The Village Green Affair Read online

  Could be anyone. Jimbo, she’d ring Jimbo. No, better still, the police sergeant, they’d all been given his mobile number. As luck would have it, Mac was still in the market; she could see his helmet towering above everyone right by the cheese stall.

  ‘Sergeant! Sergeant! Mrs Charter-Plackett. I’ve just got home and I’ve been burgled. Can you come?’

  He came in by the back door and she showed him where the snuff boxes had always stood.

  ‘Eight of them. Eight of them, and one I’m convinced belonged to George the Third. I had them all photographed; you can have the prints for identification. They’re valuable, very valuable to me.’

  ‘Mrs Charter-Plackett, sit yourself down and explain your movements this morning. Have a think while I put the kettle on.’ Sergeant MacArthur was renowned for drinking vast quantities of tea and eating equally vast quantities of biscuits and cake. He found the biscuit tin on the shelf with the tea and coffee, put everything on a tray and marched into the sitting room with it.

  Grandmama was fanning herself with her handkerchief and leaning back in her most comfortable chair.

  ‘I left the house through the back door, at nine o’clock prompt carrying my placard and the school bell. I crossed the green and took up my station outside the Store. Well near the front so everyone could see me and hear me, as you know. I didn’t get home until just now. Who on earth could it be?’

  Mac poured the tea and placed her cup on a small table by the side of her chair, then offered her the biscuit tin.

  Grandmama shook her head. ‘I’d choke right now if I took a biscuit. What are you going to do?’

  ‘As the snuff boxes are very old and valuable, the antiques division will deal with the problem. We’ll take fingerprints, yours included, and attack the question on a broad spectrum.’

  Grandmama felt reassured by his approach. He did appear to have his head screwed on the right way round, she thought. Mac asked if anything else had gone.

  ‘Nothing I can spot at this moment. I should tell Jimbo . . .’

  Just then Mac’s mobile rang again.

  ‘Sergeant MacArthur speaking.’

  She watched his face, listened to the questions he asked and realized that she was not the only one to have been burgled.

  ‘I’ll be round within ten minutes. Certainly, madam. Yes. Yes, I’m actually in Turnham Malpas right now.’

  The moment he switched off his mobile she asked, ‘Who else then?’

  ‘Looks like the pub’s been burgled upstairs, as they were busy in the bar with the market.’

  Grandmama was scandalized. ‘The pub? Well, I never. The pub. That’s a first.’

  ‘I’ll be on my way. Someone will be along later this afternoon. Don’t go round polishing, or there’ll be nothing for the fingerprint experts to find.’

  After he’d gone she noticed that in the short time he was there he’d drunk two cups of tea - well, one and a half - and eaten three biscuits. By the looks of it she’d better lay in extra supplies in case the fingerprint lot were as bad. Then she began shaking all over. It must be the reaction to the shock, she thought. She went to the cabinet where she kept her small supply of alcoholic liquor. A brandy was essential. The bottle shook as she poured, and a few drops escaped which had to be wiped up. The brandy went down a treat but her head spun and she almost missed sitting in her chair, having to grab the arm to stop herself falling on the floor. She’d ring for Harriet.

  Harriet came immediately, recognizing the panic in her mother-in-law’s voice.

  The brandy was still out on top of the cabinet when she arrived. ‘Katherine, how many of those have you had?’

  ‘Just the one.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. Oh, Harriet, I’ve been burgled.’ The whole story poured out and as Harriet sympathized with her the trembling stopped. ‘You remember I’d ear-marked those snuff boxes for the children when I die.’ Out came the handkerchief and three or four sobs to accompany it.

  Her mother-in-law never talked about dying, and Harriet felt alarmed.

  ‘How about you have a lie-down on the bed for an hour?’

  ‘Can’t. Got the fingerprint people coming anytime.’

  ‘Right. Well, sit there and have a nod. I must go back to the kitchens, I’m in the middle of something. I’ll come back when I’ve finished and stay with you till they come. Right? I shan’t be long.’

  ‘Thank you, dear. Thank you very much. I knew we shouldn’t have the market. Look what it’s caused and it’s not only me - the pub’s been burgled, too.’

  Georgie was deeply upset. It was the thought of her belongings coming under the scrutiny of total strangers. The thought that unknown fingers had sorted through her jewellery, pawed it over like some greedy Fagin. Georgie shuddered. She wouldn’t have known except Dicky had told her she’d forgotten to put a necklace on that morning and she looked very bare around her neck. So she’d gone upstairs straight away to remedy the situation, and it was then she’d found about the theft. The crafty beggars had taken only the most precious items.

  How had they managed to do all that with none of them downstairs hearing a thing?

  Dicky tried to comfort her. ‘We were all so busy. It was frantic, still is, and we’ve to get back in there and pretend nothing’s the matter. Come on, love. Alan and Myra can’t cope, and Chef is going berserk trying to keep up. Put it to the back of your mind till we get over the rush, mmm?’

