7 Sorrow on Sunday (2 page)

“Might as well,” Lois said. “It might cushion the blow.”

What blow? thought Hazel in alarm. There could be only one kind of blow. Mrs. M was sacking her, or closing down the business. But why should she do either of these things? Hazel made the coffee rapidly, and they sat down in the office. “Right then,” she said. “Break it gently.”

After a couple of slurps of hot coffee, Lois began to speak. “Now,” she said, “guess what?”

“Josie’s pregnant,” Hazel guessed. She couldn’t bear even to consider the end of New Brooms. Josie was Lois’s daughter, and ran the village shop back in Long Farnden. She had a partner, Rob, and it was common knowledge that Lois was hoping for a grandchild. But surely Lois would be joyful about that!

“No, not that unfortunately. No, it’s something else,” Lois said, and Hazel’s heart sank.
Hey, but wait a minute. Mrs. M’s smiling broadly now!
“Are you having me on?” Hazel asked.

Lois took a deep breath and said, “Just thought I’d keep you in suspense. Rotten trick. Sorry, Hazel. Now, hold tight . . . Derek’s won the Lottery!”

Hazel had worked for Lois for a long time. She was one of New Brooms’ original cleaners, until she’d married and baby Elizabeth had arrived. Then Lois had arranged for her to manage the office, and a friend next door looked after the baby. It had all worked out very well, and Lois had been pleased not to lose one of her best workers. Hazel trusted Lois, but now looked at her in amazement. “You’re joking?” she said.

Lois shook her head. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me, but it’s true. Six of the men at the pub were in a sort of syndicate. They’ve won the jackpot. So even when it’s divided up we’ll still get a decent packet.”

Hazel was now in shock. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing emerged.

“Mind you,” Lois said, “it’s not one of them five-million wins. Should be about a quarter of a million each, though. I had to come into town, and couldn’t resist telling you. The others can have a nice surprise at our meeting.” She looked hard at Hazel. “You all right, gel?” she asked anxiously.

Hazel came suddenly to life. She pulled Lois out of her chair, gave her a big hug, and began to caper around the office desk. “It’s
you-hoo
who’s won the jackpot!” she sang at the top of her voice, brandishing the pointing finger.
Then they both roared with laughter and did not notice the door opening until the visitor stood watching them.

“Oh!” gasped Lois. “It’s you! Well, have I got news for you!”

The man smiled slightly and Hazel said, “Good morning, Inspector Cowgill. Can we help you?”

T
HE NEWS SPREAD LIKE MEASLES AROUND THE VILLAGE.
When Josie opened the shop on Monday morning, there had been a queue outside. This had never been known in all the years since the shop had been established in l868. Josie, of course, knew why, and had yelled for her partner, Rob, to come down from the flat above the shop. “Stand by,” she said. “I’m going to need help for half an hour or so.”

“I have to go to work, Josie, you know that,” Rob said. But he was a gentle, thoughtful soul, and called his office in Tresham to say he’d been delayed. In the first hour, they sold more sweets, cigarettes, boxes of matches and newspapers than ever before. And each customer said a variation of the same thing. “Glad to hear about your mum’s good luck. Wish it was me!” Josie was almost relieved when that miserable old skinflint from the Baptist Church bought his usual half cabbage and said, “The Lottery is the work of Satan, Josie Meade. No good will come of it. Retribution is mine, saith the Lord.”

“Thanks, Mr. Goody,” she said. “I’ll tell Mum. She’ll be delighted, I know. Now—next please?”

Finally it quietened down, Rob went off to work, and Josie was able to perch on her high stool behind the counter and consider what had happened.

Most people had been genuinely pleased for the Meades, and for the other winners, but a few had clearly resented this bonus from the blue. “Why not me?” the pugnacious Colonel Battersby had said. He clearly thought that if the Lottery pointing finger was aimed at this area, then he was the most deserving recipient. “Your turn next, maybe, Colonel,” Josie had said as pleasantly as she could. She had
heard Rob snorting behind her as he fetched more supplies from the stockroom.

The telephone rang, and Josie picked up the receiver. “Who’s that? Oh, it’s you, Miss Beasley. Shall I take your order now?” Josie packed up a number of boxes of groceries to deliver to nearby villages where the village shop had not survived. Miss Beasley lived in Round Ringford. She was a stroppy old lady, a client of New Brooms, and a tough customer.

“No, no. Not yet, Josie Meade,” she said. “First I want to know what your father has been doing, gambling with that no-good set at the pub.”

The “no-good set” consisted of Lois’s electrician husband Derek; his plumber pal; the vicar’s brother, who had retired and come to live at the vicarage; a local farmer and Geoff the publican. Josie giggled, and said that her father could not be a more respectable citizen and it was all a bit of fun. They’d never really dreamt they’d win the jackpot.

“Huh!” grunted Ivy Beasley. “Anyway, I suppose your mother will be giving up the cleaning? And the village shop won’t be good enough for you? It’ll ruin your lives, you know. Happens all the time. I’ve seen it on the telly. And what about all of us in the villages? I’m too old and frail now to keep my house clean, and you will certainly not catch me going into one of them supermarkets. I’ve known our Doris to go in for a loaf of bread and come out with a full trolley. No, I’ll just starve, surrounded by dust.”

Josie considered trying to cheer her up. She hadn’t had time to think about their future, so she said only that the money was her parents,” and that as for herself, she loved the shop and would stay in it until she was carried out in a wooden box. “I suggest you ask Mum about the cleaning,” she added. “But whatever happens, Mum would never leave you in the lurch, Miss Beasley. You must know that. Now, I’m busy, so shall I take your order?”

