Theft on Thursday (2 page)

It was several years now since she’d helped him, and though she sometimes thought longingly of the buzz she felt when pieces of a jigsaw began to show a clear picture, her husband had no such yearnings. Derek, a competent and hard-working electrician, a good father and loving husband, who admitted that he did not always understand his wife, was unreservedly glad that Hunter Cowgill no longer haunted his life.

“How did you get on with the new vicar?” Derek said, as his wife came into the kitchen. Following the long interregnum, when they’d had a different preacher each week, a middle-aged single man had finally been appointed. He had moved to the cramped, modern vicarage and raised his hands in horror at the idea of fitting all his books and papers into such a small space. An efficient system was what was needed, and Lois had approached swiftly with details of New Brooms’ excellent service. This afternoon she had clinched the contract.

“A doddle,” she said now, sitting down at the tea table to be served by Gran, her long-suffering mother, who had lived with them for some years and was an invaluable
fixture. “He’s a real innocent. First parish of his own. God knows what mincemeat those church people will make of him.”

“Well, he’s come late to the cloth, apparently,” said Gran, “so I expect he’ll be keen. Anyway, the PCC chose him, so they must know what they’re getting.” Gran was the only churchgoing member of the family, and reckoned she spoke with authority. She’d been invited to join the Parochial Church Council, but told Lois they were in her view a collection of the least Christian members of the community. “Holier-than-thou lot o’ nobs, mostly,” she said.

“I came back through the churchyard,” Lois continued, “and got caught by old Cyril. He spun me a long tale about some woman in the old days who poisoned her husband, and then stole his heart. There’s this grim gravestone he showed me. Never noticed it before, have you, Mum?”

Gran shook her head. “He’s an old liar, anyway,” she said comfortably. “Still, what’s the story?”

“Mellish, their name was. She was after his money, Cyril reckons. Bad luck for her he didn’t have none. So she stole his heart. Anyway, she got caught, and they roasted her on a bonfire like a witch. Nice little story for a summer’s day …”

Derek was not fooled. “Caught your fancy, didn’t it, me duck,” he said with a smile. “Lucky for us it happened so long ago, else you’d have been off on the trail, hand in hand with Hunter the cop, bringin’ the woman to justice.”

Lois sighed. “Not me,” she said sadly. “Haven’t heard from Cowgill for years, have I?”

“You were sharp with him once too often, Lois,” said Gran. “And a good thing too. We’ve been a much happier family without all that malarkey. Now, eat up, and I’ll get the sweet.”

Derek looked at his lovely wife. Dark hair that shone like deep water in the sun. Beautiful long legs. They had
attracted him straightaway when he’d spotted her working in Woolworths, a rebellious school-leaver, and attracted him still, thank God. She don’t look a day over twenty-five, he thought fondly. Nobody’d think she had a daughter of twenty, and nearly grown-up sons. Jamie, the youngest, had finished his A-levels, and would be off to college soon, and then there’d be just the three of them, he realized, him and Lois and Gran. Still, Douglas from university, and Josie from her shared flat in Tresham, still kept in touch, and Lois and he were the first to hear if they had worries.

He looked at Lois’s long face, and said lightly, “Never mind, me duck, somebody local’s bound to get bumped off sooner or later, and then you’ll be happy.”

In due course, he had reason to wish he’d not tempted Fate.

L
ONG
F
ARNDEN WAS NAMED FOR ITS ONE LONG
,
NAR-
row street with old stone houses either side. More mellow in colour than the neighbouring Cotswolds, the houses shone dark gold in the evening sun, and Gran walked slowly down the road towards the church, counting her blessings. If she and Lois hadn’t agreed, she could still be living in an old folks’ bungalow on a rundown housing estate in Tresham. She was early for choir practice, and stopped to look back down the street. Maybe someone else would be on the way. She didn’t want to be first.

“Evenin’, missus,” said a cracked voice from behind an unruly hedge.

“Ah, Cyril, how are you?” said Gran, looking at her watch. Early or not, she didn’t have time for a garrulous old man.

“All the better for seein’ you, Mrs. Weedon,” grinned Cyril, emerging into sight. He looked at the trim figure in front of him, and wished he had somebody like that in the house behind him, cleaning up, maybe, and doing some
home cooking. He sighed. “Off to choir singing?” he asked.

Gran nodded. She supposed he wasn’t such a bad old bloke. “The new vicar’s coming along,” she said. “Got an announcement to make, he said. We’re all a bit worried. The old parson used to let us get on with it.”

“That Gladys still taking practices?” said Cyril, stepping forward in an attempt to prevent Gran from moving on. “She were the reason vicars don’t stay long in Farnden, if y’ask me.”

“She’s threatening to resign,” Gran said with a smile. “Been doing the job for thirty years, she says. Reckon she don’t take to the new chap. Still, from what I hear, did she ever?” Gran neatly side-stepped the old man, and carried on her way.

When she walked into the church and up to the choir stalls, she could see trouble was afoot. The half-dozen who formed the choir were in a huddle, whispering. When they saw her, they broke apart and drew her in.

“She’s given up,” they said.

“Thought she would,” said Gran, unsurprised. “Been in charge too long. It’ll be better for the new man. Easier than tryin’ to please old Gladys.”

The others had been surprised. They had all been prepared to defend Gladys and her right to hold the post of organist and choirmistress unchallenged. For as long as they could remember, Gladys had sat at the organ and played very slowly the most mournful hymns she could find. Easter was her favourite time—that is, the part of Easter before the joyfulness of the resurrection. Good Friday brought an extra enthusiasm to her playing of “Throned upon the awful Tree, King of grief, I watch with thee.”

