Still Thursday
“Chris would have gone in and searched the premises tomorrow
if Peel had not been released, and would surely have found those rogue documents,”
said Gary. “You were right again, my love. She should never have been released
and I’m glad Mia had the presence of mind to take her in again.”
“If Peel was married to Barclay, surely there’s an official record
of it somewhere.”
Cleo was speculating on the significance of Mia’s discovery.
Not that it’s easy to speculate when a queue of hungry infants looks like
turning night into day and finishes off with a second supper and an extra
portion of family life. Fed and cleaned up, all the juniors finally found sleep
and their happy if exhausted parents could get fresh coffee going and talk
seriously about the implications of Mrs Peel’s passport.
“I was not right for the right reasons, Gary. I just did not
want you to be landed with a false accusation to deal with. But now she’s back
at HQ, Chris can go ahead with a detailed search.”
“Scrutiny of the findings may have to wait a day or two,”
said Gary. “The passports will have to be checked. One could be a forgery. I also
think Mia should be present at Chris’s search. A woman would spot another
woman’s curious hiding places.”
“Assuming Peel was not so sure of herself,” said Gary. “Up
to now she seems to have been very efficient at doing what she did.”
“Peel’s whole identity is on shaky ground, in my opinion,”
said Cleo. “But our bed isn’t, so let’s get some shut-eye before we do any more
theorising.”
“A plea for procrastination?” said Gary.
“That’s not quite what I had in mind,” said Cleo.
***
Friday morning
No one was in charge at the OAP home. Gossip was rife as the
residents assembled for breakfast in the big community hall.
“She’s been arrested,” someone knew.
“No wonder,” said another. “All that carrying on can’t have
been legal.”
“What do you mean by that?” a new resident wanted to know.
“Hanky-panky, drugs, bribery, murder,” several pointed out,
Louis Battle being the most vociferous of those present.
“Better not say those things out loud,” said a very nervous
resident.
“And if they are true?” Louis Battle insisted.
“All the more reason to shut up,” someone else said.
***
The new resident, who went by the name of Arthur Mills and
had taken over the room next door to the one previously occupied by the deceased
Andrew Formby, had been a journalist in his time and could smell a story after
years of practice recording the good, the bad and the ugly for a national
newspaper that shall remain nameless. He could not resist asking questions. He
had already pondered on the seeming incongruity of someone like Vera being a
resident.
“Just watch out,” someone said. “Asking too many questions
is dangerous here.”
“I came here to retire in style,” said Mills, “not to mingle
with a crowd of criminals.”
“We aren’t all like that,” one indignant resident said. “But
life gets a bit boring if nothing happens, doesn’t it?”
“Shoplifting seems very tame in comparison with
drug-trafficking,” someone else said.
“Who’s been shoplifting?” a small voice from the corner of
the room said. “I haven’t.”
“Haha! Didn’t they invite you?” Louis Battle ridiculed.
“Who’s they, Mr ...?” Arthur Mills wanted to know. His beaky
nose tended to twitch when he came across something to write about and now it
was twitching hard. Free-lancing was his answer to retirement: the more lurid
the news, the more he got for it. Shop-lifters at an OAP home wasn’t exactly
gruesome, but it was rather spectacular if reported satirically.
“Call me Louis!”
“I’m Arthur. Who goes shoplifting?”
“Well, Arthur, I don’t want to give away trade secrets…”
“Then don’t!” shouted a woman.
“Afraid you’ll be caught, Silvie darling?” Louis taunted.
The air became frosty as Silvie approached Louis Battle.
“I might want to tell people what you do in your room,
Louis, so shut up.”
“What does he do, Mrs…?” Arthur asked.
“I’m Silvie. Unspeakable things, Arthur.”
The whole assembly oohed and aahed.
“Prove it!” said Louis.
“You and Mr Formby were sort of attached. You know what I’m
getting at.”
“She’s one of the three witches, Arthur,” said Louis nervously.
“The others are Sandy and Susie. They call themselves the ‘3 Esses’ and they
killed Formby with a so-called love potion trying to convert him, if you know
what I mean.”