  Georgie sniffed into her handkerchief, asked Dicky if her mascara was running. When told that it wasn’t, she braced herself and marched downstairs saying the show must go on. ‘If the market’s bringing in the kind of people who steal, Dicky, is it worth us being so busy because of it?’

  Dicky nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. What we’ve got to do is make sure the back door is locked every time we’ve been into the yard with rubbish or an empty crate or whatever.’

  Just before they went through into the bar proper, Georgie reminded him they’d never had to lock it before.

  ‘It’s the price we have to pay for increased business.’

  Every single table was filled with customers. They were even standing wherever there was space, and the dining room had the beginnings of a queue. Dicky rubbed his hands with delight. This was the life. This was how to make money. He’d have to get more staff for Thursdays. Anti-Market Action Committee indeed. I should cocoa. He waded in saying, ‘What can I get you, sir? Certainly, sir. With ice?’

  Welcome quiet slowly took over Turnham Malpas. The rubbish was waiting to be cleared, the tables were stacked waiting for the lorry to come and take them away, and Titus Bellamy was still around somewhere because his car was parked outside the Rectory. Be surprising if that was where he was, as several people knew Peter and Caroline had gone to a special afternoon at Alex’s school more than an hour ago.

  So where was he? Lunching in the pub? That would be it. Of course.

  But they were very wrong.

  At that moment Titus was lunching with Liz.

  When he’d seen her letting herself into Glebe House after finishing at the nursery he’d knocked on her door, hiding a bouquet of roses behind his back.

  They looked unblinkingly at each other and, without a word spoken, Liz opened the door wider, thus inviting him in.

  She shut the door firmly behind him and stood, arms folded so she wouldn’t put them around him and hug him close, which she longed to do. ‘Titus. What are we doing?’

  ‘Falling in love?’

  ‘Is that what it is? It’s something I’ve never done before.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never. And you?’

  ‘I have . . . with Marie.’

  The way he said ‘Marie’ made it sound as though Marie was very dear to him. Her face drained of colour, her eyes widened.

  He saw the shock she was registering. ‘She died five years ago. But I was very much in love with her, so, yes, I’ve been in love before, and now I have the same kind of
feelings again. Not because she looked like you, because she didn’t, but when we met in the Store that morning I just knew. There’s no ghost, Liz. I don’t come with shadows to be faced. She died . . . having . . . during childbirth.’ He reached out to give her the flowers.

  ‘Thank you so very much.’ Liz held the roses close to her face and breathed in their scent. It was exquisite. She went to the utility room, filled the sink with water and placed the bouquet in it for a long drink. Then she thought of Neville.

  She didn’t want to think about him. At this precious moment Neville would have to wait. ‘I need lunch. Have you eaten?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then eat with me.’

  She prepared salad and paninis, and they sat in the kitchen at the little table she and Neville used at breakfast time. Tentatively she asked if the baby had survived.

  Titus said, ‘No. Marie should never have conceived. She was altogether too frail, and the baby too, but it was what she wanted.’

  ‘I see. So she was an incredibly brave person.’

  ‘She was determined. She was thirty-two and I was forty-five.’

  ‘So you’re fifty. I see. But you’re very young at heart.’

  ‘I feel it.’

  ‘Titus, at the party we shouldn’t have danced as we did. It’s all round the village.’

  He looked startled. ‘Ah!’

  They were silent for a few minutes, finishing their paninis, picking more salad out of the bowl, smiling at each other.

  Titus laid down his fork carefully. ‘You’ve truly never been in love before?’ They could ask any question they wanted without fear.

  ‘I thought I was, but I was only nineteen, I hadn’t enough depth of soul then for that to be the case.’

  ‘And later . . . did it turn to real love?’

  Liz studied this loaded question knowing only the truth would suffice. Had it ever turned to real love? When just the sound of his voice or the sight of him could set her heart thudding and she’d have given her life for him? If Neville had needed a kidney donating, would she have said to take both?

  ‘No.’ Liz got up to clear the table.

  ‘And how about him? Has he loved you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Perhaps at first, but not ... no, not truly loved.’ Liz gulped back her distress at what she’d said. The realization that all these years she’d been unloved hurt her beyond endurance. Suddenly she needed to be alone. ‘Perhaps it’s time for you to go. I think I heard that old lorry come for the rubbish.’

  Titus sensed her distress and wished he’d never asked, but he had to know. ‘Yes, you’re right, time to go.’

  ‘OK then.’

  ‘Might I ring? We could meet but not here, not in this house.’

  She nodded. Titus left.

  Liz wept for all the empty, useless years.

  Chapter 7

  The Anti-Market Action Committee met that same night in the bar. But when Jimbo arrived they were discussing something that had nothing whatsoever to do with the market, well, it had, vaguely.

  ‘Look! I know I’m right. His car was parked outside the Rectory, but he was coming out of Glebe House and it wouldn’t be Neville he’d gone to see in the middle of the day, would it? I saw him go in when I set off, with a bunch of roses behind his back, and they were red.’ Sylvia looked round them all with a significant expression on her face. ‘And he come out when I was going back home. Minus the roses.’ Sylvia picked up her gin and orange, and waited for their response to this juicy piece of gossip.

