Palmer-Jones 04 - A Prey to Murder by Ann Cleeves Read Free Book Online

the tenacity with which they pursued the gossip. Veronica set down the tray then hovered by the table, waiting until the WI ladies were out of earshot before asking:
    ‘Have you seen Mother? I haven’t seen her for ages. I was afraid she might have gone to the hill again to check on those blasted birds.’
    Her tone was that of the school hockey team captain concerned about a wayward but respected member of the squad, but it seemed to Molly that she was very worried.
    ‘I saw her earlier,’ Molly said. ‘She was watching the folk singers. That was more than an hour ago.’
    ‘I expect she’ll be back soon,’ Veronica said. ‘This afternoon’s been a great success, hasn’t it? She’ll want to be here so the committee can thank her.’
    Then she left them, and began to pile plates in an inefficient heap on the tray before Molly could decide whether any criticism of Eleanor was implied in the last comment.
    Fanny had enjoyed the event much more than she had expected. In the morning she and her father hid in the office, like naughty schoolchildren, so Eleanor could not find them and bully them into helping her. Although her father was working, answering phone calls and writing letters, they giggled together whenever they heard Eleanor’s voice, loud and clear travelling through the house:
    ‘Has anyone seen Fanny? I need her to run into town for me. Where is that child?’
    The office was at the back of the house and looked on to the hill. It was invisible from the gardens and they remained concealed.
    This is how it should always be, Richard Mead thought. I should make more time for Frances. Eleanor ruined Veronica’s life. Why should she spoil Helen’s and Fanny’s? His younger daughter had always been special to him. She had been a placid and smiling baby. He had taken photographs of her lying on a rug on the grass in the small garden behind his shop. He wished she never had to grow up. I’m only doing my best for them, he thought. All this work is only for them. One day the business will be theirs and they will have money to be independent.
    Fanny lay on the office floor on her stomach reading a teenage pop magazine. She was not usually allowed into the office. It was Eleanor’s special place. Although it was his work place not even her father was made to feel welcome. But today Fanny felt at home there and was happy.
    After lunch her father had to take floats of change to the stalls administered solely by the Wildlife Trust. He winked at Fanny to show that although he was working for Eleanor now, he and Fanny were still allies. They shared the secret of their morning in the office. He asked if Fanny would like to go with him but she refused. It would be more fun to go to the kitchen to irritate Mrs Oliver. The game of annoying Nan Oliver had something of a child’s dare in it because Fanny was frightened of Mrs Oliver, more frightened of her cold scorn than her anger. Sometimes the girl tried to win the woman’s approval by offering to help to wash up, by baking a cake as she had been taught at school and showing it off. But the scorn remained.
    ‘You’re no help,’ Mrs Oliver would say. ‘You leave more mess than you clear up. If you were my daughter things would be different.’
    So Fanny had given up trying to please and only went to the kitchen to make mischief. Today there was hardly any sport in the game. Nan Oliver, stony with resentment at the invasion of her kitchen, stood making sandwiches, surrounded by wire trays of scones and cakes. A big urn, borrowed from the cricket club, was hissing and steaming because no one knew how to turn it down. When she saw Fanny, Nan Oliver gave her two jam tarts and an éclair to get rid of her. It had never been so easy. Eating the cakes, Fanny wandered outside.
    It was all more fun than she had imagined. She soon forgot that she was a bored and cynical teenager and that she had resented missing her Sunday afternoon outing with her parents. Because she