“You didn’t need any converting did you, Louis?” said Sylvie.
“He’s bi, you see,” she explained to everyone present, and was rewarded with
quite a few whistles.
Louis would have indulged in a bit of fisticuffs had not
several residents held him back.
“This is an interesting place,” said Arthur. “You must tell
me more about what goes on here, Silvie.”
The taunting and backbiting between various residents went
on for some time before the topic of conversation got back to Mrs Peel’s fate.
“Who’s in charge here now if Mrs Peel’s been removed?”
Arthur asked.
The residents exchanged glances.
“There’s Mrs Watson,” said Louis, who had taken an immediate
dislike to Arthur Mills, but was not willing to take on any responsibility
himself. “She works in the kitchen, but I expect she’d like a career boost.”
“Get her here,” said Arthur, who saw that someone would have
to take overall charge and reckoned that he was as qualified as anyone else
present.
***
Mrs Watson was a round, rosy person. She had spent hours
frying bacon and eggs for residents’ breakfasts while delegating less skilful
tasks to a couple of part-timers she regarded as scullery maids, though part of
their job was to serve the seniors. A round of applause accompanied her
appearance, not least because Pensioners’ Paradise fry-ups were much
appreciated. But Mrs Watson was not happy. No one had told her that she was
going to have to make decisions. At that moment she was almost a menial herself
and glad to be one. She hadn’t done anything wrong, had she?
“Do you think you could run Pensioners’ Paradise for a few
days, Mrs Watson?” Arthur asked in a gentle tone. “I’ll help you.”
“I ran it before that Mrs Bossy-breeches came and I’ll run
it again even without her and Mr Barclay bless his immortal soul,” replied Mrs
Watson somewhat mendaciously, crossing herself in case she had annoyed tzhe
Almighty.
“Then you have the job,” said Arthur, who had absolutely no
authorization except the applause of all the residents present.
“The main thing is to keep it going” added Arthur,
astonished at the ease with which the residents had accepted his authority. His
observations of crowded humanity faced with crises stood him in good stead when
theory turned into practice, as it had done before. He knew he had leadership
qualities though he was reluctant to
volunteer for anything that meant work.
Whatever he might think of Mrs Watson, allotting her
responsibility had made him her friend for life. She wondered if Peel had
brought him in. He seemed to have such a lot of authority – and he had taken
over the room next to Mr Formby’s that had an ensuite bathroom with a window.
Was that a sign? Mr Formby had used that affluently furnished room for his private
guests, Mrs Watson knew. Mr Formby had been a wealthy resident. He had allowed
her to polish his precious ornaments and knick-knacks and he had paid her well
for the service, so her lips were sealed. She had wondered how she could
replace his little cash gifts and maintain her cashflow. Arthur Miller was
promoting her. Her salary would take a turn for the better, she mused.
“Then I’d better start now, hadn’t I?” said Mrs Watson,
smiling knowingly. She bustled back into the kitchen to give the underlings their
marching orders. If she was going to be in charge, they should know from the
start that she was nicer than Mrs Peel, but demanded obedience, nevertheless.
***
Arthur Mills had already realized that Mrs Watson and Mrs Peel
had not got on and decided to use it to his own advantage. After all, Mrs Peel
had invited him to take up residence. No one in the OAP home knew that. Arthur
knew all about Agnes Peel’s murky past. When he fell on hard times, his first
thought was Agnes. He had enjoyed weeks of her company between husbands and
written all about it in his accounts of who might be vulnerable or good for a
story one day. He suspected foul play by Agnes in connection with her knack of
marrying affluent men, of whom at least two had not survived their marriages
for very long, and it lookd very much as if a thi rd had met his maker
unexpectedly. It was sheer luck that had brought him to the home a day after
Barclay’s death, since he was really hoping for financial support and had been
rewarded with free board and lodging in return for his discretion. And now fate
was looking even more kindly upon him. He would just bid his time for long
enough to get behind all the goings-on.
