white van, with a large rose and the Interflora device clearly visible. A tap at the front door revealed a pleasant- faced woman bearing a large bouquet. “Mrs Meade?” she said, and handed them over.
Lois took the flowers into the kitchen, thinking how lovely it was of Derek to think of such a thing. Then she opened the little gift card, and read the words: ‘Congratulations and Good Luck to New Brooms. H.C.’. Well, that wasn’t too difficult. Hunter Cowgill. Lois breathed in the heady scent of lilies and roses, and wondered what to do. Since when did the cops send out bouquets, for God’s sake? But then, Hunter Cowgill had demonstrated only too clearly that he was no ordinary cop. And how was she going to explain it to Derek? Sod it, she muttered, and began to unwrap the blooms. “New Blooms!” she said suddenly, and began to laugh. There was no doubt a bunch of flowers cheered you up, whoever’d sent it. The telephone began to ring, and with a lighter heart Lois lifted it up, feeling ready for anything.
? Terror on Tuesday ?
Eleven
The manager at Dalling Hall was incandescent. “How did they do it?” he repeated, until Lois finally said, “Look, I have no idea. I just found him. Yes, I know it’s bad publicity, but you can be sure I shall not say anything. Mind you,” she could not resist adding, “I don’t see the press keeping quiet. Pretty juicy story, really. Dead body inside knight’s armour in remote church. Upmarket hotel denies any knowledge, etc etc.”
She held the telephone away from her ear, until the shouting stopped. “If I were you,” she said soothingly, “I should think of a way of turning it into a good thing – you know, scene of the crime…come and play detective, that kind of thing?”
There was silence while he thought of that one. “You know, Lois,” he said finally in his normal voice, “you could be on to a good thing. Have to OK it with the police, of course, but it could be a big attraction. Well, I knew I’d think of something!” he added breezily, and rang off.
“Well, there’s gratitude,” said Lois into the dead telephone.
She looked at her schedule for the team, and wondered how they were all getting on. Chiefly she wondered about Gary and Sheila. It was an unlikely combination, but could be good. Sheila would curb Gary’s garrulous tendencies, very necessary when all the work had to be done before surgery opened. Neither of them had quibbled about starting really early in the morning. In fact, Sheila had welcomed it, saying her husband was always off to the farm at dawn; and even Gary had smiled and said how pleased his mum would be to see him out of bed before midday. Hazel had laughed at that, and Lois had made a mental note not to put those two together on any job. She lifted the telephone and dialled Sheila’s number.
“How did it go, then? I’ll just be checking for the first week with everyone. Hope you don’t mind.” Lois wondered if she was being too tentative.
But this approach worked with Sheila Stratford, who replied in a warm voice that she was hoping Lois would ring, as she was really longing to tell her about their early morning in the surgery. “First of all,” she said, “I expect you’ll be wanting to know if Gary was there on time! Well, yes, he was, waiting for me at the door!” They’d set to work straight away, and had found most of the consulting rooms tidy and little trouble to clean. But one, the old doctor’s, was a real mess, things all over the place that should have been locked away. “Gary said straight away he’d tackle it. Went at it like a dose of salts! He’s a nice lad, Lois. I reckon you’ve got a good ‘un there. No, there were no problems really…except…”
“Yes?” prompted Lois.
“It was just I had this funny feeling…silly really. Gary laughed at me, but he wasn’t there when I heard it. Just a little noise now and then, like somebody having a rootle around.” Sheila paused, and Lois frowned.
“Could it have been one of the surgery staff, come in early?” she said. Blimey, Sheila was the last person she’d have suspected of nervous fancies! No, there was probably a simple explanation. “Mice?” she suggested.
Sheila’s good, wholesome laugh was reassuring. “That’s what Gary said,” she answered. “But I’ve seen enough to know all the signs of mice – and rats, come to that! No, I expect it was birds in the roof, somethin’ like that. Anyway, don’t worry, Lois, we’ll get it sorted. So, a good report, really, and both of us enjoyed it too.”
