Theft on Thursday (18 page)

J
AMIE
,
ON RETURNING HOME TO HIS FAMILY
,
GAVE THEM
an edited version of events. But when he came to the end, and described Mrs. T-J’s apparent capitulation, he knew in his heart that it was not all right. In fact, he was quite sure it was all wrong.

T
HURSDAY MORNING
,
AND THE WHOLE VILLAGE PRE-
pared for Cyril’s funeral; not just old friends and neighbours, distant relations, civic dignitaries and representatives of his old regiment, but also those who wanted to be seen to be there.

The passing bell began to toll, and Lois shivered as she made her way to the church. It was a mournful sound, one bell ringing insistently, reminding the village that this was no ordinary morning. It had been one of Cyril’s duties, and he had solemnly seen many an old friend on their way with his doleful ringing. Out of respect for an old customer, Mrs. Carr had announced that she would not open the shop until two o’clock. Sandy Mackerras had been allowed time off, and members of the choir had made arrangements to be free for their part in the service. Lois had helpfully revised the cleaning schedules.

Bill, Rebecca, Jamie and Mrs. T-J were all in the vestry, putting on their scarlet robes. Old Gladys, long-time friend of Cyril and former organist, had let it be known that she
was extremely offended at not being asked to play, and arrived at the church early. She sat in a front pew, and glared disapproval at Sharon, already at the organ playing a selection of Cyril’s favourite songs. “No idea how to play those old tunes,” Gladys muttered to an old crone sitting beside her. “Making a right mess of ‘Moon River’—got the timing all wrong!” She smiled nastily, cheered up by knowing she could have done better.

The church filled up, until folding chairs were hastily fetched and set out in a side aisle. Conversation was subdued but vigorous. There were waves of recognition from one side of the church to the other. Babies were soothed, coat collars turned up in the draughty church, comments passed on how much
older
so-and-so looked in the dusty light coming through grey glass windows. A few brave souls hummed “Moon River,” and a tear or two fell, remembering old Cyril and his eccentric performances on his own Hammond organ.

Then silence fell. Sharon glanced around and received her signal from the undertaker. She brought the recital to a gentle close, and put her hands in her lap.

“Jesus said,” a loud voice proclaimed from the porch, and heads were bowed. Brian Rollinson, tall and spare, his face shining with certainty that Cyril had gone to a far, far better place, began to pronounce the soul-stirring words: “I am the resurrection, and I am the life; he who believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and whoever lives and believes in me shall never die.”

Lois looked around, her spine tingling, and saw the vicar heading the sad procession, his white surplice fresh and immaculate, his head held high. Undertakers bore Cyril’s coffin, crowned with flowery wreaths, slowly up the aisle towards the chancel. Following were Cyril’s sister and her daughter, and a small group of people, distant relations, who were complete strangers to the assembled villagers. As the coffin passed slowly, some choked and
fumbled for their handkerchiefs. Lois sniffed, told herself not to be a fool, and was unable to stop hot, salty tears running into her mouth.

She turned her head again to the back of the church, hoping to conceal her weakness from Gran. Her eye was caught by a tall, pale-faced young man, dressed all in black and wearing dark glasses. Who was that, then? He was standing partly concealed by the stone font, and squeezed into a corner by a group of local children drummed up from the Sunday School, where Cyril had been an unpopular helper. Lois felt Gran nudge her.

“Don’t stare, Lois.” Gran was dry-eyed, being no stranger to funerals and death, and stood quite straight, her expression calm. Lois peered at her through watery eyes, and was amazed to see the ghost of a smile on her lips. Gran handed Lois a tissue. “He’d love to be here,” she whispered.

Lois took the tissue and nodded. She made a mental note to ask her mother if she knew the black-clothed young man. In a church full of people wearing black, there was no reason why he should stand out, but he did. The dark glasses? Probably an affectation, but there was something else. Something about the way he stood, chin jutting out, hands gripping the back of the pew in front. Her attention was taken again by the vicar, speaking in a pleasant voice, with just the right amount of solemnity.

The service went smoothly. The choir sang, not too lustily as befitted the occasion, and “Abide With Me” was a success. Mrs. T-J held on to the ends of lines a fraction longer than was necessary, as was her custom, and Rebecca kept her alto harmony respectfully muted.

Brian Rollinson had worked hard at the address. He believed in portraying the departed in as true a light as possible, emphasizing good works and achievements, but also raising an affectionate laugh at the natural blemishes in every human character. Cyril was dealt with kindly, and
with good humour. The atmosphere in the church warmed up slightly, in spite of chilly gusts of air from the bell tower.

Finally it was time for the bearers to shoulder the coffin once more, and all were invited to take refreshment in the village hall after the committal. Not everyone went up to the windy cemetery, but those who did stood silently and tearfully as an old soldier from Cyril’s wartime regiment sounded the Last Post from a high point among the graves.

Lois, standing by the cemetery gates, had a good view of the assembled mourners. There he was again! This time he had added a black overcoat against the cold wind. A piece of grit must have blown into his eye, and he took off the glasses, rubbing his hand across his eyes. Before replacing them, he looked across towards the gates and Lois recognized him. It was that thug! The one who’d been running away laughing with others on the television, when Annabelle had suddenly said, “Max!” So it was Max. Max the thug. What on earth was he doing at old Cyril’s funeral?

