7 Sorrow on Sunday (31 page)

D
OT WAS WAITING, READY DRESSED AND CLUTCHING HER
few belongings in a plastic bag, when Evelyn arrived to collect her. In spite of her protestations of being absolutely fine, she looked thin and pale. But the twinkle in her eye was strong enough, and she refused help in walking out and into the car park.

“Blimey, Evie,” she said “I was ’aving my convalescence in there, until they sussed me out. Mind you, I’m glad to be going. It’s like being let out o’ prison. The air’s never really fresh in there, with air conditioning an’ that. ’Ere, before we start, I’m dying for a fag—you got one in your handbag?”

Evie was speechless. She shook her head and remembered her resolution not to argue with Dot. If they were going to live together for a while, a short while, the only way to keep the peace was to agree with everything Dot said. And anyway, the old thing looked so fragile that Evelyn was determined to handle her gently.

They were halfway home, just entering Long Farnden, when Dot said, “Slow up, Evie, I’ll just nip in and see Mrs. M about starting work again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” said Evelyn, already forgetting her good intentions. “Starting work? You’ll not be doing that for several weeks yet.”

“Stop here,” said Dot, as if she had not heard. “I shan’t be long. You can read the paper or summat.” She opened the door and clambered out with difficulty. Evelyn was around the car to help her at once, but Dot shook her off. “I can manage,” she said, and proceeded up the garden path.

*   *   *

L
OIS, STANDING AT HER OFFICE WINDOW, STARED.
I
T
couldn’t be! But it was, and Gran was answering the door. Lois rushed out and took Dot by the arm. “You dope!” she said. “Here, Gran, I’ll take her into the office and you can make coffee. Is that Evelyn out there? She’d better come in too.”

“No!” Dot said sharply. “She’s all right out there. I just want a quiet word, Mrs. M. And don’t bother with the coffee, Mrs. Weedon. I’m not stoppin’ long enough.”

Gran withdrew huffily. Well, Dot and Lois could get on with it. Then she had an idea. She would go out and talk to Evelyn in the car, keep her company. Brightening, she opened the front door and walked down the path.

*   *   *

“H
OW ARE YOU,
M
RS.
M?” D
OT SAID, SETTLING HERSELF
with relief in a comfortable chair.

“Fine, thanks, but if you don’t mind my saying so, you still look poorly. Why don’t you go back with Evelyn and I’ll call in and see you later?”

“No,” Dot said firmly. “I need to tell you something important, and then I can rest easy.”

Lois sighed. “Carry on, then,” she said.

“It’s about the accident,” she said. “Well, two accidents really. Mine and yours. Two too many, don’tcha think?”

Lois nodded. “Let’s hope there won’t be another. They say these things go in threes.”

As if Lois hadn’t spoken, Dot said, “And then there was Handel, my husband. I expect you remember that. Fell into a gravel pit. Did he fall, or was he pushed? Now, Mrs. M, while I was in hospital I had plenty of time to think. Whatever way you look at it, the person most likely behind it all was that sod Battersby. He nearly come a real cropper that time he wouldn’t pay up, and it was only his toff mates who covered up for ’im.”

“But that was ages ago, wasn’t it?”

“These things are never forgotten. Not in the Nimmo
Mafia. That’s what I call ’em. But the more I thought about it, the more I reckoned that Battersby’s not bright enough to organize all that on his own. So what did I do? I remembered about that Joe Horsley. He was deep in debt, and Battersby got him out of it. Then, o’ course, Horace began the gamblin’ and went the same way. But Horace . . . he isn’t a real colonel, by the way . . . honorary title, you might say. Anyway, he got a hold over Horsley, and now it’s a two-way thing. Locked together in crime, they are.”

“Sounds like something on the telly,” Lois said rashly.

“It’s the God’s honest truth, Mrs. M! We’re talking about life and death here. I lost a husband and a son, and you and me nearly bought it as well. It don’t get much worse than that!”

Lois was contrite. But she had felt excited at the possibility that Dot might come up with some new piece of information, and now it seemed not. She knew it all already.

