few screwed up pieces of paper in the waste bins, the floors to wash and polish; all could have been done by Evangeline in a couple of hours.
Still, Mrs Baer was a businesswoman, Lois reminded herself, as she watched Evangeline walking swiftly across the yard to greet customers in the gallery. Business was good lately, Lois had noticed, and she’d thought of looking in herself for Christmas presents, though she suspected everything would be too arty-crafty and expensive for her lot.
Just as she reached out to dust the telephone, it began to ring, startling her. Evangeline had forgotten to switch it through to the gallery so Lois lifted the receiver. “The Baers’ residence,” she said smoothly. “Can I help you?” Not just any old cleaning woman, see. A woman’s thin voice said she was sorry – she had dialled the wrong number – and the line went dead. Funny…sounded like Miss Hathaway, thought Lois. Still, she probably wanted the doctor or the vicar. Poorly again, I expect.
When Evangeline came back into the house, grinning with triumph at having sold a pricey painting, Lois told her about the call. “Silly creature,” said Evangeline dismissively. “Needs a man, that Gloria.”
“Hasn’t she got one?” said Lois, not really concentrating.
Mrs Baer’s reaction was swift. “Of course not, Lois!” she snapped. “And I’d be glad if you would refrain from spreading rumours of that sort. Extremely dangerous and stupid!…and for goodness sake sit down and eat that biscuit if you must – crumbs everywhere!” Before Lois could recover from this onslaught, Evangeline had gone upstairs, and could be heard stamping about on the polished boards of her bedroom above.
Lois finished her work, washed her hands and pulled on her coat. “I’m off now, then,” she shouted up the stairs, picking up the envelope with her money. She hesitated, and then as she heard Evangeline making her way out of her bedroom, she continued, “I’d just like to say, Mrs Baer,” she added with emphasis, “that I’m not used to being spoken to like you did, nor accused of dangerous gossip. I don’t know anything about Miss Hathaway, and what I said was a perfectly innocent question. There was no cause for you to react like you did.”
She waited and watched as Evangeline turned to face her and all her anger evaporated. “I’m sorry, Lois,” she said, sighing. “My fault. Apology accepted?” Lois nodded but did not smile. As she left, she looked back and was mortified to see Evangeline wiping her hand across her eyes.
¦
The weekend was always the gallery’s busiest time, and the following Monday saw Evangeline sitting there in the half darkness, the lamp on her desk the only source of light, counting the takings and doing her weekly accounts. She enjoyed this. After the tension of persuading customers to buy things in no way essential to their lives, playing them like wriggling fish on the end of a line and occasionally landing a really difficult one, Evangeline loved to sit in the silence of the gallery totting up columns, calculating percentages and writing neatly in small columns. The total was more than satisfactory on the sales side, and she shut her account book with a snap. Excellent, she thought. It is all going very well, and if Dallas should ever leave me, I shall have a nice little business to support me. Heavens! What on earth had put that into her mind? She locked the gallery door and walked back to the house. Nothing on the calendar for the rest of the day. She decided to go into Tresham and spend a modest amount of her profits on new shoes. Perhaps she was looking a bit shabby these days, never thinking of anything but art and artists and not enough about her husband and her marriage. New make-up too, she thought. All the old stuff had hardened and dried up with lack of use. With this resolve, she changed into a smart skirt and jacket, and set off for town.
¦
“Last Open Minds meeting before Christmas,” said Evangeline to Dallas, as they finished supper that evening. “Shame I have to go out, with that new arts programme starting.” She had put on the new shoes and made up her face with care. Dallas appeared not to have noticed.
“I’ll record it for you.” Dallas got up from the table and sorted through a pile of videos. “Nine o’clock, is it? Better set the timer.”
“But you’ll be here, won’t you,” said Evangeline sharply.
“Might go down the pub,” he replied. “Half promised old Malcolm I’d see him there, though the prospect doesn’t fill me with total ecstasy. In training for champ BOF, our Malcolm.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” replied Evangeline irritably. He might have made a comment about the lipstick, surely. She hadn’t worn any for such a long time and he must have noticed.
“Boring Old Fart,” said Dallas, beginning to laugh nastily. “Thought everyone knew that, especially you and your arty farty friends. Just their sort of patronising code.”
Evangeline flushed. In the beginning, she’d known very little about art of any kind, but was curious and friendly, and had soon enlisted the help of an experienced watercolour painter, a successful potter, and several jewellery designers, just out of college and only too pleased to show off their newly-acquired knowledge. She’d delighted in their friendship and had tried having them to dinner. Not all at once, of course, but mixed up with locals. It had been a dismal failure, not least because of Dallas’s persistent mockery of everything ‘hand- bodged’.
“No need to be unpleasant,” said Evangeline. “You may very well be glad of my success with the gallery one day. No job is safe now, not even yours…and don’t forget to empty that ashtray before you go out,” she added. Always a winner, she thought, as she saw Dallas’s furious face.
But he had the last word, as usual. “Has the cold wind made your lips sore, dear?” he said with thinly- disguised malice. “Better put some Nivea on before you go out.”
In the coolness generated by this conversation, she went upstairs to get her coat, wishing she could stay at home and dissuade Dallas from going to the pub. Oh well, Open Minds had been her own idea. She’d thought it would be a useful adjunct to the gallery, bringing in the new villagers with wider interests than the old rural families. It had started out well. They’d tried to avoid speakers of the flower-arranging and icing-your-Christmas- cake variety, but gradually the emphasis had changed, and she’d grudgingly given in to home-grown holiday slides from Marbella and a man who’d devoted his life to growing ever-fancier fuchsias.
¦
The raw wind sent shivers through Evangeline as she hurried down the street to the village hall. Her ears hurt, and she thought longingly of the soft, hand-woven scarves she had for sale in the gallery. She had decided early on not to buy everything she fancied just because she’d get it at cost. “There go the profits,” she’d said to Dallas, who’d tried to persuade her to have a bracelet she coveted.
Evangeline turned into the village hall porch, festooned with Christmas paintings from the playgroup, and saw Miss Hathaway standing precariously on a chair. Gloria Hathaway was the Open Minds treasurer, in charge of all things financial, and now here she was furiously pushing fifty-pence pieces into the electricity meter. She rapped out that she’d meant to be down earlier to warm up the hall, but a telephone call had delayed her.
“We’ll just keep our coats on for a bit,” said Evangeline. It was time the village began to think about a new community hall. She knew Malcolm Barratt had suggested it, but had so far come up against a brick wall of old guard resistance. She turned, hoping the temperature would improve by the time the speaker arrived, when the door opened and a sturdy elderly lady with short silver-grey hair and a tanned, outdoor face, marched in.
“Evening,” she said briskly. “I’m Joan Page – Land Girl,” she added.
“Ah yes, I’m Mrs Baer,” replied Evangeline, stretching out a welcoming hand. “So you were a Land Girl during the War? We are all very much looking forward to hearing of your experiences…seems so long ago now, doesn’t it?”
“Only yesterday to me, Mrs Baer,” said Miss Page, who’d been polishing up her memory for the benefit of such gatherings for years now. “Very cold in here, isn’t it?” she added critically.
Evangeline bridled. “Yes it is, I’m afraid. Still, you must have grown used to the cold, digging cabbages in frozen fields and things,” she said brightly as she led her speaker to her seat.
? Murder on Monday ?
Nine
Rachel Barratt’s scream rilled the steamy kitchen and echoed back into the hall. She went on screaming and terror spread rapidly around the women. With a scraping of chairs and gasps of horror, the Open Minds group rushed towards the kitchen door. “Wait,” shouted Mary Rix, who had learned from her husband
