Liz looked him straight in the eye. And waited. If she’d been furtive he would have guessed. But she’d been open and honest. Well, not entirely honest but almost.
That still wasn’t enough for Neville. ‘What did you talk about?’
‘Not much. He isn’t a very talkative person, goes in for long silences.’
‘Nice chap, though.’ Neville smiled the smile that never reached his eyes.
‘Yes, he is. Interesting, too.’
‘Ready for bed?’
Liz felt a chill descend upon her. ‘Yes. I’ll clear up.’
‘No, you go upstairs. I’ll do this.’ He rather imagined that was something Peter would say and congratulated himself, then added ‘loving contact’ by patting her shoulder before collecting their cups together.
Liz raced up the stairs, thrown off course by his behaviour. She hoped to God that was as far as he wanted to go tonight.
And mercifully it was. In their supersize bed they could lie without touching and always did, except tonight he got into bed and cuddled close to her, putting his arm around her waist.
‘Goodnight, Liz. Sweet dreams.’ He kissed the back of her neck and sighed contentedly. Neville thought for a moment how Peter would say goodnight to Caroline and added, ‘God bless,’ then made as though to go to sleep.
But Liz couldn’t go to sleep with his arm around her and, while she waited for him to fall asleep, she lay puzzling as to why he was behaving so oddly. It was almost as though he’d been having lessons from . . . not
Peter
. Please, surely not, but it sounded like the kind of thing he would say before he slept. She groaned in horror. She was so angry with Neville that she gave a sharp backward kick with her heel on his shin, and he jerked into consciousness.
‘What’s the matter? Are you all right?’
‘I am, but you’re not. Have you been to see a marriage counsellor or something? You’re not behaving right. God bless indeed.’
Neville was at a loss as to how to reply. He’d no ammunition for dealing with this kind of emotional talk, he’d always avoided it at all costs. ‘Er . . . er.’
Liz sat up in bed and turned on the light. ‘Well, it’s disconcerting for me. I’m not used to you behaving like this. They’re not your own words.’
He hadn’t moved at all, either to deny it, or to repair the damage. He simply lay there flummoxed.
‘You suspect me of double-dealing with Titus, don’t you? You imagine we’re having an affair, don’t you? Well, you
deserve
it, let me tell you. I could almost say I have a
right
to have an affair, due to your neglect of me, your lack of interest in me and my life . . .’
‘I bought you that necklace and, believe me, it cost thousands. Doesn’t that demonstrate how much I care?’
‘Frankly, no.’
‘What does then?’ Neville recollected Harriet’s advice, and wished he’d never asked.
‘If things have got so bad that you think a necklace will make years of being ignored all right then it’s all far too late. It dawned on me today that I have never been truly loved by anyone all my adult life, and that’s heart-breaking. I thought you loved me when we got married but looking back on it I think it was a complete sham, that love of yours, and I was too young and inexperienced to know. Mother asked me once if I was happy, just after Guy was born, and I said yes. I absolutely meant it. But I’m not happy now.’ She switched off the light and lay down again on the very edge of the bed, turned away from him, just not caring any more about his feelings or their marriage. ‘Another thing - you’ve never discussed what Hugh and Guy said last weekend, which is typical of you not talking openly about vital matters.’
Neville wanted to crawl away. He pretended ignorance. ‘Vital matters? What vital matters?’
‘You know what I mean, that the boys told you they want to get out of the business for good because they don’t wish to be involved with your underhand antics.’
Neville cringed. He hadn’t discussed it with her because he couldn’t cope with it. The public humiliation was more than he could bear. His own two sons wanting out from the business he’d built up for them. Everyone would know, and he was having to wait until he’d framed a plausible reason for it.
‘Who told you?’
‘They did, of course. I’m sorry it’s happened, but it’s your own fault, Neville.’
For Neville this was worse than thinking about Titus with Liz. Much worse. Where had he gone wrong? Where had everything gone wrong? His whole life was askew.
He got up and padded slipperless into the en suite, so full of pain and anxiety he didn’t even feel the chill of the tiled floor. What was the matter with him? He didn’t
do
emotional pain. No one but a woman or a soft idiot of a man felt emotional pain. Now, physical pain he understood. Like when he shut his fingers in the car door and had to go to A&E because he’d broken two of them and his hand had swollen to twice its size, or the time he fell down some steps and grazed his knee, leaving it without any skin on at all. With the door shut he sat down on the bathroom stool and wept small, tight tears, which trickled thinly down his cheeks.
Liz waited for his return, half-intending to get up to see if he was all right, because she had felt cruel the way she’d told him she knew about the boys, but by mistake she fell asleep after about an hour.
Neville eventually crept back to bed, but he didn’t sleep all night.
Chapter 8
First thing on Monday morning, Sergeant John MacArthur took himself off to Culworth intent on visiting a couple of the more dodgy members of society who might have heard about Grandmama’s snuff boxes. He felt motivated on her behalf because he admired elderly ladies who were brisk and up with it and didn’t care what people thought about them.
On the surface it seemed unlikely that he would be successful. Culworth was a pleasant country town, dominated by the Abbey and its genteel occupations, and the thought that there might be an undercurrent of criminal activity was furthest from the resident’s minds. But Mac knew different. They’d a thriving drug culture, for a start, and, just as active, a thieving element which kept Culworth police busy. Not international crime but definitely crime.
