Tragedy at Two (6 page)

“What last time?” Josie said. She looked around the room as if she hadn’t seen it before, and began to hunt around in her bag.

“Have you lost something?” Hazel asked quietly. She could see that Josie was still in a daze. Probably on tranquillizers or something, she thought.

“Here, Hazel. Have a look at this. I’ve not shown it to anyone, least of all Mum. Just between us, huh?” She handed Hazel a crumpled piece of paper and Hazel smoothed it out. She peered at the scrawled message. There were dirty splotches on the paper, and the pencil had clearly been blunt.

“Read it out,” said Josie, staring at Hazel’s face.

“‘Them dids got yore Rob. A well wisher.’” Hazel held the paper by one corner and dropped it in her wastepaper basket. “That’s the best thing to do with that,” she said, thinking privately that she would show it to John. That should convince him.

Josie got up and fished the paper out again. “I don’t think so, Hazel,” she said. “This may be mischief-m aking, but on the other hand it may not. I know most of the village want to see the back of the gypsies, and they may be right. Mum knows a bit more about them than she’s telling, so I’m not showing her this. God knows, they might be dangerous, and she’s a great one for rushing in where cops fear to tread.”

“So what use is this? Might just as well chuck it. The last thing we need in Farnden is a lynch mob storming the encampment.” Or our fie lds, she added to herself.

But Josie stuffed it back into her bag, and changed the subject. “How’s Andrew Young getting on with his interior décor? Many takers for his skills? He’s a nice bloke, Mum reckons.”

Hazel replied that he was doing well, and customers seemed to be very satisfied. She wondered how she could return to the subject of Rob and his possible violent streak. How on earth
could
you ask someone if your lately murdered partner had ever beaten you up?

“I expect Mum and Dad will be looking around for a suitable substitute for Rob,” Josie said flatly.

“Josie!” Hazel was shocked. “Of course they won’t. They would never be so insensitive. And anyway, Mrs. M doesn’t interfere in people’s private lives. Unless it affects the business of course. Whatever made you say that?”

“If they won’t, Gran will,” Josie said, and this time Hazel was relieved to see the trace of a smile. “Maybe she’ll match me up with Andrew Young. Good for business, that would be. Shop and New Brooms all under Meade management. That should please Mum. She is a bit of a control freak, you know.”

Hazel was incensed. She knew it was really none of her business, but she launched into a great defence of Lois. “And as for interfering, did she ever mention to you what the rest of the village suspected? That the customer was more than right when he happened to be a young and handsome police sergeant?” She could have bitten her tongue out, but it was too late. And in the end it was the answer to her difficult problem. Stung into a tearful outburst, Josie stood up and yelled at Hazel.

“Mind your own bloody business, Hazel Thornbull! I expect it was you and your village chums who made sure Rob knew about my so-called secret assignations with Matthew Vickers down in the old cottage! God, nothing’s private in Farnden! If you and the gossips hadn’t been so busy, Rob might be alive today!”

Hazel watched as Josie flung out of the office, scattering papers and leaflets in all directions. Well done, she told herself, what a splendid friend and listening ear I turned out to be.

THE PARISH COUNCIL ASSEMBLED IN THE NEWLY RESTORED Reading Room for its monthly meeting. The usual cross section of people, including Derek Meade, were all democratically elected and all were present, except one. Young farmer John Thornbull, husband of Hazel, had sent a message saying he would be late. A cow was in difficulty calving and he’d have to see it safe.

The chairperson, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones, was sympathetic. “I am sure we all understand,” she said. “We shall hope to see John soon. There is an item on the agenda which would be best discussed with him present.”

“Gypsies,” said Sam Stratford gruffly. His father had been a popular parish council candidate for the villagers whose families had lived in Farnden for generations. Sam now lived in Waltonby, where there was no parish council, but a parish meeting, and he was the Waltonby representative in Farnden. It was generally held that he was a good bloke, spoke his mind, and was well endowed with common sense.

“Thank you, Sam,” said Mrs. T-J. “We will have a full and frank discussion on the matter later.”

Minutes were read and agreed. Matters arising included the serious recurring problem of Miss Truelove’s knickers. These were of Directoire design, and periodically vanished from her washing line and were found draped over a thorn bush down the fields. It was a traditional village sport for the kids living nearby, and though everyone knew who the thieves were, no one stopped them.

The only one present at the meeting with a straight face was Mrs. T-J, who promised to pursue the matter personally. And even she hid her face with vigorous nose blowing when Derek said they’d never catch a knicker thief. Too clever by half, he said.

They were nearly at the end of the agenda when John Thornbull arrived, full of apologies. He was welcomed, and sat down next to Derek.

“You can catch up later on what’s been decided so far, John,” Mrs. T-J said, “and now we have the last item to discuss.”

“Gypsies,” repeated Sam Stratford.

“Thank you, Sam,” Mrs. T-J said, in the voice of a nursery school teacher. She gave a brief account of the gypsies’ arrival on Smith’s scrubby piece of ground by the road, said they were camping illegally on grounds of health and safety, but Smith refused to evict them, or even authorise their eviction. It was the duty of the parish council to represent the whole community, and they had to treat this matter as urgent. Many people in the village had complained. Many were connecting their presence with the recent case of violence to a parishioner, namely Rob Wilkins.

She paused and looked at Derek. “I should, of course, have started by expressing our sympathies to your daughter at the cruel loss of her, um, er, partner,” she added. “Perhaps you would convey them to her?”

