Embroidering Shrouds Read Free Page B

frail old lady too many.
    Soon there would be a death.
    Bill Tylman liked to think of himself as a traditional milkman, friendly, whistling, jolly and helpful; the man in the adverts; a sort of community service to solitary households, the lonely, the elderly, the vulnerable. And there were plenty of those. He knew all his orders from one end of the town to the other, who supplemented their milk order with orange juice, cream, eggs or pop, because he didn’t just sell milk. He turned into the tufted lane that led to the two houses, the decaying, grand mansion and the concrete box that stood in front. Nan Lawrence restricted her order to one pint of milk a day, two on Saturdays because he didn’t deliver on Sundays. Her order never varied – no eggs, no cream, no pop – just the one pint of milk a day. As he drove towards the ugly, concrete house Bill had a vision of her emptying the last drop of the pint into her early morning cup of tea before rinsing the bottle and setting it outside the front door for him, just so she could stick to her rigid, regular routine. This never varied either: two empties on Mondays, one to pick up every other day of the week.
    Most mornings Bill would rattle the milk cage and whistle extra loud, then see Nan eyeing him balefully from the window as though if she didn’t watch him he would leave sour milk on the doorstep. He would smile and wave, still playing the part of the milkman of the year, which he had been declared only a month ago. It was his ambition to win the title again next year. Tylman grimaced. It would not be through Nan’s nomination; she certainly didn’t appreciate him, never even waved back, and she didn’t smile either. Instead she would stare right through him, her eyes fixed on the milk bottles. Gave him a nasty feeling that, but he’d chuck her a cheery grin anyway. At least she always paid her bills – in cash. No ‘I’ll give you double next week, Bill’. Just handed the money over on Fridays with her frosty stare. But he didn’t mind, he’d got used to her now.
    He glanced at the window, his smile in his pocket ready to stick on his face but the curtains were drawn. Strange, she always sat in this room, bent over her sewing, and she wasn’t one to leave her curtains drawn either. When he put the bottle down on the front doorstep another puzzle was waiting, only one rinsed bottle was there. Tylman eyed it superstitiously. It was Monday, wasn’t it? Yeah, of course it was. Tylman scratched his head. This was most unusual, no doubt about it. He picked up the solitary empty, his eyes fixed on the closed curtains, half expecting them to be flung back and for Nan Lawrence’s sharp features to appear. But they didn’t and the curtains stayed firmly shut.
    Still pondering the problem Tylman slipped the empty bottle into his basket, put the new pint on the doorstep and backed away, his whistling for once silenced.
    He was still chewing things over as he returned to his milk float to pick up Arnold’s pint and two bottles of pop and placed them at the front doorstep of the shabby but still grand old hall where Nan’s brother lived. Maybe he should ask Arnold. He put the thought straight out of his mind; no point asking him. He stood at the front door and stared up at the old house, thinking the same thought that he always did. It was all such a shame. His whistling started again, slowly, softly, speeding up as he picked up the empties. He returned to the milk float, backing the few yards into the drive until he was able to turn around and return to civilization. At the bottom he glanced back but he saw nothing unusual and accelerated along the Macclesfield road towards Leek town. By the time he reached the outskirts he had forgotten all about the minor anomaly.
    Joanna greeted the desk sergeant and went straight to her office, shooting the bolt across the door to change out of her cycling shorts