A Village Feud Read online

  ‘Next to the Rectory? Right. We’ll go knock him up.’

  ‘Mr Andy Moorhouse?’

  Andy was still in his pyjamas, unwashed and unshaven, and therefore did not make much of an impression on a hardened officer of twenty years’ experience. He was edgy was Mr Andy Moorhouse. Very edgy.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘We’re making house-to-house inquiries about the paint that’s been thrown all over the front of the Village Store. I wondered if you’d heard anything during the night. Sounds of a vehicle pulling up, someone talking, movements or anything at all that will help us with our inquiries.’

  ‘Is that all? I thought at least we must be at war. Coming knocking on our door at this time in the morning. It’s not a national emergency. Come back later when I’ve had time to shower and dress. Honestly. This is harassment.’ He slammed the door in his face.

  The police officer made a mark in his notebook, and rang the doorbell again.

  This time Andy flung open the door and came out fighting. ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘Same thing. Look, you can see for yourself.’ He pointed across the Green towards the Store and noticed that Andy didn’t trouble to look.

  ‘All right, all right. Why you should imagine I have anything at all to do with throwing paint all over the shop I have no idea. I’m a law-abiding social worker.’

  ‘In Culworth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The officer made another note in his little black book. ‘Telephone number so I can verify that?’

  ‘In the phonebook, if you must, though why you can’t take my word for it, I don’t know.’ Andy began bristling with temper, although he knew doing so would not give the best of impressions to a police officer who obviously wasn’t wet behind the ears. ‘Now, have you finished harassing me?’

  ‘No.’ He studied his notebook a while longer. ‘Do you have a grudge against Mr Charter-Plackett?’

  ‘I’ve no grudge against anyone. Everyone’s very pleasant here, there’s never any trouble.’

  ‘A grudge about your claim that his food is not sold in accordance with best practice.’

  ‘Me? No.’ Andy caught a determined glint in the police officer’s eye. ‘Well, I have caught him out a time or two but we settled it like gentlemen should.’ Andy gave a happy laugh, but it sounded very hollow to the officer.

  ‘But he refused to recompense you last time. Mr Charter-Plackett was convinced it was all a set-up, and refused to allow you to shop in there any more. In my book I’d have been very angry, especially if my complaints were genuine.’

  ‘They were genuine, but in my job you get used to setbacks, can’t let them affect you.’ Andy smiled and shrugged. ‘What of it? I’m in Culworth every day, no hassle. He’s the loser. In any case, with him closing we’ll have no alternative soon.’

  The black notebook was closed. ‘Very true, sir. So, you can’t help us at all? There might be something that strikes you, though. Any little thing, no matter how insignificant, let us know.’

  ‘Certainly. I’ve nothing to hide.’ He smiled brightly. ‘Only too glad to help.’

  The police officer went away unconvinced. He was too taut, too tense, too shifty was that Andy. The officer had a quick look in Andy’s bin, but could find nothing incriminating. He’d be back though. There was a heap more that man didn’t want him to know. A whole heap more, he could feel it in his bones.

  Andy went back inside, closed the door behind him and stood for a moment resting his back against it. Stupid man! Imagining he would do something as ridiculous as throwing paint. He was a sight more subtle than that. A sly grin spread over his face. Well, that was what he tried to make people think, but the satisfaction he’d got from first breaking the windows, and then, when newly replaced, covering them with that red paint he’d found in the old shed at the bottom of their garden had given him more satisfaction than he would ever have dreamed possible. The letters, though, had satisfied something very deep inside. It was the silence of them but at the same time the wounding, frightening aspect which pleased him. And still no one knew it was him.

  All the same he now had two areas of his life to watch out for: the dodgy references for his job and the fact he was hardly ever in the office. Shortly he’d be losing track of what was going on; the longer he stayed at Social Service the more lies he had to remember to keep up the pretence of working hard. In addition to all that, he knew the police officer had left dissatisfied with his explanations. In case they came back while he was out he’d prime Jenny what to say. Out of the blue he’d become disenchanted with her.

