Tragedy at Two (17 page)

“Pursuing our enquiries, my dear, as always. Now, what have you to tell me?”

“Probably not much more helpful than your titbit for me,” Lois said sourly. “It’s just that I had a conversation with Mark Brown. Him of the uppers and downers and presence at the gypsy fire. Mother and father live in Blackberry Gardens, and asked me to talk to him.”

“I’m with you, Lois. All ears.”

“He’s a spoilt, selfish little sod,” Lois said, “but possibly with mitigating circumstances, as you lot would say. Claims his father is an unloving bully, and his mother too scared to challenge him. Only child, loaded down with parents’ ambitions and never able to live up to them. Or just determined not to. Denies having anything to do with Rob’s case, but owns up to being around on the night of the fire. He’s one of the village hall gang, and hinted at a mastermind who gives them orders. Harassing gypsies is one of their fun activities, but denies starting the fire, and claims he was the first to alert the fire station. For some God-knows-what reason, I believed him.”

“A mastermind?” Cowgill pounced on the nugget of impor tant information at once. “Who is it? Did he tell you?”

“Of course not! He’s not a fool, that boy. Given a new direction, he’d probably be quite useful to somebody. Blimey,” she added, “I sound like a social worker. Better take that last bit unsaid. I have to go now, anyway. I can hear Derek back from the parish council meeting.”

“Thanks, Lois,” Cowgill said hurriedly. “You are the light of my life.” He heard Lois disconnect and smiled. She knew that, of course.

WHEN EDWINA SMITH WENT OUT TO RELEASE THE CHICKENS next morning, she checked the stone at the corner of the run. The envelope containing fifty pounds and the box of six eggs had gone. She breathed a sigh of relief, and set about opening the chicken house and topping up the feed trough. The sun came out from behind a high mist, and her spirits rose. Turning to walk back to the house, she froze.

“Morning missus,” said a gruff voice behind her. She turned around and saw the same rough-looking man who had accosted her before.

“What do you want?” she said as sharply as she could manage. “You’ve taken the money and the eggs. Now bugger off!”

“Not s’fast, lady,” Harry said. “I think you must’a misheard me. I said seventy-fi ve pounds would put things right for you. Make sure the extra’s here tomorrer. Same stone. An’ another dozen eggs. Me brother’s very fond of eggs. Don’t forget, now. Alf’s a wicked man when he’s roused. We know that from the past, don’t we?”

Edwina was speechless. What did people say about blackmail? Never give in to it. And she foolishly had done so. Now she was trapped. She couldn’t call the police, or tell Alf—or Sam, even. He would be so angry with her at involving him and getting herself into this mess in the first place. She turned away from the gypsy and half ran back towards the house. As she ran, she heard growling and snuffling behind her and knew that the bull terrier was following her. She stopped, knowing it was the best thing to do with a chasing dog, and heard the man laughing hoarsely as he pulled it back on its long rope lead.

Safely back in the kitchen, she heard Alf’s heavy footsteps coming downstairs. “All right, gel?” he said. “You look puffed out. What made you run?”

Edwina took deep breaths and subsided onto a chair. “Oh, you know me. Thought I’d see how far and fast I could run now. The village marathon is next month, and I had this silly idea I might take part. Not sure now!”

Alf laughed and patted her arm. “We’re none of us as young as we used to be,” he said. “I’ll make you a cuppa, me duck. You sit there an’ get your breath back.”

The gypsy’s words came back to Edwina as she sat quietly while the kettle boiled. “Alf’s a wicked man when he’s roused.” She could not remember a time in the whole of their marriage when Alf had been harsh or unkind to her. What had that man meant? Ah, well, she had a lot of thinking to do, and her garden was the place to do it. She would dig over that rough patch this morning. Something mindless to do that would give her time to think.

 

 

“SOON BE TIME WE WAS MOVIN’ ON,” HARRY SAID TO SID, AS he put the eggs in a bag, ready for Sid to take to market in Tresham. The two of them had a stall just round the corner from the regular market, where they sold anything they had managed to acquire during the week. They kept this going by moving around the county in a radius within reach of Tresham. Their stock consisted of odd items of garden tools, plastic chairs from people’s sheds, and stuff that Sid had persuaded old ladies to give him for “valuation.” They kept a sharp eye open for cops inspecting the stalls, and could pack up and vanish faster than any stallholder on the legitimate market.

“Known for a bargain, we are,” Harry told Sid as he took boxes of junk out to their lorry. Eggs were a new line for them. Harry had written a card saying: “New layed eggs—cheapest in town.” He intended to vary the price according to the look of the customer. He knew that food had special regulations, but reckoned he could conceal a few dozen eggs from official eyes. There had always been an unwritten agreement in the market that one stallholder would not shop another, but Harry was not too sure now. Smart, foreign-l ooking men had taken up stalls lately, and he didn’t trust them.

“When shall we go, then?” Sid said. “And where?” Sometimes he thought sadly how nice it must be to have a proper home, with kids and a wife and a garden. But he and Harry had never had a proper home, and he wasn’t really sure how you managed one. You couldn’t just hitch up the van and go when things got a bit warm, that was for sure. Now he helped Harry load up, and suggested they go to that scrubby old yard behind an old barn in Fletching. “Nobody ever goes there,” he said. The barn’s not used and the old farmer’s past carin’. An’ the track’s so rutted nobody but us would take a vehicle down there.” He thought privately that their van would one day fall to pieces being shook up on their travels, but he said nothing about that. Harry could get very annoyed.

