7 Sorrow on Sunday (37 page)

“Most certainly,” Cowgill replied, and watched the two women walk down the drive, wishing he was Dot Nimmo, who had taken Lois’s arm and was laughing with her.

*   *   *

I
T WAS NOT FAR TO THE PUB, AND AS
L
OIS AND
D
OT
reached the door, the storm broke. Rain fell in sudden torrents and the two women were glad to walk into a cheerful atmosphere of light and warmth, and the heady smell of hops and malt barley.

“So now you can get back to work and family,” Dot said, looking fondly at Lois.

“Derek will be pleased,” Lois said. “And so will I, Dot. I must say that spell in hospital really shook me up. I haven’t told anyone else, but there were moments when I thought of giving up.”

“Do you mean New Brooms?” Dot asked cunningly.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Lois said. “Anyway,” she said, lifting her glass, “here’s to us, and a bit of peace and quiet.”

Dot clinked glasses, and said seriously, “There is one thing I haven’t told you, Mrs. M. It’s about Haydn.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Dot. I’m sure chief sleuth Cowgill is close to finding who, if anyone, was behind that accident.”

“There was nobody else. It was just a loose horse,” Dot said flatly. “I think I saw the chance of pinning something on Battersby, but he did that for himself later. No, it’s not that. D’you know what they found in Haydn’s van?”

“No; Cowgill doesn’t tell me anything more than he has to.”

“It was full of saddles and bridles and all that stuff. It were Haydn who done the thieving, him and his gang of scum. They used him, Mrs. M. Threatened him, an’ that.”

“But Cowgill didn’t say a thing! Why didn’t he tell me? When did you find out? Did Haydn tell you what he was doing?”

“No, o’ course not, else I’d have said! No, the police told me. I was so ashamed of him, and upset at losing him at the same time, that for two pins I’d ’ave done meself in. But that bloke Cowgill, who’s got the hots for you—no, let me go on—he took pity, and said they’d keep quiet if
I
did, seein’ as
Haydn was dead anyway. Couldn’t keep the accident out of the press, o’ course, but they wouldn’t release the bit about him bein’ the saddle thief. Stay mum about it as long as possible. O’ course, they knew who the others were, and got ’em. Mind you, when I saw sense, I can’t say I was surprised about Haydn. Once a Nimmo, always a Nimmo.”

“I see,” said Lois, reluctant to believe Cowgill capable of doing such a kind deed. She ignored the suggestion that she and he had something going.

“So what about them twins? Joe Horsley’s nephews?” Dot continued. “The Colonel and Horsley thought I eavesdropped on their telephone conversation, didn’t they? Well, I did hear ’em talking, and twins
was
mentioned. But I never made much sense of it, so they needn’t’ve bothered to ’ave me run down.”

“They’re Joe’s nephews,” Lois answered. “They had a rotten home, so Margaret said. Mother a tart, and no father around. One of ’em had been in trouble before. Vicious, apparently. They’ll get what they deserve, I hope.”

“Don’t bet on it,” said Dot. “When you been teeterin’ on the edge of the law as long as I have, you can’t bank on anything.” She sighed again, and then her expression brightened. “Drink up, Mrs. M, and we’ll ’ave a second. Tomorrow’s another day, my Handy used to say. Only thing he was ever right about,” she added, laughing wholeheartedly.

I
T WAS THE LAST POINT-TO-POINT OF THE SEASON AT
Beecham Cross. Warm sunshine lit up the still-fresh greens of the surrounding woods, and the crowds had blossomed forth in light colours and shirt sleeves. A perfect day, and this time Lois was not in a wheelchair. She and Derek walked up to the row of bookies, trying to decide which of them looked the most trustworthy. They decided on Trusty Clarkham, who smiled encouragingly at them.

Josie and Rob had come with them, but wandered off on their own. Lois wondered how long it would be before they decided to get married, and perhaps make her a granny. Derek said that dropping hints would only make them determined to put it off. But Lois had noticed a slight cooling off in her daughter’s attitude to Rob, and wondered if, in Gran’s words, they’d “gorn past it.”

“Well, come on then,” she said. “We must have a bet on this race, whatever else happens.”

The loudspeaker boomed, and a crackling voice said, “Now we come to the Ladies’ Race for the Darren Smith Memorial Trophy, which is kindly sponsored by Mrs. Blanche Battersby.”

Lois and Derek watched the race holding hands, clutching tight. When the winner was led into the enclosure, Lois cheered loudly as Mrs. Smith, accompanied by Blanche, walked with dignity into the ring. She greeted a beaming Floss Pickering and presented the trophy to her. Instead of shaking hands, Mrs. Smith gave her a hug, and Lois reached into her pocket for a tissue.

“Very satisfactory,” said a friendly voice behind Lois
and Derek. It was Hunter Cowgill, looking the part in his tweed jacket and tobacco-brown felt hat.

Derek nodded, but without smiling. Lois considered whether to suggest asking Mrs. Smith just how satisfactory it was. But she didn’t. It was not the time to spoil a proud moment, and she patted Cowgill lightly on the arm. “A good result . . . for some,” she said, and added that they must be off to find Josie and Rob.

Cowgill watched them as they walked away, and then with a seraphic smile looked down at his arm. “She touched me,” he said. “See you soon, Lois.”