(9/20) Tyler's Row (23 page)

'We'll go and have a good look round in daylight tomorrow,' said Peter, 'and that old besom is being faced with this. It's the last straw.'

'She'll think we want to turn her out so that we can get on with the conversion,' said Diana, remembering the conversation she had overheard in the Post Office.

'She knows perfectly well we can't give her notice to quit, but she's a constant menace. We've stood enough. This pilfering and damage is going too far.'

After breakfast, the next morning, Diana and Peter took the key, and inspected the premises next door. Mrs Willet had done a thorough job of cleaning and tidying. Sergeant Burnaby would have approved. The precious odds and ends of brass shone like gold, the leaded panes gleamed, and only the faintest hint of dust lay across the polished surfaces of the old man's furniture.

Diana stood still and looked about her. As far as she could see, nothing in here had been taken. Mrs Fowler had not been able to gain an entry obviously. The first things to have gone would have been the brass ornaments, Diana felt sure. Human magpie that she was, Mrs Fowler would have been unable to resist them.

They went upstairs, and all looked exactly as Diana remembered it. The old man's counterpane was neatly spread, a pair of shoes stood side by side on the thin mat beside the bed. There was water in the flowered ewer standing in its matching basin on the old-fashioned washstand. It all looked so expectant, thought Diana, awaiting the master of the house. Would he ever come back to bring these things to life again? The whole house was forlorn in its silence, and she longed for voices, music, a fire, a kettle singing, even a fly buzzing against the window—anything to chase away the pathetic stillness of the waiting rooms.

'Nothing seems to be missing,' she said at last. They returned to the garden, locking the door behind them.

The old man's weatherbeaten wooden armchair still stood beneath the thatch by the back door, but something had gone. Diana wrinkled her brow with concentration.

'That rustic table,' said Peter. 'Used to stand here for his pipe and baccy, and his glass of beer.'

Diana nodded.

'And the antlers,' she added. These had been fastened to the wall. Bleached bone-white by years of Fairacre weather they had given no pleasure to Diana's eye, but had obviously been treasured by the old soldier. The shield-shaped mount had left a clear mark on the brickwork.

By daylight, they could see even more. Tell-tale holes where plants had been removed were numerous. It was difficult to remember the garden in detail, but they had seen enough to know that a marauder had been at work. Now all that was needed was to trace the stolen goods to Mrs Fowler's.

'We'll go round straight away,' said Peter, making for the gate.

'Wouldn't it be better if I called first?' said Diana, dreading a scene.

'Straight away,'
repeated Peter, in a voice which brooked no argument.

Fearfully, Diana followed him as he strode towards Mrs Fowler's.

As so often happens, when one is girded for the fray, the enemy was not forthcoming. Mrs Fowler's cottage was as empty as Sergeant Burnaby's. Even the dog was absent.

They stood on the lady's doorstep and looked about them. The white shells gleamed from each side of the step. The rustic table was by the hedge, bearing a stone squirrel upon it. Several newly-planted clumps of flowers were apparent in Mrs Fowler's border, and a shallow slate sink, which Diana now remembered seeing in the old soldier's garden, stood by the house wall, strategically placed to catch any rain which ran down from the thatch, and so provide a bath for the birds. Beyond it, propped against the wall, were the antlers, awaiting their allotted place.

Here was evidence enough; the only thing missing was the accused.

'Blast!' said Peter. 'I was raring for a fight. Where d'you think she's gone?'

'Caxley,' said Diana. 'I've just remembered, it's market day. Let's go and fetch Tom, while our tempers cool.'

As one might expect, Tom was not present at Kitty's when the Hales arrived.

After eating his own and then Charlie's breakfast, he had made off into a distant garden.

'I'll bring him over when he appears,' promised Kitty, and went to brew coffee. Just as they were about to go, the Hales saw Tom reappearing through the hedge, and Diana ran towards him with a cry of pleasure. Tom glared stonily at her. He was not going to be placated so easily. Besides, he had seen that confounded cat basket in the car.

