Theft on Thursday

D
ON
’
T MISS
A
NN
P
URSER
’
S OTHER
DIABOLICAL DAYS OF THE WEEK

WEEPING ON WEDNESDAY

“An inventive plot, affable characters, and an entertaining look at village life.”

—
Booklist

TERROR ON TUESDAY

“Skullduggery of all sorts greets housecleaner Lois Meade when she opens a cleaning service in the village of Long Farnden … Notable for the careful way Purser roots every shocking malfeasance in the rhythms and woes of ordinary working-class family life.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“This no-nonsense mystery is competent, tidy, likable, and clever.”

—
Booklist

MURDER ON MONDAY

“A refreshingly working-class heroine, a devoted wife and mother of three, plays reluctant sleuth in this winning cozy … A strong plot and believable characters, especially the honest, down-to-earth Lois, are certain to appeal to a wide range of readers.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“First-class work in the English-village genre: cleverly plotted, with thoroughly believable characters, rising tension, and a smashing climax.”

—
Kirkus Reviews
(starred review)

“For fans of the British cozy, here’s one with a different twist. Purser’s heroine is not one of the ‘traditional’ apple-cheeked, white-haired village snoops … The identity of the killer—and the motive—will be a shocker. Fresh, engaging, and authentically British.”

—
Booklist

“Fans of British ‘cozies’ will enjoy this delightful mystery with its quaint setting and fascinating players.”

—
Library Journal

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“S
HE DONE
‘
IM IN
,”
THE OLD MAN SAID WITH RELISH
. “Poisoned ‘im … Then she opened ‘im up with a bread knife and took his heart. Sewed ‘im up agin. Very neat job, they said. Pickled it in incohol. Look, you can see the pair of ‘em, there, look.”

Lois Meade leaned forward. “I can’t see much, Cyril,” she said. They were peering at a gravestone in Long Farnden churchyard. Most of it had sunk into the mossy grass, but on what remained above ground, Lois could just make out two figures, sitting either side of a shadowy table. The inscription was all but erased, but a rough outline of a heart between two names was just discernible.

“Is it a man and woman?” she asked.

“Yep,” said the verger, “man and wife.”

“So are they both in the grave, then? Reunited in death?”

“Not likely! It’s only ‘im, Willy Mellish. They wouldn’t’ve buried Sophia in a churchyard. She were a murderer, and got dragged on a pallet be’ind ‘orses to Tresham. She were
tried, found guilty as ‘ell, and burned at the stake. Last one to be burned at the stake in the county, they say.”

“Charming,” said Lois, with a shiver. “Why’d she do it, then?”

“Money,” said the old man flatly. “She thought he ‘ad a lot, and she set out to get it. Everything’d be ‘ers, see, if ‘e snuffed it.”

“But they found her out before she got it?” Lois glanced at her watch. She should be back home by now, not being waylaid by Cyril. Unwilling to hurt his feelings, though, she’d stayed to listen to this tale of murder and deception with growing fascination. But now Derek would be coming home for his tea, and Jamie and Gran would be waiting.

“Weren’t nuthin’ to get.” Cyril shook his head. He spoke as if it was only last week. “ ‘E didn’t ‘ave much, after all. Mostly debts. She were so angry, she gave ‘erself away by sayin’ it were a waste of what she’d spent on mercury to do ‘im in. Baked it in a special loaf, kept only for ‘im. So they got ‘er. She were barmy, I reckon. ‘Ow could she’ve got away with it, with ‘im ‘avin’ all that needlework on ‘is chest? When they got ‘er, they said she boasted she still had his most valu’ble possession … ‘is ‘eart …”

“Ugh!” said Lois, turning away.

But Cyril hadn’t finished. “Old Willy was a silly sod,” he added. “ ‘E might-a known she were up to somethink, she bein’ years younger than ‘im, and not a bad looker! Still, Mrs. Meade, there’s no fool like an old fool.”

“Very true,” said Lois firmly, and set off back down the little hill that led to the lychgate of the churchyard.

L
ONG
F
ARNDEN WAS A SMALL VILLAGE IN THE MIDDLE
of England, of no great distinction except for its eighteenth-century poisoner and twenty-first-century female sleuth. Lois Meade, proprietor of cleaning service New Brooms,
had attempted some years ago, when her children were small and free time was negligible, to become a special constable. As a troublesome teenager she’d had one or two brushes with the law, and fancied trying to put things straight. To her great irritation she’d been turned down, and decided to go it alone. With a taste for detection, she was well aware that as solo house cleaner, going from house to house, cleaning every room and overhearing conversations not meant for her ears, she had a unique position when a crime was committed and investigations began. Her usefulness as a source of information had been spotted by Detective Inspector Hunter Cowgill, who had found her reluctant and prickly, with no great love now for the police. But he was determined—and attracted—and had won. Lois’s own victory was that she never accepted payment.