mrs Maynard goes home I think Monty would give me time off if I ask him nicely.’

He held up crossed fingers. ‘I shall hope for the best, Miss Letts.’

‘So will I. I’ll have to go now. I don’t want to rouse her suspicions.’

He held out his hand and she took it. It felt small and warm and he was reluctant to let it go.

She said, ‘Thank you for coming . . . It was a good lie – about the spilt tea!’

‘I am rather proud of it!’

He cycled away with a broad smile on his face and a gleam in his eye. His thoughts were whirling and in his mind’s eye he saw the two of them cosily ensconced in Miss Maude’s Teashop and, distracted by this delightful picture, he narrowly missed colliding with a coster’s barrow loaded with walnuts.

A day passed and Sunday evening turned into night. The sky was dark but clear with a few stars and the man sitting in the summer house leaned back with his eyes closed, waiting for midnight. He felt at ease, comfortable with his plan of action and certain of its effect. Midnight. That would be the perfect time for his next attack. Let them all get off to sleep, falsely secure in the knowledge that there was safety in numbers and that the windows and doors of the house were securely locked and bolted. He smiled grimly as he watched the pattern of lights in the house change. First one of the bedrooms was lit and curtains closed. Probably Uncle Montague.

In a mocking accent he said, ‘Goodnight, Uncle Montague. Sleep well! Don’t let thoughts of your nephew disturb your slumbers. Think only of yourself, like all the Penningtons.

‘You silly old fool! Doddery old imbecile!’ He’d been quick to agree to the idea of sending his nephew away where they need not think about him again . . . But slow to realize that he might come back!

Another light went on upstairs – most likely Aunt Dilys who had taken refuge there. Stupid old bat. She had not spoken a word, either, in his defence.

‘Nightie-night, Auntie!’

Nor had John Maynard spoken up for him but then he was not a family member except by marriage so his advice had probably not been sought. Only the sister and brothers had been asked to comment on the idea. ‘Get the little blighter out of harm’s way,’ his father had insisted. ‘Give him a dose of real discipline. He can come back when he’s learned civilized behaviour.’

Now the kitchen light had gone off which meant that the housemaid had finished for the day and would soon follow the others to bed. It was a shame for her. She was in no way to blame but that was not his fault. In the wrong place at the wrong time. That was her misfortune.

A cat wandered into the summer house and approached him but he clapped his hands and shooed it out, helping it on its way with the toe of his outstretched boot.

He pulled a sandwich from his pocket and unwrapped it. An old woman had given it to him as he sat with his back to a shop window in the town centre earlier, his cap held out for pennies. Said she had no money to spare but returned ten minutes later with a sandwich. So there were some people left in the world with a shred of decency, he thought, biting into it. Cheese and pickle. Not at all bad.

Ceylon was supposed to make a man of him, according to his father. His mother had protested at the distance but gave in weakly when he insisted it was ‘for the boy’s own good’ and ‘would make a man of him’. Unfortunately he’d been exploited by his father’s so-called friend and, after revenging himself, had been finally betrayed to the authorities who had locked him up after a flawed trial. Eight years hard labour. So had it made a man of him? No. It had turned him into an ill-natured thug. ‘And that’s what I am and always will be!’ he muttered bitterly.

The church clock struck midnight and he stood up, stretching cramped muscles. Moonlight illuminated the three large rocks he had chosen the previous night. One for his uncle’s room, one for Dilys and one for the maid. He hesitated. Was it fair? She had done nothing to hurt him . . . but she was part of it. Part of the cosy family set-up that he was about to shatter. The set-up he had waited so long to destroy.

He moved forward, picked up the first rock and hurled it with unerring aim through the window of the maid’s bedroom. Before the first alarmed cries rang out he sent the second one into the old man’s room, and the third into his aunt’s room. For a moment he simply stood there, listening to the confusion his assault had provoked then, smiling grimly, he walked slowly round the side of the house and made his way along the pavement. He made no attempt to hide or hurry, just ambled along, head down, his hands thrust into the pockets of his coat.

