Evil Angels Among Them (29 page)

Lucy nodded tersely, unwilling to discuss Becca's distress with the font of village gossip. ‘Yes, I know.'

‘Did you just find out, along with the rest of us, or did she tell you before?' Fred questioned her. ‘Since you're friends, I mean.'

‘I've known for . . . a while,' Lucy admitted.

Fred wasn't going to let this source of first-hand information escape unpumped. ‘How is Becca taking it all? Is she very upset?'

‘Becca is understandably . . . distressed,' Lucy said in a repressive voice.

‘Poor little scrap,' pronounced Fred with relish and a totally inappropriate chuckle. ‘Did she tell you what he said?'

To Lucy's relief, Marjorie intervened. ‘I don't think we really want to know that, Fred,' she stated. ‘All I know is that he'd better not try it with
me
. I'd give that nasty pervert something to think about.'

Fred raised his eyebrows and chuckled again. ‘I'll bet you would, Marjorie.' He tried to catch Lucy's eye, but she resolutely avoided it, going to the back of the shop to scan the shelves for possible ingredients for supper.

By the time she got back to the Rectory, David had returned with the car. ‘How do you fancy a shopping trip?' she greeted him. ‘The village shop was a dead loss, though I can't say that I ever had much hope of finding decent bread or even good fresh veg there, let alone some of the exotic ingredients I've got in mind: pine nuts, artichoke hearts or fresh coriander.'

‘Hardly a good bet,' David agreed. ‘What, pray tell, are we having tonight, then?'

‘Carrot and coriander soup, followed by pasta with pine nuts and artichoke hearts with salad and French bread, and tiramisu for pud.'

‘I don't think that in my wildest imaginings I would expect Fred Purdy to carry mascarpone cheese,' David laughed. ‘Even olive oil would be pushing your luck.'

‘No: just a fund of nasty gossip,' Lucy said soberly. ‘That seems to be Fred Purdy's main stock.'

They drove to Upper Walston, a thriving market town which far eclipsed its neighbouring village; it boasted a prosperous middle-class population, a well-stocked town centre and even a brand new out-of-town supermarket. After the paucity in the Walston village shop, Lucy enjoyed pushing a trolley up and down the aisles of Tesco and loading it up with goodies the likes of which Fred Purdy had probably never even heard of. The French bread was still warm, and there was coriander growing in little pots and packets of fresh pasta. ‘Quorn,' Lucy pointed out with satisfaction. ‘If you asked Fred for Quorn, he'd probably bring out a stack of tatty old naughty magazines from under the counter.'

‘Well-thumbed,' David agreed.

While they shopped, they discussed the events of the day. ‘Did you learn anything from Sergeant Spring?' Lucy wanted to know. ‘Anything useful, that is?'

‘I found out the one thing I was fishing for,' he said with satisfaction. ‘The police haven't made the possible connection between the phone calls and the murder. That is to say, John Spring hasn't made the connection,' he amended. ‘He's assuming that they're dealing with two separate people.'

‘So let me get this straight.' Lucy paused by the cheese counter, her mind not registering what she was looking at. ‘We're still assuming that the phone caller is also the murderer.'

‘That hypothesis still makes sense.'

‘But you don't think that Quentin Mansfield is the phone caller.'

‘No.' David picked up a large wedge of Stilton and tossed it into the trolley. ‘Even if his wife were lying, which I don't think she is, Spring tells me there's another witness who's provided independent confirmation that he wasn't in the house when the call was made.'

‘Who?' Lucy demanded.

‘The housekeeper. Or daily, I think he said. Anyway, she's confirmed it.'

‘Then he's definitely in the clear. Which means he's not the murderer either. But it doesn't make sense . . .'

‘Slow down a minute, love,' David interrupted, adding, ‘Let's go and get some wine.' As he pushed the trolley towards the wine aisle, he went on, ‘I really think we ought to go back to London tomorrow. There's nothing more we can do here.'

‘Nothing we can do?' Lucy echoed indignantly. ‘The thing is, darling, I just don't see how on earth the police are ever going to catch him now. I told you that Spring would manage to throw a spanner in the works somehow, and I was right.'

‘How do you reckon that one?'

