‘But . . .’
‘Promise me!’
‘All right, I promise,’ said Pearl.
Agatha nodded and relaxed back into her seat. ‘Where is Freddie anyway?’
‘He’s gone for a bike ride.’
‘Another one?’ cried Agatha. ‘He’s always out on that bike.’
‘He loves being in the countryside,’ said Pearl. ‘He’s got a whole stack of photographs: Pulborough, Steyning, Shoreham Harbour, Selsey . . . you name it, he’s been there. He says he’s going to write a book.’
Agatha frowned. ‘It must be costing him a fortune to get all those photographs developed.’
‘Oh, he does them all himself, Mummy. He’s created a darkroom in the cellar.’
Agatha tut-tutted her disapproval. ‘Has he mentioned taking you to see his castle yet?’
Pearl shook her head.
‘Doesn’t he want you to meet his family?’
Her daughter shrugged. ‘He doesn’t really talk about them.’
Agatha frowned again. ‘Well, he can’t stay here sponging off me for ever.
There was a pause, then Pearl said, ‘Are we really so poor, Mummy?’
‘There’s only the small annuity Charles left,’ said Agatha. ‘Your husband will support you, so I hope you won’t begrudge me having that.’
Pearl gasped in shocked surprise. ‘But that means I get nothing.’
‘Pearl, I have no other way to live,’ Agatha said coldly.
Pearl swayed slightly as the colour drained from her face. ‘It’s not fair,’ she cried. ‘Milly gets all this,’ she waved her hand expansively, ‘that gypsy creature gets the cottage, and meanwhile I get nothing.’
Agatha stood up to pour herself another drink. ‘I know, but that’s just how it is. It can’t be helped.’ As she came back to the sofa with her glass refilled, she rubbed her daughter’s arm. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I hate her,’ Pearl muttered. ‘I hate them both.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ her mother said dully. ‘So do I.’
Pearl smiled wanly. ‘There is one bit of good news, Mummy. I think I’m pregnant again.’
Agatha beamed. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful, darling. You clever girl. Have you seen Dr Jennings?’
‘Not yet,’ said Pearl, ‘but when I lost the first one, he said there’s no reason why I shouldn’t carry another one all the way.’
‘Of course, but you must be careful,’ Agatha agreed. ‘In fact, I think you should go and put your feet up right this minute.’
As soon as her daughter had gone upstairs to rest, Agatha tipped the bottle over the glass once again. What was she going to do? There was precious little money coming in. Pearl was used to spending it like water, and that husband of hers didn’t seem to be very eager to put his hand into his pocket. Tight-fisted twerp. She looked around the room. That picture above the fireplace . . . could it be an original? And that vase . . . she’d always hated that thing. It had been a gift from her mother-in-law on their wedding day. Old Mrs Shepherd was rolling in it, but she wouldn’t be putting anything Agatha’s way. They’d crossed swords years ago. She couldn’t even remember when they’d last spoken.
Agatha walked over to the vase to take a closer look. Called Gold and Orange, it was by Otto Thamm; it was probably worth a bob or two. She picked it up and something inside rattled. She tipped it over and some beads fell out. One of the girls must have put them in there when they were children. Agatha turned them over in her hands. Horrible black things. There wasn’t even a hole in them to thread a string through. She threw them back inside.
A plan was forming in her mind. She had always thought Muntham Court was cluttered, but Charles had been far too sentimental to get rid of anything. The fashion now was simplicity. She would tell everyone she was redecorating. She would find some up-and-coming interior decorator (that would be cheaper) and begin to minimalise . . . tell everyone she was putting all this stuff in the loft, but instead, she’d sell it to the highest bidder. Mrs Cunningham could spend her last week washing all the dust off and wrapping everything up for her. She smiled to herself. It would kill two birds with one stone. That little minx Millicent might be getting the house, but Agatha would make sure she didn’t have its treasures.
On her way to work a couple of days later, Milly noticed that the paper boy who stood next to the Old Town Hall was doing a brisk trade. ‘Read all abou’ it. Read all abou’ it. Ferocious h’animal on the loose. Extra police drafted in. Get your News Chronicle ’ere.’
Milly bought a copy and fanned it out as she headed towards Hubbard’s. Half the front page was taken up with a picture of Seebold and the driver of the road train. She stopped in the street to read the accompanying article with some sense of alarm.
The inhabitants of the seaside town of Worthing were advised by the police to lock their doors and close their windows yesterday for their own safety when it was discovered that a vicious wolf-like animal was on the loose from the Worthing Wonderland entertainment establishment run by Mr Seebold Flowers. Local farmers have banded together with motor vehicles to scour the countryside around the River Adur. The mystery of what happened to the animal deepened when the driver of a road train told our reporter that he stopped to relieve himself somewhere along the A283. Although he was responsible for the animals in his care, he had failed to notice that the cage containing the wolf was damaged. ‘’E must have broke out then,’ said Mr Alfred Penrose, 52, of Jefferies Lane, Goring. Sergeant Littlejohn of the Worthing police force urged people not to panic. ‘We have the matter in hand,’ he said. ‘We have alerted local animal trainers and we anticipate the beast will soon be apprehended.’
Milly felt a bit sick. This was obviously getting serious. Poor Seebold; he must be frantic with worry. Her eye was drawn to the Stop Press column at the side of the page. Wolf spotted in garden. Police are investigating.
Oh dear, oh dear. What could she do to help? He might be in love with someone else, but Seebold was still her friend and he’d always been kind to her. She glanced at her watch. If she could get the display in the big window finished this morning, then she could catch a bus along the seafront at lunchtime and be there by one o’clock. It was only right that she should support him in his hour of need.
Crump and his photographer exchanged a sly glance at each other as they looked at the Worthing Gazette. ‘Got your story now, Archie,’ Bert muttered from the corner of his mouth.
Crump suppressed a smile. ‘Better than that, Bert. Got a bloody scoop, haven’t we.’
It was four o’clock by the time Milly arrived at the Worthing Wonderland. The display had taken longer than she had anticipated. Then, just as she had been about to set off, Mr Johnson had called an emergency meeting of staff in the canteen, where he announced that Hubbard’s would be closing early today and would not be opening tomorrow.
‘The safety of you all is paramount,’ he said gravely. ‘I’ve no wish to alarm anybody, but we have no idea where this ferocious beast may be. It’s been missing for over forty-eight hours and by now it must be hungry.’
Several of the younger assistants whimpered or cried out in distress.
‘As soon as the store is closed,’ he went on, ‘every girl is to go straight home. Inspector Young has told me that extra buses will be laid on and the bus stop is right outside. Do not, I repeat, do not hang around. Go straight home.’
