7 Sorrow on Sunday (12 page)

Lois ignored that. “To get back to the Battersbys,” she said, “I wonder if they’ve always lived in Waltonby?”

“I’ve told you all I know,” Gran said, “but if you’re that keen, why don’t you come to WI with me, and you could ask around. You can bet Ivy Beasley knows all about them. She’s a bottomless pit as far as local knowledge goes.”

Lois said she was really too tired, but was sure her mother could bring up the subject with Ivy. “I think she likes you,” she said. “Met her match, for once.”

Gran denied this hotly. “She beats me hands down,” she said. “Not often I’m lost for words, but Ivy can do it every time. Still, if she’s there, I’ll have a go.”

*   *   *

I
T WAS A CHILLY EVENING, AND THE
WI
SECRETARY HAD
put fifty pence in the meter to have an hour or so’s heating in the hall. The system was not very efficient, as Ivy Beasley had been quick to point out. “Either you roast under one of them electric things, or you freeze to death from the draughts coming under the door,” she had said to the long-suffering President. A project to raise funds for a new community hall had been set up years ago, but as fast as small sums of money were raised from local events, the cost of the project went up. The present hall had been the original old school in the village, and some said it was just right for the number of people likely to use it. But the main users were the daily playgroup, who without so much as a by-your-leave had taken up all the storage space in the shed behind the hall. The whist group couldn’t reach their card
tables, and the carpet bowlers had to step over mounds of toys to reach their carpet runs. It was a continuing battle, without much chance of a solution.

This evening, the plates of cakes were set out in the kitchen, with cups and saucers and a simmering urn, all ready to take into the hall when the speaker had finished. In the semi-circle of chairs, Gran settled herself next to Floss’s mother, Mrs. Pickering, and glanced round for Miss Ivy Beasley. So far there was no sign of her, but a kerfuffle in the porch signalled her approach.

“No need to push me along, Doris!” The harsh voice was unmistakeable. Ivy made her entrance as usual, glaring at anyone already sitting under one of the heaters. Gran jumped up nervously. “Here, Miss Beasley, have this seat, it’s a chilly night, and it’s really warm here . . .” Talking too much, she said to herself. The old bat will do exactly as she likes, even if it means asking some poor soul to move.

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Weedon,” Doris Ashbourne said, guiding Ivy towards the seat. Ivy grunted, and sat down. Gran was now next to her, and, recalling her promise to Lois, felt this was all to the good.

“So how are you, Miss Beasley?” Gran said.

“As well as can be expected,” Ivy said. “I begin to feel my age, though. Can’t do what I used to do.”

“That probably goes for all of us,” Gran answered, remembering too late that Ivy always considered herself unique in all fields. “Still,” she added hastily, “I know my daughter thinks you’re wonderful for your age.”

“Is that meant to be a compliment?” Ivy laughed suddenly. “You don’t do so badly yourself, Mrs. Weedon,” she added, visibly softening. “I’m looking forward to visiting you for a cup of tea. Soon,” she said firmly. Gran’s heart sank. It was a date she hoped Ivy had forgotten, but she might have known there was no chance of that. Ivy Beasley had an uncomfortably encyclopedic memory. Gran was not the only one waiting in trepidation for Ivy to correct the speaker on a number of points.

Now, how to bring up the subject of the Battersbys? At least Ivy’s memory could be useful there. But not time
now. The President had finished the business of the meeting and was getting to her feet.

“Now, members,” she said, smiling benevolently around, “it is my great pleasure to introduce our speaker for this evening. I know we are in for a real treat. Mr. Blenkinsop has been involved in the Studio Band since it began, and is going to tell us all about it. Over to you, Mr. Blenkinsop,” she concluded, and sat down.

A bespectacled, smartly dressed man in his seventies walked round to the front of the President’s table and beamed at the assembled women. He knew some of them, had known them for years. He’d been at school with one or two. He felt completely at ease. “Just listen to this, ladies, before we begin,” he said as he twiddled a couple of switches and a cheerful burst of brass instruments playing the
Dambusters
theme filled the hall.

