Trouble at the Little Village School (37 page)

‘It must have been a terrible ordeal,’ remarked Mrs O’Connor, ‘confronted as you were by an armed robber like that.’

Mrs Sloughthwaite placed the rolling-pin down on the counter and folded her chubby arms across her impressive chest. ‘Well, I’ll admit it’s not something you welcome, but he was such a big useless lump of a lad and he hadn’t the first idea of how to go about a robbery.’

‘And poor Major Neville-Gravitas having a knife at his throat,’ said Mrs Widowson. She touched her neck and gave a small shudder.

‘Huh,’ scoffed Mrs Pocock, ‘knowing him he’d have talked his way out of it. Slippery as an eel in a barrel of oil, is that one.’

Mrs Sloughthwaite smiled to herself. She resisted the temptation of telling her audience exactly how the major had reacted. She would save that for another time.

The locals in the village pub were also treated to a blow-by-blow account of the incident, although with a rather different slant. The major, looking every inch the retired army officer in his blue blazer with brash gold buttons, pressed grey trousers, crisp white shirt and regimental tie, was giving his version of events.

‘So my army training stood me in very good stead,’ he told the landlord at the Blacksmith’s Arms. He had decided to return to his former drinking haunt, not wishing to get into another conversation with Councillor Smout at the golf club.

‘Since when did soldiers in the Catering Corps have commando training?’ asked Fred Massey from the end of the bar.

‘For your information, Mr Massey, I was in the Royal Engineers and I went through rigorous military training. Of course you never did National Service, did you, so you wouldn’t know anything about the armed forces.’ He turned to the landlord. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, I managed to keep calm, disarm the blighter and tie him up before the police arrived.’

‘Well, you deserve your whisky, major,’ said the landlord. ‘It was a mighty brave thing to have done. This one’s on the house.’

There was a smattering of applause from one or two customers.

‘Thank you kindly,’ said the major, stroking his moustache and basking in the praise.

‘We don’t often get a hero in here,’ said the landlord, and then, turning to Fred, added, ‘it’s usually grumblers and grousers that I have to put up with.’

‘Hero? Huh,’ huffed Fred. ‘From what I heard it was old Ma Sloughthwaite who tackled the robber.’

‘I hardly think that a defenceless woman would be able to disarm a lunatic with a knife, wrestle him to the ground and subdue him,’ said the major.

‘Defenceless woman!’ he exclaimed. ‘She could take on the SAS single-handed, that one.’

‘Well, major,’ said the landlord, ‘you are to be congratulated. A lot of people in the village have much to thank you for.’

‘That’s good of you to say,’ said the major. ‘I have to admit I have been very surprised and quite overwhelmed by the goodwill messages I have received. Why, only this morning I received a card from Mrs Devine—’

‘Don’t mention Mrs Devine to me,’ said Fred glumly. ‘She’s not in my good books at the moment.’

‘And why is that?’ asked the landlord.

‘Because I usually do the jobs in this village,’ Fred told him.

‘When you can get your Clarence to get around to it,’ said the landlord under his breath.

‘And Mrs Devine,’ continued Fred, undeterred by the comment, ‘has got some gypsy fellow repairing her fence, fixing things for her and cutting down branches on her trees. Now Miss Sowerbutts is going elsewhere as well. She got Danny Stainthorpe to get rid of her moles and the vicar’s wife had the lad doing the churchyard until I put a stop to that. Taking bread out of my mouth, is this.’

‘Well, Mr Massey,’ said the major, finishing his whisky in one great gulp, ‘if you were more amiable, industrious and dependable, then people might ask you.’ And with that he bid the landlord, ‘Good day,’ and left Fred Massey seething at the end of the bar.

‘Well, it was on my desk this morning, I know that, and it’s not there now.’

The school secretary was looking red and flustered, having searched the office for the missing money.

‘And you’ve had a good look?’ asked the caretaker.

‘Of course I’ve had a good look, Mr Gribbon,’ she said irritably. ‘I’ve spent half the morning having a good look.’

‘In your drawers?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Have you looked in your drawers?’

‘It’s not in my drawers.’

