Free Threats at Three by Ann Purser Page B

the window, an’ he wouldn’t have a hope in hell if he tried carrying a petrol can. Must’ve been handed to him once he was inside.”
    “So why didn’t he set fire to it there an’ then?” Gran said, beating eggs as if they had insulted her.
    “He’d got to get out first,” Derek said. His attention was now fully on what Lois was saying. “Probably frightened off—maybe by us—before he could throw a match in. Ye Gods, Lois,” he added. “It don’t bear thinkin’ about, the damage they could’ve done. Is Cowgill taking action? You told him about the Hickson lot, I hope?”
    He could’ve bitten his tongue out. Lois’s face darkened, and she turned on her heel and stalked out of the kitchen.
    “Oh, dear,” Gran said. “I should lay off that one, Derek, if I were you. Let’s wait an’ see what the police find out.”
    Derek sighed. “I wish we’d never heard of the bloody police,” he said.
    “Language,” Gran said automatically. “Go on,” she added, “go and make your peace. And don’t forget that I’m on your side, as well as Lois’s.”
    At this piece of lousy logic, Derek burst out laughing and went off to find Lois.

FOURTEEN

    F ATHER RODNEY WALKED BRISKLY THROUGH THE OLD CEMETERY, across the road and into the churchyard. The clock struck ten o’clock as he quickened his step through the rose bushes and fragrant lavender to greet the bell ringers, who were already waiting to go into the church.
    “We’ve had more turnover than Tesco’s,” Tony Dibson said, catching sight of the vicar. He was pushing his wheelchair-bound wife up the uneven path, just as he did every Sunday for morning service. She listened while the bell ringers, including Tony, rang out the peals, if a little unevenly, across the surrounding countryside. “Come to church, come to church,” they seemed to call.
    The vicar, smoothing his wiry hair in front of the small, cracked mirror in the vestry, wished the call was answered by more people than the elderly faithful few who turned up, rain or shine, to worship their Maker and reserve a place for themselves in the hereafter.
    The Dibsons had arrived inside the church, and Irene said, “What did you mean, about Tesco’s and turnover?” Tony pushed her to a suitable place where she would not block the exit in case of fire. The thought of fire reminded him of the village hall and he wondered if Lois had found out anything more.
    “Tony! What did you mean?” Irene could see his mind was elsewhere, but persisted.
    “Vicars,” he said. “Turnover in vicars. They never stay long in Farnden. Must be something about this village.”
    “Nothing wrong with us,” Irene said, “except maybe we could do with a few more in church. Go on, then, I’m all right. Off you go. Get ringing, boy.”
     
     
    THE VILLAGE HALL AND THE PLAYING FIELD AT THE REAR WERE approached by a narrow lane, and Gavin Adstone walked along trying to avoid piles of horse dung left by a group of girls on ponies heading for the bridle path that led out of the playing field and over the stream. “More horses than people in this village,” he muttered to himself, cursing as a dollop of the sticky stuff stuck to the toe of his shoe. “And the horses would win in an IQ test every time,” he added angrily.
    He was heading for a meeting with John Thornbull, the only member of the SOS committee who might possibly be persuaded to Gavin’s point of view. John was a practical man, a farmer with education and a small daughter a year or two older than Cecelia. He was more likely to be able to see a future for Long Farnden than the rest of the old codgers or dim-witted women Derek Meade had enlisted.
    He could hear voices coming through the open door of the hall, but not John Thornbull’s. Damn, he couldn’t see him anywhere. Still, he could go in and have a look round. He’d never really examined the place properly, and with a few informed criticisms of the structure and its proposed renovations,