by Purser, Ann
Through the darkness of sleep she saw a man in a dark overcoat move menacingly towards her. Sitting up sharply, she put up her arm to defend herself, but failed, falling heavily to the floor and catching her head on the metal frame of the bed. As she began to lose consciousness, she thought she saw Ted, waiting with arms outstretched.
Four
IVY AND ROY were taking a turn to the shop to buy chocolates for her and postcards for him. He had decided to remind the most important of their friends of the wedding date, and Ivy had agreed. There had been such confusion over cancellations and refixing dates, and this time they were determined there would be no further hitches.
They emerged from the shop into a beautiful late-summer day, with a clear blue sky and everywhere still looking green and welcoming. There were fears lately that a stand of fine mature ash trees might be victim to the latest virus arrived from abroad, but so far they showed no warning signs.
“Morning, you two!” said Deirdre, arriving in her large, gleaming car to the front of the shop. “Lovely day! I’m just off to town to a meeting, but first I mean to drop in on Mrs. Blatch for a preliminary talk. All to do with social services, of course! Shall I call in this afternoon and report?”
Roy said that they were sure to be in. This morning’s walk would stand them in good stead for the rest of the day, and they would be pleased to welcome her. Ivy said that around four o’clock would be fine. “Then you’ll be in time for tea,” she added. “Your usual time.”
Deirdre grinned. “Thanks, cousin dear,” she said, and drove on.
She had looked up the records of Mrs. Winchen Blatch, and found that her house had a name, dating from when it was a farm. Blackwoods, it had been called, and when she pulled up outside the shabby-looking house, she noticed the nameplate still there, hanging on a nail by the front door. She drove slowly through the farm entrance, its gate permanently open on rusting hinges, and stopped by the back door. A sheepdog, chained up to a kennel, emerged, barking spasmodically.
She could see that the dog was a poor old thing, and, squaring her shoulders, she knocked firmly on the door. She noticed it had been freshly painted, and felt more cheerful. At least the old girl was doing her best to smarten things up.
There was no reply to a series of knockings, and Deirdre frowned. She knew that Mrs. Blatch seldom went out. Maybe she was up the yard dealing with her chickens. She heard a shrill cockcrow, followed by a chorus of cluckings, and smiled. Eggs, too. So she was definitely looking after herself. She walked towards the gate out of the yard into the Home Close, and apart from a lame ewe snoozing in the sun, there was no sign of life.
Then she saw a side door, which had perhaps been an entry into the dairy. She pushed at it, and after creaking and cracking, it gave way and she was inside. Perhaps it had been a dairy once, but now it had declined into a junk room, where things not ready to be thrown away had been dumped, awaiting their fate.
After a quick look around, she noticed another latched door, and opened it, once more pushing against ages of swollen wood and grime. She found herself in the kitchen, and was embarrassed. Supposing Mrs. Blatch was deaf, and would be really shocked to find a strange woman in her kitchen? She called again, softly at first, and then loudly, from the foot of the stairs.
What was that? A distinct sound had come from upstairs. She steeled herself to what she might find, and started up towards the main bedroom where she finally found Mrs. Blatch.
Deirdre was a brave woman, and had seen many things in her volunteering, but this was something new. She knelt down beside Eleanor, adjusting her nightdress in an automatic attempt to make her decent. Then she touched her face, which was spattered with dried blood and vicious-looking bruises. Her grey hair was matted, and an evil wound on the back of her head still oozed.
But she was breathing. Not much, thought Deirdre, but faint breaths still came in and out, steaming up the handbag mirror held in front of her mouth.
Deirdre straightened up, took out her mobile and dialled the emergency services. Address? Now, she knew it a moment ago. Blackwoods Farm! That was it. Outside Barrington, on the way to the Manor House. She put her bag to one side, and began on a series of first-aid measures learned long ago.
When she had covered the poor woman, now definitely breathing better, with an old feather eiderdown, she sat back on her heels and thought. Before the ambulance could arrive, she would need help, she decided. Then she was honest with herself, and acknowledged that in fact she needed company, somebody to sit with her in this gloomy, crumbling old house with a half-dead body perhaps expiring on the floor in front of her.
She once more took out her mobile, and called Gus.
• • •
“THANK GOD YOU were at home,” Deirdre said, taking Gus’s hand. He was puffing, having run all the way.
“And now I’m here, you can relax and not worry. I’ve seen worse, Deirdre love, and the ambulance will be here in a couple of minutes. Did you alert the police as well? No? I’ll see to that. I’m not sure, but I reckon she caught her head on the bed. It could have been an attack of some kind, but I doubt it. We’ll know more when the medics have taken a look at her. You all right now? I shoved some instant coffee in this flask. Disgusting stuff, but it might help.”
He released her, kissing her cheek and giving her a squeeze.
