Freddie had a tangled relationship with his mother. Agatha Hoskins was a determined woman with steely blue eyes, steel rimmed glasses, steel-grey hair, and a steely expression when she was out of sorts, which was quite often. She had a bias towards cashmere twinsets and sensible tweed skirts, and could sometimes be cruel to those she regarded as weak.
She had led an unhappy, and sometimes a tough, life. She had begun well – as a pleasant looking girl, the only child of a prosperous electrical contractor in Windsor. Gardner and Moore, the family firm, had been well respected locally, and had worked on royal and military contracts at Windsor Castle and Combermere Barracks. Her father, Gerald Gardner, had wanted her to marry a nice young man, possibly heir to one of the engineering businesses flourishing on the Slough Trading Estate. But Agatha had been wilful. She had married a man from Slough, sure enough, but a car salesman working for his father in a showroom on the Bath Road. Ronnie Hoskins had been typical of the forecourt breed, smooth and shifty-eyed, with brylcreemed hair, a pencil moustache, and a fondness for sharp double-breasted suits with wide lapels and baggy trousers.
Gerald Gardner had mistrusted him on sight, but Ronnie had swept Agatha off her feet. He was a good dancer – ‘almost to championship standards’ he told Agatha, and Agatha told her friends. He owned a silver Jaguar, and was fond of taking her up to the West End. He was flash with his money, because Agatha presented a good catch. Soon she became pregnant, and they were married at St. Georges. Gerald Gardner paid for an impressive wedding, and the young couple honeymooned in Venice.
Then they set up home in a nice detached house in Farnham Royal. However Ronnie soon began to show his true colours. He took the receptionist at his father’s showroom out dancing when Agatha became pregnant, and was also reputed to be seeing a married woman in Beaconsfield, not to mention a girl still in school at the Brigidines convent in Windsor, and assorted young bits in Ascot and Bracknell. Something went wrong with his father’s business, and there was dark talk of Ronnie having his hand in the till. Soon afterwards he vanished, and it was said he had gone to South Africa, or possibly South Australia, or even South America. Some whispered that he had been waylaid by an angry husband, and that his body was buried at the refuse tip in Burnham.
Agatha had gone home to her father, taking baby Freddie with her. But sadly chagrin had then wrought further toll on the Gardner family. Agnes, Agatha’s mother, suffering a momentary lapse of concentration on the newly built M4 motorway, had been crushed between two heavy trucks. Ronnie’s depredations had busted his father’s car business, and the smooth car salesman with the pencil moustache managed thereby to ruin both families, for Gerald had been rash enough to sign a bank guarantee. Ronnie’s father took to drink, whilst Gerald fell prey to depression, and progressively withered away. Agatha was left struggling to care for both her son, and her father, on precious little money in a large house representing the only relic of past family prosperity.
Then she had met Grant Standing. Grant was an antique dealer, who had called one day to look at some Victorian prints she wished to sell, and made much of Freddie, a very pretty boy at the time. He had begun to visit regularly, and Agatha had flattered herself that he was finding her interesting, until she realised that Grant really preferred Freddie. But he was a kindly man, and wealthy, and took both Hoskins under his wing, so as to speak. Agatha buried her father, and became Grant’s housekeeper, in a strange menage a trois that saw Grant sleep sometimes with the mother, and sometimes with the son, but never with both of them at the same time. The three travelled throughout Europe, visiting stately homes and palaces and museums, and Grant taught mother and son everything he knew. Then he had set Freddie up in a shop, left all his money to mother and son, and died. Freddie had prospered, until a family battle over Leticia set him back a bit, and forced him to sell Jennifer a half share in his business. Jennifer had just finished bringing up a child of her own, and was looking for something to do. She was keen and knowledgeable, and was deft: keen to restore furniture, after just having completed a course in upholstery, with money to spare – for Charlie still ranked as a bright light in the City at the time. The shop had prospered anew, and was now doing better than ever.