But Arther was nervous. He was afraid that his plan to make
the most of Peel while he could would be thwarted since as far as he knew, she
had never been mixed up in the drug scene before, and was now if the rumour it
the home could be believed. It was not just a case of mistaken identity.
He was sure that taking charge behind the scenes was the
only reasonable way he could save his comfortable new pad. If Peel was charged
with murder, it would not be his problem because his detailed accounts of her
previous dark deeds were locked away at the bank. Peel would have plenty of
cash to give away if she could buy her redemption. He would find out all there
was to know about the time she had worked and lived at the home. How fortunate
that he had arrived a day after rather than a day before Barclay’s body was
found. Agnes Peel had a knack of getting off scot free. This time she would pay
dearly for whatever she had done, he vowed.
***
A phone call to Dorothy from Vera, who was still residing at
Pensioner’s Paradise, but had promised to leave next day since Gary wanted her
to, despite her presence of mind during the Peel incident involving Nigel,
which she had related to Dorothy in as few words as possible.
Her problem was that she could not go two steps without
being questioned about that incident and could not say exactly what was at
stake, even though she knew that something dramatic was happening at the home.
Anyway, she could never have blurted out that Nigel had been held at gunpoint-
an unheard-of event at an OAP home. Vera wondered how many other residents
possessed loaded guns.
“I told you not to go there in the first place,” was
Dorothy’s reaction.
“That’s not true. You sent me here,” Vera retorted.
“I didn’t know there’d be any danger. We just wanted you to
look around and listen.”
“I wasn’t in any danger,” said Vera. “But I don’t think
staying here any longer would be wise.”
“I agree.”
“I’ll get a cab, shall I?”
“A good idea, but go to Middlethumpton station first, get
out, wait 5 minutes then get a new taxi here. I don ‘t want anyone to know we
are connected.”
“I’m sure they do know because you accompanied me when I
came, but I’ll follow your advice.”
“And lock your door tonight. Have you searched the room
thoroughly? Formby might have left something incriminating. I’m surprised that
you accepted that room.”
“He did not die here and he was the victim.”
“He might have been in some kind of trouble or blackmailing
someone,”s aid Dorothy.
“Those three silly women poisoned him by accident, Dodo. I
don’t think it was deliberate.”
“Thinking does not replace facts, Vera.”
***
Dorothy was obliged to leave a message on Cleo’s answering
machine, to the effect that Vera would be leaving Pensioner’s Paradise the
following day.
“You should keep me in the picture,” she scolded. “I haven’t
retired yet and it looks as if you will need me in the near future.”
Cleo picked up the phone having broken off her sleep.
“What for, Dorothy?” she asked.
“This and that. Sorry to have woken you. I was leaving a
message.”
“You were shouting,” Gary called before burying himself
under the duvet.
“With good reason. Vera told me what she had experienced.”
“Gary was there and she had nothing to do with it and would
not have been involved had she not been standing at the entrance, Dorothy.”
“Smoking, I expect.”
“You should be glad she smokes, Dorothy. Nigel might
otherwise be dead.”
“Oh dear. I hadn’t thought of that.”
At this point Gary, who had been fighting off the idea of
talking to Dorothy in the middle of the night, grabbed the phone and growled
into it.
“You see, Dorothy. Your sister reacted with great presence
of mind, but enough is enough. Staying there would be dangerous for her, so
she’s leaving despite her curiosity about what will happen next. Talk tomorrow.
Good night.”
“You cut her off, Gary. She’ll be hurt,” said Cleo.
“I don’t bloody care if she’s hurt. I’m starting to prefer
her sister.”
“Just calm down, will you?” Cleo said.
“I am calm,” Gary retorted.
“Then go back to sleep!”
“I can’t help thinking I should not have put Nigel at such
risk.”
“You could not possibly have known about Peel’s gun – or her
desperation.”
”I should have guessed. The woman is obviously capable of
anything.”
“She’s locked up. Gary.”
“So she is. Feel like a little hanky-panky, Cleo?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
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