His first call was to a shady jewellery shop down by the river where the old docks used to be. The dock basin was now occupied by narrowboats and wedding cake cabin cruisers.
‘Morning!’ Mac shouted as soon as he opened the door. He got no reply so he went round the counter and into the back. On the floor by the back door was Jackie Worsley, crouched in an odd foetal position, still in his pyjamas.
‘Jackie! Jackie! Come on, son. Come on, then.’ He rolled him gently onto his back and saw the huge patch of bruising and severe swelling down the side of his face and his head. His breathing was shallow. Testing the pulse in his neck, the Sergeant, to his relief, found him to be still alive.
Mac dialled 999 and called for an ambulance. Then he rang for forensics and a team to investigate. By the time they’d arrived and he’d left them in charge it was ten o’clock and time for his morning coffee, but he decided first to call to see Mervyn at the old pawn shop next door just in case he’d seen something, or even received the same treatment.
But Mervyn was putting new items in his window display when Mac arrived. He was all right, then.
‘Good morning, Mervyn. How’s things?’
Mervyn’s long nose required blowing before he answered. ‘What you here for?’
‘To see if you’re all right.’
‘Me? All right? Since when have you been concerned about my health?’ He turned to look at Mac.
Mac smiled. Mervyn wasn’t such a bad old chap, more sinned against than sinning, and he was a knowledgeable man to have on side. ‘Since I found Jackie Worsley two hours ago, unconscious in the back of his shop.’
Mervyn kept a perfectly straight face and said sympathetically, ‘Poor old Jackie. I thought he didn’t seem so good last time I saw him. Hospital job?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s been attacked. Unconscious, he is. Cracked skull, I wouldn’t wonder.’
Mervyn shuddered. ‘Serious, then.’
‘Yes, Mervyn, serious. Any bits of news for me?’
‘How can I have news for you when I never leave the shop?’ Mac tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘You do. I’ve seen you. Still, I’m here to warn you to take care. Someone’s being a naughty boy.’
Mervyn moved from the back of the window, pulled the curtain across and returned to behind the counter. Attempting to sound disinterested, he asked, ‘Been some nicking going on?’
Mac nodded. Then he delved inside his jacket and pulled out Grandmama’s photographs.
Mervyn almost salivated when he saw the snuff boxes. He studied the photos with greedy eyes, then studied them again and licked his lips. ‘These are wonderful. Never had stuff this quality in my shop. They’re not from the Rectory at Turnham Malpas, are they? If they are . . . she’s a lovely lady, is the Rector’s wife.’
‘No. They belong to an old lady who doesn’t deserve being robbed. A feisty old lady I’ve lots of time for. If you don’t watch out she’ll be in here doing her own detective work, she’s that kind of person. If she does come in, watch your step. She’s just as likely to fetch you one with her handbag as she is to buy the best gold necklace you’ve ever had in your shop.’
‘Like that, is she?’ Mervyn smiled, and it made his eyes sparkle. ‘I like old ladies like that. These snuff boxes, how long have they been missing?’
‘Since Thursday last week.’
‘That job at that new market in Turnham Malpas?’
‘That’s right.’ Seeing as there hadn’t been time for it to be in the local paper, best not to ask how he knew, thought Mac. ‘There’s jewellery from the pub, too. They were so busy downstairs they never heard the burglars upstairs riffling through their belongings. Look, there’s a couple of pictures, but not very clear.’ He gave Mervyn one photograph of Georgie wearing a bracelet and another of her wearing a ring, which showed up fairly well on her hand.
Mervyn handed Georgie’s photos back to Mac. ‘Might be able to help with these silver boxes. No promises, mind. The other stuff, can’t help at all. Leave it with me for a day or two. I don’t do it to help the police, you know, and don’t you think I do. I just can’t bear for beautiful stuff like this to be bandied about all over the place and end up going for a song to someone who doesn’t appreciate ’em. Not right.’
Then he swished wide the curtain which separated the shop from his living quarters, went behind it and dragged the curtain across the gap.
Mac quickly stepped back, knowing from experience that a cloud of dust would fly round as the curtain swirled shut. He picked up the photos, placed them carefully in their envelope and put them back inside his jacket, remembering to leave his mobile number on a piece of card on the counter.
As a courtesy to the two legitimate jewellers in Culworth, Mac called on each of them on his way back to his car in the station car park, warned them about Jackie Worsley and collected two coffees for his trouble.
Before he got into his car Mac went inside the police station to look up some regular ‘customers’ whose fingerprints and records he could examine on their computer. He discovered that two possible suspects were in jail, and a third had left the district. So maybe the burglaries were just opportunists, as he had first suspected. Regulars wouldn’t leave three sets of fingerprints around Mrs Charter-Plackett’s house, now would they?
The feisty old lady so admired by Mac was at that moment stepping from a taxi in Culworth market square.
‘Thank you, my man. There’s a tip, too.’
She’d have coffee first to revive her and then on with her crusade.
She chose the Abbey coffee shop, as it was just about the most elegant place for coffee apart from the George, which Grandmama resented because of the prices they charged. She refused to patronize the George, unless Jimbo was paying.
Grandmama decided to sit in an armchair in front of a large coffee table. On the other side was a long, rich red sofa occupied by two peroxided women who ought to have known to dress better than they did. Grandmama tested her caffe latte, and approved.