“Can we get on, Chairman?” said Sam Stratford. He could see that soon there would be no time to get down to the pub before it closed. And he was not leaving until the matter of the gypsies had been dealt with.

“Perhaps you would like to give us your views, then?” replied Mrs. T-J icily.

“Simple,” pronounced Sam. “Evict ’em. Easily done. One of them companies that does it in twenty-f our hours.”

“And who pays?” said Derek. “Old Smith wouldn’t stump up. He likes them being there. I suggest one of us goes to see him. Points out the problems with the village, and the further steps we can take.”

“Such as what?” said Sam.

“Oh, there’s plenty can be done,” chipped in the latest member of the council, an incomer lawyer from the new houses in Blackberry Gardens.

“No need for that,” said Sam. “If nobody’s willin’ to pay, I could get a few together who would do the job for nowt.
And
the dids’d not come back,” he added grimly.

“For God’s sake, Sam,” Derek remonstrated. “You’re talking about vigilantes. We don’t want none of that in Farnden.”

“Exactly, Derek,” Mrs. T-J said magisterially.

“I’d like to volunteer,” Derek continued, “to tackle old Alf Smith.”

“And I’ll come with you,” said Sam enthusiastically. “I reckon I could talk to him straight.”

“Yes, well,” Mrs. T-J said. “Perhaps we should take a vote on it. Anyone else like to volunteer? Two of us may be more than enough.”

“I don’t mind going with Derek,” John Thornbull said. “After all, I’ve got a couple of dids working on my farm.”

“You’ve
what?
” said Sam.

“I’m not sure whether that’s a good idea, John,” Mrs. T-J said. “After all, you are a councillor and we are discussing the possible eviction of the gypsies. It might be as well if you took a backseat for the moment.”

“Rubbish!” said the parish clerk, not in the least overawed by his chairperson, as she insisted on being titled, sitting next to him. “If John went, we might get a balanced view. I vote for him.”

“You don’t have a vote,” said Sam sharply. “You’re not an elected member. So why don’t you pipe down.”

Derek could see the clerk’s colour rising and butted in quickly. “If you agree, the rest of you, I think it’d be best if I went to see Alf on my own. He’s not an easy man, an’ he’d be bound to say he was being intimidated if two of us went.”

“Good solution,” said Mrs. T-J gratefully. “All in favour?”

All put up their hands, except Sam Stratford, who looked firml ya this boots.

After Mrs. T-J had gone back home to Farnden Hall, the others stayed chatting in the reading room. Sam looked around at the fresh paint and the framed portraits of Sir Henry and Lady Villiers, who had given the room to the village.

“My granddad used to play billiards here in the old days,” Sam said. “All the lads played, and you could get a cup of tea for a penny. I remember him sayin’ how they all hated it when the squire insisted on bringing a couple of tinker boys to play with them. They were good, too, Granddad said. No wonder, he said, with all that shootin’ rabbits an’ that. Got their eye in, didn’t they?”

“He was like that, old Sir Henry. A man before his time, I reckon,” John Thornbull said. “Anyway, Sam, tinkers trap rabbits, not shoot them, don’t they? Sir Henry weren’t against a bit of poaching now and then. Plenty for everybody, he used to say to my great-granddad. He was gamekeeper on the estate for years.”

“A lot o’ stupid ideas about lovin’ your neighbour and that rubbish,” Sam snapped. He turned away and called back to Derek, “Buy you a pint, mate?”

“You’re on, boy,” Derek replied, and the two old friends went off silently to the pub.

 

 

ALF SMITH SAT AT THE OPEN DOOR OF ATHALIA LEE’S CARAVAN, contentedly smoking his pipe. He had been there for an hour or so, chatting, or just watching the others as they went about their business. They were used to him, grateful to him for allowing them to camp where their forefathers had stayed for as long as anyone could remember on their way to Appleby horse fair.

“Cup of tea, Alf?” Athalia said, coming to the door. She and Alf Smith had been friends for years, and Alf reckoned he had tinker blood. He remembered his grandmother talking about her mother, who had, before her marriage to a local farmer, travelled about. The men in her mother’s family, grandma had said, were tinsmiths, making big tin cans for carrying all sorts of stuff from place to place. Alf had taken the trouble to learn quite a bit of the Romany language, and was accepted by them as a good friend.

The two sat drinking tea and watching a couple of baby rabbits playing in the undergrowth. “They’ll be ready for the pot when we come back,” Athalia said.

“If they’re still around,” Alf replied. “There’s several in this village fond of rabbit pie.”

“I expect we get blamed,” Athalia said. “And now we’re suspected of murdering an innocent walker in the night, so I hear. Is it safe for us here, Alf? Should we be on the move?”

Alf shook his head. “You’d just look guilty then. Runnin’ away. The police’d be after you in no time. No, best stay here and answer their questions. Not all the village is against you.”

Silence fell again. Then Athalia got to her feet. “Better be goin’, Alf,” she said. “George’s gone to Tresham market, and he’ll be back soon, rarin’ hungry. And thanks for coming,” she added, touching him lightly on the shoulder. “Oh, and by the way, who’s that Missus Meade? Is she . . .?

Alf ’s face darkened. “Why?”

“She came here asking after a dog she nearly ran over. Had a cup of tea. Seemed nice enough.”

“Have a care, Athalia. She’s a snooper. Unpaid, so they say, but works with the cops. Known for it.”

“Oh. Shame. I liked her. Still, thanks Alf. I’ll watch it if she comes here again.”