They were standing in the hall, both staring at the ringing telephone. At last, Rayne looked up at Miss Mullond expectantly.
“It keeps doing that,” she said.
Rayne couldn’t believe his ears. Plonking the basket down, he said, “You’re supposed to answer it.” He crossed to the little table and picked up the receiver. His eyes on Amelia, he said, “Hello … Yes, it is … I don’t know … Yes she is … All right, I’ll try.” He held out the receiver and beckoned Amelia over. “It’s Mr Pierpoint. He wants to speak to you,” he urged, making it sound as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Ask him what he wants.”
“Miss Mullond wants to know what you want … Oh … Right … I’m not sure, really. I’ll have to ask me mother … Er, right you are, sir … Goodbye.” Rayne replaced the receiver and walked back along the hall, picking up the basket on the way. As he lugged it into the kitchen, he beckoned for Amelia to follow him. “I’ll tell you in here. Come on then. Let’s see to this little lot while we’re at it.”
He started to unpack the basket on the kitchen drainer. “Mr Pierpoint says his wife is coming to visit first thing tomorrow to keep you company. Some workmen will be coming with her to see to the outside of the house. But you’re not to worry about it! And if Mam lets me, I’ll be here too.”
Amelia scowled, worrying about the disruption and, more importantly, the tread of men’s big feet on her property. Then she spotted the goods amassing on her pristine draining board. She clip-clopped over to examine the perishable gifts.
There was a big bunch of carrots, a spring cabbage with immaculate dark green leaves, a small, unblemished cauliflower, a floret of broccoli, (poor man’s asparagus, Lizzy always called it) some runner beans and a small portion of new potatoes. Lizzy had taken the trouble to wash the mud off the vegetables and had also added a small tin box, the lid of which Rayne opened to allow Amelia a peek inside. It contained one of Lizzy’s famous Cornish pasties.
Not since just before Daddy had died had Amelia seen such fare, and she was already casting about in her memory for how to prepare and cook the produce. A picture of herself and her mother sitting at the pine table shedding peas suddenly came to mind and brought a rare smile to her face. After Mummy had died, Daddy had managed for them well enough without bringing anyone in. And he had taught her how to cook potatoes in all their various guises.
“What shall we do with it?”
“Do with it?” Rayne shrieked good-naturedly. “Cook and eat it, of course.” Pausing to think, he tried to remember the many times he had seen Lizzy preparing meals. Puzzled, he asked, “Can’t you cook?”
Amelia sucked on a finger and shook her head. Then she changed her mind and said, “A bit.” “What do you normally eat, Miss Mullond?”
Amelia knew Rita’s never-changing list by heart: milk, potatoes, bread, cake, biscuits, eggs, bacon, jam, precisely seven tins of Campbell’s Scotch Broth, and exactly the right amount of dog food for eight dogs. And tea, sugar and butter when she needed it. Rita usually made two separate deliveries every week.
“For breakfast I have bacon and eggs. For lunch I have bread and jam. For dinner I have chips or jacket potato. For supper I have soup. In between I have cake or biscuits.” Amelia was growing accustomed to longer speeches since making friends with Rayne.
“Every day?”
Amelia gave him a tight nod, then shrugged.
“Crikey! What about greens and such?”
Amelia shook her head.
Mimicking Lizzy’s undoubted outrage, Rayne gasped. “You have to eat your greens, Miss Mullond, to stay healthy.” Though he wasn’t partial himself, of course, but good sense prevented him from letting this slip.
“I like potatoes.”
“Ooh, so do I. Especially mashed up with butter and milk. But that’s neither here nor there. You still have to eat your greens, or you’ll get –” Rayne arrested his rebuke just in time to prevent the word fat tripping off his tongue. Instead he went on: “You’ll end up poorly if you don’t.”
Considering what she had been through at the age of eleven and since survived to the age of seventy, Amelia wasn’t unduly bothered. But Rayne’s little lecture made her realize how utterly boring her diet had become since Daddy had died.
It seemed to Rayne that if he didn’t sort this out here and now his family’s good wishes might very well end up wasted and thrown in the bin. He set about dividing a small portion of each vegetable. Then, looking around, he guessed the door to the pantry, opened it and placed the rest of them on the cold slab. Back at the sink he ran the tap into the bowl and asked for a sharp knife. Indicating for her to keep a close watch, Rayne showed her how to prepare the vegetables. The carrots ended up a funny shape, but he did the best he could, having never tried this before. When the pans were filled, Amelia helped transfer them to the gas cooker.
All the while they worked Rayne chattered on about anything he thought would interest Miss Mullond.
“Now,” he said, “all you have to do is add a pinch of salt and boil them up for a bit.” He desperately sifted through his memory for a precise time. In the end he told her he thought it would likely be about twenty minutes, or thereabouts. “I think you have to keep feeling if they’re still hard or something with a fork.”
He paused, his face puckering up with thought. Suddenly inspired, he blurted, “If Grandpa was here, I bet he’d know exactly how long it would take. He’s grown all this lot in the garden, you know. He picked it this morning especially for you. He came here with me. You know, you saw him through the window. That was him, my grandpa. He knew you well, Miss Mullond, from school. His name’s Andrew Holdcroft. Do you remember him?”
