Theft on Thursday Read online

  DON’T MISS ANN PURSER’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

  The Lois Meade Mysteries by Ann Purser

  MURDER ON MONDAY

  TERROR ON TUESDAY

  WEEPING ON WEDNESDAY

  THEFT ON THURSDAY

  FEAR ON FRIDAY

  SECRETS ON SATURDAY

  SORROW ON SUNDAY

  WARNING AT ONE

  TRAGEDY AT TWO

  THEFT ON

  THURSDAY

  ANN PURSER

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  THEFT ON THURSDAY

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with Severn House

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Severn House hardcover edition / 2004

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / February 2006

  Copyright © 2004 by Ann Purser.

  Cover illustration by Griesbach/Martucci.

  Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

  Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form

  without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in

  violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information address: Severn House Publishers Ltd,

  595 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10022.

  EISBN: 9781101567661

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks

  belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Grateful thanks to

  my friend Lis,

  who researched the legend.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  ONE

  “SHE 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.

  LONG FARNDEN 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.

  It was several years now since she’d helped him, and though she sometimes thought longingly of the buzz she felt when pieces of a jigsaw began to show a clear picture, her husband had no such yearnings. Derek, a competent and hard-working electrician, a good father and loving husband, who admitted that he did not always understand his wife, was unreservedly glad that Hunter Cowgill no longer haunted his life.

  “How did you get on with the new vicar?” Derek said, as his wife came into the kitchen. Following the long interregnum, when they’d had a different preacher each week, a middle-aged single man had finally been appointed. He had moved to the cramped, modern vicarage and raised his hands in horror at the idea of fitting all his books and papers into such a small space. An efficient system was what was needed, and Lois had approached swiftly with details of New Brooms’ excellent service. This afternoon she had clinched the contract.

  “A doddle,” she said now, sitting down at the tea table to be served by Gran, her long-suffering mother, who had lived with them for some years and was an invaluable fixture. “He’s a real innocent. First parish of his own. God knows what mincemeat those church people will make of him.”

  “Well, he’s come late to the cloth, apparently,” said Gran, “so I expect he’ll be keen. Anyway, the PCC chose him, so they must know what they’re getting.” Gran was the only churchgoing member of the family, and reckoned she spoke with authority. She’d been invited to join the Parochial Church Council, but told Lois they were in her view a collection of the least Christian members of the community. “Holier-than-thou lot o’ nobs, mostly,” she said.

  “I came back through the churchyard,” Lois continued, “and got caught by old Cyril. He spun me a long tale about some woman in the old days who poisoned her husband, and then stole his heart. There’s this grim gravestone he showed me. Never noticed it before, have you, Mum?”

  Gran shook her head. “He’s an old liar, anyway,” she said comfortably. “Still, what’s the story?”

  “Mellish, their name was. She was after his money, Cyril reckons. Bad luck for her he didn’t have none. So she stole his heart. Anyway, she got caught, and they roasted her on a bonfire like a witch. Nice little story for a summer’s day …”

  Derek was not fooled. “Caught your fancy, didn’t it, me duck,” he said with a smile. “Lucky for us it happened so long ago, else you’d have been off on the trail, hand in hand with Hunter the cop, bringin’ the woman to justice.”

  Lois sighed. “Not me,” she said sadly. “Haven’t heard from Cowgill for years, have I?”

  “You were sharp with him once too often, Lois,” said Gran. “And a good thing too. We’ve been a much happier family without all that malarkey. Now, eat up, and I’ll get the sweet.”

  Derek looked at his lovely wife. Dark hair that shone like deep water in the sun. Beautiful long legs. They had attracted him straightaway when he’d spotted her working in Woolworths, a rebellious school-leaver, and attracted him still, thank God. She don’t look a day over twenty-five, he thought fondly. Nobody’d think she had a daughter of twenty, and nearly grown-up sons. Jamie, the youngest, had finished his A-levels, and would be off to college soon, and then there’d be just the three of them, he realized, him and Lois and Gran. Still, Douglas from university, and Josie from her shared flat in Tresham, still kept in touch, and Lois and he were the first to hear if they had worries.

