Theft on Thursday (5 page)

“
Miss
Brown, if you don’t mind,” retorted the alto.

“Yes, well, as I was saying, choir anthems are as old as this church. Nothing new there … as traditional as you could wish. Now, if we could just try that again?”

The jolly, lilting tune was mastered, with the help of Mrs. T-J’s piercing soprano, and they went on to more familiar hymn tunes. The hour went quickly for Rebecca, who had forgotten how much she loved to sing. And in the quiet church, with its wonderful acoustics, even this scratch group of people produced a shivery, good sound. Between hymns, while Sandy searched for an alternative tune in
A & M
, and everyone was quiet, a blackbird suddenly began to sing its liquid, remarkable song outside the open church door. Rebecca felt tears come into her eyes. It was like a blessing, showing the way for this oddly assorted bunch. She looked over at Bill in the basses, but he was looking up at a monument in the chancel. Then Sandy caught her eye, and she felt a flash of understanding between them. He’d heard, and felt, just like she had.

L
ATER
,
WHEN
R
EBECCA AND
B
ILL SAT IN FRONT OF THE
telly, watching the news, Rebecca said, “It was good, wasn’t it? Singing, I mean.”

“Mm, it was OK. Do you think that Sandy’s
a bit of a … well, you know …? Still, best to give him a chance. Means well, I dare say.”

“Bit of a what?” said Rebecca sharply.

“Well, you know …”

Rebecca, who’d received all the right signals from the young choirmaster, shrugged. “Fully paid up,” she said. “No doubt about that.”

Bill did not reply, but switched from gloomy news to a game show that took idiocy to supreme heights. He watched without concentrating, and wondered why he could not shake off an uncomfortable feeling of apprehension.

“Y
OU ARE INVITED TOO
, S
ANDY
,”
SAID
B
RIAN
Rollinson. “Mrs. Tollcrvey-Jones was most particular in mentioning it.”

“Very broad-minded of her, considering,” said Sandy knowingly.

The Rev. Rollinson frowned. “What do you mean?” he said.

“Well, considering I persistently called her Mrs. T-J at choir rehearsal, and her just having told me off for doing so.” He was grinning now, happy at getting one up on Brian.

“I see. Well, don’t rely too much on your undoubted charm, young Sandy,” replied the vicar mildly, turning over sizzling bacon in the pan. “She can be a vicious old bird, so the locals say. And has influence spreading far and wide in the county. Husband was Lord Lieutenant, and all that.”

“Wow!” said Sandy. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

Brian Rollinson sighed. His promise to Sandy’s mother
to see him settled down happily in his new job was going to be difficult to fulfil. She had more or less blackmailed him into giving Sandy a lodging until he could find his own flat. “He’s never lived away from home before,” she’d said, and when Brian had raised his eyebrows, had continued, “and since his father died such a long time ago … well, you know all about that …” Her pause had been pregnant. “… Well, I suppose I’d persuaded him to stay at home to keep me company for a while.”

So Brian had promised, convincing himself that it was a duty for him to do so, and not admitting to himself that the presence of the personable young man in his house was anything more than that. But Sandy was a prickly lodger, quick to take offence. Brian constantly reminded himself to tread carefully, and though in some ways he dreaded the thought of his lively young companion moving out, he knew life would be more peaceful without him.

“I might as well come to the party, anyway,” said Sandy. “Should be good for a laugh, and there’s not much else to do in this godforsaken place.”

“Surbiston was different, was it?” said Brian, losing patience. “A dead-and-alive former steel town, distinguished by its derelict factories and preponderance of drunks on the streets at night? That was your idea of a lively place to live?”

Sandy did not reply. He pushed his chair back from the breakfast table, and stalked out of the room. “What about this bacon?” shouted Brian. Sandy’s reply was fortunately inaudible.

B
ILL HAD DONE A GOOD JOB
. W
HEN
B
RIAN AND
S
ANDY
stepped in through the open front door, the elegant black-and-white tiled entrance hall sparkled. Surfaces had been polished and scrubbed, the spindly legged chairs and
console tables shone silkily under silver salvers and small vases of exquisitely arranged flowers.

“D’you reckon the sturdy Bill did the flowers too?” whispered Sandy to Brian. He had been doing some research on Rebecca, and had discovered that her live-in boyfriend Bill worked for New Brooms. A cleaning boy! Shouldn’t be too difficult to muscle in there, then, he’d thought.

“Of course not,” said Brian crossly. “For goodness sake, behave yourself, Sandy. This party has been very kindly organized for me to meet local people. Please do not let me down.”

Sandy laughed. “Don’t worry, dearie,” he said, and, leaving Brian to a group of equestrian women who bore a remarkable resemblance to their mounts, he went off in pursuit of Rebecca.

Halfway across the room, he was waylaid by a small, plain girl in a frilly, unsuitable dress, carrying a tray of glasses that rattled against each other perilously as the tray tipped. “Glass of champagne, Mr … er … Sandy?” It was the squinty girl from the shop, his willing choir dogsbody and very competent organist.

He put out a hand to steady the tray, and said kindly, “Lovely, thanks very much, Sharon.”

“Oh!” she said, blushing again. “You remembered this time!”

“How could I ever forget,” he said smoothly, touching her bare arm. “Now, mind how you go with that precious load! See you, Sharon …” And he was off through the crowded hall towards the seats under the long windows, where he had spotted Rebecca, sitting for a moment on her own.

“Can I get you a drink?” he said, standing smiling in front of her.

She shook her head. “Thanks, no. Bill’s just gone to get
one. I hate champagne, so he’s gone out to the kitchen for water. Knows his way around here, luckily.”