There wasn’t a glimmer of response in her expression. As the silence began to stretch, Rayne began to feel a little awkward at his remark, which would go unanswered he realized. He set aside his frustration and went back to the lesson on cooking. “Well, anyway, I’ve seen Mam sticking a fork in to see if they’re done. You’ll have to do the same.”
“Meat and three veg,” Amelia suddenly murmured.
Crikey! Grandpa’s garden didn’t run to a slaughterhouse as well.
“Er, that’s right. That’s what you usually have.” Rayne stared at the pots on the stove, wondering how to overcome this little snag. “I know! You can have Mam’s Cornish pasty. It’ll go down a treat with all this.” Gravy? And if you’ve got no gravy browning and flour to make gravy, you can pour a tin of your soup over it.” Rayne settled back in a self-satisfied posture, swollen with pride at all the sorting he had done. “Don’t forget to heat up your pasty along with the veg – pasty in the oven, of course – and get your soup hot and ready just before you dish it all out.” There!
Amelia nodded, her eyes now flashing furiously between stove, oven and the pantry door.
On checking the clock and seeing the time, Rayne suddenly remembered that Andrew would be waiting for him by the smugglers’ steps by now. He had never known the time to speed by so fast. Wiping his still damp hands on the back of his trousers, he said, “I’ll have to get going now, Miss Mullond. Grandpa will be waiting along the cliff edge for me. He’s going to walk back with me. Only, Mam won’t let me out on me own just now. You know, since Jimmy Lecky was found murdered. I expect she will soon, though. Then I can come and visit you whenever I want – if that’s all right with you. Er, what I mean is I rather like coming here.” He left it at that, afraid to say anything more on the matter lest he make a fool of himself.
All the while he had been speaking, Amelia had been counting off something with her fingers. On his final word she brought her eyes back to Rayne and nodded that she understood.
As they walked out together, Rayne plucked up the courage to ask, “Can I help with feeding the dogs the next time I come.”
Threatening another smile, she nodded again.
“Now, don’t forget. If you need anything, Mr Pierpoint’s number is on the table by the telephone. All you have to do is dial the numbers, like I showed you before. There’s no money to put in. All right?”
Another slow nod. But as Rayne turned to go through the door he was heartened to hear her say: “I remember Andrew. He used to save my sweets for me.” She didn’t add that she was the only one who ever had any sweets. The other children in her class were prone to pinching them, and they always seemed a bit jealous for reasons she had never understood.
*
Rayne was given a straight choice between birdwatching and trainspotting. He chose the latter, thinking there would be far more interesting activity down at the railway station rather than in Fennel Wood, which at best he always found a tad eerie and at the worst claustrophobic. He much preferred the wide open spaces of the beach and countryside where one could breathe. In the end though, Lenny reneged on the deal and insisted on going birdwatching. A brotherly quarrel ensued, which Rayne eventually lost because Lizzy refused to intervene. Rayne tried to rope in Andrew, complaining bitterly about Lenny’s mean turnaround. Arms akimbo and giving a shrug of impartiality, Andrew also withdrew from the fray. Crushed, Rayne finally agreed to tag along, reckoning that birdwatching had to be better than trying to keep Alice entertained – which Lizzy had warned was the only other option open to him.
Equipped with a British bird pocketbook and a prized set of second-hand binoculars, they set off, Lizzy’s strident warning to stay together ringing in their ears. Coaxed by Andrew, Rayne was wearing his Dick Barton badge once more and carrying his dog-eared notebook. He was also acting the roll of packhorse, carrying a bag of sandwiches, two hefty and equal slices of fruitcake, a bottle of water, and their plastic macs in case it rained.
Halfway to Fennel Wood Rayne passed the bottle to Lenny, smirking and cheekily telling him that, since he was only nine, he didn’t need to develop his muscles just yet. Rayne had unexpectedly come upon Lenny during his exercises and was still teasing him, the novelty of the discovery having yet to wear off.
*
Constable Turner warily unwrapped his ham sandwiches, trying not to reveal his presence by the careless rattle of greaseproof paper. Hidden in a small niche on the outskirts of the spoilt dell in Fennel Wood he felt quite cosy for once as he kept a vigilant watch, conversely enjoying the solitude with only the odd confrontation of a startled creature to disturb the tranquillity. On this occasion he had chosen to bring a banana for dessert, the loud crunch of an apple the day before having defeated his silent vigil in the hushed and peaceful setting.
He had taken to spending his lunch breaks concealed in the copse, and the odd hour now and then in his own time for the sole purpose of keeping the crime scene under close surveillance in the hope of catching the animal torturer red-handed. After all, he reasoned, since the criminal had returned twice to the scene of his heinous acts, there was every chance he would come back again.
His wife Hilda was accustomed to enjoying his company at midday and had grumbled about the uncalled-for sacrifice. But he had been stung by Inspector Benton’s harsh criticism after last Sunday’s unsuccessful raid, and this was his way of making up for it. As he quietly packed away the debris from the remains of his simple but satisfying repast the crackle of a human footfall in the dense undergrowth crept up on his pricked ears. All movement on his part suddenly ceased. He sat rigidly still, his eyes keenly roaming the thick scrub for a sight to match the invasive sound.