The Penningtons by Pamela Oldfield Page A

room,’ she told him, ‘and a silver backed hair brush and mirror which my husband gave me for a wedding present.’
    ‘Any of it worth anything?’ He paused in his note-taking.
    ‘Worth anything?’ she repeated angrily. ‘Most certainly they were worth something. They were silver backed! A considerable amount, in fact, constable, not to mention the sentimental value!’
    He wrote again and turned the page. ‘Roughly how much, would you say – for the clock?’
    ‘I would have to consult my insurer. Everything of worth has been listed . . . and my diamond and garnet ring has gone!’ It had gone from the dressing table, she reflected with a shiver of realization. ‘That man was upstairs, in my bedroom, while I was sleeping! I might have been murdered in my bed!’ She watched for his reaction. Surely he would be as horrified as she was.
    He said, ‘Good job he didn’t then, or this would be a murder scene! Think yourself lucky, Mrs Manning.’
    Dilys felt like slapping him. ‘It’s Maynard,’ she reminded him and spelled it for him. ‘And for your information, I don’t feel at all lucky!’ He seemed impervious to shock and outrage. Perhaps stolidity was one of the requirements for young police cadets. She felt totally violated but he was treating it as a routine burglary.
    ‘Maynard,’ he repeated and gave her a sudden smile. ‘I knew a man called Maynard once. Long time ago. He was a teacher at my school. Terrible wild hair, he had. Mangy Maynard we called him, the way you do at school. A nickname, you see. Mangy like a lion has a mangy mane.’
    Dilys stared into his young blue eyes and prayed that he would never be given a promotion.
    He finished his cocoa and picked up his pencil. ‘Now can you describe this man you think you saw in the . . .’
    ‘I didn’t think I saw him, I did see him!’
    ‘But it was dark, you said.’
    ‘I saw his shape – tall and thin with an intense stare and a . . .’
    ‘It was dark and in the garden but you could see his intense stare?’
    ‘Only because I’ve seen him before.’ She explained the incident in the soup kitchen. ‘It’s him. I’m sure of it.’
    ‘Knows . . . the . . . perpetrator . . .’ he wrote then glanced up.
    ‘You make it sound as though he’s an acquaintance,’ Dilys protested. ‘I didn’t say that.’
    ‘What is he then – a friend, a neighbour, what exactly?’
    ‘A friend ?’ She almost groaned. ‘A friend would hardly break into my house and steal from me!’
    ‘But you said you know the man.’
    ‘I don’t know him. I recognized him from that earlier incident at the soup kitchen. I don’t know who he is but at the time I had a distinct feeling that he meant me harm.’
    ‘And you can’t imagine anyone carrying a grudge for something in the past? Could he be someone you or your husband sacked? A lazy gardener? Someone like that?’
    ‘I can’t think of anyone.’ She looked at him helplessly.
    ‘A jilted lover from your past?’
    ‘For heaven’s sake!’ she snapped. ‘Now you’re being ridiculous!’
    ‘Just asking,’ he said, unperturbed, and added a few more words to his report. ‘You never know.’
    ‘I’m a perfectly respectable widow. Put that in your notebook!’
    After a pause, he said, ‘Maybe he assumes that all the people involved in the soup kitchen must be filthy rich so are worth robbing!’
    ‘I suppose we are, in their eyes.’ Dilys was thinking hard. ‘Has there been a similar break-in at the homes of any of the others who help at the soup kitchen?’ Her enthusiasm for the theory was growing. ‘If there have been similar incidents then it’s a pattern. You could cross-check any similar burglaries and—’
    ‘Are you telling me how to do my job, Mrs Maynard?’ He spoke mildly and he seemed quite taken with her idea. ‘I dare say that if you are poor enough you must almost hate rich people. They’ve got nothing and, by comparison, the “do-gooders” have