Ivy immediately put her hands over her ears. “Does he think we’re all deaf?” she said in a loud voice. Mr. Blenkinsop grinned. He’d been at school with Ivy, too. “Goes down well on the parade ground, Miss Beasley,” he said, and turned down the volume. After a few minutes, he began to speak, and for an hour his audience listened, spellbound.

“Just one of those naturals,” Doris said to Gran, when they were seated around a rickety card table, covered with a pink plastic cloth. Nothing rickety about the cakes, though. They were light and creamy, very bad for the figure, but consumed with gusto.

“A born story-teller,” agreed Gran. “I loved hearing about how it all began, with the two Miss Battersbys setting it all up to keep the local boys off the streets.”

“Nothing changes,” said Ivy. “Some folk daren’t walk in the streets at night now.”

Gran couldn’t believe her luck when Mr. Blenkinsop had named the benefactors of the band. She turned to Ivy, and said lightly, “I expect you’re too young to remember the Battersby ladies?”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Ivy replied. “Of course I remember them. Thought a lot of themselves, they did. Lived together in a big house by the Town Park in Tresham.
Pillars of the church. Always doing good, buying their places in Heaven. Hope they didn’t get a nasty surprise when they got to the pearly gates,” she added comfortably.

“What
do
you mean, Ivy?” Doris asked.

“You know as well as I do. A couple of dark horses, they were. One or two of the so-called bad boys on the streets were rumoured to be adopted, mothers unknown. At least, known only to a few. Rumour had it that them prim women were no better than they should be. Plenty of money, of course, to cover it up. Long holidays abroad, coming back a lot thinner than when they went. Still, a lot of water under the bridge since then.”

“New Brooms cleans for the Battersbys in Waltonby,” Gran said nonchalantly. “Any relation, are they?”

“Course they are,” Ivy said, helping herself to another wedge of chocolate sponge. “The Colonel’s one of them. Big family, they were. Too many, maybe. Gentleman farmers the other side of Tresham. Somewhere along the line the money ran out. People say the Colonel’s as mean as muck, but I reckon he’s not got that much to throw around. Married money, luckily for him, but some of that’s gone too, from what I hear. Now, Doris, get me another cup of tea, will you. And ask for it hot this time.”

Subject closed, thought Gran, and took up a stack of dirty plates to offer help in the kitchen.

M
ONDAY MORNING, AND
L
OIS HAD ASKED
D
OT
N
IMMO
to come in half an hour before the team meeting. As promised, Handy’s BMW had been serviced and cleaned, and as Lois looked out of the window to where the car had drawn up by the kerb, she reflected that it was not exactly what clients would expect to see when their cleaner arrived for work.

“Morning, Mrs. Meade,” Dot said briskly. She was neatly dressed and carried a bag the size of a suitcase. “Just in case you wanted me to start straight away after the meeting,” she said.

“What’s in
there
?” Lois asked, with a sudden mental picture of Dot scooping valuable antiques from the Hall into the bag.

“Cleaning things, o’ course,” Dot said. Lois replied that these were supplied by New Brooms, but that it was very thoughtful of Dot to bring them.

“Now, let’s get a few things sorted out before the others arrive,” Lois said, and in spite of frequent interruptions from Dot, who said she was sure she knew all there was to know about scrubbing floors, by the time there was a knock at the door Dot had been told all the rules and practices of the cleaning team. “And we do work as a team, Dot,” Lois said, “helping each other out when necessary.”

“Well, one thing,” said Dot, “I’m always available. Got nothing else to do now. Nothing else at all.”

Except to have a blitz on your own house, thought Lois, and went to let in Bridie and Floss, the first to arrive. Introductions were made, and when all were sitting comfortably, Lois began with the schedules for the coming week.

“And where shall I be going?” Dot asked when jobs had been allocated.