By the time he had reached the corner and glanced back he saw that behind him neighbours had been roused and a small crowd was gathering outside the house. All the lights were on and he could imagine what was happening inside and it brought a gleam of deep satisfaction to his hard eyes.

‘Your turn next, Father!’ he whispered.

The sound of the rock smashing its way into the room shocked Daisy into an upright position in the bed, the bed clothes clutched defensively round her. As she listened, there was a second crash and then a third. With a shock she realized that they were being attacked! For a moment she sat there in the darkened room, frozen with fear, then cautiously reached for matches and lit her bedside candle. A rock had shattered the large casement window and rolled across the room. Shards of glass scattered across the floor. She thought of Monty and Dilys, equally shocked and imagined them blundering about.

‘Don’t move!’ she screamed. ‘There’s glass on the floor. I’m coming!’

Slipping her feet into her shoes, she pulled on her dressing gown then tiptoed carefully past the broken glass and out of the room. Once in the passage she could hear Dilys moaning and Monty calling for help in a wavering voice.

‘The windows are broken,’ she told them. ‘There’s glass. Stay where you are!’

She went first to Monty’s room and opened the door.

‘What’s happening?’ he cried. ‘Do you think it’s that man trying to get in?’

‘Maybe. Stay in bed for the moment, sir, until I can clear away the glass.’

‘Is he out there? Or is he inside the house?’ His voice rose querulously.

‘I don’t know yet but I’ll just check on your sister and then I’ll go down and find out.’

‘Oh no, Daisy! You mustn’t go downstairs. He might get you!’

‘I have to go down to telephone the police.’ She tried to sound calm and reassuring.

In Dilys’s room she found Monty’s sister sitting on the end of the bed, clutching her left arm. ‘That rock!’ She pointed. ‘It must have landed on my arm before it bounced off on to the floor. I’m afraid my arm may be broken. A good job it wasn’t my head! It might have killed me.’

Daisy urged her to stay where she was until she had brought up a bucket and brush to clear up all the glass. ‘Then we’ll all go downstairs and have a cup of Ovaltine and wait for the police. How bad is your arm? Shall I send for the doctor?’

Dilys thought about it then shook her head. ‘I can’t feel any bits of broken bone so maybe it will just be a large bruise. I’ll see the doctor in the morning surgery to make certain.’

Her voice was shaking but Daisy spent no further time with her. It seemed more sensible to alert the police. The man might be in the house but she doubted it. The bedroom windows were all on the first floor and if he had wanted to get inside, she reasoned, he would have broken in through a ground-floor window. But he might still be wandering the streets and the police might catch him if they were alerted in time.

The telephone conversation took less time than she expected. As she was unable to give a detailed description of who they thought the perpetrator might be, the police understandably had little to go on and, at such a late hour, very few constables were available to ‘chase round the streets’, as they put it. They would, however, send someone round to take statements and tomorrow, in daylight, they would check out the premises where the assault took place.

Daisy then put her next part of the plan into operation and carefully swept each bedroom before allowing the occupant to walk about. Twenty minutes later they gathered in the kitchen, warmly wrapped, hands clasped around mugs of Ovaltine which, Daisy hoped, would calm their nerves and help them recover from the shocks they had suffered.

Dilys was understandably the worst affected as she had been physically hurt and this was the second time she had been under threat. Ten minutes later she was still shivering intermittently and her face was chalk white. ‘He might still be out there!’ she whispered. ‘He might be planning something else. Something worse!’

‘Dilys, dear,’ Monty said gently, ‘I know you hate to be contradicted but it could hardly be much worse!’

‘Of course it could!’ She glared at her brother. ‘He could be setting a fire! That would be worse!’

‘Oh well,’ he argued, ‘if you look at it that way I dare say he could be rushing in with an axe to chop off our heads!’

Dilys screamed.

‘Stop it!’ cried Daisy, exasperated. She glared at Monty. ‘You sound like two squabbling children! Haven’t we got enough to worry about without you two making it worse? The police will be here soon so let’s calm down and behave like grown-ups.’ If that’s possible, she thought. The hint of earlier family quarrels made her think that being an only child might have its compensations.