Theft on Thursday (14 page)

After her telephone calls, first to the doctor and then to
Cowgill, the village constable arrived in the vanguard of all the rest. Then a procession of bland-faced professionals marched through Cyril’s cottage and made their examinations, wrote their notes and took their pictures. Last of all came Hunter Cowgill, his expression grim and authoritative.

“Morning, Lois,” he said quietly. “Don’t say anything now. We’ll meet later. They’ll take your statement. Stick to the facts. Leave it to us now, we’ll make all the arrangements.”

She mentioned Gran, and said she’d better be getting back home. Cowgill nodded, and added
sotto voce
, “Ring me this afternoon.”

With one last glance at the cruelly twisted body of old Cyril, Lois said a silent goodbye, and a “sorry” on behalf of Gran, and left the cottage, walking back home with misty eyes. She passed the churchyard, and on impulse went in. Without thinking, she made her way to the small gravestone with the poisoner and her gullible husband just visible. “She done ‘im in”—Cyril’s voice echoed in her head and Lois shuddered. Who or what done Cyril in? The stomach bug, was it?

I
N THE SHOP
, S
HARON WATCHED AS THE PROCESSION ARRIVED
, and then, in dribs and drabs, finally left. “What on earth’s going on, Mrs. Carr?” she said. It was her morning on duty at the shop, and tomorrow she was due to clean at the vicarage, an assignment she was looking forward to with mixed feelings.

“Old Cyril has passed away,” the shopkeeper said. “Poor old man had that rotten infection that’s going about.” News spreads fast in a village, and what the village shopkeeper doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing.

“Then why all the police and that lot?” Sharon frowned. From her diet of lurid library books, she knew that an old
man dying of a bug did not need the police. Doctor, ambulance, undertakers, certainly. But the police? She shook her head. “Something funny going on there,” she said.

But Mrs. Carr said that it could be a matter of course, when circumstances were unusual. After all, hadn’t Cyril been perfectly all right the night before? Sharon agreed. She had seen him after all that palaver up at the church, and apart from twisting his ankle, he was fine. “Last thing I heard him say was to Mrs. Meade, telling her to ‘get those young buggers who were messing up his churchyard.’ She took him home, you know, saw that he was comfortable and told him to rest until she came round in the morning.”

“Perhaps she should have got him to a doctor last night.” Mrs. Carr put the final tin on a pyramid of baked beans.

Sharon nodded. “Maybe,” she said. “But he weren’t complaining of stomach ache then, as far as I know.”

“He was prone to indigestion,” said Mrs. Carr. “I do know that. Used to come in here for milk of magnesia and tablets. A martyr to his stomach, he used to say.”

Sharon laughed, and then put a hand to her mouth. “Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, should we,” she said anxiously. “But he was a crotchety old man sometimes. He got quite cross with me one day when I couldn’t find the thing he wanted. Can’t remember what it was, now, but he had me nearly in tears.”

“Ah well, he’s gone now. We’ll miss him, plodding up and down to the church. The Reverend will have to find someone else to open up, and generally look after the place. Not so easy these days. Folk aren’t much interested in religion.”

“There’s other things going on up there,” said Sharon. “Not exactly religion, either! Last night, when we arrived for choir—”

The door bell jangled, and Derek Meade came in. “Morning,” he said.

Sharon blushed. She remembered Mrs. M’s strictures about gossiping and hoped Derek hadn’t heard her beginning an account of the fiery cross. Anyway, she reassured herself, she wasn’t on New Brooms’ duty, so that wouldn’t count.

“All sorted out over there?” Mrs. Carr was casual, distantly interested as was her usual tone. She had long ago discovered that she elicited more information that way. Never appear too keen.

“No good asking me,” said Derek shortly. “Nothing to do with me. Just sorry for the poor old sod, that’s all. I liked him. One of the old villagers. He had a good memory, and I reckon knew more about Farnden than anybody.”

