Tragedy at Two (15 page)

“Never mind about that,” the man said, his voice changing. “Just wanted you to know me and my brother saw you this morning, holdin’ hands with that Sam Stratford. Oh, yes, we know all about him and you.”

Edwina stared at him, and said nothing.

“So I come to bargain.”

“Get off our land!” said Edwina, taking a step forward. The dog growled and showed its teeth. She stopped, her heart racing.

“Here’s the bargain,” said the man. “You leave us a small donation tomorrow morning. Under this stone will do. Here, by the corner of the run. And we’ll keep our mouths shut.”

“You’ll find nothin’ but the police waiting for you,” said Edwina.

The man laughed. “I don’t think so, missus. Old Alf can be a terror when he’s angry. We know that, me and my brother. No, you do what I said, and he’ll never know nothing about it.”

Edwina bit her lip. “What do you call a small donation? A fiver?”

This time Harry—i t was, of course, Harry, the clever one—l aughed louder. “Make it fifty, an’ that’ll be cheap at the price,” he said. “Half a dozen eggs’d be useful, too,” he added, and went off rasping out guffaws of laughter, and dragging the dog behind him.

LOIS HAD DRIVEN INTO TRESHAM WITH GRAN TO DO SOME shopping, and decided to come home via Waltonby, where she could call on Sheila Stratford and see if she was feeling better. She had been off sick yesterday, and had sounded rough on the telephone. It was not like Sheila to give in to ailments, but this time she could hardly speak to Lois.

“Well, you can go in if you want to, but I’ll stay in the van,” Gran said. “She’s bound to be full of germs. Why couldn’t you just phone her?”

“Personal touch, Mum. I’ll probably just shout through the letter box, if that would suit you better.”

But when nobody answered the door, Lois walked round to the back and peered through the window. Sheila was standing at the sink, filling the kettle. She was wrapped in a man’s dressing gown, and had pink fluffy slippers on her feet. When Lois tapped on the door, she turned swiftly, her face pale except for a red tip to her nose.

“Did you ring the bell at the front?” she said apologetically, beckoning Lois inside. “It’s been broken for a couple of days. Sam’s going to fix a new one as soon as he can get into Tresham. Sorry about this cold, Mrs. M, but as you can see, I’d not be welcome in clients’ homes!”

Lois said she was on no account to come back to work for a week. “You’d best go back to bed at once. Here, let me fill that hot water bottle. Shall I make you a cup of tea? I suppose Sam will be back at lunchtime? Have you got food, or shall I fetch you something from the shop?”

To Lois’s amazement, Sheila handed her the hot water bottle and burst into tears. Gasping that she was sorry, and it was just that she felt so lousy, she mopped her streaming eyes and nose with a handful of tissues.

“Is that really all?” Lois was suspicious. Sheila was not one for weeping.

“Sort of,” Sheila replied.

“What else, then? Something to do with Sam?”

Sheila subsided into a chair and nodded. “We’ve had row after row ever since we did that quiz with the gypsies that night in the pub. And he’s been acting strange. Going out without saying where he’s going, and then when I asked him yesterday he said he’d been at Alan’s. But Alan phoned later and said no, Dad had not been round.”

Lois’s heart sank. It was all her fault for persuading Sheila to do the quiz. “What did he say about the fire?” she asked.

“That’s another thing,” Sheila said. “I was really worried about that, in case he was mixed up in it. He’s been so angry about the gypsies, and threatening all kinds of ways of getting rid of them. Said he was going to tackle Alf Smith and force him to give them the push. Alf and Sam never got on, not for years, and I was worried there’d be trouble there.” She stopped to sneeze violently, and Lois nervously backed away. She thought of Gran getting restless in the van.

“Then I asked him outright if he’d had anything to do with it, and he turned on me. Denied it, and accused me of being a suspicious woman, not fit to be his wife.”

Another burst of tears caused Lois to look at her watch. “Listen, Sheila,” she said. “The first thing you do is get better. Then we’ll see about you and Sam. Derek always says you can’t interfere between man and wife, so I’ll be careful! Anyway, when he sees what a state you’re in, it’ll probably all come right. He’s a kind man, really, isn’t he? Something’s wrong, I can see that. But let’s leave it until you’ve shaken off this cold. I must go now. Mum’s waiting in the van, and you know what she is! I’ll give you a ring tomorrow, see how you are.”

Gran was fuming. “I’ll never understand you, Lois Meade!” she said. “With a business to run, and everybody relying on you, and you go and poke your head into a houseful of germs!” She shrank away from Lois, saying she was sure she was already catching this dreadful cold. “So dreadful that it’s keeping Sheila Stratford off work, and she’s not one to swing the lead,” she continued.

“She was upset, as well as full of cold,” Lois said. “Mostly about Sam. They haven’t been getting on too well lately.”

“And I know why,” Gran said. “Sam Stratford always had strong opinions. And for some reason gypsies get him going more’n anything. Folk say he and Alf Smith have nearly come to blows in the pub many a time, arguing over gypsies. And blacks. Sam’s not over fond of blacks.”

“Oh, my God!” Lois exploded. “And him a church warden and parish councillor! If that’s what being a Christian means, I’m glad I’m not one of that lot.”

They were driving up to the house now, and Gran began to laugh. “There’s Christians and Christians, Lois. Just so long as you don’t dress up in saffron robes and chant up and down the High Street in Tresham.”

“What I believe is my own affair,” answered Lois sniffily, and they came to stop in the drive. “Anyway, we’d better get out now so’s you can spray disinfectant all round the house.”

