Theft on Thursday Read online

  “Ah yes, one of his cleaning jobs?” Sandy managed to convey a certain amount of contempt into the innocent question, and Rebecca was not slow to pick it up.

  “It is,” she said shortly. “And his expertise is much appreciated. And, as it happens, he’ll be off shortly to calve a cow up at the farm. Ever helped a cow deliver her calf, Sandy? No? Well, I thought not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better go and see where he is.”

  Sandy smiled sadly. Oops! he said to himself. Cocked up that one. Never mind, there’ll be lots of other chances. He gave himself a little shake, and moved away to survey other possible talent.

  Brian, meanwhile, was getting along splendidly. He towered over most of the guests, and as he bent his head down to listen to tales of county intrigue and village scandal, the general impression whispered from group to group was that they’d got a good man. A good man at last. One who would listen to them, and appreciate how things had always been done. A good man, who would recognize those who had influence and power, and conduct the business of God’s elect accordingly. A very pleasant atmosphere prevailed over the party, and when they began to drift away, effusive in their thanks to Mrs. Tollervey-Jones, the good folk of the parishes felt satisfied and looked forward to a period of calm and uncontroversial churchgoing.

  IN THE CHURCHYARD, WATCHING THE BIG CARS LEAVING Farnden Hall and winding their way through darkening lanes, old Cyril sat on the rickety wooden seat by the line of yew trees and chuckled. Poor chap! Full o’new ideas, no doubt. But they’d soon drum ‘em out of ‘im. Mrs. T-J and ‘er lot’d soon lick ‘im into shape.

  Cyril turned in his seat and stared up at the church tower. There it was, same as every year. The date and time were exactly right. As he watched, a solitary brick, mysteriously included in the ironstone tower, glowed as if lit from within. There were no rays left from the dying sun, and no reason why a single brick should shine out into the night. Except that, as Cyril knew better than anyone, it was the anniversary of poor old Willy Mellish’s untimely death. Every year Cyril kept vigil, and now, as the glow slowly faded, he got to his feet and stumped off down the path. “Silly old fool,” he muttered to himself, as he passed the ancient gravestone with its ill-fated couple either side of their table. But there was a touch of sympathy in his voice. Women could be a terrible nuisance. Maybe he was better off without.

  EIGHT

  LOIS HEARD THE TELEPHONE RINGING AS SHE CAME into the kitchen, and half-ran through to her office at the front of the house. “Hello? Oh, Derek, it’s you.”

  “Yep, it’s me,” Derek said. “Are you sitting comfortably?”

  “What d’you mean? What are you on about?”

  “Well, I just don’t want you falling down in a dead faint. The thing is, me duck, I just saw our Jamie walking hand in hand down the High Street in Tresham with a very attractive girl.”

  “So? Wouldn’t be the first girl he’s taken out, for goodness sake. He is eighteen, after all!”

  “Ah, but this one is different. She’s the granddaughter of that old boiler up at the Hall, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones. I seen her up there when I went to do a rewiring job in the stables. Annabelle, they call her, and she’s not more’n seventeen.”

  “Oh, blimey,” said Lois, sitting down. “He’s kept that under his hat, close little devil.”

  “I bet he’s told Gran,” Derek said.

  “Right. Well, if he has and she’s not said anything …”

  Lois’s voice was vengeful, so Derek said quickly, “Better go careful, me duck. We are living in the twenty-first century, y’know.”

  “Not in Long Farnden we aren’t,” replied Lois, and put down the phone. She marched off towards the kitchen, where she found Gran peacefully cleaning brass candlesticks and listening to a play on the radio.

  “Cuppa tea, Mum?” said Lois, deciding that a softly-softly approach was best.

  Gran looked up at her. “So what d’you want, Lois?” she said.

  “To know if you’d like a cup of tea,” said Lois defensively, filling the kettle. “A perfectly innocent question.”

  “Mmm, well, thanks. Yes, I would. And what else?”

  “Oh, all right,” said Lois, laughing. “Do you know anything about Jamie and Mrs. T-J’s granddaughter? Derek saw them holding hands in Tresham.”

  “Annabelle, d’you mean?” said Gran. “Yes, of course I know her. Very nice little thing. She’s been here once or twice—probably when you’ve been working—and seems very pleasant. No side at all, unlike her grandma.”