  To pacify Jenny, Andy’d gone through the marriage ceremony eighteen months ago well aware he was married already to someone else under a different name, about which she knew nothing. So he could leave her at any time, whenever it suited him. He’d paid for the house with his mother’s money so Jenny could be turfed out into the street whenever he decided. But at the moment he needed to keep her on side.

  Chapter 11

  Jimbo was almost beginning to believe it would be easier to keep the Store open than close it, because everyone who came in wanted to spend time giving him a thousand reasons why he couldn’t close. His Store was a village tradition, they all loved it, it was a focus for the other two villages and gave Turnham Malpas prestige because of it, and what’s more, what would he do not hearing the gossip every day? They all knew he loved it.

  Not only that, but when he was at home he had Harriet and his mother giving him a hundred and one reasons why he couldn’t close it. But he would do it. He was sick and tired of the crushing burden of keeping up with the stock, checking it, getting it out on the shelves and making sure he wasn’t cutting his margins by letting too much disappear off the shelves without being paid for. He’d had to sack two new assistants for stealing in the last two months, let alone the customers sneaking things into their bags. No, he was adamant the Store was closing at the end of January.

  The red paint all over the front was the very last straw, and only confirmed his decision. He’d clear out the shop, convert half of it back into a house and sell it, and keep the other half for his catering and the mail order office. Fortunes were made daily on the internet and why shouldn’t he with his Harriet’s Country Cousin products? On the other hand he might need the whole building if the mail orders took off. He’d think hard about that.

  In his softer moments it was Beth’s quiet plea each time she managed to force herself to walk into the Store to buy slices of gateau, which weakened his determination.

  ‘Don’t close the Store, Jimbo. Please.’ Her voice, so gentle and so pleading, broke his heart. He could feel the vast sadness deep inside her and grieved that she had suffered so. Damn Africa. Why the hell had Peter felt the need to go there?

  And why had he felt the need to return and leave Caroline with his two children in the Rectory in such a dilemma, because apparently not only Beth was suffering but Alex too, in his own closed-up silent manner. The repercussions of Peter’s actions were like ripples on a pond. His own mother had had to vacate her house to make room for the Reverend Anna because neither of them had imagined for one moment that he would go back again and she’d need to stay on till next July. Nothing but nothing appeared to go right in the village ever since he left. They all of them needed him back. Sounded ridiculous to say they needed him, after all, they were all grown men and women. But somehow they did.

  And this business with Andy Moorhouse; he was convinced it was him who’d broken the windows, then thrown paint on them immediately after they’d been repaired, and sent the poison pen letters. Why the hell did he keep having this feeling that he knew Andy from years earlier? Something kept nagging at him, but what? And why did Andy seem to think he had a hold over him?

  He shot to his feet far too quickly when the answer came to him. His ankle, still in plaster and hurting like the devil sometimes, pained him dreadfully, and he plunged back down on his chair immediately. He knew exactly who Andy was.
Of course. A servant at college. One of those who put his hand to anything. He’d pop up serving meals in hall, cleaning public rooms, working in the kitchens and, on occasion, in the porters’ lodge. And he’d been the one who’d … That was it. His evidence had almost finished the Cambridge career of James Charter-Plackett. If anyone should have a grievance it should be himself.

  He was overcome with the need to put Harriet in the picture. But should he? Perhaps he shouldn’t, though they’d always promised to be truthful to each other. Well, he’d think about it over the next few days. What was that in comparison with almost twenty-five years of marriage?

  The need to march about while the whole matter fizzed and bubbled in his mind overcame him and he got carefully to his feet, grabbed his crutches and walked through the house, fingering for some reason things which belonged to Harriet; he found special comfort touching a quilt she was stitching for their bed. It was a mammoth task for her and by far the most ambitious thing she’d attempted since Evie Nicholls had fired her enthusiasm for the craft. She’d chosen warm rusts, soft greens, pale creams, colours which to Jimbo felt to be exactly right for Harriet; they were her colours. Harriet was a star where wives were concerned, a complete and absolute star. If it hadn’t been for her he’d never have taken the plunge and left that soul-destroying job in the City. Money by the barrowload, but satisfaction for the soul? No. She’d saved his sanity.