Agatha liked Jennifer. In fact she sometimes wished that Jennifer were single, and Freddie more interested in women, so that they might then be able to link in one big happy family. She had watched Jennifer stretch her wings in the shop, and noted the way she managed to pick Freddie up and dust him off every time he felt out of sorts. She had particularly approved of the way Jennifer had put Freddie back together again after the Henry business, and now wondered whether she might be able to progress matters further, for no good mother relishes having an aberrant son. But Jennifer also had Charlie, and Agatha knew that Charlie underpinned Jennifer’s buying in France. She was not sure that she wanted to provide house room for Jennifer plus husband, when in fact she wanted Jennifer for Freddie.
Perhaps Leticia might prove a key. Agatha knew Leticia nursed a soft spot for Charlie, and also wanted to travel, and knew that Charlie wanted to live in France. Encouraging Freddie to take a serious interest in Jennifer might well split the Tindals, on an amiable basis of course, and lead on to the Tindals selling their house. Jennifer might then be tempted to set up house with Freddie, allowing Agatha to move somewhere like Bournemouth, because the Thames Valley was much too damp for her ageing bones. Charlie could be paired off with Leticia, and given enough capital to buy a house in France, and reshuffling Hoskins and Tindals might then create a couple in France buying and restoring furniture for sale by another couple with a prosperous antique shop in Britain, and provide Agatha herself with a choice of comfortable holiday homes.
The idea was something that created a warm glow in Agatha’s heart, and she wondered from time to time whether she might dare to float it one Sunday lunchtime. But it was a tricky subject, and something that must be approached and handled with the greatest care. She patted her hair neatly into place as she thought about it: she was preparing for the regular St. Wilfred weekly coffee morning, at which the good and the worthy amongst Fulmer’s wives and mothers met to discuss events since their last gathering, and swap juicy gossip. She would also have liked to consult with Frances Goodhew, her closest friend, about such a thing. However she knew Frances for very moral and proper woman, and felt she might well not approve.
Frances Goodhew also sat thinking about the coffee morning ahead. Two friends had already called her with word – according to Gay Manion - that Freddie had locked Jennifer into their shop storeroom for some nefarious but unspecified purpose, and she was unsure what to tell Agatha Hoskins, or even whether to tell her anything at all. Friends are friends, sure enough, and friends should stand guard for friends. But she knew that Agatha was very protective of her son, and might prove explosive. She was also very doubtful about Gay Manion’s reliability. Everyone in the village knew that the woman had a vivid imagination, and this latest story bordered on the unbelievable, given certain things that were common knowledge.
So she also prepared carefully, fretting to herself. She chose a nice sky blue cotton frock, to match her eyes, and decided to walk, rather than drive, because she felt walking might blow some of the uncertainties out of her head. She would certainly gain more time to think. But she still wondered what she should say.
The St. Wilfred coffee mornings tended to be rather more garden party than cosy in fine weather. Old Mrs. Hartland was taking her turn, and old Mrs. Hartland lived in some style in a large Georgian house with an immaculate garden. She employed a maid, a cook, and a gardener, and was envied by lesser souls. Frances arrived to find a number of her friends already queueing for cups of coffee and interesting little cakes, and looked around quickly, but fortunately Gay Manion was nowhere to be seen.
However bad news travels fast, and she barely had time to start nibbling at a macaroon before a large woman, another Manion in dress and appearance, but hailing from the more downmarket end of the village, bore down on her.
‘Isn’t it dreadful?’ The large woman stared at her hard. She had small piggy brown eyes and greasy hair, and clothes that might have done with a good scrub. Frances knew her only as Joyce, and had only spoken to her on a couple of occasions about collecting old clothes for the church jumble. They had never relished each other’s company.
‘What?’ She spoke shortly, partly because she knew that she would not enjoy speaking to the woman, partly because some macaroon crumbs had become lodged behind her dental plate, and she was unsure how to prise them free without having to take the plate out.
‘All this business about Freddie Hoskins.’
Frances pushed the macaroon crumbs to the back of her mind. She knew something unpleasant was coming, and must respond crushingly. ‘What business?’
‘He tried to rape Jennifer Tindal on Monday morning.’