Mrs. Carr inclined her head gently. “God rest his soul,” she said. “He’ll be up there with all his relations soon. Generations of them, Sharon. That was the way in the old days. Families stuck together, went on living in the same place, helped each other through good times and bad. There was a time when the whole village was like one family.” She perched her ample behind on a stool and sighed.

Oh no, here we go, tales of the good old days, thought Sharon, and looked at her watch. Soon be time to go home, thank goodness.

“Them days is gone,” said Derek, pocketing his Polo mints. “But I reckon someone should’ve made notes of Cyril’s stories. It was a world away from nowadays.” Mrs. Carr chuckled. “Probably some things he knew were not fit to print!” she said. “Some of our respected parishioners might not have wanted old Cyril speaking out …” She tailed off, and in the silence that followed, both she and Derek reflected with alarm on what that could mean. But before more could be said, Sharon had looked at her watch again and went off to get her coat.

Derek walked briskly to the door. “Thanks,” he said.
“It’ll all come out in the wash, Mrs. Carr. Best not to go makin’ too many guesses.” He shut the door and was gone, well aware that nothing he said would stop the speculation rife in the village by midday.

L
OIS WAS FINDING IT DIFFICULT TO CONCENTRATE
. S
HE
sat in her office after a scratch lunch—Gran was too upset to cook—and stared at a printed leaflet from the tax office. More changes. Why couldn’t they leave anything alone? Didn’t she have enough to do, organizing her cleaners and keeping them happy, not to mention the clients, some of whom could be extremely hard to please? She stared at the small print, but all she could see was old Cyril, smiling up at her before she left him last night, assuring her he would be right as rain in the morning. “We got to find out about that cross, Mrs. M,” he had said. “Could lead to worse.” She had made him a cup of tea, and he’d told her that this was not the first sign of something nasty going on. “I was up there late one night, in summer, but nearly dark, and heard voices. They was chantin’. Couldn’t make out the words, but it was comin’ from the back of the church. Round where we found the cross. By the time I got round there with me little dog—barkin’ her ‘ead off, she was—they’d scarpered.”

Lois closed her eyes, and a tear ran down her cheek. If she’d taken him in to casualty last night, had them look at his ankle and check him over, he might be alive now.

She opened her eyes and shook her head. Might, might, if, if. She didn’t, and that was that. She got up and looked out of the window. A small Jack Russell terrier trotted quickly by on the opposite side of the road. Oh no! Wasn’t that Cyril’s little dog? She rushed out and caught up with it. It stopped and looked at her enquiringly. Lois was sure it was Cyril’s, and looked at the nameplate on its collar. “Betsy,” clearly visible. Yep, it was Cyril’s. Probably been
out all night, and now on her way home, looking for her master.

Lois picked her up, and buried her face in the wiry coat. “Come on, Betsy,” she whispered, “come home with me. We’ll look after you.” She ran back across the road and into the big kitchen, where Gran sat at the table, staring into space. “Here, Mum,” Lois said. “Here’s somethin’ you can do for Cyril. He loved this dog.”

“Are you mad, Lois?” Gran said in a flat voice. “What about Melvyn?”

Lois looked at the large cat fast asleep and totally indifferent to the snuffling terrier padding about the kitchen. “They’ve met,” she said, grinning now. “Betsy knows who’s boss, and keeps well away from Mel. No, it’ll be Derek we have to worry about.”

She was right. When Derek came home later, he exploded. “You’re crazy, Lois!” he said. She thought it best to agree, and said it had been an impulse and she’d take Betsy to Tresham dogs’ home in the morning. This had the effect she hoped for. Gran said there was no need to decide right now, and Derek nodded. “Best take her for a bit of a walk, anyway,” he said, reaching for a ball of string to make a temporary lead. “Old Cyril always took her out beginning and end of the day. Up to the churchyard, eh, gel?” he added, and patted her on her small, warm head.

S
HARON
M
ILLER LOOKED AT HERSELF IN THE MIRROR
, and wondered for the first time for years whether it would, after all, be a good thing to have her eye fixed. She did not know if it was even possible. In her imagination, she saw masked faces in the clinical glare of the operating theatre. Her own body lay supine on the table, swathed in dark green wrappings. The surgeon, lawny brown eyes showing above his mask, peered down at her lovely face.