Brian Rollinson, dignified and reassuring, said with absolute confidence that Cyril was “in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life,” and the service was at an end. The small crowd began to drift away back to the village hall, and Lois kept an eye on Max. She saw him slip expertly between the cluster of people blocking the gates, and after that she lost him.

As she walked back down the quiet street, leaving Gran to join the others having refreshments, a car passed her slowly and pulled up outside the shop. When she reached it, Hunter Cowgill lowered the window and said, “Morning, Lois. A sad day. And by the way, before you say anything, I am asking you when the shop is opening today.”

Lois glowered at him. “What are you
really
saying then?”

He smiled at her. She warmed the cockles, did his Lois. “I’ve been to the funeral,” he said seriously. “Paying my respects. I noticed what we might call an outsider.”

“Ah,” said Lois. “So did I. Him with eye problems.”

“More interestingly,” he added quickly, seeing Gran approaching. “We know he’s one of the Wycombe Society—black magic mumbo-jumbo lot I was telling you about. Keep your eye open for more sightings. Heard of him at all?”

Lois hesitated, which Cowgill noted. “Um, no, I don’t think so,” she said.

“Lois, Lois,” he said. “You’ve not changed. Family first, as always. And quite right too. But I did warn you about Jamie’s Annabelle. Oh yes, and poor old Cyril had traces of something not quite right in his stomach. More later.” Gran had almost reached them, and he said quickly, “I’ll keep in touch. You brighten my day.” Before she could retort, the window was shut and he drove off, gathering speed until the car disappeared around the corner.

“Who was that, Lois?”

“Somebody wanting the shop. I told him Mrs. Carr was opening up at two.”

Gran looked at her suspiciously. “Car looked familiar,” she said, and left it there.

I
N THE CHURCH
, S
HARON TIDIED HER MUSIC AND PUT
it neatly in her case. She had played on after most people had left for the cemetery, enjoying the old tunes and thinking about Cyril. Now she heard footsteps in the vestry and sat quietly, breathing in the heavy scent of lilies from the pedestal by the altar. She recognized Sandy’s voice, talking to the vicar. He must have come back to disrobe. She could hear one or two choir members, too, still there, and gossiping quietly. She had no reason to hurry. Mrs. M had rearranged her cleaning
duties for the morning, and she would still be on time for the vicarage this afternoon. Out of sight of the main body of the church, she closed her eyes, allowing her thoughts to wander. She saw behind her eyelids the vestry, pictured the pile of robes on the floor and Sandy’s amorous face close to hers.

In a daydream, she did not realize the church was now quiet. She snapped awake to the sound of two pairs of footsteps, clacking sharply on the tiled floor of the aisle. Although she could not be seen, she could see. It was Sandy and Rebecca, and at the door of the church they stopped. Frozen with horror, Sharon saw Sandy put out a hand and touch Rebecca’s cheek. Neither said a word. Then he leaned forward and kissed her lightly. She did not move. He kissed her again, less lightly, and this time with her arms around his neck. Sharon sat as if turned to stone. She stayed like that until the long embrace ended and they disappeared. Then she blinked, stood up unsteadily, and made her way out of the church, walking awkwardly. She tripped on the uneven stone path and fell. Her head hit the iron support for the bird-proof gates, and she groaned, her music scattering over the path. She tried to get up, but felt dizzy and sick. Putting her head between her knees, she began to cry like a child with a grazed knee.

“What’s the trouble?” A man’s voice. Sharon looked up with difficulty against a reeling sky. A tall, black figure stood silhouetted in front of her. “Here,” he said. “Let me help you up.” She put out a hand and he lifted her to her feet. “What
is
a pretty girl like you doing sitting on the ground sobbing her heart out?”

She shook her head. “I fell. Hurt myself,” she said.

“I’ve seen you around,” he said in a friendly way. “In the pub, with young Sandy? Him that I just saw in a clinch with a dark-haired beauty?” At this, Sharon collapsed, and the stranger put his arm around her shoulders. “So sorry!”
he said. “Tactless fool … but never mind—Sharon, isn’t it?—I’m just the person you need to put Sandy Mackerras straight.” And he laughed unpleasantly. “Come on,” he said briskly, helping her to pick up the music, “I’ll give you a lift home, and tell you more.”

“D
ID
Y
OU KNOW OLD
C
YRIL
,
THEN
?” S
HARON WAS
feeling less dizzy, seated in the front seat of a low-slung sports car parked in a lay-by on the way to Waltonby. “Why were you at the funeral?”

“I knew him slightly,” her companion said. “But I’m ashamed to confess I enjoy a good funeral—theatre, you know, all the drama and emotion.”

Oh yeah, thought Sharon, and changed the subject. “Did you say your name? I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch …”

“Maximilian is my name,” said her companion. “Bit of a mouthful! I’m Max to my friends. Which I hope will include you, Sharon dear.”

He sounded a bit weird, Sharon thought. Fancy enjoying funerals! And the way he spoke. Not like her friends, and certainly not at all like Sandy. Sandy could be one of the lads in the pub, talking their language, or he could be quiet and gentle, but he was always the same Sandy. This man sounded like one of the characters in her novels.

“I think I’d better be getting back,” she said, as he turned his smile on her, and she noticed his teeth were crooked and discoloured. “I’m fine now.”

“Oh, what a pity,” he said. “I was going to give you lunch at a pub. Set you up for scrubbing floors this afternoon!”

Sharon glared at him. “Nothing wrong with cleaning,” she said defensively.