Frances gulped, caught between astonishment and fury. Joyce had a reputation as a gossip queen amongst gossips, but this time she had really gone overboard. Everyone in the village knew Freddie’s bias, and more or less accepted him for the way he was. She also knew for a fact that he had the greatest regard for Jennifer, and suspected that Jennifer Tindal was far more likely to have raped Freddie Hoskins than the other way round. She feigned shock. ‘It can’t be possible.’
‘It is, I assure you.’ Joyce licked her lips. She had collected a nice tidbit of gossip, and found a listener close to Agatha Hoskins, and would pass the tidbit on, dramatising it just a little as she went along. She did not much care for Frances, and knew she would enjoy watching horror grow in her eyes. ‘Gay Manion was in there on Monday – she wanted to buy a little bedside table. Leticia was minding the shop, but then Jennifer and Freddie came out of the storeroom at the back, and Jennifer was crying.’
Frances was minded to reply that she had already heard the story twice, without any tears at all. She decided to counter-attack. ‘But Freddie isn’t like that.’
‘That’s what everybody thought.’ Joyce looked dark. ‘But he was just covering up.’
Frances fumbled for words. The woman was speaking with so much assurance that it was hard to gainsay her. ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’
Joyce prepared to deliver her coup de grace. ‘Gay thinks she should go to the police.’
Now Frances was speechless. Talk of hanky-panky in a shop storeroom was one thing. It might not be admirable, but it was a thing that might happen. But rape was a wholly different kettle of fish, and going to the police raised it beyond the purlieu of a matter that could be resolved amongst friends. She must escape from this vile creature and speak to Agatha. Something must be done, if something could be done. She must find Agatha, and find her quickly.
Agatha was seated sipping coffee and chatting to a nice American woman called Blanche Hibbert whose husband was something big in banking. They had come to live in the village for six months whilst he dealt with some problems in the City, and Blanche had taken to Fulmer life like a duck to water.
‘I just so love all your togetherness.’ She nibbled at a small cake. Blanche was on her first excursion outside the States, barring holiday trips, and she had found England much more pleasant than she had feared. True, the train services were abysmal, the coffee in restaurants left much to be desired, and she sometimes had a little difficulty driving on the left. But Hal, her husband, had quartered her in a very acceptable house, with an obliging woman to keep it clean, and the English were really so very nice. A bit reserved of course, but that was part of their charm – Blanche was a New Englander herself, from Vermont, and tended to suspect instant displays of emotion. ‘You really all make me feel at home.’
Agatha beamed. She would host a little Sunday buffet lunch, with the Hibberts as guests, along with a man and his wife who lived in a new house down towards Wexham Street, and a couple from Gerrards Cross. They were all very prosperous, and would naturally take an interest in Freddie’s shop.
She was just about to broach the idea when she noticed Frances Goodhew hovering in the background, looking agitated. She tried eyeing her a little dismissively, hoping that Frances would take the hint, push off, and come back a little later. But Frances had a most determined look on her face.
‘Agatha, I must speak to you.’ She nodded briefly at the American with Agatha: they had spoken on a couple of occasions, but this was not a time for social niceties.
Agatha bridled slightly. Frances was really being most inconvenient. She was just in the middle of tieing up an important lunch, and the woman was tumbling everything over.
Frances realised that she must use shock tactics. She smiled briefly and dismissively at the American. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, but I think we have a local crisis on our hands.’
Blanche backed away uncertainly. How strange - perhaps the English were more emotional than she thought. But she knew several of her fellow guests, and she could make conversation, and catch Agatha again a little later. She had been toying with the idea of inviting her, along with her antique dealer son, to Sunday lunch one day: she wanted to buy some nice things to keep as memories of her stay in Britain, and Freddie had a good name, even if he did seem rather gay.
Agatha glared at Frances, making a mental note to roast her if her news ranked as anything less than earth-shattering. She had known Frances to panic over quite insignificant things in the past – shewas a woman to scream at the sight of a spider. Agatha herself had never screamed at the sight of anything at all.
‘What is it?’ She spoke rather sharply, to show her irritation.