‘Well, thanks to Spring's bungling, and Fred Purdy the town crier spreading the news, now everyone in the village knows about the calls and knows that the police have a tap on the Rectory line. No one in their right mind would make another call now.'

David stopped the trolley and scanned the shelves of wine. ‘Claret, do you think?' he asked. ‘Or something Italian? Maybe white would be better – Frascati, perhaps.'

‘Oh, you're infuriating,' Lucy snapped. ‘Aren't you listening to me? The police have blown their only chance to catch the obscene caller, and perhaps their best chance to catch the murderer!'

He turned and gave her his full attention. ‘Which is why I'm saying, love, that it's time for us to go home.'

‘But that's exactly why we need to stay!' she insisted. ‘For Becca's sake, if nothing else. She's put herself through a great deal so that the horrible pervert can be caught. Are we going to tell her now that it's all for nothing? That they'll never catch him now, but she shouldn't worry because he won't be bothering her any more? How do you think she'll feel, living in the village when it's never been cleared up?'

‘Calm down, Lucy love.' He put a hand on her arm. ‘I can see that it means a lot to you. If it means that much . . .'

Lucy took a deep breath. ‘Oh, it does. To me, and to Becca.'

‘Then we'll stay. But I still don't know what we can do.'

She pushed the trolley along a little further, to the shelves of champagne. ‘I know what I'm going to do first,' she told him with a small smile. ‘I'm going to talk to Diana Mansfield's daily. Tomorrow. Because if Quentin Mansfield wasn't in the house to make that phone call, some other man was, and she's the one who will tell me who it was.' She plucked the most expensive bottle of champagne from the shelf and settled it in the trolley with a gesture of confident triumph. ‘And this is what we'll drink to celebrate when we've solved it.'

David shook his head, but his bemused look held admiration. ‘I hate to admit it, love,' he said, ‘but you just might be on to something.'

CHAPTER 22

    
Thou hast set our misdeeds before thee: and our secret sins in the light of thy countenance.

Psalm 90.8

As she traversed the footpath between the church and Walston Hall the next morning, Lucy pondered what she might say to Diana Mansfield. David had pointed out, with some justification, that Diana was scarcely likely to welcome a visit from Lucy with the avowed purpose of questioning her daily, especially when it was a matter of checking up on Diana's story. She would just have to think of something plausible when the time came.

But Lucy was in luck: it was not the mistress of Walston Hall who opened the door to her, but a young woman – little more than a girl, really – in a pinny, with a strangely familiar round face under a corona of golden curls. As the young woman spoke, Lucy tried to think where she might have encountered her before, but couldn't place her. ‘I'm sorry,' she said in a voice that bespoke her Walston roots, ‘but if you're wanting Mrs Mansfield, she's not here right now.'

‘Actually,' Lucy replied with a dazzling smile, ‘it was you I wanted to see. If you're not too busy, that is. I won't take up much of your time, but I'd really appreciate the chance of a few words.'

‘Me?' The young woman stared at her, baffled. She was wary as well; usually people who wanted to see her were interested in selling something. Curiosity got the better of her; she looked at her watch. ‘Actually, I was about to make myself a cup of coffee. Elevenses. Do you want to join me?'

‘Very kind,' Lucy murmured, following her through the house to a part she hadn't seen before: the servants' quarters. In its time, during the glory days of the Lovelidge family, the house must have been run by an army of servants, and the size of the servants' hall reflected this. Lucy had a brief, fanciful vision of the room as it must have been a hundred years ago: a beehive of frantic activity, with fresh-faced housemaids in black dresses and frilly white caps scurrying about, and uniformed footmen going about their business, all under the watchful eyes of the much-feared cook and the stern-but-fair butler. Now, though, there was only this one woman in a pinny, her lone coffee mug dwarfed by the vast deal table on which it sat, her footsteps echoing in the enormous room.

‘Big, innit?' the woman said cheerfully, switching on the electric kettle. ‘And there's masses more rooms, for when the servants used to live in.'

‘You don't live in, then?' Lucy asked, though she knew the answer.

‘Not me,' she confirmed, shaking her head. ‘I've got my little girl to look after. Jessica. I just come in for a few hours a day while she's at school.'