‘Do you want me to have a look?’

‘No, I do not. The money was on the top of the desk, right there in front of the typewriter. I didn’t put it in a drawer.’

‘Well, someone must have took it then,’ said the caretaker.

‘There’s been nobody in the office this morning,’ said the secretary, ‘apart from you and that new little girl.’

‘Ah well, there you have it,’ said the caretaker.

‘What do you mean, there I have it?’

‘That gypsy kiddie. She’ll have took it.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ retorted Mrs Scrimshaw.

‘Light-fingered, that’s what they are, these travellers. Not only are they a damn nuisance, they can’t keep their hands off of anything. As my dad used to say about gypsies, “If it moves they kick it, if it doesn’t they nick it”.’

‘I’m not interested in what your father used to say, Mr Gribbon,’ replied Mrs Scrimshaw, ‘I just need to find the money. There was over a hundred pounds in the envelope, money for the school trip. I’d just totalled it up and I was to take it to the bank at lunchtime. I shall have to see Mrs Devine if it doesn’t turn up before morning break.’

‘She’ll not be best pleased,’ remarked the caretaker, jangling his keys.

‘Well, thank you for the reassurance,’ replied Mrs Scrimshaw. ‘Why don’t you get back to buffing your floors?’

‘Mrs Pugh, the new part-time cleaner, is doing them this morning,’ the caretaker told her. ‘I’ve hurt my foot. It’s agony when I walk.’

‘It makes a change,’ said the secretary.

‘What does?’

‘It’s usually your back you complain about. So how did you hurt your foot?’

‘It was that bloody plaque Lady Whatshername has had made for the library what did it,’ said the caretaker, pulling a pained face. ‘It weighed a ton and I dropped it on my foot. I can’t buff my floors, the state I’m in. Incapacitated, that’s what I am. Mrs Pugh’s doing them. I’ve showed her how to do it and she’s taken to it like a fish to water. She’s a godsend, that woman. There’s nothing what she can’t turn her hand to.’

‘Well, go and supervise her then. I’ve got to find this wretched money.’

The caretaker ambled off. ‘You mark my words,’ he said before departing, ‘it’s that little gypsy kid. The money will be in the bottom of her bag as we speak.’

‘And you’ve made a thorough search?’ asked Elisabeth later that morning when the secretary reluctantly informed her of the missing money.

‘Everywhere, Mrs Devine,’ she replied.

‘Well, it’s a real mystery.’

Mrs Scrimshaw decided to tell the head teacher of Mr Gribbon’s suspicions.

‘I’m sure Roisin would not have taken it,’ she said, ‘but she was the only pupil to come into the office this morning, so I have to admit it’s got me wondering.’

‘I cannot believe that she took it either,’ agreed Elisabeth.

‘Do you think we should perhaps have a word with her?’ asked the secretary.

‘Not for the moment,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Just keep on looking. I am sure it will turn up. And don’t get upset, Mrs Scrimshaw, these things happen.’

The school secretary sniffed and blew her nose when the head teacher had left. She recalled the time before the arrival of Mrs Devine when she had mislaid the school chequebook. It had eventually turned up under a pile of reports that cluttered the small, stuffy school office in which she used to work. Miss Sowerbutts had reacted in her usual sharp and unsympathetic manner. How very different was her successor.

At the end of the day, when the money had not turned up, Elisabeth considered what she should do. Perhaps, she thought, as had been suggested, she ought to have a word with Roisin the next morning, but then she thought better of it. She decided on another, more subtle plan when she discovered the girl in the small library with Oscar.

‘And what are you two doing here?’ asked Elisabeth.

‘The thing is, Mrs Devine,’ explained Oscar, ‘my mother’s got a counselling session today and said she would be a bit delayed, and Roisin’s father is picking her up later. He’s working up at Limebeck House. We’re looking at this very interesting book on fossils. I was explaining to Roisin that ammonites were once thought to be coiled-up snakes turned to stone by St Hilda of Whitby. Sometimes people carved little heads on the front and sold them. I have three at home that I found in Port Mulgrave when we were on holiday in Scarborough. Now the thing about ammonites—’

‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Oscar,’ said Mrs Devine, ‘but I wonder if you two could do a small job for me?’

