Ann Purser - Threats At Three

“How’s your sense of smell, Lois?” Chris said.

“Good, more’s the pity sometimes.”

“Great. Any whiffs of smoke or petrol, call me over.”

“I’ll go into the kitchen,” Lois said. “That’s where the villain would be most likely to break in, if he wanted. Mind you, I reckon they planned to set the fire going from outside, without bothering to come in. Quick getaway, an’ that. After all, this old wooden building would go up like bonfire night, once the fire took hold.”

Chris nodded. “Still, worth checking,” she said.

Lois stood in the kitchen and sniffed. Instant coffee. Damp. Mice. Drains. Nothing unexpected. She walked into the toilet, which was old but clean. Disinfectant and air freshener. And then, yes, petrol…

She looked up and saw that the small window was unlatched. She followed the sniff to the corner of the cubicle behind the lavatory brush, where it became strong. Oh no, was that a small puddle on the floor? Pee? She couldn’t smell pee. A small wad of toilet paper was enough to dip into it. Petrol. Through the open door she called out to Cowgill, and he came quickly, with Chris at his side.

“Here! Smell this.” She held out the toilet tissue, and he took it gingerly.

“If this is some kind of a joke, Lois, I shall be forced to…” He sniffed, then held it out to Chris. She nodded. “So we need to lock up the place and get the chaps down.”

The aerobics instructor was not pleased, but dismissed the class and said she sincerely hoped she would see them the same time next week.

BY THE TIME LOIS REACHED HOME, GRAN HAD LUNCH WELL ON the way and Derek was back from the allotment, his feet up on the kitchen table, reading the local paper.

“D’you mind!” Lois said. “We have to eat off that table, in case you hadn’t noticed, Derek Meade.”

He grinned at her, and didn’t move.

“Any luck with your tame inspector?” he said. He had now come to think that the two attempts to burn down the village hall had been made by the same person, and he was fairly sure he knew which person. A swift and strong warning from the police was all that was needed, he was certain, to stop the young fool. No doubt he’d find other places to vandalise, but as long as it wasn’t in Farnden, Derek could put it out of his mind.

“Three of us met down there. Cowgill, his assistant and me. And I got the lucky break. I found the toilet had been broken into, through that dodgy window, and there was a strong smell of petrol.”

“Did you find the can?”

Lois shook her hand. “Just a puddle,” she said. “But I reckon there must’ve been more than one person. It’d take a skinny bloke to get through the window, an’ he wouldn’t have a hope in hell if he tried carrying a petrol can. Must’ve been handed to him once he was inside.”

“So why didn’t he set fire to it there an’ then?” Gran said, beating eggs as if they had insulted her.

“He’d got to get out first,” Derek said. His attention was now fully on what Lois was saying. “Probably frightened off-maybe by us-before he could throw a match in. Ye Gods, Lois,” he added. “It don’t bear thinkin’ about, the damage they could’ve done. Is Cowgill taking action? You told him about the Hickson lot, I hope?”

He could’ve bitten his tongue out. Lois’s face darkened, and she turned on her heel and stalked out of the kitchen.

“Oh, dear,” Gran said. “I should lay off that one, Derek, if I were you. Let’s wait an’ see what the police find out.”

Derek sighed. “I wish we’d never heard of the bloody police,” he said.

“Language,” Gran said automatically. “Go on,” she added, “go and make your peace. And don’t forget that I’m on your side, as well as Lois’s.”

At this piece of lousy logic, Derek burst out laughing and went off to find Lois.

FATHER RODNEY WALKED BRISKLY THROUGH THE OLD CEMETERY, across the road and into the churchyard. The clock struck ten o’clock as he quickened his step through the rose bushes and fragrant lavender to greet the bell ringers, who were already waiting to go into the church.

“We’ve had more turnover than Tesco’s,” Tony Dibson said, catching sight of the vicar. He was pushing his wheelchair-bound wife up the uneven path, just as he did every Sunday for morning service. She listened while the bell ringers, including Tony, rang out the peals, if a little unevenly, across the surrounding countryside. “Come to church, come to church,” they seemed to call.

The vicar, smoothing his wiry hair in front of the small, cracked mirror in the vestry, wished the call was answered by more people than the elderly faithful few who turned up, rain or shine, to worship their Maker and reserve a place for themselves in the hereafter.

The Dibsons had arrived inside the church, and Irene said, “What did you mean, about Tesco’s and turnover?” Tony pushed her to a suitable place where she would not block the exit in case of fire. The thought of fire reminded him of the village hall and he wondered if Lois had found out anything more.

“Tony! What did you mean?” Irene could see his mind was elsewhere, but persisted.

“Vicars,” he said. “Turnover in vicars. They never stay long in Farnden. Must be something about this village.”

“Nothing wrong with us,” Irene said, “except maybe we could do with a few more in church. Go on, then, I’m all right. Off you go. Get ringing, boy.”

THE VILLAGE HALL AND THE PLAYING FIELD AT THE REAR WERE approached by a narrow lane, and Gavin Adstone walked along trying to avoid piles of horse dung left by a group of girls on ponies heading for the bridle path that led out of the playing field and over the stream. “More horses than people in this village,” he muttered to himself, cursing as a dollop of the sticky stuff stuck to the toe of his shoe. “And the horses would win in an IQ test every time,” he added angrily.

He was heading for a meeting with John Thornbull, the only member of the SOS committee who might possibly be persuaded to Gavin’s point of view. John was a practical man, a farmer with education and a small daughter a year or two older than Cecelia. He was more likely to be able to see a future for Long Farnden than the rest of the old codgers or dim-witted women Derek Meade had enlisted.

He could hear voices coming through the open door of the hall, but not John Thornbull’s. Damn, he couldn’t see him anywhere. Still, he could go in and have a look round. He’d never really examined the place properly, and with a few informed criticisms of the structure and its proposed renovations, he might still be able to persuade SOS into seeing the folly of the restoration proposal.

The cricket wives were gathered in the kitchen preparing tea for the afternoon match. Gavin looked in, smiled his most charming, and asked if he might wander round. “I’m a newcomer, as you already know,” he said, addressing Floss, who seemed to be in charge. Her Ben was captain of the team, and she presided over sandwiches and cakes and umpteen cups of tea.

Far from being bowled over by Gavin’s charm, Floss stared at him. “What do want to look round for?” she said sharply. “There’s nothing going on here today, except cricket.”

Gavin bridled. “In case you’ve forgotten,” he said, “I am a SOS committee member and have every right to come and inspect the ‘shed’ we’re intending to pour money into for its restoration. And in any case, I have a meeting scheduled with John Thornbull-”

“I suppose you can, then,” said Floss. “It’s just that we’ve been told to be very careful since the arson attempts. That’s all. Look round all you want, but don’t get in our way. Look, there’s John now, just parking his quad bike.”