The woman scarcely looked old enough to have a daughter at all, Lucy thought, let alone one of school age, though her figure was mature, wide-hipped and large-breasted under her pinny.

Spooning instant-coffee granules into a spare mug, the daily asked, ‘Do you take milk, then, Mrs – Miss . . .' Her voice tailed off as she looked enquiringly at Lucy's bare ring finger.

‘Oh, I'm so sorry, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Lucy Kingsley. Miss, if it makes any difference,' she added with a smile. ‘But please call me Lucy.'

The woman nodded. ‘I knew who you were, of course – everyone in Walston does by now. I just wasn't sure if you were a Mrs or a Miss. And my name is Sally Purdy, if you didn't know.'

‘Sally Purdy!' Lucy tried to keep the surprise out of her voice. ‘Then you must be related to Fred Purdy. His daughter-in-law?' she hazarded.

‘Daughter,' Sally grinned. ‘I'm not married either.'

Lucy realised, then, why the woman looked so familiar: her round face strongly resembled that of her father. Fortunately for her, though, on her it looked much more attractive, and somehow she managed to escape looking like a garden gnome, or even the daughter of one.

While they sipped the hot coffee, Sally filled her in on her story; she proved to be a voluble talker who appreciated a good audience. ‘I like this job,' she said. ‘It gives me some independence, gets me out of the shop. I live with Dad, up above the shop, me and Jessica. Always have done. When Jessica was only little, I couldn't get out much. I helped Dad out in the shop a bit, of course, and Mum looked after Jessica. I still help him, when I can – so he can get out and make his deliveries. Doesn't have as many of those as he used to, of course, now that people have cars.'

‘What about your mother?' Lucy asked. ‘I don't think I've ever seen her – does she help in the shop as well?'

A shadow fell over Sally's face. ‘Not any more. She used to, of course. For years and years. But Mum is sick now – cancer. She's in a hospice. They don't reckon she'll last much longer.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry.' Lucy's quick sympathy was genuine; she had lost her own mother when she was still in her teens. ‘That must be rough for you and your father.'

Sally blinked back tears. ‘Oh, Dad's coping all right. At least he says so. But it's been going on for quite a while now. Sometimes I think it would be easier if she would just die. It's a terrible thing to say, but . . .'

‘I understand.' Lucy patted her arm awkwardly, establishing a bond between them. ‘But losing a mother is never easy.'

‘I worry about Dad,' she admitted. ‘It takes so much of his time, running back and forth to the hospice, and he's still got to keep the shop going.' She frowned. ‘And there's that bloody church, of course. He's not willing to give up any of that churchwarden nonsense, and he's used to spending hours and hours doing anything that no one else wants to do. To hear him talk, the Rector can't even find his way to the loo without asking Dad to show him the way – he relies on Dad for everything.'

Lucy welcomed the change of subject. ‘You don't go to church, then?'

‘Not bloody likely!' Sally snorted derisively. ‘I used to, of course. Every Sunday, all my life. But then I had Jessica. And you would have thought I was the biggest sinner who ever lived, a real slut, instead of just a girl who made a mistake. Doris Wrightman, and Enid Bletsoe, and the bloody Mothers' Union – you would have thought they would have liked to have a young mum around, to add a bit of life. You would have thought they could have given me a bit of help.'

‘But they didn't?'

‘No chance!' Her voice was bitter. ‘Enid Bletsoe told my mum that she should be ashamed, letting her daughter go off and get herself in the club like that. She told her that she was a bad mother.
My mum –
the best mum there ever was, and still is! And after that my mum got sick, and do you think those old cows ever lifted a finger to help her, or to help me and Dad and Jessica?'

Lucy shook her head.

‘Too bloody right they didn't! Not then, and not to this day. They don't ever visit her in the hospice, and they don't even talk about her any more – it's as if she's already dead. And they don't do a bloody thing for Dad – they say it's up to me to look after him. After he stood by me in my disgrace – that's what that Enid Bletsoe told me. If that's what the church is all about, I don't want any part of it.' Sally took several deep breaths and made an effort to collect herself. ‘Sorry,' she said in a less heated voice. ‘That's not what you came for – to hear me let off steam about the church.' She glanced at her watch, signalling the passage of time, then looked up at Lucy. ‘What did you want to talk to me about exactly?'