“Ah yes, one of his cleaning jobs?” Sandy managed to convey a certain amount of contempt into the innocent question, and Rebecca was not slow to pick it up.

“It is,” she said shortly. “And his expertise is much appreciated. And, as it happens, he’ll be off shortly to calve a cow up at the farm. Ever helped a cow deliver her calf, Sandy? No? Well, I thought not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better go and see where he is.”

Sandy smiled sadly. Oops! he said to himself. Cocked up that one. Never mind, there’ll be lots of other chances. He gave himself a little shake, and moved away to survey other possible talent.

Brian, meanwhile, was getting along splendidly. He towered over most of the guests, and as he bent his head down to listen to tales of county intrigue and village scandal, the general impression whispered from group to group was that they’d got a good man. A good man at last. One who would listen to them, and appreciate how things had always been done. A good man, who would recognize those who had influence and power, and conduct the business of God’s elect accordingly. A very pleasant atmosphere prevailed over the party, and when they began to drift away, effusive in their thanks to Mrs. Tollervey-Jones, the good folk of the parishes felt satisfied and looked forward to a period of calm and uncontroversial churchgoing.

I
N THE CHURCHYARD
,
WATCHING THE BIG CARS LEAVING
Farnden Hall and winding their way through darkening lanes, old Cyril sat on the rickety wooden seat by the line of yew trees and chuckled. Poor chap! Full o’new ideas, no doubt. But they’d soon drum ‘em out of ‘im. Mrs. T-J and ‘er lot’d soon lick ‘im into shape.

Cyril turned in his seat and stared up at the church
tower. There it was, same as every year. The date and time were exactly right. As he watched, a solitary brick, mysteriously included in the ironstone tower, glowed as if lit from within. There were no rays left from the dying sun, and no reason why a single brick should shine out into the night. Except that, as Cyril knew better than anyone, it was the anniversary of poor old Willy Mellish’s untimely death. Every year Cyril kept vigil, and now, as the glow slowly faded, he got to his feet and stumped off down the path. “Silly old fool,” he muttered to himself, as he passed the ancient gravestone with its ill-fated couple either side of their table. But there was a touch of sympathy in his voice. Women could be a terrible nuisance. Maybe he was better off without.

L
OIS HEARD THE TELEPHONE RINGING AS SHE CAME
into the kitchen, and half-ran through to her office at the front of the house. “Hello? Oh, Derek, it’s you.”

“Yep, it’s me,” Derek said. “Are you sitting comfortably?”

“What d’you mean? What are you on about?”

“Well, I just don’t want you falling down in a dead faint. The thing is, me duck, I just saw our Jamie walking hand in hand down the High Street in Tresham with a very attractive girl.”

“So? Wouldn’t be the first girl he’s taken out, for goodness sake. He is eighteen, after all!”

“Ah, but this one is different. She’s the granddaughter of that old boiler up at the Hall, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones. I seen her up there when I went to do a rewiring job in the stables. Annabelle, they call her, and she’s not more’n seventeen.”

“Oh, blimey,” said Lois, sitting down. “He’s kept that under his hat, close little devil.”

“I bet he’s told Gran,” Derek said.

“Right. Well, if he has and she’s not said anything …”

Lois’s voice was vengeful, so Derek said quickly, “Better go careful, me duck. We are living in the twenty-first century, y’know.”

“Not in Long Farnden we aren’t,” replied Lois, and put down the phone. She marched off towards the kitchen, where she found Gran peacefully cleaning brass candlesticks and listening to a play on the radio.

“Cuppa tea, Mum?” said Lois, deciding that a softly-softly approach was best.

Gran looked up at her. “So what d’you want, Lois?” she said.

“To know if you’d like a cup of tea,” said Lois defensively, filling the kettle. “A perfectly innocent question.”

“Mmm, well, thanks. Yes, I would. And what else?”

“Oh, all right,” said Lois, laughing. “Do you know anything about Jamie and Mrs. T-J’s granddaughter? Derek saw them holding hands in Tresham.”

“Annabelle, d’you mean?” said Gran. “Yes, of course I know her. Very nice little thing. She’s been here once or twice—probably when you’ve been working—and seems very pleasant. No side at all, unlike her grandma.”

Lois was speechless. “Why?” continued Gran. “Is something wrong? Have they quarrelled? Both very young, of course. She’s seventeen, though. Not all that young, nowadays.”

“I should’ve been told,” said Lois.

Gran bridled. “What do you mean, Lois? Aren’t you being a bit ridiculous? It’s not as if she was a royal princess …”

“Thought Jamie’d have more sense,” said Lois without thinking.

Gran put down the bottle of metal polish with a bang. “That’s enough,” she said. “Can we change the conversation?
Your son Jamie, a very nice lad, has got a very nice girlfriend, and nobody’s complaining except you.”

“And Derek,” said Lois. “Well,” she added, aware that she was not being quite fair, “not complaining exactly, but he obviously thought it was a bit dodgy.”

“Mum!” Jamie’s voice shouted from outside the kitchen window. “Door’s locked! Let us in!” He was grinning at her, and she understood, really understood, for the first time that he was a young man, and a very attractive one. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have my say, she reassured herself, and went to let him in.

“Thanks,” he said, and looked across at where Gran had resumed her cleaning. “What’s up, Gran?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Come on,” he said. “I know that face. What’s Mum bin saying?”

Lois decided the time was ripe. “We were talking,” she said, “about your new girlfriend. Annabelle Tollervey-Jones.”