“I can’t do it, Jim,” he said, turning to his assistant. “This girl is perfect as she is. God has made her to His own design, and who am I to interfere with such loveliness?”

Sharon laughed out loud. I reckon I could write one of them books, she thought. I’m wasted doin’ cleaning for the vicar. Still, she reflected, applying makeup and brushing her long, wavy blonde hair, at least it’ll give me a chance to see what Sandy’s up to.

She had finally convinced herself that her glimpse of Sandy and Rebecca kissing had been an affectionate greeting. Everybody kissed everybody these days. Especially
the nobs. Mwa mwa! And all of them being careful not actually to make contact. “At least with us lot,” she muttered as she went downstairs, “a kiss means something. Like love. Or lust!” She laughed again delightedly, and shouted goodbye to her mother. “See you later,” she called. Then she ran back into the kitchen and planted a smacking kiss on her mother’s cheek. “There,” she said, and grinned at her expression of alarm. “Don’t worry,” she added. “Just because I felt like it.”

B
RIAN
R
OLLINSON ANTICIPATED
S
HARON
’
S ARRIVAL WITH
something like dread. He had a lot to think about. An old sister of Cyril had surfaced in Tresham, and she and her unmarried daughter would be handling all the arrangements for the funeral. But it was not at all clear when that could be. The police were being very cagey, talking about an autopsy and coroner’s verdict, all in a vague kind of way that left him unable to offer the usual comforting platitudes to reassure the bereaved. Once the sadness of the funeral was over, he would say, God and time would begin to heal the wounds of loss. It was actually not true. Most people found that the arrangements and excitement of the funeral—yes, excitement—and seeing friends and relations they’d not seen for years, buoyed them up until their loved one had been satisfactorily despatched. And afterwards, when there was nothing but emptiness where once someone familiar had been, they often felt the real pain of bereavement. But at least it gave him something to say in difficult circumstances.

This time, though, the old sister had never troubled about Cyril in life, and might not be so struck down by his death. She hadn’t been in Farnden for years, it was said. There had probably been a feud. Yes, that would be it. Villages were full of feuds. The old thing would not be in the
least distressed, and her daughter had more than likely been conditioned to believe Cyril was the devil incarnate.

“Devil incarnate!” Brian stood up suddenly, and put his hands to his head. Sometimes he felt that he was being pursued by the anti-Christ, and now here were rumours of him in Farnden’s own churchyard.

“Sharon?” Brian opened the door and strode into the kitchen. She wasn’t there, and he could hear the cleaner humming away upstairs. He’d surprise her with a cup of coffee on her first morning. Get the conversation round to the disturbance in the churchyard last night. Sharon was a friendly soul. He had to admit he was not sorry to lose Hazel Thornbull, née Reading. She was abrasive and suspicious, and though her work could not be faulted, she was a constant thorn in his flesh. Thorn … in the flesh … yes, well. It was very difficult being a vicar, Brian Rollinson decided. Words were against you. The parish was largely against you. And, sometimes, privately, he wondered if God was against him.

He called again, but the vacuum was still going and she did not hear. He walked upstairs, his footsteps cushioned by carpet, and saw to his surprise that the machine stood by itself, anchored to the banister by its flex, and through the open door to Sandy’s room he could see Sharon lying on her back on Sandy’s bed, eyes closed and a seraphic smile on her face.

At the same moment he heard the front door open and Sandy’s voice calling him. Why was he home in the middle of the morning? What on earth was going on? He swiftly turned off the cleaner, noted Sharon rise up in alarm, and ran back downstairs to prevent Sandy from rushing up to find a blonde stretched out on his bed.

“Hi,” said Sandy. “Left some papers behind—here, excuse me!” he added, as Brian stood firmly at the bottom of the stairs, preventing him from going up. “I left them in my
room! Please, let me by … you got a woman up there or something?” His smile was mocking.