“With Bridie,” Lois said. “You can go with Bridie for a start. She’ll show you the ropes at Bridge House. It’s in at the deep end, but I’m sure you’ll be up to that. Get together after the meeting, and Bridie can explain.”

Lois had a moment’s panic. Was she wise in sending Dot, an unknown quantity, to her richest and most particular client? The Bucklands were a young couple with small children, a nanny and a housekeeper, and lived a life that seemed based elsewhere. They were never seen in the village, but loud voices calling “Shot! Good shot, Camilla!” floated from the tennis court over the barrier of their laurel hedge in summer. In the autumn, their children stood behind a stretch of stone wall and threw conkers from the towering chestnut tree on to the villagers passing below. The Bucklands were not disliked in the village, but once people saw how they wished to live, they were ignored.

“Blimey,” said Dot. “You’re right there. Them Bucklands are rich as Croesus. They say she inherited from her dad, who was, so they say, a rag-and-bone man who made his pile in Birmingham.”

“And that reminds me,” Lois said sternly. “I don’t want no gossip. None at all. The good name of my business is at stake, and if I hear a whisper of gossip coming from any member of the team, they’ll be for the high jump.”

All the others looked affronted. “I don’t think you need tell the rest of us that,” Bill Stockbridge said. “And I’m sure Dot will be very careful,” he added, but he looked doubtful. Lois had expected some animosity towards Dot. The Nimmos had a local reputation, and all of the team had read the newspapers. It was with some relief that Lois closed the meeting and sent them on their way.

Bill hesitated at the door, the last to leave. “Could I have a word?” he said, and Lois sighed. Bill was her most levelheaded, responsible cleaner, and she had relied on him for a long time now, discussing problems and sometimes accepting help with gathering information. When Derek accused her of using the team to collect gossip, she denied
it hotly. “Not gossip,” she had said. “It’s valuable information.”

“Can’t see the difference,” he had shrugged, and changed the subject.

“I expect you know what I’m going to say.” Bill looked uncomfortable, and fiddled with the door handle.

“Dot Nimmo?” Lois suggested. “You don’t approve. Well then, tell me why.”

“Just one thing,” Bill said. “I know for a fact that the Nimmos are probably some of the wealthiest crooks in Tresham. So why should Handy’s widow need to start cleaning? It can’t be the money, so what is it? You must have asked yourself, Mrs. M. In case you hadn’t, I thought I’d mention it.”

“You’re right, Bill. And why does Dot live in a small terrace house in Sebastopol Street? Rumour isn’t always right. Anyway, trust me, and keep your ears open for any . . . er . . . anything you hear that might be useful.”

After Bill had gone, Lois sat at her desk thinking. She was certain that Dot would not be able to break the habit of a lifetime and keep her mouth shut. Her outburst about the Bucklands showed that she was a mine of information. But tread softly, Lois said to herself. Dot was not stupid, and if she suspected Lois was ferreting down in the underworld, she would shut up like a trap.

Lois picked up a pen. Time to sort things out. She wrote a sentence in capitals and underlined it. “
WHERE IS THE CRIME?
” A run of stable thefts that seemed to have come to a halt. Derek had seen a scruffy bloke escaping from the Horsleys’ farm. Haydn Nimmo had been killed in a car smash, and there was so far no official suggestion of foul play. His father, Handy, had drowned in Farnden gravel pits, but that was years ago. Darren Smith had disappeared and reappeared shaking with terror within twenty-four hours, but he had very special difficulties, could hardly speak or understand much, and had possibly got lost in a wood. And then the Colonel. The Battersbys were victims of the thefts, of course, but Lois felt uneasy about the Colonel. Derek had dealt with him efficiently, but on every occasion that Lois
saw him, he seemed anxious to get away from her. Sent me packing last time, she remembered. Why? And what was the real reason for giving Floss a valuable horse?

Cowgill was certain something serious was going on, that was plain. And not just the stable thefts. There was something niggling away in her mind about the thefts. She would ask Cowgill how many there had been in the area, and who were the victims. That wouldn’t be confidential information, surely, though he would probably make it sound like it.