Free Theft on Thursday by Ann Purser Page B

still.
    Lois slowed up, and found herself tiptoeing forward. Nobody said anything, until a sobbing Sharon turned and saw her. “Mrs. T-J’s gone for the doctor,” she said. “He’ll be OK, Mrs. Meade, won’t he?”
    Lois looked down at Sandy’s white face, saw the purplish-blue line around his mouth, the froth trickling down his chin, and thought it best not to answer.

F IFTEEN

    A S DAWN BROKE ON A GREY , MISTY MORNING , B RIAN Rollinson sat beside a hospital bed containing the slight, white-faced figure of Sandy Mackerras, son of his dearest friend Gerald, and wept. The nightmare had continued throughout the long hours after Lois Meade had appeared at his door. The doctor had been all efficiency and calm, the ambulance men wonderfully strong and reassuring; but then that girl from the shop had been completely hysterical and upset all the other women in the choir.
    It had been left to Lois and Jamie to bring some sense and order, ably assisted by Mrs. T-J. After Sandy had gone, Brian had found himself being organized. “Give me the key,” Lois had said, “and Jamie and me’ll lock up. You get going. Get your car and follow the ambulance. We’ll take care of the rest. You can ring me if you want—let me know what’s happening.”
    Mrs. T-J, coming into her own, had ordered lesser sopranos and altos to pack up their books and get along home. Bill, objecting to being bossed around by a tiresomeold woman, had dug in his toes. “I’ll stay, and Rebecca, and help Lois,” he’d said firmly. “Goodnight, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones. Mind how you go. That broken paving is lethal.” He’d bitten his tongue. Not the most tactful thing to say, when the apparently lifeless body of the choirmaster had just been stretchered out of the church.
    Now a young nurse appeared at Brian’s side. “Would you like a cup of tea, Rev. Rollinson? Perhaps you should have a break. There’s really nothing you can do. We’ve got a machine in the corridor. Tea or coffee. Or hot chocolate, but that tastes of gravy!” She smiled gently, but realized that she was not getting through to the ravaged-looking parson huddled on an uncomfortable chair, tears streaming down his cheeks.
    I N THE WARM , BREAKFAST - SMELLING KITCHEN , G RAN was busy with her frying pan. She had woken early, feeling much stronger, and decided things were back to normal … for her, anyway. That poor young Sandy was another matter. Lois would be down soon, telling her off for doing too much, and then perhaps there’d be more news. By the time Lois and Jamie had returned from the church last night, Gran had already gone up to bed. Derek had been snoring in front of the television. Lois always nudged him awake, but Gran hadn’t the energy. She had made a hot drink and retired to bed with a book. Half an hour later, hearing raised voices, she had gone out on to the landing and listened. Lois and Jamie were both talking at once, and Derek was trying to calm them down. Then she heard her own name mentioned, and decided to find out what was up.
    “Mum!” Lois had looked at her anxiously. “How are you feeling? No worse?”
    Then they’d told her what had happened to Sandy, and she had reassured them that
she
was not about to collapse.
    Lois now appeared in the kitchen, and Gran put up her hand in self-defence. “Before you start,” she said, “I’m feeling fine. Never felt better. And the best thing you can do is sit down and have some of this delicious bacon I got in Tresham. Better than that stuff of the Carrs. Sometimes I wonder how long things are hanging around at the back of that shop.”
    “Yes, well,” said Lois, sitting down reluctantly. She ate her breakfast without speaking, and then suddenly looked up at her mother. “Here Mum, you know what you just said?”
    “What?” said Gran, pushing two slices of brown bread into the toaster. “What did I just say?”
    “About the shop,” said Lois. “You know, about stuff hanging around. Do you reckon it