Now she had upstaged them all by pinning a brief note to the old wooden music stand in the vestry. “
I hereby resign
,” it announced formally.
“You’ll find somebody else, no doubt, and I wish them joy of it. Gladys Mary Smith.”

Gran read the note and put her membership of the choir in jeopardy by laughing heartily. “Good old Gladys,” she said. “Still, she’s right. We’ll find somebody else, I’m sure. What about you, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones?”

Thin-faced, aquiline-nosed Mrs. T-J, as she was universally known, shook her head modestly. “Well, actually, I’m much too busy,” she said. “Though, of course, should it be absolutely …” Her voice tailed away as she waited for someone to insist, but their attention was diverted by quick footsteps coming up the flagstones of the church path.

“Good evening, everyone!” The tall, rangy figure of the new vicar strode into the chancel and approached the group.

“Good evening, Vicar,” said Mrs. T-J, taking the lead as always. “You are very welcome to our little group. We have not started our practice, since this note has rather taken us by surprise.” She handed him Gladys’s resignation, and all eyes watched for his reaction.

“Ah, what a pity,” he said. “But extraordinarily enough,” he continued with a bright smile that hardly seemed appropriate, “I have this very morning heard from the son of an old friend. My godson. The young man is moving to our village, intending to commute into Tresham, where he will be working as an estate agent. But his hobby is music, and he is a trained singer. Now, isn’t that a wonderful coincidence?”

Six blank faces stared at him. Then Gran spoke. “You mean he might take us on?” she said. “Always supposing he’s a churchy person.”

“Oh, yes, certainly one of us,” said the vicar. “I believe he will be a terrific asset. New broom, and all that!”

“We got one of those already,” said Gran. “My daughter runs a cleaning—”

“Of course!” interrupted the vicar. “She kindly came to see me. Charming person. Most helpful. Well, there you
are then, that confirms it. Clearly God meant us to have young Sandy among us.”

Vicars have a direct line, of course, said Gran to herself. Ah well, should bring a bit of spice to choir practices, and God knows they’d been dreary enough before.

“By the way, Vicar,” she said. “What
is
your proper name? I’ve heard Robertson, Robinson, Roberson …?”

“Brian Oswald Rollinson,” said the vicar. “But we can forget the Oswald! We’ll all get to know each other so well that surnames won’t matter. And yours is …?” he asked Gran, smiling disarmingly at her.

“Mrs. Weedon,” said Gran firmly, with not a sniff of a Christian name. “Now, we’d better get on with the hymns. We’ve all got homes to go to and work to do. Nice to meet you, Reverend Rollinson,” she added politely, and the discomfited man retreated, feeling he had not handled his first foray into church duties all that well.

Mrs. T-J stepped forward and said that under the circumstances, for one practice only, she should perhaps take charge.

B
Y
M
ONDAY
,
WHEN
L
OIS HAD HER WEEKLY MIDDAY
meeting with the cleaning team, gossip had spread the news that Gladys had been supplanted by a young music teacher, new to the village, friend of the new vicar, with new plans for the choir. “New” had become a dirty word by the time Sheila and Bridie, Hazel, Enid and Bill assembled in Lois’s office for their meeting.

“He’ll be lucky to have any choir left, with all his new ideas,” said Hazel with a grin. “All them old tabs’ll be off like a shot.”

Hazel, daughter of Bridie Reading, pregnant and married to a young farmer, lived in a farm cottage on the Tollervey-Jones estate. Up the road, in Cathanger Mill, Enid Abraham lived alone, coming to terms with a period of relentless family tragedy. Enid had worked hard to smarten up the old mill house, now a listed building, and happily took in bed and breakfast visitors who appreciated the tranquillity of the shady spot, with the old mill wheel and Enid’s chickens clucking about in the yard.

Neither Hazel nor Enid had any real need to work for New Brooms, but the team had cemented over the years into a tight little group. There had been initial doubts about their one male cleaner. “That Bill Stockbridge won’t last for more than six months, him being a farmer’s son from Yorkshire,” Gran had said when Bill joined the team. But he had proved her wrong. Now he divided his time between cleaning for Lois, and helping out at Charrington’s veterinary practice, where his gentle hands and quiet manner were as useful calving cows as when dusting delicate porcelain in the Tollervey-Joneses’ drawing room.

“OK, Mum,” said Lois, coming into her office, where Gran had been enjoying a good chewing over the Gladys affair with Bridie and Sheila. Sheila Stratford was one of the original members of the team. Solidly rooted in the area by generations of forebears, she thrived on the circulation of local news. She knew Gladys, of course, and could not conceal her delight that the old bag had had something of a come-uppance at last. “She’s bin in the job far too long,” she said. “I know people who’d rather worship in Waltonby than put up with her dirges on the organ,” she pronounced.

“Right, Mum,” repeated Lois, sitting down at her desk. “Did you get that message for you to ring Oxfam in Tresham? I expect they want you to do extra hours. Better go and ring them.”

“I’m going,” said Gran. “And I was anyway, seeing as you’re here now to start the meeting.” There was more than a suggestion of flounce as she left the room.

“Morning, everybody,” Lois said, looking round at expectant faces. “Now, this new vicar.” They brightened. “No, I don’t want any more gossip about Gladys, or new young choir blokes. Just the cleaning schedules, if you don’t mind. I went to see the vicar, and we’ve agreed one afternoon a week.”

“I’ve got Wednesday afternoons free, now Mrs. Brown’s
gone from Fletching,” said Hazel. She didn’t really fancy the new vicar job for itself, but it could be interesting with all the ructions there were bound to be in the village.