*   *   *

A
FTER A SMALL CELEBRATION CONSISTING OF STRONG
coffee and squashed-fly biscuits, Inspector Cowgill asked
if he could have a moment with Lois confidentially. Hazel, drunk with the news, grinned. “Shall I make myself scarce? Would you like the blinds drawn?”

Lois glared at her. “Just go and wash these coffee mugs, young lady,” she said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Don’t be too hard on her, Lois,” Cowgill said, uncharacteristically mellow. “It is the most amazing news. I’d come here to discuss a minor crime with a colleague, and find a rich lady dancing the polka! Enough to make anyone tactless.”

“Well, what was this minor crime, then?”

“I’m sure you’re not interested now, Lois. Maybe it’s time to shake hands and say farewell.”

Was that a tear in his eye? Surely not. Lois looked at him closely. “You don’t get rid of me that easily,” she said. “And anyway, I’ve never taken money from you, so winning the Lottery don’t make no difference. Derek and me had a long discussion last night, and have decided not to make any big changes in our lives. Maybe we’ll stay in hotels instead of bed-and-breakfasts, get a newer car, that kind of thing. But I’ve worked hard to establish New Brooms, and Derek loves his job. Why change it?”

“And your work with me?”

“Same applies,” Lois said shortly. “Now, let’s get on to this minor crime.”

“It’s happened in Waltonby, that’s why I came to you. Next village, and lots of people there either are, or have been, your clients. It’s the horsy lot. Stable thefts. Saddles and bridles and harness in general. No horses as yet. And, thank God, no injuries to the animals. But this stuff is expensive, and can be sold easily in the right place. Have you heard anything?”

Lois shook her head. “It happens every so often, but one at a time usually. Derek says it serves ’em right for not locking it away properly. More horses than people in these villages. The old village folk don’t like them, incomers throwing their money about.”

Cowgill looked at her with a smile, and said, “You’re
rich now, Lois. You could even buy a horse. Get to know these people with barmy ideas about country life.”

Lois’s voice was icy as she replied that not for him nor for the Queen herself would she be seen on a bloody great horse. She added that she would, however, keep her ears and eyes open, and make a few enquiries. Derek sometimes heard useful stuff in the pub.

“Very useful!” laughed Cowgill. “Perhaps I should start drinking in your pub—might be able to take early retirement!”

It was the first time she had heard Cowgill laugh, really laugh, with his eyes as well as his mouth, since his wife was killed in a road accident. So there, Mr. Goody, Lois said to herself, if we’re all doomed to hell, it will have been worth it.

C
OLONEL
B
ATTERSBY WAS IN HIS LATE FIFTIES, AND MARRIED
to a wife he had licked into shape over the last twenty-five years. He had inherited considerable wealth, and had conducted his life accordingly. He had the required two children—a son and a daughter—who had been a great satisfaction to him, the son following him into the armed forces, and the daughter having married well.

“I’ve had a bloody good life,” he would say to anyone with the ill luck to sit next to him at regimental reunion dinners. “No complaints at all. That’s what I shall say to my Maker when the day comes. No complaints. A bloody good life.”

His wife, Blanche, had been known to say quietly to him that it was tempting fate to talk like that. But he scoffed at her and took no notice. Then this morning, he had gone to the stables to inspect his fine, well-bred hunters, and found the tack room virtually empty. “They’ve cleared the bloody lot!” he yelled at his wife when he’d run back to the house to ring the police.

She paled. “The horses?” she said anxiously. She loved them, the sleek, elegant creatures. She respected their nobility, and never asked more from them than she thought appropriate. In return, the horses loved her and did their best for her.

The Colonel, on the contrary, made sure they knew who was master, and demanded complete obedience, exemplary behaviour and dumb bravery. They obeyed out of fear, and did not love him.

Reassured that the horses were not harmed, Blanche said, “You’ve tempted fate once too often, Horace.” She
had always thought it a ridiculous name, but he would have no other. “Now look what’s happened.”

“My fault, then?” But before a row could develop, he was through to the police station in Tresham, blustering and shouting. “I shall expect the culprits found by sunset,” he said, “and all my property returned forthwith. Yes, of course I expect you to come at once! And you will regret your insolence!” He slammed down the telephone and turned to continue to berate his wife, but she had slipped out of the room.

He sat down at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands. He would be the laughing stock of the village. Had Blanche locked up when she’d finished her ridiculous conversations with the horses last evening? Maybe he could blame her. He stormed into his study, found his silver flask and drank deeply, then picked up the telephone. “Put me through to the Commissioner,” he said. “I have a complaint.”

*   *   *

B
LANCHE
B
ATTERSBY HAD ESCAPED TO HER SEWING
room in the attic of the big house. It had been a farmhouse in the centre of Waltonby one hundred years ago, and had belonged to the Lord of the Manor. In the l930s he had converted it into a comfortable home for his widowed mother, but she had had other ideas. She remained at the Hall, and suggested he and his ambitious little wife could move into the Dower House, as it was now known, until she joined her husband in the family vault. Eventually the Hall was destroyed by fire, and the family died out. Colonel Battersby had purchased the Dower House on the internet. He had regarded computer technology as a battle to be won, and set about it with characteristic thoroughness. Bidding for the house had been exciting, and he had practised his usual cunning, clinching the deal at just under a million pounds. “Beat the other chap to it!” he’d crowed to Blanche. “Worth every penny.”