  He looked at Lois’s long face, and said lightly, “Never mind, me duck, somebody local’s bound to get bumped off sooner or later, and then you’ll be happy.”

  In due course, he had reason to wish he’d not tempted Fate.

  TWO

  LONG FARNDEN WAS NAMED FOR ITS ONE LONG, NAR-row street with old stone houses either side. More mellow in colour than the neighbouring Cotswolds, the houses shone dark gold in the evening sun, and Gran walked slowly down the road towards the church, counting her blessings. If she and Lois hadn’t agreed, she could still be living in an old folks’ bungalow on a rundown housing estate in Tresham. She was early for choir practice, and stopped to look back down the street. Maybe someone else would be on the way. She didn’t want to be first.

  “Evenin’, missus,” said a cracked voice from behind an unruly hedge.

  “Ah, Cyril, how are you?” said Gran, looking at her watch. Early or not, she didn’t have time for a garrulous old man.

  “All the better for seein’ you, Mrs. Weedon,” grinned Cyril, emerging into sight. He looked at the trim figure in front of him, and wished he had somebody like that in the house behind him, cleaning up, maybe, and doing some home cooking. He sighed. “Off to choir singing?” he asked.

  Gran nodded. She supposed he wasn’t such a bad old bloke. “The new vicar’s coming along,” she said. “Got an announcement to make, he said. We’re all a bit worried. The old parson used to let us get on with it.”

  “That Gladys still taking practices?” said Cyril, stepping forward in an attempt to prevent Gran from moving on. “She were the reason vicars don’t stay long in Farnden, if y’ask me.”

  “She’s threatening to resign,” Gran said with a smile. “Been doing the job for thirty years, she says. Reckon she don’t take to the new chap. Still, from what I hear, did she ever?” Gran neatly side-stepped the old man, and carried on her way.

  When she walked into the church and up to the choir stalls, she could see trouble was afoot. The half-dozen who formed the choir were in a huddle, whispering. When they saw her, they broke apart and drew her
in.

  “She’s given up,” they said.

  “Thought she would,” said Gran, unsurprised. “Been in charge too long. It’ll be better for the new man. Easier than tryin’ to please old Gladys.”

  The others had been surprised. They had all been prepared to defend Gladys and her right to hold the post of organist and choirmistress unchallenged. For as long as they could remember, Gladys had sat at the organ and played very slowly the most mournful hymns she could find. Easter was her favourite time—that is, the part of Easter before the joyfulness of the resurrection. Good Friday brought an extra enthusiasm to her playing of “Throned upon the awful Tree, King of grief, I watch with thee.”

  Now she had upstaged them all by pinning a brief note to the old wooden music stand in the vestry. “I hereby resign,” it announced formally. “You’ll find somebody else, no doubt, and I wish them joy of it. Gladys Mary Smith.”

  Gran read the note and put her membership of the choir in jeopardy by laughing heartily. “Good old Gladys,” she said. “Still, she’s right. We’ll find somebody else, I’m sure. What about you, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones?”

  Thin-faced, aquiline-nosed Mrs. T-J, as she was universally known, shook her head modestly. “Well, actually, I’m much too busy,” she said. “Though, of course, should it be absolutely …” Her voice tailed away as she waited for someone to insist, but their attention was diverted by quick footsteps coming up the flagstones of the church path.

  “Good evening, everyone!” The tall, rangy figure of the new vicar strode into the chancel and approached the group.

  “Good evening, Vicar,” said Mrs. T-J, taking the lead as always. “You are very welcome to our little group. We have not started our practice, since this note has rather taken us by surprise.” She handed him Gladys’s resignation, and all eyes watched for his reaction.

  “Ah, what a pity,” he said. “But extraordinarily enough,” he continued with a bright smile that hardly seemed appropriate, “I have this very morning heard from the son of an old friend. My godson. The young man is moving to our village, intending to commute into Tresham, where he will be working as an estate agent. But his hobby is music, and he is a trained singer. Now, isn’t that a wonderful coincidence?”