the way,” she added, “I’d be very happy for you to call me Lois.”
Enid shook her head. “Thank you, but no,” she said. “I was brought up to respect my superiors.”
Blimey, thought Lois. Am I superior? Must tell Derek.
“But if you don’t mind,” Enid continued, “I’d like to call you Mrs M, like the others do. Would that be all right?” She tucked her glasses into her handbag, and turned to leave. “Oh, yes,” she said, “I nearly forgot. The police were round at the mill this morning. Something about a mysterious object floating in the stream? I just wanted to reassure you, Mrs M. Father was out there at the crack of dawn this morning, checking again and making sure nothing was there. A trick of the shadows, I expect. Cathanger Mill is full of shadows…”
She left then, closing the door quietly behind her as usual. Lois watched as Enid slipped neatly into her car and drove off. From her office, Lois could hardly hear the sound of engine noise, and marvelled at Enid’s ability to cope. Something strong about Enid. A survivor, maybe. Funny about the twin thing, though. She would check with Bridie.
? Weeping on Wednesday ?
Fourteen
Three days of snow did not hold up the post in Long Farnden. The post lady was small, plump and easy with her favours, so the gossips had it. Snow was nothing to her. She was reputed to pedal at speed round the village, delivering the post before breakfast with tireless efficiency, and would end up at the house of whoever took her fancy that week. Lois didn’t care. As long as the post came in good time, the postie could do exactly as she liked.
“What about me being her last port of call, then?” Derek had said with a smile. He didn’t see why Lois should automatically leave him off the list. Mind you, with Lois’s office being in a front room of the house, and Gran always around, there wasn’t much chance of a spot of the other with Miss Postie.
It was a surprise to Derek, then, when he called back to the house to pick up a forgotten tool box mid- morning, and saw a white envelope lying on the door mat. Gran was busy in the kitchen and called out, asking if Derek wanted coffee. He bent to pick up the letter. It was addressed to him, in capital letters, and had no stamp. That explained it. It must have been delivered by hand. He did not recognize the handwriting, which was old- fashioned and distinctive. The hall clock struck ten twanging notes, and Derek shoved the letter in his pocket. He was late now, and the client was already complaining about delay. He would read it later. “Got no time, thanks, Gran!” he shouted, and was gone.
He was working over in Waltonby, and decided to get a quick bite for lunch in the pub, rather than go home again. He sat down with a half of bitter and a ploughman’s, and began to read the paper. The pub was not crowded, and the only other customers were strangers to Derek. Halfway through a story about a postal strike, he remembered the letter. Quickly slitting it open with a cheesy knife, he pulled out a single sheet of paper. The writing, as on the envelope, was in even capitals, and the message was short:
YOU WANT TO WATCH YOUR WIFE WITH THAT COP. I SEEN THEM, DIRTY SODS. A WELL-WISHER.
Derek stared at it. The pub was quiet, and Betty behind the bar glanced over at him. “You all right, Derek?” she said. “You’ve gone all pale. Nothing wrong with the food, is there?”
With an effort, Derek folded the paper and put it back in the envelope. “No, nuthin’ wrong,” he said. “Not really hungry,” he added, and struggled to his feet. Like a blind man, he made his way across the bar holding on to chairs, and left, tottering down the steps unsteadily to his van.
“Blimey! What’s wrong with him?” said Betty, looking worried.
“Too much of the old infuriator,” said a stranger with a chuckle.
Betty glared at him. “That’s a decent working man,” she said. “And a regular. So I’ll thank you to keep your remarks to yourself.”
The stranger shrugged. Plenty of pubs around. He made a mental note to give this one a miss next time he was in Waltonby.
¦
“Hello? Is that Lois? It’s Betty at the pub. Yes…no, nothing wrong. At least, I don’t think so. No, no, not another accident.” There had been a dreadful accident, when Derek had been injured by a hit-and-run driver, and both Betty and Lois had been deeply involved.
“It’s just that Derek’s just left…hasn’t finished his ploughman’s, and looked a bit shaky. I thought I’d give you a ring, in case you want to find him. He’s probably on his way home, anyway. Don’t want to alarm you! Rest of the family well? Good…see you, Lois.”
Derek was not on his way home. He had returned to work, and sat in a freezing cold bedroom of the house he was rewiring. He had the letter in his hand, held between thumb and forefinger as if it was contaminated – which it surely was, by spite, revenge and who knew what else? – and read it over and over again. He realized that it touched him on a raw spot, and was more painful than anyone could have known. Or did they know? Did they know that ever since Lois had been mixed up with that Cowgill, playing at cops and robbers, Derek had had a nagging suspicion that Lois fancied the tall, grim-looking inspector? He had never said as much, of course. Never would, unless he had concrete proof. Didn’t believe in checking on Lois, any more than she would on him…
A faint smile crossed Derek’s face, and he sighed deeply. None of them had led blameless lives. He supposed there were very few who did. No, he thought, standing up and getting back to work. This was a nasty, vindictive piece of rubbish from some poor sod who probably got his kicks from sending poison pen letters. He started to crush it in his hand, and then stopped. He smoothed it out, and put it back in its envelope. Better keep it for a day or two, just in case. He put in his jacket pocket, and tried to forget about it.
¦
Lois had a very uncomfortable afternoon. Derek was not answering his mobile, but this was nothing new. He often switched it off if he was in the middle of something tricky. Couldn’t be too careful with electricity, he’d say. Interruptions could be fatal. For this reason he did not encourage her to phone him at work. But the message from Betty had frightened her, and although she had to go out, working with Bill at a job he usually did with Sheila, her mind was not on it, and he noticed she was not her thorough, particular self. “Feeling all right, Mrs M?” he said. She nodded. “You seem to be somewhere else,” he added, moving a large chest of drawers as if it were a coffee table. A mouse ran swiftly across the floor, disturbed from its hiding place which had been safe for years. “Cor, look at the dust!” said Bill. “Nobody’s been behind here for a while.”
Lois hated mice. She tried to hide her phobia, but would freeze and sometimes scream uncharacteristically if one appeared. But today, she watched it vanish with apparent indifference. “Bill,” she said. “We’re nearly done. Would you mind finishing by yourself? I really need to get home – the children…” she added lamely. This hearty young man would not understand her increasing panic. Her work with Cowgill had made her a number of enemies, and Derek had been the victim before. If anything had happened…
“Course,” said Bill. “You look a bit peaky, as my mum would say. Go home and have a nice cuppa. Put your feet up.”
Lois smiled wanly. “You’re a good lad,” she said. “Thanks, Bill. See you tomorrow.”
¦
There was no van in the drive. Derek was not at home, and Lois grilled her mother to see if she’d noticed anything odd about him at breakfast.
“Nothing,” Gran said. “And when he popped in later for some tools he seemed fine. Just came in and went off again – wouldn’t stop for coffee. Didn’t even open his letter.”
“What letter?” said Lois sharply. She had picked up the post this morning, and there’d been nothing for Derek.
“On the mat,” said Gran. “I’d noticed it ten minutes before Derek came in. Addressed to him. My arms were full of dirty sheets, so I meant to go back later. Then it was gone, so I knew he’d taken it.”
A letter delivered by hand. Derek acting strangely in the pub. Lois tried to see a possible connection, and then heard the van crunching up the drive. She rushed out and wrenched open Derek’s door. “Are you all right?” she said, staring at his face. It looked the same as usual.
His hands on the steering wheel were steady, and he looked her straight in the eye. “Fine, o’course,” he said. “Why shouldn’t I be?” And then he felt it, the stab of doubt, of suspicion, that was to be his uncomfortable