‘That dreadful woman Joyce.’ Frances rushed her words out breathlessly. ‘She told me Freddie raped Jennifer Tindal yesterday.’
‘What?’ Agatha stared at Frances as if she had gone quite, quite mad.
‘She said Gay Manion was in the shop, and saw Jennifer in floods of tears. She wants her to go to the police.’
Agatha felt a wave of rage start to gather within her. Gay Manion was the most poisonous woman she had ever met, and she had met one or two. ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’ She fumbled in her handbag for her mobile, a birthday gift from Freddie. ‘I’ll call him straight away.’
She backed away into a secluded corner of the Hartland garden to punch the shop number. A woman’s voice answered. Agatha judged it to be Jennifer, and took a deep breath.
‘Jennifer?’
‘Yes?.’ Jennifer was bored. Freddie and Leticia had both gone off somewhere, leaving her to mind the shop, but precious little was happening, because the weather outside was much too nice. She could visualise Charlie beavering away at home, and felt that she should be doing something progressive with some of the larger chandeliers she had stockpiled. Charlie was competent enough at run-of-the-mill restoration work, but only an expert like herself could shuffle crystal drops in different shapes and sizes to create really impressive pieces.
Agatha’s fury boiled up. ‘Did Freddie rape you on Monday?’
‘Did he what?’ Jennifer recognised Agatha’s voice, and was astounded. Freddie’s mother must be having a fit.
‘Gay Manion is going round telling people she saw you coming out of the shop storeroom yesterday in floods of tears.’
‘Oh, did she?’ Jennifer remembered Mrs. Manion glowering at her as she led Freddie out of the storeroom after persuading him to come out of the shop lavatory, and was unsure whether to laugh or cry.
‘He hasn’t raped you?’
‘Oh, Agatha, don’t be daft.’ Jennifer felt quite cross that anyone could even entertain such an idea, let alone repeat it. ‘Freddie couldn’t do a thing like that.’ But she listened to her own voice as she spoke, and felt just a twinge of regret that Freddie was just so very much less manly than he might have been. ‘You know the state he was in over the weekend. He locked himself into the loo, and I talked him into coming out. He was in more tears than me.’
Agatha listened, and now her fury took on a new focus. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. He took me out to lunch to show his gratitude.’ Jennifer wondered as she spoke if she might be giving too much away. She had begun to build a cosy little dream in her mind centred on Freddie and herself, with Leticia keeping Charlie quiet somewhere in the background. But it was still very early days.
‘But no rape?’ Agatha had picked up on the lunch, and it was a promising sign. But she had a more immediate problem on her hands.
‘No rape at all.’
‘Right, I’ll go and confront the woman.’
Jennifer heard a click and realised that Agatha had shut off her mobile. She also realised that she must be at the St. Wilfred coffee morning, out at Mrs. Hartlands, and kicked herself mentally. She always went, because the coffee mornings were good places for making friends and influencing people, but she had forgotten to write this one in the shop diary, and it had completely slipped her mind. She smiled wryly to herself. Too much thinking about Freddie.
Agatha Hoskins in a cold fury was a sight to make blood run cold. She rejoined the gathering milling gently around Mrs. Hartland’s buffet table, noted that the vicar had arrived, and momentarily thought of recruiting him as an ally. But then she rejected the thought. This was an affair that must be resolved amongst women.
She located Frances Goodhew, and looked around. Joyce Ellerby was standing a little way apart, deep in conversation with a scrawny Irish woman, one of the teachers from St. Joseph’s. No doubt she was embroidering further filth. She signed to Frances to follow her and made a beeline for the two.
Joyce looked up as she approached, eyeing her at first with that slimy, superior air that an unpleasant woman can frequently arrogate to herself when she bears bad tidings. But then she backed up a little, putting the Irish woman between herself and Agatha as a shield, and it was plain that she was not as confident as she tried to appear.
Agatha did not beat about any bushes. ‘I’ve just been speaking to Jennifer Tindal.’
Joyce Ellerby looked around for an escape route. But Frances was on Agatha’s wing, and a trickle of other woman had begun drifting towards them – Joyce and Gay Manion had spread their poison liberally.