“You’re a blessing,” she said. She had a deep swig of the coffee, and agreed that it was disgusting, but hot and sweet. She drained the flask, and then said she could hear the ambulance siren, so one of them should be outside to meet it.
“Mrs. Blatch is not going anywhere by herself,” she said, and burst into tears of relief and sadness.
Gus mopped her face with a reasonably clean handkerchief, and then went to open the door.
Once the paramedics had seen Mrs. Blatch, done some preliminary tests and wrapped her in clean blankets, they brought in a stretcher and loaded her straight into the waiting ambulance. By this time the police had arrived, and were working smoothly with the medical men. It seemed only a couple of minutes before the siren was on again, and the ambulance disappeared into the sunlit village.
“Now, Missus, er . . . Shall we sit down for a short while, and you can tell us how you came to find Mrs. Blatch in such a sorry state?” The policeman led them into the kitchen, and they found rickety chairs to sit on.
“First of all, Constable, our names are Augustus Halfhide and Deirdre Bloxham.”
“Of course! Knew I recognised you, Mrs. Bloxham! Bloxham Car Showrooms, isn’t it? I buy all my cars for private use there. I remember your husband well. Such a nice chap. Bert, wasn’t it?”
Deirdre nodded, and said she still missed her Bert, but kept a firm hand on the business in the way he would have wanted. “I’ll start at the beginning, shall I?
“I had made an appointment with Eleanor, as from social services, but after failing to get her to open up, I felt a bit uneasy and decided to push my way in. Finally I found her like she is now, and I did all I could for the poor thing,” she said. “Then I rang Mr. Halfhide to come and give me support. I was feeling really wobbly!”
“And I came here as soon as I could when Mrs. Bloxham called me for help,” said Gus.
After giving as detailed an account as she could summon up, Deirdre watched as the police finally locked up the house and left, saying they might need to talk to them again.
“So what now, Mrs. Bloxham?” said Gus, as they stood outside, watching the police car disappear round the corner.
“I still feel a bit unsteady,” she said. “Don’t think me silly, will you, but I’d really like to see Ivy and Roy. They make me feel safe, and we could tell them all about it. Do you mind?”
“I’ll ring straight away and see if they’re back in Springfields. Then we’ll call, and get some good sound sense from our venerable colleagues.”
“Should we have told
the police about Mrs. Blatch’s approach to Enquire Within?”
“Not yet. There’ll be time for that. Come on, gel, let’s be going. Do you want me to drive the limo?”
Deirdre nodded and sniffed. “Thanks for everything, and I’m sorry if I’m sometimes nasty to you. You’re a love.”
Five
“WHAT DID GUS say, then? Why so urgently coming to see us? We were expecting Deirdre at four o’clock this afternoon, anyway.” Ivy frowned. Deirdre could be a bit of a drama queen at times. She shrugged. “I suppose it’s something to do with the squire, and him and Gus being sworn enemies, fighting for her favours.”
Roy chuckled. “No, dearest. Gus is with her, and he said it’s to do with Mrs. Winchen Blatch. We shall soon know. I can see them in reception right now. La Spurling is no doubt warning them that lunch is imminent.”
Katya was hovering, welcoming them, and brought up two chairs for them. She said she was sure that Mrs. Spurling would be pleased if they would stay for lunch. Anya had cooked chicken in a new way, and there was plenty for everyone.
“Thanks a lot, Katya,” said Gus. “Very kind, I’m sure. But we shan’t be staying long, and Mrs. Bloxham has a casserole in the oven, awaiting us.”
Deirdre’s eyes widened. There was no such thing, but she could see Mrs. Spurling’s angry face looking at them through the glass partition, and realised Gus was being his usual diplomatic self.
“Another time, maybe, Katya,” she said.
• • •
“WHAT HAVE YOU two been up to?” asked Ivy. She was aware that curious faces were turned towards them, and frowned. “Some people,” she said loudly, “cannot mind their own business. Naming no names, of course,” she added. “Now, gel, what’s this all about?”
For the moment, this did the trick, and Gus and Deirdre spilled out details of the morning’s tragedy.
“I really thought she had snuffed it,” Deirdre said. “Though thank God she was alive when I found her, and the medics said they thought she had a good chance.” As so often in Ivy’s presence, Deirdre felt the weight of the morning’s events lifting from her.
“And from the look of her,” Gus said, “her injuries could well have come from falling out of bed. There wasn’t much flesh on her bones, and it occurred to me that she probably wasn’t eating properly. Almost starving herself. That can bring on hallucinations, can’t it? Or maybe she was having bad dreams, and only half woke up.” He added that perhaps when she was able, they could have a gentle talk with her.
“Deirdre would be the best person,” he said. “She has a way with old people.”