  He’d walked about for far too long. So Jimbo sat down again to contemplate his life a while longer. His mother found him seated in his thinking chair.

  ‘Jimbo, my dear, you’re very distressed, aren’t you?’

  He looked up, briefly puzzled by her sudden appearance. Of course, she was living here.

  She laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘What is it, my dear? Can I help?’

  ‘I’ve realized who Andy Moorhouse is. Except that wasn’t his name when I knew him.’

  ‘Tell the police! Immediately.’

  ‘No, I’ve got to think a while longer. Mother, am I doing right by closing the Store?’

  ‘If that’s where your instincts take you, then go for it. But maybe ordering stock and filling shelves and window-dressing and the daily grind is something you could get a lesser mortal do for you and then you’d have room for the more important things and time for some leisure, which you are very short of. Harriet deserves far more holiday than she gets, so does Fran and so do you. Think about it.’

  She returned minutes later with a double whisky for him. ‘Here, drink this. Help the thought processes.’

  But within the hour he was ringing the police; his mother had discovered another poison pen letter silently slipped under the back door by someone who was obviously becoming increasingly bold. Closing the Store might be the very best thing to do after all.

  The police went immediately to Andy Moorhouse’s but he wasn’t in. Jenny was, though, and had to face detailed questioning. She knew the answers because Andy had primed her but her heart wasn’t in it, so her responses didn’t ring absolutely true. She declared he hadn’t been up in the night. In reality she didn’t know because her fear of him made her sleep in their second bedroom.

  ‘I’m a light sleeper, you see, so I would have known if he had.’

  ‘Why has he chosen to persecute Mr Charter-Plackett?’

  ‘He hasn’t. I’ve said. He’s no interest in him. Why should he have?’

  ‘Where did the cheese and the ham come from for that scam of getting your money back? It wasn’t bought at his shop, was it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. It must have been if he said so.’

  ‘He always speaks the truth, then?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Rare bird then, is Mr Moorhouse, always speaking the truth.’

  ‘Some people are like that.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The officer left a long silence and kept on steadily staring at her; she felt as though he were staring into her very soul. Jenny began to sweat. Maybe now was the moment to tell him what she knew. But he destroyed her opportunity by saying, ‘Well, then, we’d better come back to see Mr Moorhouse himself. When is he usually back home from his office?’

  Jenny’s moment passed. ‘Six o’clock.’

  ‘Right. Be seeing you then. If there’s anything that occurs to you, Mrs Sweetapple, let us know. Here’s my number.’ He paused as though giving her a second chance. ‘Anything at all. Good afternoon, see you later.’

  Jenny was so tense the card he’d given her was crushed even before the door closed on him. She rushed for a glass of water the moment he left. Her tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth. She gulped the water down rapidly and then burped furiously. Oh, God. She couldn’t tell the truth unless she knew they’d take him into custody immediately. She couldn’t be left with him in the house after she’d spilled the beans. He’d kill her.

  Half an hour after the police officer left she heard Andy’s key in the door. Immediately she made up her mind she wouldn’t tell him the police had called again.

  ‘Jenny! The police are sitting in their car outside the Store. What’s happened?’

  ‘Still investigating the red paint, I expect.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I suppose. They haven’t been here, have they? Today?’

  ‘I’ve been in all day.’

  ‘Right.’ A grin of satisfaction spread across his face. ‘Good.’

  He settled himself by the fire, opened the evening paper and asked for a cup of tea.

  ‘Can’t, got a client. Here any minute. Get your own, please.’

  Andy began to boil with temper. Slowly, insidiously, it overcame him, he rose to his feet and said belligerently, ‘Now. Please.’

