Breaking Point by Frank Smith

between her feet. It wasn’t because she didn’t trust the people she was with, but rather force of habit.
    â€˜Visiting, are you?’ enquired Ivy innocently.
    Before Molly could reply, Joyce Chandler chuckled and put a hand on Molly’s arm. ‘No need to answer that,’ she said. ‘You can’t keep secrets here. We all know who you are.’ Her glance included everyone in the room. ‘At least, we know that you’re a policewoman, and we know that something is going on at Wisteria Cottage, and we’re all simply dying to know what’s happened there.’
    Everyone at the next table had stopped talking.
    Molly smiled ruefully. Even now she was still amazed at how fast news could spread through a village such as this. She’d only been in the place a couple of hours, but it seemed the word was out from one end of the village to the other. But then, it only took one telephone call to get things started.
    Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of her tea and scone.
    â€˜We are curious,’ Joyce Chandler prompted gently, as Molly concentrated on cutting the scone in half and applying a liberal amount of butter.
    â€˜Perhaps we can “help you with your enquiries”?’ said someone at the next table, lowering her voice to emphasize the words of the phrase so often used by the police, and everybody laughed.
    Why not? thought Molly as she sipped the ice-cold tea. The situation was unusual, but it might be an opportunity to gain some local knowledge.
    â€˜Perhaps you can,’ she said as she set the tall glass mug aside. ‘Do any of you know the people in Wisteria Cottage?’

Four
    M ary Turnbull was eighty-seven, and she managed to work that into the conversation within seconds of inviting Tregalles inside. ‘And call me Mary,’ she told him when he’d asked if she was Mrs Turnbull. ‘Everybody does.’ She was a big woman, and she moved with difficulty, leaning heavily on a stick for support. ‘It’s the osteoparalysis,’ she told him, mispronouncing the name of the complaint. She wheezed when she talked. ‘It’s the cat,’ she explained, ‘I’m allergic, but what can you do, eh?’
    Get rid of the bloody cat was one solution that came to mind, but Tregalles refrained from voicing the thought.
    â€˜Well, don’t just stand there; come in and close the door,’ she said impatiently. ‘This old caravan is draughty enough without leaving the door wide open. It’s the rheumatics, you see. I have to stay out of draughts. You’ll be wanting a cup of tea, I expect, being a policeman. They all do, don’t they – on television I mean. Do you know any of them on the tele?’
    â€˜Not personally, no,’ he said as closed the door behind him and surveyed the cramped interior of the caravan. With Mary Turnbull filling the narrow aisle between stove, sink and cupboards, and with almost every available surface piled high with books, papers, rumpled bedclothes and several bin bags filled with God knows what, he didn’t see how it was possible for him to ‘come in’.
    The woman heaved one of the bin bags toward the back of the caravan, which partially cleared the way, then edged sideways to settle into a seat facing a narrow table still bearing the remains of her breakfast. A ginger cat appeared as if from nowhere and jumped up on the seat beside her. Mary stroked it as it put its front paws up on the table. ‘Looking for your treat, are you?’ she said in a little girl voice. She put her finger in her mouth then popped it into the open sugar bowl and offered it to the cat. ‘There’s a good puss,’ she murmured as the cat licked her finger clean, then settled down beside her.
    â€˜She’s a good puss,’ she wheezed as she stroked the cat. ‘This is Willow,’ she told Tregalles. She began to chuckle, but had to stop to catch her