“What was it?” Gran said, as Lois returned.
“Just a shelter for bird-watchers, like you said. Come on, let’s see if we can find wild strawberries. There used to be some on the Waltonby side of the wood. Are you up to a bit of a trek?”
Gran bridled. “O’ course I am! I’m used to plenty of exercise from being on me feet all day round the house, down to the shop, round to WI, over to Blackberry Gardens for coffee with Joan. It all adds up, you know. Not an ounce of spare fat on me. You must’ve noticed.”
Lois had to admit that this was true. “But then, I sit at my computer, sit in my van, sit in the Tresham office, sit interviewing clients, and I weigh exactly the same as I did when I was twenty. How come, d’you reckon?”
“Nervous energy,” Gran said confidently. “You worry it all away. Anyway, are you still sure we’re on the right path? I can see a man over there, looks like he’s got a gun.”
“Morning, Mrs. Weedon, Mrs. Meade!” It was John Thornbull, and he explained swiftly that he was out shooting rabbits. “Pesky things!” he said. “Hazel is mad because they ate all the new lettuces before we’d had a single one. Funny thing, though, they took the whole plant out of the ground. One by one, they went. Never seen that before.”
“Perhaps them rabbits had an order from Tesco’s-lettuces on the vine, an’ that,” Lois said lightly, but in her mind she was beginning to see a pattern forming. Self-sufficiency, she thought. Whoever was the culprit, he was clever. Never in the same place two nights running, on the move. Locals might say it was the Green Man. She knew there were legends about this wood, with many sightings of a tall ghostly character with leaves for hair and a face carved out of wood. But she’d never heard tell of a Green Man living on half-liter plastic bottles of milk and sliced white bread.
“What’s funny?” said Gran.
“Nothing much,” Lois said, and then pointed excitedly at a green patch ahead. “Look! Strawberries. Come on, Mum. We can get cream from Josie on the way back and have them for pud.”
JOSIE WAS ABOUT TO LOCK THE SHOP DOOR AS THEY APPROACHED. Sunday mornings she opened up, mainly for newspapers and sweets for the children, and now she looked forwards to an afternoon with Matthew Vickers. He was taking her over to his cottage to see his latest acquisition, a king-sized double bed. “One careful owner, good as new,” he had said persuasively.
“We need cream, Josie. Look, we picked these in the wood. Just enough for lunch. Enough for you too, if you want to come up to the house?”
Josie explained about Matthew. “By the way,” she said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you about my babysitting evening at Paula’s.”
“Troublesome children?” said Gran hopefully.
“No. It was this phone call, Mum. A man wanting young Jack. The lad wouldn’t speak to him, and he rang off before I could ask who he was. Bit odd, I thought. I meant to tell you earlier.”
“What was his voice like?” Lois said urgently. “Can you remember? Did it sound like he was disguising it?”
“Here we go!” said Gran. “You read too many crime books, me duck. She sees villains round every corner,” she added to Josie. “Now, have you got any double cream left? We must let you get on.”
Lois glared at her, but Josie produced the cream and saw them out of the shop. As they were setting off up the street, she called out, “Mum! Here a minute!”
Lois came back a few steps, and Josie said quietly, “He wasn’t from round here. Up North, I would say. Any use?”
TWENTY-FOUR
THE TINY WILD STRAWBERRIES VANISHED IN SECONDS, AND Derek ran his finger round the pudding plate appreciatively. “Nothing like these wild ones,” he said. “The big buggers are all right, but nothing to compare with these.”
“You can grow the little ones in the garden,” Gran said.
“Wouldn’t taste the same,” Lois said. “Something to do with the soil, I suppose. It’s all leaf mould in the wood. An’ worms and grubs an that, keeping it fresh.
“Well, thanks,” said Gran, making a face. “Glad I’ve finished mine!” She turned to Derek, and said that they’d met John Thornbull shooting rabbits. “And we found a bird-watching hide in the middle of the thicket,” she added. “Lois tore her jeans goin’ to investigate.”
“Where was that, then?” Derek said.
“Over towards the Waltonby side,” Lois said. “Just a bit of a shelter. Not doing any harm. I left it as I found it. They might’ve been watching badgers at night. There is a sett close by there.”
“Better not tell John,” Derek said. “He hates badgers more than he hates rabbits! You’ll not find a farmer say a good word about either of them.”
“He knows,” Gran said. “There’s not an inch of that wood that John Thornbull don’t know.”
Lois wondered if this was true. If John knew about a man using that makeshift shelter as a hiding place, he might know more about him. She made a note to mention it to Hazel at the meeting tomorrow. By then, she should have heard from Cowgill about the body from the canal. He should have had a chance to check whether it had an appendix scar. If he did not ring her, she would ring him.
“What are you up to this afternoon?” Derek had planned an afternoon up at the allotment, but knew he should check with Lois, in case she had other ideas that would involve him.
“Nothing,” she said. “Just pottering around. Might go down to the hall. They’ve got an exhibition of old photographs of the village, put on by the WI. Mum’s on duty, aren’t you?”
Gran nodded. “Three ’til four,” she said. “Me and Joan an’ that nice Doris Ashbourne from Round Ringford. They say she’s lost without Ivy Beasley.”
“Has she died?” Lois knew the old thing’s reputation for a sharp tongue and a warm heart. She’d certainly been at the receiving end of the former, but never seen any evidence of a warm heart.
“Gone into an old folks’ home,” Gran said. “Miles away, in Suffolk. She’s got a cousin living nearby, apparently, who organised it all. They say Doris gets letters from Ivy, not a bit unhappy and busy making changes to the place.”
“Sounds about right,” said Lois. “Perhaps Doris will go and live with her.”
“Can’t afford it, otherwise she would. So they say.”
THE VILLAGE HALL WAS PLEASANTLY FULL OF PEOPLE, PEERING AT the photographs and exchanging memories. Gran and Joan Pickering sat at a trestle table, taking entrance money and directing questions to Doris, who had lived in Ringford and around, including a few years in Farnden, and had known many of the people who smiled at the camera years ago.
Lois stood in front of a picture of her own house, taken when it was owned by Dr. Rix. She remembered when she was still living in Tresham and coming out to clean houses in Farnden village. Dr. Rix and his wife, Mary, had been her clients, and she had been involved in the tragedy that struck them.
“Penny for ’em,” said a familiar voice. She turned around to see Hunter Cowgill, smartly dressed and smiling widely. “I love old photographs,” he said, “so thought I’d come over and take a look.”
Lois, for once, was speechless. She was quite sure he did not love old photographs. The only photographs he was interested in were mug shots of criminals. She found her voice and said exactly that. Cowgill laughed delightedly. “Chris! Come over here,” he said, turning to beckon to his assistant. “You’ve met Lois, of course. She has a story to tell about this house.” He pointed to the photograph.
“Isn’t that where you live?” Chris said.
Lois nodded. “It’s a long story,” she said, “so some other time. Why don’t you go and find the tea and coffee hatch? Then you could wander round and take your time.”