  Jimbo said, ‘Good evening, everyone. Who’s that you’re talking about? Not me, I hope.’

  Grandmama patted his knee. ‘Of course not, my dear. Just some village gossip.’

  Jimbo looked round each face in turn but no one enlightened him. ‘Well?’

  Sylvia looked embarrassed but she did tell him. ‘I was saying I saw Titus Bellamy going in and coming out of Glebe House.’

  ‘And . . .?’ Jimbo raised his eyebrows and waited.

  Sylvia almost squirmed with embarrassment ‘We just wondered . . .’

  ‘Judging by the way they danced at the party . . .’ Sheila Bissett sniffed her disgust.

  Jimbo was angry. But he didn’t know why. Was he angry they were gossiping? Or angry with Liz and Titus? Possibly both. ‘Well, that’s nothing to do with the market, so can we press on? I’m short of time.’

  Grandmama plunged in. ‘You’ll all have heard that the pub and myself were burgled during the market today. If that isn’t proof we need to get rid of it I don’t know what is. Apparently Georgie’s very upset. All the jewellery that went was of sentimental value. She’s very upset. We’ve never had to lock our doors, have we?’

  Willie asked Grandmama what she’d lost.

  ‘Well I had a set of eight silver snuff boxes, one of which I am convinced belonged to George the Third, and the whole lot has gone. Very valuable, they are. Fortunately I had photos taken of them so the police have got those. I’ll never get them back, I’m quite sure, so the insurance will have to cough up, but that’s not the same, is it? They didn’t burgle yesterday or on Monday or Tuesday. Oh, no. It was on market day when we were all occupied and the village was humming with new people. Mac was on to it straight away.’

  Willie, full of curiosity, asked, ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Got the fingerprint people in and they went through my cottage with a fine-toothed comb. Up and down, dusting this and dusting that.’

  Dusting for fingerprints indeed! Would you believe it! Everyone leaned a little closer. They didn’t want to miss a single word.

  Willie asked if they’d found any fingerprints.

  ‘Three full sets. They were obviously amateurs. Opportunists, the fingerprint people said.’

  Vera, keeping somewhat of a low profile in view of her purchase from the organic meat stall, offered, ‘Well, I never saw anyone who looked like a burglar.’

  Scathingly, Grandmama said, ‘They don’t walk about with “burglar” printed on their foreheads, you know. How did the meat taste, by the way?’

  Don answered her. ‘Beautiful! Absolutely beautiful. Fried onions with it, and deep-fried chips and fried tomatoes. Delicious.’

  Vera kicked his ankle, twice, but it had no effect. She blushed a deep red and all but disappeared into the cushions on the settle.

  Sylvia was appalled. ‘You haven’t bought some meat from the market, have you?’ But she knew from Vera’s face that she had.

  Don, temporarily as sharp as a butcher’s knife, replied, ‘And she’s promised me some more next week. Two pounds a pound, that’s all. You should try it.’ Mercifully for Vera, he sank back into his usual stupor after this outburst, but the damage was done.

  Greta Jones was scandalized. ‘This is an Anti-Market Action Committee, Vera. How could you? Such disloyalty.’

  Vince found it amusing. ‘Vera! You shouldn’t have done that. Watch yer backs, everyone! Two-faced Vera might strike again, and it could be you.’

  Willie, who was enjoying the exchange, suggested, ‘It was probably horsemeat, it being so cheap.’

  Vera went dreadfully pale, and put her handkerchief to her mouth.

  Jimbo asked, ‘Did it have a strongish taste?’

  Vera nodded.

  ‘There you are, then. It probably was.’ Jimbo felt wicked, but he didn’t care.

  Vera whispered, ‘But it’s organic meat . . . they said.’

  Bel, who was managing the dining room, had come to have a quick word during a lull and, having heard the entire conversation, commented, ‘That’s why it’s safer to shop at Jimbo’s, he never sells horsemeat.’

  There was a lot of solemn nodding round the table. What Bel had said was proof if anything was that Jimbo’s was best and the sooner the market disappeared the better.

  Willie suggested delivering a leaflet to every house in Turnham Malpas, Penny Fawcett and Little Derehams, telling them about the burglaries and about the need for extra vigilance with doo
rs and windows on market days.

  ‘Excellent. I’ll deliver some.’ Grandmama toasted Willie for his foresight.

  So Willie couldn’t do any other than volunteer, too. Then Sylvia, Greta and Vince also agreed to help. Jimbo offered to ask Fran and Harriet if they could land a hand, and he’d undertake to get the leaflet printed.

  The meeting ended with everyone feeling that good progress had been made, except for Vera who decided, stuff them all, if that steak could get Don excited then he’d get steak next week; it couldn’t be horsemeat, and he hadn’t many pleasures in this life.