  Lois was speechless. “Why?” continued Gran. “Is something wrong? Have they quarrelled? Both very young, of course. She’s seventeen, though. Not all that young, nowadays.”

  “I should’ve been told,” said Lois.

  Gran bridled. “What do you mean, Lois? Aren’t you being a bit ridiculous? It’s not as if she was a royal princess …”

  “Thought Jamie’d have more sense,” said Lois without thinking.

  Gran put down the bottle of metal polish with a bang. “That’s enough,” she said. “Can we change the conversation? Your son Jamie, a very nice lad, has got a very nice girlfriend, and nobody’s complaining except you.”

  “And Derek,” said Lois. “Well,” she added, aware that she was not being quite fair, “not complaining exactly, but he obviously thought it was a bit dodgy.”

  “Mum!” Jamie’s voice shouted from outside the kitchen window. “Door’s locked! Let us in!” He was grinning at her, and she understood, really understood, for the first time that he was a young man, and a very attractive one. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have my say, she reassured herself, and went to let him in.

  “Thanks,” he said, and looked across at where Gran had resumed her cleaning. “What’s up, Gran?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Come on,” he said. “I know that face. What’s Mum bin saying?”

  Lois decided the time was ripe. “We were talking,” she said, “about your new girlfriend. Annabelle Tollervey-Jones.”

  “Right,” said Jamie, a soft look on his face that jolted Lois. “Did she ring? We were in Tresham, shopping. Did she forget something?”

  “Um,” hesitated Lois. “No,” she said quickly. “No, she didn’t ring. Gran was just telling me what a nice girl she is. You must introduce me.”

  “Blimey, that’s a bit formal!” said Jamie. “We’re not engaged, or anything! You’ll meet her, Mum. She’s been here once or twice, but I expect you were out. Anyway,” he added, “how’s about a cup of tea? I’m thirsty.” He looked at Gran, but she waved a hand at Lois.

  “She’s doing it,” she said flatly. “Make the most of the offer, Jamie. And don’t make it too strong,” she added to Lois.

  “Don’t listen to her, Mum. Gnat’s pee, that’s Gran’s tea,” said Jamie cheerfully, and turfed a snarling Melvyn off the chair in order to sit down.

  IN THE LONG DRAWING ROOM AT THE HALL, MRS. Tollervey-Jones looked around her with pleasure at the muted colours of her interior décor. It had been newly designed by the friend of a friend, and though she had been rather shocked at the invoice, tasteful as it was on thick paper with a gold heading, the total was twice what the girl had estimated. Still, she was a sort of friend, and Mrs. T-J had swallowed hard and paid up.

  Widowed relatively young, she ran the Hall and its estates in a very efficient, businesslike manner. From her farm manager down, all her employees respected and admired, but did not love her. She had always regarded Long Farnden as her village, and filled the positions of President of the WI, Chair (as she hated to be called) of the Parochial Church Council, Parish Council, and school Board of Governors, with what she saw as firmness and tolerance. That was not how her reign was seen by other members of these organizations, but on the whole they went along with it, having little ambition to replace her.

  She was not a fool, however, and was well aware that she was probably the last representative of a dying breed. Incomers with new ideas were beg
inning to challenge the old guard, one or two turned up at Parish Council meetings, unheard of in the old days, and were anxious to have their say. And now this new vicar, though Mrs. T-J had approved his appointment and could not fault him at his first outing at her party, he had an air of reserve, of holding something back.

  She walked across to the grand piano, and adjusted a wedding photograph. It was of her own wedding, and she looked at the smiling, fresh young faces with a sigh.

  “Annabelle looks so like me,” she said smugly. And was reminded of something unpleasant. A word had been dropped in her ear that her granddaughter had been seen in Tresham, lovingly entwined with Jamie Meade, son of that cleaning woman in the village.

  The door opened, and the old gardener in his socks advanced a couple of paces. “The vicar, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones, is here to see you, to thank you for a lovely party, he says. An’ I’ve just brought some veg in—they’re in the scullery.”

  The vicar could surely just have telephoned, thought Mrs. T-J, that would have been quite adequate. Still, he was new. She must give him a chance. “Right, wheel him in,” she said, and put on her welcoming face.