He turned to escape, but Peter was too quick for him. Defeated, Tom allowed himself to be placed in the hated basket where he set up a dreadful banshee wailing which he managed to sustain all the way to Fairacre.

'He certainly looks magnificent,' said Diana, when at last he was released, and was stalking about the house inspecting things. 'I wonder what upset him before we went away?'

'Too much grub,' said Peter, dismissing the subject. Diana could see that he was alert for any small sound next door which might mean that Mrs Fowler had returned, and that he could engage the enemy.

But it was many hours later v/hen their neighbour came home. Peter and Diana had gone to bed early, and it must have been midnight when they heard the familiar clatter of Mrs Fowler's nephew's old van outside in the lane.

The door of the van clanged, farewells were shouted, the van chugged away, and the sound of Mrs Fowler's footsteps could be heard on the brick path. Snuffling and whining betokened the presence of the dog.

Suddenly, the whining changed to furious barking, and the enraged squawking and spitting of Tom. The two old foes had met again.

'So
you're
back, are you?' they heard Mrs Fowler say ominously. 'We'll have to see about you, my boy.'

Her door slammed, and silence once more enveloped Tyler's Row.

The next day, much to Peter's annoyance, he was called into school unexpectedly by the headmaster. Two members of staff, newly-appointed, were unable to start after the holidays, and this threw the time-table into unbelievable tangles. His visit to Mrs Fowler had to be postponed until the evening, and once again, she was out.

'Her niece and nephew fetched her in the van,' said Diana. 'They seem unusually attentive at the moment.'

Peter contented himself with mowing the grass while Diana set off to visit Sergeant Burnaby, who was still in Caxley Cottage Hospital.

As she approached the hospital, she overtook Jim and Alice Bennett walking up the hill from the bus station, and stopped to give them a lift.

'He's doing fine,' said Jim, replying to Diana's enquiries. 'They're letting him out next Wednesday. We've got his room ready. We went over to the cottage to collect some of his clothes while you were away.'

'It all looked very spick and span,' said Alice. 'Mrs Willet's got a good hand with housework. We're going to see what he wants in the way of his furniture. Jim's mate at the local said he'd fetch anything in the van.'

'Won't he want to come back himself to sort things out?'

'No. He's dead against it. It's that Mrs Fowler he can't stick. It's my belief, Mrs Hale, that he wouldn't go back there even if he was fit. She's poisoned Tyler's Row for the poor old chap—that she has!'

And not only for the poor old chap, thought Dinaa, drawing into the car park.

'Well, all I can say is Sergeant Burnaby's a lucky man to have such good friends,' said Diana.

'He's welcome,' replied Jim Bennett simply. The two words summed up the situation perfectly, thought Diana.

They found the old soldier sitting on a chair beside his bed, looking very much stronger and with a complexion faintly tinged with pink, for the first time in Diana's experience.

He was obviously excited at the thought of his new abode, and was full of plans.

'And what can I pack for you from the cottage?' offered Diana.

'I don't want much. Jim's fetched me clothes, and I'd better have me own china and eating irons. And me bits of brass! Must have them, and Jim says I can put me old chair in the garden in his arbour, so that'll have to come aboard.'

'Anything else?'

The old man ruminated.

'Them old shells by the door. I'd like them. Got 'em in India. They come off of some island in the Indian Ocean. I'm partial to them.'

'You shall have them,' promised Diana, determined to wrest them from Mrs Fowler by sheer force, if need be.

'Are you sure you don't want to have a look round for yourself?' she continued. 'We could fetch you one afternoon.'

The old man's expression grew mutinous.

'Not while that ol' cat's there. She curdles me. I feels the bile rising when I see her vinegar-face over the hedge. I don't want to see Tyler's Row again while she poisons the air.'