“Sorry, Dot.” Lois was contrite, and endeavoured to put it right. “But do you know what crime the two of them are up to? I know they’ve got petty gambling scams, but that’s not enough to be prepared to attempt murder to keep it quiet. What else do you know?”

Dot was quiet for a few seconds. Then she closed her eyes, and put her hand over her forehead. “Sorry, Mrs. M. Feeling a bit wambly. Dizzy . . .” What little colour she had had drained away, and Lois got up.

“Right, that’s it,” she said firmly. “You’re having a nice cup of tea, and then we’ll get you safely to Evelyn’s. And no arguments! I’m still the boss.”

A faint smile crossed Dot’s face, and she said she was feeling a bit better, but yes, a cup of tea would be nice.

After Evelyn and Gran had returned to the house, and some stern words had been said to Dot, they rested for a while and then made their way back to the car. As Dot settled into the passenger seat, she beckoned to Lois, who leaned into the open window. Then Dot whispered, “There’s more, Mrs. M. I’ll tell you later.”

*   *   *

I
T HAD BEGUN TO RAIN, AND IN THE CHILLY WIND
L
OIS
and Gran hurried back to the house. “Your hedge looks nice,” Gran said grudgingly, “but you left a lot of clippings on the path. Folks could slip on those.”

“Glad you approve, Mum,” Lois said absently and disappeared into her office. She wanted to think about Dot’s revelations. Was there anything lurking there that she’d missed? She had noticed that Dot could talk in a kind of code. What was not said was as important as the spoken words. Battersby and Horsley were locked in crime together. She had asked Dot what the crime was, but she’d not answered. Did she know? She had implied that she knew. Lois thought for a minute or two, and then said aloud, “But does Margaret Horsley know?” Was she in it too, whatever
it
is? She went to see Dot in hospital. Was that an act of friendship, or a scouting-out visit, to see if the comatose Dot had said anything? Or was likely to say anything?

And then there was Blanche. A posh lady if ever there was one. And yet fond of Dot. Was it fondness, or a need to keep the widow of Handy Nimmo sweet? She seemed gentle and kind with young Darren, but there had been some upset there. Some reason why the boy had disappeared for twenty-four hours and couldn’t explain where he’d been. And why
was
Darren so scared of Horace? A list, Lois said to herself. I need a list of all these things and then perhaps I’ll see what common thread runs through. She took a pen and began to write, but crossed it out again and chewed her pen. Something else. Something I’ve missed or forgotten. Then she remembered how it all started. Saddle thefts—Battersby and Horsley? Darren horse riding with Blanche. Battersby’s empty stables, and Floss’s mare . . . The point-to-point, and a bookie refusing to deal with the Colonel and Joe. Four attempts at murder—one successful? A loose horse . . .

Horses, horses, horses. More attempts to come? Lois shivered. She thought of her gardening project and her intention to put all her spare time into it, and almost regretted ever having met Cowgill. Almost.

“D
OT IS A VERY FOOLISH WOMAN,”
G
RAN SAID, FROWNING
at Lois as she came into the kitchen. “And if I dared, I’d say the same about you. Two of a kind, if you ask me, as my friend Ivy Beasley says.”

“Your friend!” Lois laughed. “She’s an old dragon, and you know you’ve met your match with old Ivy. Anyway, what do you mean about me being a foolish woman? A
very
foolish woman?”

Gran shrugged. She said that if she remembered rightly, a certain daughter of hers had come straight out of hospital after a serious accident and gone straight off to a point-to-point, been wheeled about on bumpy fields by her husband, and come home exhausted. “Who does that remind you of?” she ended up, her face rosy with indignation.

Lois was silent for a moment, considering the injustice of this attack. Then she realized that it wasn’t unjust at all, that her mother was perfectly right. All she could think of to say was, “But I’m younger and stronger than she is, poor old Dot.”

“Mmm,” said Gran. “’Nuff said.”

Lois sat down at the kitchen table and waited for her mother to put a frothy coffee in front of her. Josie had given them an Italian cream-maker, and Lois had become addicted to the delicious froth on top of her coffee. Gran did not hold with it. “Instant is good enough for me, and should be good enough for you,” she said. “Made with hot milk in a saucepan, couldn’t be bettered. All this foreign
latte
and
express
stuff—it not only makes me choke, but makes twice the washing up. Here you are, here it is.”