  “It was such a lovely occasion, and so kind of you,” said Brian, overstepping all the boundaries by planting a firm kiss on both of Mrs. T-J’s cool cheeks. “Now,” he added, “I would really appreciate your advice on an idea I have for getting some of the young mums and babies to come along to church. A pram service, I thought. Once a month to begin with, and on an early weekday afternoon, so they can go on and meet other children from school with no trouble. Keep it light, bit of fun. What do you think?”

  Mrs. T-J was saved from having to say what she thought by the precipitate entrance of her granddaughter, Annabelle. “Hi, vicar!” she said happily. “Gran, can Jamie have a go on our piano? He’s really good. Have you heard him?” she said, turning to Brian with a smile.

  “Um, no, but I think he has joined Sandy’s choir, and sings very nicely,” he answered, uncomfortably aware of a distinct chill coming from Mrs. T-J’s direction.

  “I think not, Annabelle,” she said. “It has just been tuned, darling,” she added. “Now, Reverend Rollinson and I have business to discuss, so perhaps you could be an angel and bring us some tea. And darling, I’m not awfully keen on being called Gran. Grandmother is so much more … well …”

  “Acceptable?” said Annabelle acidly, and left the room without another word.

  NINE

  BRIAN ROLLINSON GOT UP NEXT MORNING FEELING pleased with himself. His first venture—well, second, if you counted setting up Sandy as choirmaster—had received guarded approval from Mrs. T-J, and enthusiastic encouragement from Lois Meade, whom he had met in the shop on the way home. Shop, pub, school, all these were places where he intended to be seen frequently, getting on with the people of the village, gradually erasing that centuries-long barrier between vicarage and community. Doctors, schoolmasters and vicars had all been put on pedestals in the past, but no longer. He was going to be best mates with the coalman, the paper boys—um, well, yes—and the district nurse. Coming late to the job, he considered, was an advantage, in that he had been one of them, an accountant in a busy practice, and knew the ways of the world.

  “Sandy?” he called, as he looked at the clock. Time he was up. His answer was a long groan, coming from upstairs. “Sandy? Anything wrong?”

  “Sick!” Sandy’s voice was feeble, and then Brian heard the unmistakable sound of someone throwing up. He rushed up the stairs and into Sandy’s bedroom. “Good heavens, boy!” he said. “What on earth have you been eating?”

  “Dunno,” managed Sandy, and added, “I think I’ve been poisoned …”

  “Rubbish!” said Brian. “Probably drank too much last night. You were very late back from the pub.”

  Sandy began to say something, but was overcome by another bout of nausea. Brian stared down at the white, sweaty face, and wondered if something was really wrong. Better get the doctor, just in case. Sandy’s mother would never forgive him … again.

  As he was dialling, there was a knock at the kitchen door. He hastily made his request for the doctor to visit Sandy, and shouted, “Come in!” He walked through and saw an attractive young woman, carrying a box full of what even he recognized as cleaning materials.

  “New Brooms,” she said, “Hazel Thornbull … was Reading …” She smiled confidently at him, then glanced around the kitchen. “I can see you need our services,” she said. “Shall I start upstairs and work my way down? That’s what we usually do, if it’s convenient.”

  “Well, no,” said Brian, holding out his hand and receiving a firm shake from Hazel. “I’m afraid Sandy is still in bed, and far from well. He’s been sick, very sick, and I was just sending for the doc. Oh,” he added quickly, “you’d perhaps rather not stay this morning, with you being …?” He glanced at her distinct bulge. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but it may be infectious.”

  Hazel shook her head. “Tough as old boots, me,” she said. “I’ll not go in his room, though. Leave him in peace.” She pulled on an overall, sorted out what she would need, and went off in the direction of the stairs. Brian rushed after her. “I am so sorry,” he said. “Haven’t made the bed yet! Quite forgot you were coming … shall I …?”

  “No, don’t worry,” she answered cheerfully. “We meet all sorts of stuff. An unmade bed is nothing. Just ignore me, and I’ll get on. Coffee around eleven, if that’s OK with you.”

  Sandy had stopped groaning, and Brian tiptoed upstairs behind Hazel. He peeped into the half-open door and looked at Sandy’s humped figure under the duvet. “Sandy,” he whispered. No reply. Oh my God, supposing … Then he saw movement, and was reassured. Perhaps the lad was asleep. That would do nothing but good … unless it was a coma? Oh, Lord, please send the doctor to us first on his rounds. Just this once.

