“Look, Margie,” he said to his employee in the ticket booth, holding out the woodpecker box towards her. “Isn’t he a splendid person? In his full plumage. Not often we see them so closely. I am taking him round to introduce him to a few grockles, and then I shall release him to fly away into the blue yonder.”
“Yes, Mr Pettison. But don’t let him out too near me. Nasty dirty thing. You never know where it’s been. Now, if you’ll let me get on. We’re busy this morning. Good morning!” she added, turning to a family just arriving. “Are there five of you? Children go in half price. Enjoy your visit.”
Margie Turner had worked for the zoo ever since Pettison opened it to the public. She was Tresham born and bred, and knew all about her employer and his Friday assignations. All the staff knew, and it was a source of great amusement to all. “Just imagine the old fool at it with that brassy blonde,” Margie had confided to her friend on the refreshment counter. “She must be desperate for the cash, that’s all I can say.”
“Good morning. I have an appointment with Mr Pettison.” Lois had appeared at the gate, smartly dressed in her business clothes, pinstripe coat and skirt, with her long legs clad in sheer black tights. Good for business, she had told herself. She was well aware that the woman on the gate had rung through to announce her arrival, but Pettison would probably keep her waiting. He was that sort.
As it happened, she was halfway up the drive to the house when a voice called to her from across the wide lawns.
“Good morning! Glad to see you here bang on time! Come along in, and we’ll have coffee.”
His voice was mellifluous and friendly, but Lois shivered. It was a warning, without any doubt, and she followed him with a foolish desire to turn and run.
Thirteen
“I can see you are in dire need of a cleaner, Mr Pettison,” said Lois, looking round the dirty, untidy kitchen. They had had coffee, during which time he refused to talk business, but had given her a colourful history of his life so far. In spite of herself, Lois listened with interest. He had been fascinated by rare animals all his life. He grew up in Africa, where he had kept a small private zoo from the age of ten, and, on returning to England in his forties, had planned a professional setup. This had fitted in with his parents’ intention to buy a large house with parkland in the Midlands, and when they had both died, he had built up his collection until it was internationally known.
“I am afraid Mrs Richardson was not the most reliable of persons,” he said finally, rinsing out the coffee mugs in a sink already full of dishes covered with the detritus of unnumbered previous meals.
“Took you for a ride, I reckon,” said Lois. “Did as little work as possible, and collected her wages with a willing hand. I’ve met one or two Mrs Richardsons, and they don’t last five minutes in my team. Now, can we have a quick look around, and then I’ll give you some facts and figures about how New Brooms can help.”
As they entered the drawing room, which looked out over a well-kept garden and parkland beyond, Lois was struck with the difference between the scruffy interior of the hall, and outside in the grounds, which were immaculate.
“Are you the gardener? It’s certainly in better shape than all this,” she said, indicating the interior of a potentially lovely room. She kept the long, sagging sofa between them. Her professional eye told her that the furniture was good, but in sore need of care and attention. He was beginning to ogle again, and her voice was sharp.
“Gardener? Goodness me, no, I wouldn’t have time! No, we have Mrs Richardson’s husband, an old man who comes every day, seven days a week, rain or shine. He loves this place, and regards the garden and grounds as his own territory. Has a potting shed behind the house, and if it rains or snows, he sits in there and reads thrillers. Oh, and yes, he comes into the kitchen for a cup of tea around eleven o’clock every morning. Your cleaner would be required to make that for him. Now, upstairs, young woman. And don’t worry, I am not the least interested in having my wicked way with you!”
He threw back his head, and the guffaws went on loudly for some time.
“Good,” said Lois. “That’s one thing settled. And your reluctance will include any young woman I send to you to clean this dump?”
More laughter followed this, and Lois began to walk around the many bedrooms, itemising what needed to be done, and then walked smartly back down the wide stairway, saying she felt like Anne Boleyn at Hampton Court Palace.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“Anne Boleyn. As in Henry the Eighth’s second wife. Her ghost is said to walk down the grand staircase at the palace, with her head tucked underneath her arm.”