Rosemary Aitken (7 page)

‘Effie!’ Cook’s voice from the kitchen summoned her.

‘Coming, Cook.’ She scuttled up the three steps and back through the scullery.

Mrs Lane was standing by the cooking range, wielding a heavy saucepan and a slotted spoon. She gave a nod to Effie. ‘Bring that basin here – I’m boiling up this mutton-end to make a drop of soup.’ She lifted up the saucepan and strained the liquid through as Effie held the bowl up to the light. Mrs Lane liked to ‘watch the stock run through, make sure it’s the proper colour and the right consistency’.

It was a chore that Effie hated. It always worried her. The basin was the biggest china one, heavy to start with and much heavier as you went – apart from becoming uncomfortably hot. You held it with the thick cloth pot-holder throughout, of course, but all the same it never felt quite safe. Effie had to grit her teeth and hold on for dear life.

‘There!’ Cook looked approvingly into the sieve and poked at the remaining bits of bone. There were a few scraps of mutton still adhering here and there. ‘I’ve got the best of it, but there’s goodness in it yet. You can wrap up these scraps d’rectly and put them at the gate, so Eileen Mitchell can have them when she comes to scrub. I ’spect she’ll make a drop of broth herself, poor soul. Let that get cold a minute first, and see that it’s well drained. Out the front corner by the path – you know where it goes. Use that bit of newsprint from the green-grocer – I’ll find a paper bag or something you can put it in.’

‘Yes, Mrs Lane.’ Effie put down the basin with relief.

Cook nodded. ‘In the meantime you can take the tea-tray up. I’ve made some Albert biscuits, the sort the mistress likes. You’ll find them in the biscuit barrel, give her two or three and some of those ham sandwiches I’ve cut for her. You’ve been lucky there, my girl. There’s an odd end left over and a crust of bread that we can have ourselves. And I think there’s a bit of pickle in the jar.’

Effie grinned. Cook always saw to it that there was something nice: the bread and ham were freshly baked that day – the kitchen was still full of cooking smells – and that pickle that she made was always beautiful. ‘Yes, Cook,’ she said, and hurried to obey.

It did give her an odd feeling later on, when the mutton-bone was cool and patted fairly dry, to use that piece of newspaper to wrap it in: almost as if the story was shamefully her own, and she did not want the world reading it – Mrs Eileen Mitchell in particular. She placed the bone exactly where it covered the report, and she was pleased to see that it was damp enough to wet the paper through.

Then she hurried out to put it where the poor soul would look for it.

When he saw Effie coming from the house Alex could hardly believe his eyes. He had been this way so often without a glimpse of her that he was beginning to believe she was avoiding him. In fact he was almost certain that she was: he was sure he had seen her at the basement window once, a day or so ago, and from the way she coloured up she must have noticed him – but though he had loitered much longer than he should, pretending to look up and down the street and taking an interest in every garden wall in order not to look conspicuous, she had not come out or even looked again and given him a wave. He was beginning to think he ought to give it up.

And then suddenly, there she was today, pretty as ever and blushing like a rose. But even then she would not meet his eyes. She had a paper parcel in her hand and she stooped to put it down, exactly where he’d been told to put his own the day they met.

He seized time by the forelock – it was a phrase that he remembered vaguely from a book at school – and stepped towards the girl. ‘Morning, Effie. What do you have there?’ It made an opening, although of course he knew the answer perfectly. ‘Another present for your scrubbing woman, I suppose?’

She nodded, crimson-faced. ‘She’ll be here d’rectly. In fact, if everybody had their rights, she should be here by now, but her poor husband had been took quite bad again, and she hasn’t been quite punctual this last week or two. Arrive here any minute, I expect, all hot and bothered ’cause she’s had to walk for miles – hasn’t the money for a horsebus, with her ’usband like he is.’

‘But you do expect her?’ Alex had a wild notion of offering to take the parcel round – he could come back when off duty and report success.

But Effie’s answer was too quick for him. ‘Oh, Mrs Mitchell always gets here in the end. She’s no charmer, but you can rely on her for that. She won’t cut corners, either, when she does arrive. She’ll scrub until the place is sparkling – until it’s dark if that is what it takes. That’s how we always . . .’ She broke off suddenly, and said, as if she thought she’d been gossiping too much, ‘But I know I mustn’t keep you; you’re a busy man yourself.’