‘Of course,’ replied the boy.

‘The thing is,’ explained the head teacher, ‘Mrs Scrimshaw has mislaid some money in the school office. It was for the school trip. I’m afraid if she doesn’t find it there will be a lot of very disappointed children. I wonder if you two might help her to look for it?’

‘Mrs Scrimshaw,’ said Elisabeth, when she arrived at the school office with the two children, ‘I have a couple of little helpers here.’ The secretary looked surprised, particularly when she caught sight of Roisin. ‘They are going to help us look for the missing money. Now,’ she said, turning to Oscar, ‘Mrs Scrimshaw is sure she put the money here, just in front of her typewriter.’ She tapped the desk. ‘But, as if by magic, it has disappeared.’

‘I don’t think it’s anything to do with magic, Mrs Devine,’ observed the boy. ‘There’s always a simple explanation.’

‘Was it in a brown envelope?’ asked Roisin.

‘It was,’ replied Mrs Scrimshaw.

‘I remember seeing it there,’ said the girl, ‘when I brought the class register back this morning.’ The secretary raised an eyebrow and glanced at Elisabeth.

‘Perhaps you put it somewhere safe, Mrs Scrimshaw,’ said Oscar. ‘I know my mother frequently does this and then forgets where the safe place is. She’s quite scatty at times.’

‘No, Oscar,’ said Mrs Scrimshaw, not at all pleased to be compared with the boy’s scatty mother. ‘I didn’t move it. It was there, right in front of the typewriter.’

Oscar crouched down and peered at the space beneath the machine. Then, taking a ruler from the desk, he slid it underneath and the brown envelope appeared.

‘Well I never,’ said Mrs Scrimshaw.

The boy nodded sagely. ‘It must have slid under there,’ he told her. ‘As I said, there’s always a logical explanation. Oh, I can see your father waiting outside, Roisin, talking to my mother. We had better be making tracks.’

‘Thank you, Oscar,’ said Elisabeth. ‘Thank you very much.’

‘Any time,’ said the boy, taking Roisin’s hand in his as he left the office.

‘Have you time for a coffee?’ the new curate asked.

She had met Dr Stirling coming out of the chemist’s the day following his talk to the Mothers’ Union.

He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Well, I do have one more patient to visit this morning, but— ’

She rested a hand on his arm. ‘It’s just that I wanted to have a word with you about something,’ she said. ‘I won’t keep you long, I promise. I meant to mention it yesterday and didn’t get the chance with all those doting elderly ladies surrounding you.’

He smiled. ‘Hardly “doting”,’ he said. ‘They were keen to tell me about all their ailments and medical conditions. That’s one of the disadvantages of being a doctor, I’m afraid.’

‘So can you spare ten minutes?’ she asked.

‘Well, I guess Miss Sowerbutts can wait a while longer. I was just calling in to see how she’s getting on. She’s been having a few dizzy spells lately.’

‘She’s a bit of a dragon, isn’t she?’ Ashley said. ‘She was very sharp with me when I called round to her cottage to introduce myself.’

‘Her bark is worse than her bite,’ Dr Stirling told her. ‘She’s just a lonely old woman who hasn’t got much in her life. She seems to feel all the world is against her. Anyway, let’s go and have that coffee.’

In the small café at the end of the high street they sat at a corner table. The waitress, a large, morose-looking girl with lank mousy brown hair tied back untidily into a ponytail, approached the table.

‘Hello, Dr Stirling,’ she said.

‘Hello, Bianca,’ he replied. ‘How’s that baby of yours?’

The girl’s face brightened. ‘Oh, he’s doing fine, doctor, and I’m trying real hard with the breastfeeding.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he replied.

‘And I’ve given up the ciggies as well.’

‘Good.’

‘I’ve still got them cracked nipples though, doctor.’

Ashley smiled.

‘Well, you call into the surgery and we’ll sort it out,’ he told her.

‘And I still haven’t got the hang of that breast pump the health visitor gave me.’