Read Theft on Thursday for Free Online

for a moment on her own.
    “Can I get you a drink?” he said, standing smiling in front of her.
    She shook her head. “Thanks, no. Bill’s just gone to getone. I hate champagne, so he’s gone out to the kitchen for water. Knows his way around here, luckily.”
    “Ah yes, one of his cleaning jobs?” Sandy managed to convey a certain amount of contempt into the innocent question, and Rebecca was not slow to pick it up.
    “It is,” she said shortly. “And his expertise is much appreciated. And, as it happens, he’ll be off shortly to calve a cow up at the farm. Ever helped a cow deliver her calf, Sandy? No? Well, I thought not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better go and see where he is.”
    Sandy smiled sadly. Oops! he said to himself. Cocked up that one. Never mind, there’ll be lots of other chances. He gave himself a little shake, and moved away to survey other possible talent.
    Brian, meanwhile, was getting along splendidly. He towered over most of the guests, and as he bent his head down to listen to tales of county intrigue and village scandal, the general impression whispered from group to group was that they’d got a good man. A good man at last. One who would listen to them, and appreciate how things had always been done. A good man, who would recognize those who had influence and power, and conduct the business of God’s elect accordingly. A very pleasant atmosphere prevailed over the party, and when they began to drift away, effusive in their thanks to Mrs. Tollervey-Jones, the good folk of the parishes felt satisfied and looked forward to a period of calm and uncontroversial churchgoing.
    I N THE CHURCHYARD , WATCHING THE BIG CARS LEAVING Farnden Hall and winding their way through darkening lanes, old Cyril sat on the rickety wooden seat by the line of yew trees and chuckled. Poor chap! Full o’new ideas, no doubt. But they’d soon drum ‘em out of ‘im. Mrs. T-J and ‘er lot’d soon lick ‘im into shape.
    Cyril turned in his seat and stared up at the churchtower. There it was, same as every year. The date and time were exactly right. As he watched, a solitary brick, mysteriously included in the ironstone tower, glowed as if lit from within. There were no rays left from the dying sun, and no reason why a single brick should shine out into the night. Except that, as Cyril knew better than anyone, it was the anniversary of poor old Willy Mellish’s untimely death. Every year Cyril kept vigil, and now, as the glow slowly faded, he got to his feet and stumped off down the path. “Silly old fool,” he muttered to himself, as he passed the ancient gravestone with its ill-fated couple either side of their table. But there was a touch of sympathy in his voice. Women could be a terrible nuisance. Maybe he was better off without.

E IGHT

    L OIS HEARD THE TELEPHONE RINGING AS SHE CAME into the kitchen, and half-ran through to her office at the front of the house. “Hello? Oh, Derek, it’s you.”
    “Yep, it’s me,” Derek said. “Are you sitting comfortably?”
    “What d’you mean? What are you on about?”
    “Well, I just don’t want you falling down in a dead faint. The thing is, me duck, I just saw our Jamie walking hand in hand down the High Street in Tresham with a very attractive girl.”
    “So? Wouldn’t be the first girl he’s taken out, for goodness sake. He is eighteen, after all!”
    “Ah, but this one is different. She’s the granddaughter of that old boiler up at the Hall, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones. I seen her up there when I went to do a rewiring job in the stables. Annabelle, they call her, and she’s not more’n seventeen.”
    “Oh, blimey,” said Lois, sitting down. “He’s kept that under his hat, close little devil.”
    “I bet he’s told Gran,” Derek said.
    “Right. Well, if he has and she’s not said anything …”
    Lois’s voice was vengeful, so Derek said quickly, “Better go careful, me duck. We are living in the twenty-first century,