“If that’s meant to put me off, then hard luck. Mmm, delicious! Did we finish your flapjack? Could do with a piece to give me strength. As you say, I’m still an invalid and need building up.”

“Always the last word!” Gran exploded. “I don’t know what your dad would’ve said.”

“I do,” said Lois, who had been unable to do wrong in her father’s eyes, even when she’d spent the night in a prison cell for shoplifting from Woolworth’s in her teens, refusing to speak to the police. “Anyway,” she continued,
“tell me what Evelyn and you talked about out there in the car.”

Gran sat down with her Nescafe and pursed her lips. “It was a private conversation,” she said huffily. Lois said that if Gran would tell her, she would fill her in with the latest from Dot. She had no intention of doing so, but thought a severely edited version would do no harm.

Gran considered the offer, and began to speak. “Well, we naturally talked about Dot and how she was a foolish, stubborn woman, and a trial to her sister. And then I said you’d been much the same, and we agreed that somehow both of you seemed to come up smelling of roses.” She expected a retort from Lois, but none came, and so she carried on. “Evelyn was worried, o’ course, as are we all, about what all these accidents are about. Apparently the police have said they want to talk to Dot as soon as she gets home. You’d think they’d have sorted it out by now . . . What’s your Cowgill doing about it? Wasting his time talking to people clipping hedges, I expect.”

Lois merely raised her eyebrows, and said nothing.

“Anyway, Evelyn said she reckoned it was all to do with that Colonel at Waltonby. Old Battersby. She says she’s discovered that Margaret Horsley—you know you sent Evelyn there instead of Dot—well, Margaret once had a passionate affair with Horace Battersby. Can you imagine anybody wanting to go to bed with him? Like going to bed with a dead stick . . .”

“Mum!” Lois said at last, in mock shock. “Fancy you two discussing such things. But I agree that it’s a funny business. They’re still friends, aren’t they? Perhaps there were no hard feelings?”

“Oh, yes there were! The Colonel’s lady was furious, and said the Horsleys were never to be seen anywhere near her house again. Blanche Battersby is a gentle soul, but when she’s roused, she’s like a tigress.”

Lois said suspiciously, “How did Evelyn know all this?”

“Margaret told her. Seems that Evelyn found her crying into a cup of tea the other day, and it all came tumbling out. Evelyn said she was really sorry for her, and reckoned
that Joe was no better than Horace. Wife-beaters, the pair of them.”

“Did Margaret say that?” Lois said sharply. “Actually say wife-beaters?”

“I’m just telling you what Evelyn said. Interesting, don’t you think? I expect you’ll want to be off now to your office to phone your friendly cop. The sooner those two get put behind bars the better.”

T
HE TWINS WERE AWAKE EARLY.
T
HEY FREQUENTLY WOKE
at the same time, and now Jim, always the leader, looked at his watch on the bedside table. The grubby curtains were drawn across smeary windows, but rays of watery sunlight found their way through to the small room, where there was just enough space for twin beds, an old commode serving as a bedside table, and a narrow, gimcrack self-assembly cupboard. There were piles of clothing everywhere, mostly on the floor.

“Time to get up, Steve. We got a job to do today, if you ain’t forgotten.”

Steve peered out from under the bedclothes at his brother. “It’s too early,” he said. He’d been awake for some time, but loved to lie in and think his thoughts away from his brother’s domination.

“Nearly seven,” Jim replied. “Get up, lazy sod!” A sudden burst of temper sent him across the room, where he tugged an ancient duvet off the curled-up Steven and dragged him roughly out of bed.

Downstairs their mother was frying sausages. “Get up, you two!” she yelled. “You got to make an early start!”

They appeared together, and sat down at the kitchen table. A strong smell of burning meat filled the room, and Jim groaned. “Not burnt bangers again! God, what a mother! ’Ere, Steve, give us yours. Do a swap. I know you like ’em well done.” He sniggered, and Steve obligingly sank his teeth into a charred sausage.