  ‘Sorry, there’s the bell.’

  A woman from Penny Fawcett was standing there on the step. Head and shoulders massage to combat stress.

  She slid swiftly into her consulting room and shut the door firmly. ‘There we are, wrapped in our own little world.’

  When Jenny finally emerged from her cocoon, and saw her client out, Andy reached out for the cash she’d been paid. ‘Thirty-five pounds, thank you.’

  ‘No! This is my business money. I need to balance the books.’

  ‘Give it to me. From now on I’m in charge of the money. You can’t bookkeep.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘The business money is all mine, that’s our agreement. Every single penny. Just let go of my hand, please.’

  But he held it tighter and tighter.

  ‘Let go. Please. We agreed.’

  ‘I’m not having you with your own bank account any more. You throw money away like water. Best if I keep it.’

  ‘No. This is mine. I need it for paying for stuff.’

  ‘Stuff? What kind of stuff?’

  ‘Creams and massage stuff, aromatherapy oils, towels, stock to sell, advertising. This is ridiculous. Let go and I’ll give you the massage of massages tonight. How about that, eh?’ She made her voice tantalizing and wheedling.

  Andy gave way. ‘I’ll keep you to that. Tonight. Right. But after this the money is to be kept by me. I’ll pay the bills for you but the bulk of it will be kept in my account where I can keep an eye on it.’ He gave her a glutinous smile, which made her skin crawl. Why did she feel like this? Not long ago she loved him like heck, thought him clever and fun, good to be with – in fact, she was proud to be with him – but slowly his real character had emerged and she wasn’t very enamoured by it.

  The parts of his life she knew weren’t true, like his total lack of qualifications to be a social worker and his disinclination to work honestly in such an important job, weren’t pleasant attributes at all. How much more of their life together wasn’t entirely true? Was the house his or had he falsified that, too? After all, he hadn’t allowed her to be part-owner. All the paperwork was done out of her sight and she’d been presented with a fait accompli.

  Now this, wanting to get his hands on money which was rightly hers for her business.
Worse still, did she really know the truth about this feud he had with Jimbo Charter-Plackett? She thought not. If it was him who’d done what had been done, where did that leave her? She guessed she was right, that it was him, but this deep-seated fear of him that had developed made her unable to stand tall and tell the police.

  The doorbell rang furiously. ‘If it’s for me, I’m not in. Got to see Caroline about a Beauty Evening for the Women’s Institute. I’m out the back door.’ She grabbed her bag and left him to answer the clamouring bell.

  Fortunately for her Caroline was in and they settled down to an involved talk over the best subjects for the proposed Beauty Evening. Thank heavens, thought Jenny, a glass of wine. They’d arrived at the conclusion that a facial, some Indian head massage, and make-up hints would be the best subjects to build the evening around. But she and Caroline were still debating if they had got the programme sufficiently interesting and had just refilled their glasses to keep the ideas flowing when Beth walked in. She was carrying a glass of apple juice and asked if she could join them.

  Jenny patted the sofa cushion next to her. ‘Sit here. I say, would you be a model for me?’

  ‘A model? For what?’

  ‘A young teenage daughter going to a party and me using you to teach mother how best to advise her and make her up. You’ve a lovely clear skin and stunning eyes. Wouldn’t make you look tarty; that wouldn’t be right, would it? What do you say?’

  ‘Where would it be?’

  ‘In the small village hall, for the Women’s Institute Beauty Evening.’

  ‘When is it?’

  ‘Monday next week, at seven for seven-thirty. The Women’s Institute isn’t a load of old grandma’s, is it Caroline?’

  ‘No, but I don’t think it’s really Beth’s cup of tea, is it, darling? I think perhaps she isn’t quite ready for that kind of thing.’

  Beth protested. ‘No, it isn’t my kind of thing, not really, but—’

  Desperate to reassure her Caroline said very positively, ‘Don’t fret, Beth, that’s absolutely OK.’