She was already turning back towards the house. He said, to prevent her, ‘By the way, there’s been no other news. That dead man who seemed to know you. We did send to London to ask about his shirt – I don’t know if anybody told you about that – but though we found the maker it didn’t lead us anywhere. The man that it was made for has gone away abroad. Apparently his wife had not been well and wanted to visit South Africa again before she died.’

Effie was listening, her clever little face full of lively interest – just the way that he’d remembered it. Her comment was intelligent as well. ‘I suppose that’s how he came to give away his shirts? Couldn’t pack them all, I shouldn’t be surprised.’

He nodded. ‘Exactly the conclusion that we came to, ourselves. And no-one could tell us where it was he’d gone. So . . .’

‘You gave it up and the body’s been buried on the rates?’ She must have realized that he was surprised, because she added, ‘I read it in the paper, only just today. In fact, it’s on this very parcel I’ve got here. I’ll show you if you like, though it will be all damp by now . . .’ She made as if to unwrap the paper all the same, and he was edging closer on the pretence of looking at the paragraph, when the basement window was flung open and a loud voice called, ‘Effie! What in heaven are you up to now? Put that parcel where I told you and get back in here at once – I’ve got this galantine to make and God only blessed me with a single pair of hands.’

Effie wrapped the parcel up again and threw a glance at him. ‘I’m some sorry, Alex – Constable Dawes, that is – you can see I’m wanted. I can’t stop here, chatting, any more than you.’ She paused a moment, and then blurted out, ‘Though it’s been some nice to see you.’

That gave him courage and he caught her arm. ‘Nice enough to want to do it on some other day? I know you go to see your family on your half-day off – Thursdays, isn’t it? But maybe, if I could arrange my shifts . . . Could I meet you for a little, first?’

She had turned redder than a beetroot now and she pulled away from him. ‘Don’t be so daft. We’d never have the time. Besides, I got to go. Though . . .’

He caught his breath. ‘Though . . . what?’

‘There might just be an opportunity next week. We’re going to have a caller – a fellow from the bank, wants to talk to Mrs T about her bank affairs. She wants me on the Thursday, to be on call while he is there, though I’ll get a day in lieu. Friday, most likely, if that is any good?’

Any good? He could have kissed the fellow from the bank. ‘I’m off-duty from one o’clock that day. I could come . . .’

She shook her head at him. ‘Better meet you somewhere. You know Mount Misery?’

He looked perplexed. ‘I think I’ve heard of it – not a name you easily forget. Isn’t that out somewhere on the road towards Land’s End?’

She nodded, grinning. ‘Just where it branches out towards St Just. Not far out of town – it gets its name from the fever hospital. But don’t worry, it’s a lovely place – with footpaths out to Devil’s Rock or up around the lanes. Two o’clock Friday, I’ll do my very best. Though, the way things are, I make no promises.’ And before Alex could say another word, she’d pushed the parcel in under the hedge and hurried round towards the back again.

He stood for a moment, gazing after her, until a sharp voice at his elbow brought him to himself. ‘Now look here, young constable, I’m sure you’re on your beat and you’ve got good reason to be standing here, but when you’ve quite finished I needs to wiggle past and get me cleaning tools. I got the steps to scrub and I’m already late.’ Shrew-faced Mrs Mitchell was glaring up at him.

He reminded himself about her husband being bad and managed to mutter ‘Please excuse me!’ with some grace before he went back to resume his street patrol. He walked the beat with what he thought was proper diligence, but when he got back he found that there was nothing to report. Perhaps his mind had not been wholly on his task.

His mind was racing forward to the roster for next week, but there was nothing he could do to find out what it was – or alter it – so after tea he went back to his notes, and tried to occupy his wayward brain by revising how to make a plaster cast of footprints at a scene. He’d never done it, but he hoped to have the chance. Sergeant Vigo said it was the surest way of catching thieves.

Lettie was not in the sunniest of moods. Come to that it wasn’t the sunniest of days – the clouds were gathering and it looked as if there would be rain by dusk. Already her hair, which she’d carefully put up in rags last night (though the torment always stopped her sleeping properly) was being blown out of its artful curls and into rats’ tails by the rising wind. And then she’d be expected to tramp about for miles on what Bert always called his ‘favourite walk’.

Drat the fellow! Why couldn’t he take her to the pictures for a change? There was a film of Valentino showing in the town. She would have loved to see it – she’d been dropping hints – but it never even seemed to cross his mind. Course it cost money, that was probably the thing, but all the same! Bert must be earning ten and six a week, though he worked for his father, so perhaps he kept him short. Still, they could have gone into the tuppennies – surely to goodness it wouldn’t hurt for once! But no, it was Mount Misery and the walk as usual. And even then he hadn’t met the bus. Why could he never be anywhere on time?