  Hazel, who was adept at gathering information without appearing to do so, noticed everything. The anxious figure of the vicar peering into Sandy’s bedroom, the unmade bed and its elaborate satin headboard, the neatness and cleanliness of everything else in the house. Someone was a good housewife, and Hazel was certain it wasn’t that bouncy little twit who worked at the estate agent’s. She began to hum under her breath. It was going to be an interesting one, this.

  THE DOCTOR CAME TO THE VICARAGE, NOT FIRST ON HIS rounds, but soon after lunch. He examined Sandy carefully, and frowned. “Not sure,” he said honestly. “Could be a flu thing … his temperature’s up. Did he eat the same as you? Are you OK?”

  Brian said they had both had the same supper, but that Sandy had gone down to the pub afterwards and stayed until late. “I’ve no idea if he had more to eat,” he said. “He certainly had plenty to drink, judging by the noise he made when he came in.” He smiled at the doctor, wanting to give the impression of being an unflappable, responsible man, who nevertheless knew what these young people got up to. But his hands were shaking as he helped pull the bedcovers back over the comatose Sandy.

  “Mmm,” said the doctor, still staring at his patient. “Probably flu. But it could be something he’s eaten. Better do some tests. Get as much fluid into him as possible. Don’t take no for an answer. He’ll keep it down best just after he’s vomited. Keep him warm,” he added.

  The vicar accompanied the doctor to his car, and thanked him. “Not in danger, is he?” he said, as the car door shut. But the doctor did not hear, and drove off with a wave. His mind was already on his next patient.

  “Afternoon, vicar.” Brian wheeled round to see old Cyril, propped up against the vicarage wall, idly swiping at a clump of nettles with his stick. “Lovely weather,” he added, wondering if the vicar had heard him. Mind somewhere else. That was the doctor, wasn’t it, so there was sickness in the house.

  “Nobody ill, I ‘ope,” Cyril prompted.

  “Nothing serious,” said Brian, pulling himself together. “Young Sandy has a stomach upset. Soon be right as rain.”

  “Ah,” said Cyril, nodding
his head wisely. “Needs some o’my pills. You tell ‘im. Troublesome things, stomicks. Did I ever tell you about old Willy Mellish, ‘im that’s in the churchyard?”

  “Yes, indeed, several times,” said Brian hurriedly. “Now, Cyril, you must excuse me. Got things to see to. Good morning!” The last thing he wanted to hear was the grisly tale of Willy Mellish and his poisoning wife Sophia.

  TEN

  SHARON MILLER, NOW TWENTY-TWO, AND STILL STUB-bornly refusing to have her eye straightened, was the daughter of the Millers at the garage, which occupied the old Baptist Chapel in the High Street. Don Miller had, of course, built on to the old chapel, needing workshops, an inspection pit, somewhere to park vehicles. The site had been for sale, and he and his family had moved in with high hopes. These had been somewhat dashed when his first planning application was rejected out of hand. “A conservation village with a garage in the High Street!” Mrs. T-J had been almost apoplectic. But for once she was overruled. A major redrawing of the plans, hiding all the nasty new buildings behind the chapel and out of sight, pleased the planners, and the whole project fitted in well with the current government proposals for encouraging light industry into rural areas.

  “I’ll be bringing job opportunities,” promised Don Miller, and he had been true to his word. Two of his original apprentices had stayed with him, and local car-owners were quick to recognize that his prices were reasonable and the care he gave to their cars painstaking and personal. “Yes, yes,” he said to Mrs. T-J, when she finally brought the old Daimler for his attention. “We’ll get it all tickety-boo for you. Lovely job, these were,” he added, running his hand lovingly over the bonnet.

  The Millers were good parents, if over-protective. Sharon found ways of covering up her bids for liberty, but so far had had few serious transgressions to conceal. She resisted treatment for her eye, saying Mr. Right, when he came along, would love her for herself. It would be a good test. Her parents had given up trying to persuade her, although they wondered if she was giving herself the best chance of a husband and children. This was all-important to them, and up until now, lads were not particularly attracted to their Sharon, seeing no further than the eye and the glasses. Sharon’s Mr. Right, who would notice her soft hair, her peachy skin and ripe curves, had not yet turned up.