“Can’t want for better than that, then,” said Lois, but put down the telephone feeling oddly uneasy.
Hazel and Bridie had both started in houses in Waltonby, though it had apparently been a struggle persuading Richard Reading that there was nothing to be ashamed of in having ‘his women’, as he called them, cleaning in their own village. “Skivvying! Good God, what would my mother have said!” Quite a lot, Bridie had thought, remembering the old battleaxe who’d given her such a hard time before she died. Dick had inherited all her ire, and none of his father’s gentle kindness, unfortunately. Bridie had not seen this before her marriage, but it had soon become apparent. Now, fortified by a new independence, and the full support of her daughter, she realized she could at least face up to his onslaughts without total collapse.
“Cheerio, then,” she’d said, as she set off for the big farmhouse in Waltonby’s back road. Hazel had gone in the opposite direction, and had blown her mother a kiss as she turned the corner. Dick Reading had fumed on his own for a while, then slammed out of the house and set off for Dalling Hall, where he had a delivery to make.
Lois, still sitting by the telephone, reflected that perhaps she had had the worst of it. The others were off on exciting new projects, whilst she had little to do today except worry about them. She was glad she had decided to carry on with Hazel on Tuesdays at Dalling Hall. She was sure it was a good thing to keep her hands on the broom, in a manner of speaking.
¦
Hazel Reading was in fine form, taking care to be brisk but thorough. The job was at a new stone house on the edge of Waltonby, one of a small estate built on a paddock that had once been grazed by sturdy ponies belonging to the village’s carrier.
“Um, whatever you’re having, Mrs Jordan,” Hazel said, halfway through her three hours and gasping for a drink. The central heating was overpowering, and the physical work of cleaning and polishing had warmed her up to a rosy glow.
“Do sit down for minute, then,” said Mrs Jordan, and put a cup of steaming coffee in front of Hazel. In minutes, it seemed, the woman had told her her life story, and Hazel had listened with interest. No information is wasted, she reckoned. You never knew when it might come in useful. She remembered Lois’s strictures about gossip, and wondered if she dare answer any of the pointed questions fired at her. But the bar work in the pub stood her in good stead, and she managed to be polite and give very little information in return.
Upstairs again, and restored by the coffee, Hazel entered the main bedroom, and stepped back in alarm. On a tall chest in front of her was a grinning face, surmounted by a huge mop of chestnut curls. She must have gasped aloud, because Mrs Jordan came running up. She was laughing, and took Hazel by the arm. “It’s all right!” she said. “Just a wig stand and my wig for the play! One of our cast painted the face on it for fun…so sorry it made you jump…” And then she was off on a long tale about the amateur dramatic company she belonged to in Tresham, and how she had a really big part in the latest production. “Mind you,” she said, “we’ve had a bit of shock. The man playing the lead part has…well, has dropped out…”
“Shame,” said Hazel, trying to get past the woman and into the bathroom, next on her list. Then something familiar chimed in her head. “Amateur dramatics?” she said. “You mean acting, an’ that?” The woman nodded her head. “And this bloke who’s dropped out…you don’t by any chance mean dropped off the perch?”
The woman frowned at this flippancy, but nodded. “Yes,” she said.
“Ah,” said Hazel, starting on the hand basin with vigour, “then I think I know who you mean. Was it Major Todd-Nelson? Because if it was, then you can take it from me he had it coming. Now, shall I give the windows a quick wipe?”
It was only on her way home, tired but still cheerful, that she realized what she’d said. Oh dear, Lois wouldn’t like that. Still, with luck she wouldn’t know.
¦
In the Coachman’s bar at the Tresham Arms, Joanne Murphy, who had so humiliatingly failed to join the team in New Brooms, leaned confidentially across the bar and whispered in the ear of the young man in front of her. Both of them looked unusually serious.
“But what are we going to do next?” said the young man. He was not the kind of customer the management encouraged, and the barman was keeping an eye on Joanne.