She frowned and stood back in the shelter of the trees, huddling her best green hooded cape around her. She should have worn the brown one, it was far warmer, but it was getting old and she’d had to mend one corner where she’d caught it on a twig. She could hardly wear it when she was walking out with Bert. Still, he’d kept her waiting. Serve him right if she had turned up in that!

The sound of a footfall on the path disturbed her thoughts and she stepped forward, ready with a smile. ‘Oh, there you are . . .’ She tailed off in surprise. ‘My dear life! Effie Pengelly! If it isn’t you!’

Effie was looking at her in what looked like mild dismay, as if she wasn’t especially pleased to find her standing there. ‘Well, I never! Lettie! Fancy seeing you.’ Her face had turned an alarming shade of red.

Lettie wasn’t stupid. She realized what it was. Effie was still ashamed about the books. They’d never really spoken since that awful day, though she had lingered at the Westons’ library once or twice. The only time that their paths had crossed in town there’d been a quick, ‘Hello, how are you?’ and Effie had hastened by, obviously in a hurry to get somewhere else. Lettie said carefully, ‘And a sight for sore eyes you are. Sorry that I haven’t seen you at the Westons’ all these weeks. I’ve missed our little chats.’

Effie turned more scarlet still, if that were possible. It gave her face a colour which was flattering. She was wearing blue – a thick shawl and heavy skirt which did nothing for her shape but of a shade which drew attention to her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she was murmuring, ‘I haven’t stopped to wait. After that policeman gave me such a shock, I didn’t want to . . .’

Lettie nodded. ‘Course, I understand. We would have had to stop that business soon in any case – if we’d gone on much longer they were sure to catch us out.’ She was aware that this wasn’t what she had said before – she’d always told Effie it was as safe as possible – but obviously things were rather different now. ‘Clever of you to get that book back on the shelves that day.’

Effie looked first startled, then relieved. ‘You saw it then? I haven’t seen it since. I’d begun to wonder what had happened to the dratted thing!’

Lettie laughed. ‘Saw it? I should think I did! I managed to take it out again – by accident. But Miss Blanche didn’t tumble to it, even then.’

Effie had put on a determined face. ‘I aren’t doing it again, though, Lettie. Too dangerous, by half.’

‘Aren’t doing what?’ a voice behind them said, and there was Bert at last – looking a picture in his second-best Sunday suit, a bit too short and tight for him these days, and a little shiny round the cuffs and trouser-seat, but a proper suit for all that. He had a scarf and hat on and his boots were fairly clean – though he hadn’t brought his cycle and he must have walked for miles. Nice-looking as ever and grinning at them in that cheeky way of his. Lettie felt proud of him. She was about to introduce the two of them, but Effie had turned that lobster pink again, and had begun to speak, obviously in answer to what Bert had said.

‘Nothing!’ she said quickly. ‘We were just gossiping. And I mustn’t keep you. I know you want to walk.’

Bert looked at her. His eyes were twinkling. ‘Only a little stroll around the lanes. There’s no hurry – no need to rush away. Lettie, introduce me to your pretty friend.’

Lettie found – rather to her own surprise – that she was furious. ‘This is Effie,’ she muttered gracelessly. ‘Works at Mrs Thatchell’s down Morrab Road.’

Bert did the twinkle that she liked so much, but it was aimed at Effie. ‘Then that is where I’ve seen you. I knew I knew the face. No doubt we’ve spoken when I brought the groceries.’

What a sweet-talker the blighter was, Lettie thought crossly. He knows her perfectly – he was the one who said that he’d seen her on the street with that confounded policeman. She forced herself to smile. ‘Effie this is Bert. My beau. We’ve started walking out – only of course we can’t let Miss Caroline find out. Strictly, I’m not permitted to have followers.’

Effie was looking admiringly at Bert. Lettie was impatient. This would never do. She stepped out beside him and slid her arm through his – something that she never generally did. Bert was always grumbling that she kept him at arm’s length, though of course she didn’t really: she let him take her hand when there was nobody about and even give her a quick peck on the cheek each time they said goodbye. This time, though, she hugged his arm against her side. ‘Nice to see you, Effie. We must meet again. See you at the Westons’ shop perhaps. Nothing to stop us having a chatter, is there, now and then?’