‘Frances told me you that you’re going round saying that my son raped her, and that Gay Manion wants her to go to the police.’
Lies have short legs, and are quickly caught by the truth. Joyce Ellerby blenched. She had the beleaguered look of a woman watching nemesis storm up on her. ‘It was j-j-just something Gay told me.’ She stuttered her words in her growing panic.
‘Jennifer said Gay Manion was talking absolute rubbish.’
Now a small crowd had gathered. Frances touched Agatha’s arm. Evil women are drawn inexorably towards evil, as vultures to carrion, and Gay Manion had noted a number of women surrounding Agatha and Frances. She was a little short-sighted, and also a very poor judge of body language, and she imagined them all to be revelling in Joyce’s gossipping. Perhaps Agatha Hoskins was ripe for a killing blow. She would deal it, with the greatest of pleasure, because she still smarted at Jennifer Tindal’s rudeness in her shop on Monday. She would expose the woman’s philandering to the scorn of public disapproval, and serve as the sword arm of moral righteousness.
The small crowd parted as Gay Manion arrived, and both she and Agatha Hoskins held sharp daggers. But Agatha Hoskins knew who would triumph. The attendant wives and mothers all gathered in a circle, and old Mrs. Hartland joined them, hobbling up on the vicar’s arm. Joyce Ellerby had the ashen grey countenance of a woman who would gladly have had the earth open up and swallow her.
‘Good morning, Mrs. Manion.’ Agatha’s voice was silky.
Gay Manion blinked. This was not a woman kneeling ready with her head on a block. She grunted.
‘Joyce Ellerby says you’re telling everyone that my son raped Jennifer Tindal and that you advised her to go to the police.’
Gay Manion glowered at Joyce, and then met Agatha’s eyes. She knew that she was one of the few really good women left in Fulmer, and she was not to be worsted by the mother of a flagrant homosexual. ‘I never said anything of the sort. I told a couple of people I saw them coming out of the storeroom at the back of their shop. They both looked very dishevelled and very embarrassed.’
Agatha’s stare was icy. ‘So no rape?’
Gay Manion realised that she was trapped. Joyce Ellerby had taken her words and built upon them, and embroidered lavishly. She might have equated hanky-panky in a storeroom with rape, and suggested that such misconduct ought to be reported to the police. Once, in times past, it would have been. But now nobody cared about moral values. She must fight her way free, and let Joyce pick up the pieces. She shook her head. ‘I never said anything about rape.’
‘No police?’
‘Joyce misunderstood me.’
Agatha gathered herself in. She was a matador in a bullfight, and she had a blade of the finest steel in her hand. ‘I’ve just spoken to Jennifer. She told me that you have been talking absolute rubbish.’
Gay Manion tried bluster in a last attempt to save herself. ‘I saw them come out of the storeroom with my own eyes.’
‘She and my son are partners in a very well-respected antique shop. They have a storeroom. They store things in it.’
‘Your son looked flustered.’
Now Agatha could deal her death blow. ‘Antique furniture can be quite heavy, Mrs. Manion. I don’t think perspiration is a justification for slander.’
Gay Manion paled, and then bowed her head. She had a crumpled air about her, for all the world like a deflated balloon. She had been publicly crushed, and had no salvation. The women around her eyed her with distaste and murmured their disapproval, and she was an outcast.
Mrs. Hartland raised her stick, pointing it at her like a lance. ‘I think you and Mrs. Ellerby had better both leave my garden straight away.’ It was a doom. ‘I don’t want to see either of you here again.’
Gay Manion and Joyce Ellerby slunk off like a pair of mangy curs, neither looking at the other. Each knew that their social standing amongst the good and worthy women who attended the St. Wilfred coffee mornings had been irreparably destroyed, and that each must seek new society. There was hatred now between them, growing in a festering corruption, and it was a judgment on them both. But Gay Manion also determined to seek revenge. Agatha Hoskins was an evil woman, and her son a blot on good thinking. She would find a way to pay Mrs. Hoskins back with interest and more, and she would glory in the reckoning.