He looked up at Diana sharply.

'She pinched much? Out of the house?'

'Nothing from the house. It was securely locked.'

Luckily, Jim put a question at this point, and Diana was spared the embarrassment of further examination by Sergeant Burnaby.

It was good to see him so forward-looking. Obviously, he was leaving Tyler's Row with relief, which made things easier for the Hales. Diana left the three to make their plans for the next Wednesday, and waited as before, to give the couple a lift back to Beech Green.

It was beginning to get dark as she drove into her garage, and the lights were on in the house.

Peter met her at the door, looking worried.

'Better get the car out again. Tom's pretty ill. The vet says he'll see him immediately, if we take him in.'

They put the comatose cat into his basket. Tom was too weak to make his usual demurs, but occasionally gave a little whine of complaint which wrung Diana's heart.

The vet held Tom on the table. The cat's back arched and he was horribly sick. The vet studied the mess with an expert eye, examined Tom briefly, and spoke.

'He's been poisoned,' he said.

'Will he die?' cried Diana.

'No. He's practically cured himself by rejecting this lot, but I'll make sure with an injection.'

He went to work, and within ten minutes Tom was back in the car, and heading for home and convalescence.

'You know who's responsible?' Peter's tone was savage.

'I have my suspicions.'

'That woman,' said Peter, 'doesn't know what's coming to her.'

It was, perhaps, fortunate for all concerned that Mrs Fowler's cottage was in darkness when the Hales returned. Once again, they were in bed when their neighbour returned in the ramshackle van. Muttering vengeance, Peter tossed in his bed as he heard the lady enter her home.

At eight-thirty the next morning he strode next door. Diana's presence, he told her, was not necessary.

'I'll do a better job alone,' he told her. 'You'll be too soft-hearted. I'm threatening the old hag with the police, and if she pipes her eye, all the better. If you're there you'll let her off with an invitation to tea.'

Diana watched him go with mixed feelings. She was relieved to be spared the encounter, but apprehensive about Peter's force. He had been so furious about poor Tom, he might even strike Mrs Fowler. The thought led Diana immediately to a court scene, with Peter in the dock facing a row of ferocious-looking magistrates, all bent on sending him forward to Assizes or Quarter Sessions or Crown Court, or whatever its new-fangled name was, with a recommendation for deportation, probably in iron gyves like Eugene Aram.

Diana contemplated this flight of fancy for some minutes, and then carried the breakfast things to the sink, and returned to earth.

It was ominously quiet next door—no raised voices, no crashing of china, no heavy thuds of close in-fighting. Perhaps Peter had felled her with one blow, as she opened the door? How long, Diana wondered, coffee pot in hand, did one get for Grievous Bodily Harm? She began her washing-up, ears strained to hear any significant sound from next door.

There, standing facing each other across the table were the two adversaries. A fine geranium in a pot stood centrally upon a plastic tablecloth which was decorated hideously with improbable scarlet flowers upon a sky-blue trellis work. Peter refused to let this monstrosity distract him from the task in hand. He spoke sternly.

'I've come about a serious matter. Can you tell me why Sergeant Burnaby's property is now on your premises?'

'Such as?' queried Mrs Fowler, with cool insolence.

'The two ornamental shells, the antlers, that little table by the hedge, the bird basket, and—I strongly suspect—a great many of the new plants in your garden there.'

'It so happens,' said Mrs Fowler, 'that I brought those odds and ends in here for safe keeping, until the old man got back from hospital. You should know there's thieves in Fairacre. You had plenty took afore you moved in.'

'And the plants?'

'Who said I took any plants?' She leant across the table menacingly. 'You comes in here, accusing me. Well, prove it.'

There was certainly plenty of fight in Peter's enemy. She was going to be a tougher nut to crack than he had first thought.

'You can tell what tale you like,' he told her. 'Frankly, I don't believe any of it. This could be a case for police investigation, you know.'