“I’ll think on it,” Harry said. “Next week’d be soon enough, I reckon. One more present from Alf ’s missus would be useful, and then we’ll go. You can’t trust wimmin, Sid. She’ll probably get help against us sooner or later.”

Sid thought the trick Harry was playing on Mrs. Smith was stupid. It went against all Harry had taught him over the years. Too much out in the open, being seen. Talking to people who would recognise you again. Harry was being greedy, and that always came to grief.

When they were ready to go, Harry locked up the van with the bull terrier chained to one of the wheels. “Do yer job,” he said to the dog. “Anybody comes round here snooping, let ’em have it.”

As he turned towards the lorry, he caught sight of a figure coming towards them through the trees. It was Alf Smith. Harry scowled and began to climb into the lorry, but Alf called out. “Wait! I want a word with you.” Sid was already inside the cab, and he shrank into his seat with fear.

Harry stood his ground, stocky legs planted wide and hands in his pockets. “Yeah?” he said.

“You know who I am,” Alf said. “I’ll make it short and sweet. I want you off this land by tomorrow morning. You never asked permission, and I wouldn’t have given it. Athalia Lee had no right to let you stay here, and I’m ordering you to go.”

Did he know already about Sam Stratford and his wife? Harry could not be sure, but he answered as politely as he could. “We’re going today,” he said. “When we come back from market, we’ll pack up and be off in the morning. You’ll never know we’ve bin here, Mr. Smith.”

“One more word,” said Alf. “I’d advise you to get rid of that dog. They’re illegal now, and I’ve had complaints.”

“Who from?” said Harry sharply.

“None of your business, but it’s enough for you to know he wears a uniform and drives a car with a siren. With me?”

Harry nodded. He knew now that Alf’s missus had not told. Yet. “Must go now,” he said. “The best business is done early. Don’t you worry, Mr. Smith, we’ll be gone.”

“And don’t turn up here again,” Alf said, a parting shot as the lorry moved forward and out on to the Tresham road.

SHEILA STRATFORD WAS FEELING BETTER. THE FEVER HAD gone, though she wobbled a little as she got out of bed. She decided to have a shower, get dressed and do a few small jobs around the house. She could hear in her head her mother’s voice saying, “Get up, gel. You’ll feel better when you’re properly dressed.”

Alan’s wife had been in and tidied round, but Sheila did not think much of her housewifely skills, and reckoned there’d be a lot to do downstairs. As she thought, there were heaps of newspapers, Sam’s clothes, bags of shopping not unpacked, and ashes six inches deep in the fireplace. Was she being unfair to her daughter-i n-l aw? The heaps were quite tidy, and the ashes had been swept into a mound. But no, the girl was hopeless. Not brought up to run a house and family, that was for sure.

When Sam came in at lunchtime, his face brightened as he saw the table had been set and Sheila at the cooker stirring soup.

“Feeling better, me duck?” he said. “Now don’t you go doing too much at first. You had a nasty fluey cold, and that takes it out of you.”

“I’m better doing something,” Sheila said. “Lying up there thinking stupid thoughts is no good to man nor beast—nor woman.”

“What stupid thoughts?” Sam frowned. What was she on about now? He had decided to make a big effort and forget about that quiz night. Time things got back to normal, and that included no more clandestine meetings with Edwina in the woods. The pair of them were old enough to know better.

“Never mind that now,” Sheila said. “Let’s have this soup while it’s hot. Are you going by the Farnden shop this afternoon? We need supplies. Josie has some chicken breasts that’ll do us nicely for tea. She gets ’em from the farm, so they’re really fresh.”

“Yeah, sure. I can do that. An’ I thought I’d call on old Alf and see if Edwina’s got any eggs to spare. They’re different from shop-bought as chalk from cheese. Might make me a bit late, but you’ll be all right, won’t you?” Oops! So much for good resolutions, he told himself.

Alarm bells rang in Sheila’s head at his words. They always did these days when he said he’d be a bit late. Still, if he was just going to Alf’s, that would be fine. And Edwina’s eggs were certainly good.

“I might try a little walk in the fresh air this afternoon,” she said. “Perhaps up Junuddle and around a bit. Not too far. Now, d’you want some more?”

Sam said quickly, “Not as far as the farm, Sheila. Not on your first day out of bed. Don’t want a relapse, do we?”

 

 

MARK BROWN AND SALLY T-J HAD ALSO DECIDED TO ENJOY the fresh air. They had discovered a tumble-down shelter in the corner of Junuddle. It had once been a solid, brick-built shed, protection for the sheep when March winds brought strong torrents of sleet, or on baking summer days when the sun seemed dangerously close to the fields, parching the grass and drying up ditches and streams.

Slowly the shelter had fallen into disrepair, with loose red bricks crumbling in heaps and slates fallen from the roof. Enough of it was still shielded from view, however, for Sally and Mark to settle down and have a smoke. Up to this afternoon, that was all that had happened.

But now, when Sheila Stratford strolled along, taking deep, healing breaths, she was curious about glad shouts coming from the shelter. She stood irresolutely, listening until things had quietened down. After all, whoever they were, they were trespassing, and she supposed Alf Smith would want her to see them off his land. She coughed. Total silence, so she coughed again and walked towards the entrance. Peering into the dim interior, she could see two frightened faces in the gloom. She did not immediately recognise either of them, but walked in and said, “What d’you think you’re doing? This is private land.”

“Nothing,” the girl said. “We’re not doing anything. Just talking and getting away from the world.” The boy giggled.