MRS. TOLLERVEY-JONES, CHAIR OF THE PARISH COUNCIL, privately shared many of Sam Stratford’s views. She had taken charge of all the things necessary for the council to handle the aftermath of the fire, and made the right noises about persecution and violence not being the way to tackle a problem. She was co-operating with the police, of course, and had twice answered questions from that chilly policeman, Inspector Cowgill. He could have been a little more respectful, she considered. He had been verging on arrogance in her opinion, and she was near reporting him to the commissioner, who was a friend of hers. She sighed. It was not like the old days, when a position in society meant something.

She moved away from the long windows looking out over the park, and walked across the drawing room to the door, her sensible shoes clacking on the parquet flooring. Rugs were scattered sparsely, and she liked the authoritative sound of her heels on the wood blocks. At the foot of the curving staircase, she looked up and shouted at the top of her voice, “Sally! Sally! Are you coming down for lunch? Ready in five minutes. Don’t be late.” Her voice was kind. Sally was a worry to her at the moment.

Up in her room, Sally Tollervey-Jones, aged sixteen, looked at herself in the mirror and frowned. She saw a pale face with dark circles under the eyes, long stringy blonde hair darkening at the roots, and thin lips tightly clenched. It was this place getting her down, she told herself, excusing her spell in hospital from taking too much stuff. How could she get out of here?

Her great-aunt was the most unpleasant person she had ever met. A real bully. Sally had had enough of being bullied. She had been a victim right from the start, she believed. A hard-hearted nanny, then a nursery school where she’d been pushed around because her parents never came to see the teachers, followed by a series of boarding schools. She knew in her heart that the frequent exclusions had been her fault, but blamed it all on other people. Her parents, teachers, bigger girls, anyone but herself. She had been a little comforted to hear that another member of the T-J family, Annabel, had felt exactly the same, and been sent to stay with Mrs. T-J in the hope that she could work a miracle. Family history repeating itself. Fat chance of being directed on a cheerful straight and narrow path in this mausoleum!

Since she had been in Long Farnden her life
had
changed, but not for the better, her aunt would say. No, it was because she had been warmly welcomed by the gang behind the village hall. She was not stupid, and knew they thought she would have ready money for what they traded. But she did not care. Mark Brown was, like her, new to the gang, and he had taken charge of her, protecting her against those who mocked her accent and were nervous in case she would prove disloyal.

She fancied Mark Brown, and the feeling seemed to be mutual. The drugs they shared drove away the miseries, if only for a while. She had been careless in ending up in hospital, but now began to feel better, and looked forward to seeing him again and finding a way of escape.

“Coming!” she shouted, and descended the stairs two at a time.

 

 

MARK BROWN, UNUSED TO BEING THE SUBJECT OF ADORATION, lay stretched out on his bed listening to rap and thinking about Sally. It was comforting to talk to someone who had had a worse time with parents than he had. At least his Mum and Dad had been
around
being nasty to him. Sally had told him about her absentee parents. She was never quite sure where they were, her father being a diplomat and her mother a mouse who followed him about when it was permitted, and vanished down her mouse hole when left alone.

“Mark, Mark!” His mother’s voice just about penetrated the music, and he sat up.

“What?”

“A visitor for you!” She sounded nervous. Oh, God, not another policeman. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? He ran his fingers through his hair, put on his glasses to be more studious and serious-l ooking, and went slowly downstairs.

“Ah, there you are, son,” said his mother. “This is Mrs. Meade. She’s Elsie Weedon’s daughter, and her Josie runs the shop.”

“I know who she is,” Mark said shortly. “Hi.”

Lois supposed this was as polite as he could manage, and felt a little encouraged. Not a bad start, anyway.

“Mrs. Meade wanted to have a chat,” Nancy Brown said. “She might be able to help us with the police, and so on. I’ll get you both some coffee.” She scuttled out of the room, looking nervously at Mark.

“I thought you were a cleaner?” Mark began, looking casually out of the window.

“I run a cleaning business, yes. And I’m not at all sure I can help. Your mum is a bit optimistic. Still, she reckons if we could find the maniac who started that fire it would let you off the hook for that, though there’s nothing I can do about the drugs.”

“Not your business,” Mark said flatly. “As for the fire, I’ve told them already. I don’t know nuthin’ about who started it.” He began to go towards the door, and Lois snapped back at him.

“Sit down. I’m not here for fun. I’ve got plenty of work to do, so I’ll thank you to sit down and listen. I don’t care a damn what you do to yourself, but I’ll help your mother if I can.”

“I notice you don’t include my dad,” Mark said, subsiding into a chair.

Lois ignored that, and glared at him so that he had to pay attention. “No doubt you know about my daughter’s partner, Rob, who was beaten up as he walked home, not troubling anybody. The cops still haven’t found out who murdered him, and now there’s been a fire in the gypsy camp that could have killed the lot. Children, their mums and dads, dogs and horses. The whole lot. What do you think about all that?”

To Lois’s horror, he grinned. “I think,” he said slowly, “that this is a bloody rotten village to live in. Take your life in y’ hands every time you walk down the street.”

Lois stared at him, appalled. “So that’s what you think, is it?” she said. “Then there’s no point in my being here.” She stood up and called to Mrs. Brown that she wouldn’t have any coffee, thanks, and had to be going. “I’ve got better things to do with my time than talk to this . . . this . . .” She thought of Nancy’s feelings; he was her boy, after all. “. . . your son. He’s not in the mood, I’m afraid.”