Marigold, and had said she thought it was time that Fred faced up to the gravity of the situation. ‘He won’t allow himself to believe she’s dying. And he should have more sense than to think money can solve everything,’ she had said. ‘It’s going to hit him hard when it happens.’ At that point Dorothy had clammed up, realising – too late – that it was another painful reminder for Rose.
‘I’ll be going to the funeral,’ Doreen continued. ‘I’m sure most of Fred’s customers will be there. I wonder if he’ll close the shop that day, too? Out of respect, like. Dear me, it’s ages since I’ve been to one, do people still wear black? Doesn’t seem right somehow, not for someone so young. She was only in her forties.’
‘Wear whatever you feel comfortable in, Doreen,’ Rose answered, allowing her chatter to drift over her head. Face to face she enjoyed her company but it was often difficult to end a telephone conversation. Rose finally replaced the receiver. Having met Fred on so few occasions she wondered if it was appropriate to send a message of condolence. On the other hand they had both been friends of Dorothy so there was a mutual, if tenuous bond. She got out a pen and some paper.
Twice during the course of the day Rose heard the telephone ringing but she did not bother to answer it – she rarely did if she was working. There were many jobs to catch up on and she wanted them all out of the way before she sat down and made some serious plans, which she intended doing that evening.
Later she carefully rewrote the note to Fred Meecham, realising as she did so what the many people who had written to her during her bereavement had gone through. Almost satisfied she put down her pen. The phone rang again. Unthinkingly she reached out a hand and picked up the receiver, resting it between her shoulder and her ear. ‘Hello?’ she said cheerfully.
‘Keep out of it. Just keep out of it or you’re dead.’
‘But …? Who are you?’ But the line had been disconnected. Rose sat very still as she tried to work out if she had heard that voice before. She did not think so. And keep out of what? Dialling 1471 she learned that the caller had withheld their number. She was not easily frightened but that evening she turned on the lights before they were strictly needed.
Fear turned to anger. She would not be intimidated by anyone, least of all an anonymous caller. Despite her intentions not to do as Jack had requested and speak to the Pengelly family, she changed her mind. Whoever had threatened her knew something which could only be connected with Dorothy’s death. But why the threat? What had she done to induce it? Nothing, as far as she knew. Not yet.
6
The unexpectedness of his mother’s death had shocked Peter Pengelly more than the event itself. When Gwen had told him, he had had to get out of the house. The overwhelming grief he felt was genuine, worsened by his sense of guilt. None of this hit him at first. Since then the police had been back, wanting to know if Dorothy had complained of feeling ill or depressed or if she had expressed any financial worries or any worries whatsoever. Shamefully Peter had admitted that they did not see much of his mother.
For the first time in his life he viewed his childhood days objectively. He had never been as close to his mother as Martin and, since the day he had started school, he had steadily grown away from her. He wondered if this was because Martin had remained at home for another two years and therefore he was jealous or if he had always suspected his brother was the favourite.
As a child and a young man Peter had found his mother odd, even eccentric, although he wasn’t sure why. She was a good deal older than most of the mothers who collected their children from school, some no more than girls themselves who had married at sixteen or seventeen. Peter could have borne the age discrepancy if Dorothy had not gone out of her way to disregard
‘I’ll be going to the funeral,’ Doreen continued. ‘I’m sure most of Fred’s customers will be there. I wonder if he’ll close the shop that day, too? Out of respect, like. Dear me, it’s ages since I’ve been to one, do people still wear black? Doesn’t seem right somehow, not for someone so young. She was only in her forties.’
‘Wear whatever you feel comfortable in, Doreen,’ Rose answered, allowing her chatter to drift over her head. Face to face she enjoyed her company but it was often difficult to end a telephone conversation. Rose finally replaced the receiver. Having met Fred on so few occasions she wondered if it was appropriate to send a message of condolence. On the other hand they had both been friends of Dorothy so there was a mutual, if tenuous bond. She got out a pen and some paper.
Twice during the course of the day Rose heard the telephone ringing but she did not bother to answer it – she rarely did if she was working. There were many jobs to catch up on and she wanted them all out of the way before she sat down and made some serious plans, which she intended doing that evening.
Later she carefully rewrote the note to Fred Meecham, realising as she did so what the many people who had written to her during her bereavement had gone through. Almost satisfied she put down her pen. The phone rang again. Unthinkingly she reached out a hand and picked up the receiver, resting it between her shoulder and her ear. ‘Hello?’ she said cheerfully.
‘Keep out of it. Just keep out of it or you’re dead.’
‘But …? Who are you?’ But the line had been disconnected. Rose sat very still as she tried to work out if she had heard that voice before. She did not think so. And keep out of what? Dialling 1471 she learned that the caller had withheld their number. She was not easily frightened but that evening she turned on the lights before they were strictly needed.
Fear turned to anger. She would not be intimidated by anyone, least of all an anonymous caller. Despite her intentions not to do as Jack had requested and speak to the Pengelly family, she changed her mind. Whoever had threatened her knew something which could only be connected with Dorothy’s death. But why the threat? What had she done to induce it? Nothing, as far as she knew. Not yet.
6
The unexpectedness of his mother’s death had shocked Peter Pengelly more than the event itself. When Gwen had told him, he had had to get out of the house. The overwhelming grief he felt was genuine, worsened by his sense of guilt. None of this hit him at first. Since then the police had been back, wanting to know if Dorothy had complained of feeling ill or depressed or if she had expressed any financial worries or any worries whatsoever. Shamefully Peter had admitted that they did not see much of his mother.
For the first time in his life he viewed his childhood days objectively. He had never been as close to his mother as Martin and, since the day he had started school, he had steadily grown away from her. He wondered if this was because Martin had remained at home for another two years and therefore he was jealous or if he had always suspected his brother was the favourite.
As a child and a young man Peter had found his mother odd, even eccentric, although he wasn’t sure why. She was a good deal older than most of the mothers who collected their children from school, some no more than girls themselves who had married at sixteen or seventeen. Peter could have borne the age discrepancy if Dorothy had not gone out of her way to disregard
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