“So I’ve noticed,” said Ivy. Then, realising that sounded a bit sharp, she smiled at Deirdre, and asked if she was feeling better. “It’s soon our lunchtime, so why don’t we leave it there,” she continued. “You can come along and have tea as planned this afternoon, and we’ll discuss the whole thing. Are you driving Deirdre home, Augustus?”
“Yes, he is,” said Deirdre. “I do like to see a man at the wheel.”
• • •
ALL THOUGHTS ABOUT further education had been erased from Ivy’s mind by the sudden drama of Mrs. Blatch’s fall. But now that Gus and Deirdre had left, she returned to the subject that she and Roy had been discussing.
“As I was saying, Roy, I rather fancy this course on creative writing.”
The new Manor House College prospectus had been newly delivered to Springfields by hand, and Ivy had already been leafing through to see what she fancied.
“Why, dearest? Are you planning on writing a novel?” Roy was trying hard to be cooperative and encouraging, but for the life of him could not see the point of Ivy struggling over a number of unsuitable courses. They had between them ruled out Advanced Mathematics and Physical Geography. Ivy had dismissed out of hand Cookery for Healthy Eating and Knitting for Nimble Fingers, but had lingered over Creative Writing.
“I’ve had interesting times, dear,” she said, “and I’ve often thought of writing my memoirs. ‘Memoirs of a Useful Life,’ I think. How do you like that?”
“Brilliant! And you’ve done the hardest part already. Found a title, and a good one. But do you really need to go on a writing course? Memoirs are so often boring, unless they are truly written in the subject’s own voice. I reckon creative writing courses are a bit like art schools. They iron out talent into something ordinary.”
“And boring? I expect you’re right, Roy. I only fancied doing something outside Springfields, and this appealed.”
“Of course, my love. Why don’t we get more details, and talk some more about it. Whatever you decide, I shall be right behind you.”
Roy smiled. He decided to leave it there. There could be no harm in it, and on second thoughts he could see that no amount of lectures and teaching could render Ivy’s voice flat and ordinary.
• • •
AT FOUR O’CLOCK exactly, Gus and Deirdre returned to Springfields, and were ushered up to Ivy’s room by Mrs. Spurling. “I will not have Mr. Goodman’s afternoon nap in his room interrupted,” she said sternly. “I have suggested to Miss Beasley that she wait until he taps at her door.”
Gus raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Mrs. Spurling herself tapped on Ivy’s door, and it was opened by a sprightly Roy Goodman, beaming at her.
“Here we are then, Mrs. Spurling,” he said politely. “We shall be fine up here, shan’t we, Ivy dearest? And Katya has kindly brought up tea up for all of us. Come along in, Gus and Deirdre.”
He opened the door wide enough to let them in one at a time, and then firmly shut out a red-faced Mrs. Spurling. The furious manager was forced to retreat down the stairs and into her office, where her assistant attempted to cool her down.
“Are we all settled?” Ivy handed round small fairy cakes, and leaned back in her chair. “Why don’t you tell us again from the beginning, Deirdre?” she said.
Deirdre once more explained how she had gained entry into the Blackwoods farmhouse through the dairy, and found Mrs. Blatch on the floor of her bedroom, bruised and bloody. “There was a sharp corner on the bedside table, where she could have caught her head, and the metal frame of the bedstead stuck out from underneath the mattress. She could have bounced against that as well, I suspect. I suppose it could have been an intruder, but nothing seemed out of place in the room. I had a look around to see if I could see a weapon an attacker could have used. But I was much more anxious to keep her breathing until the medics came.”
“Did you look under the bed?” said Ivy.
“No, afraid not. She was stretched out right in front of it, and I didn’t like to pull her about. But I expect the police did all of that.”
Gus took over, and explained how he joined Deirdre, and they waited for the ambulance. “Deirdre was marvellous,” he said. “There’s no doubt Mrs. Blatch was on her way out. I reckon Deirdre saved her life. And that could be that, if it weren’t for the fact that she had told us about the night visitor, and was scared of another ghostly manifestation from husband Ted.”
“Ted? Yes, and then there was the other man in her life: the lodger, who ran off with her treasures. I think we need to know a lot more about him. See if we can find out what happened to him, and if he’s still around here. We also want to know more about Mrs. Blatch’s mental condition before she fell. Or if she was attacked. Any ideas how we do that?” Gus looked hopefully around at the others. As he expected, Deirdre was ready with a suggestion.
“Neighbours and friends are not going to be very useful, since she has been a recluse for so long. But in my offices in town there’ll probably be some early records. Someone usually alerts us if there’s signs. Curtains not drawn back in daytime, or newspapers being cancelled, doors not being opened to visitors, all that sort of thing. I have called in once or twice and had a chat with her. Not much of a chat! She seemed polite but confused.”
�
��That’s a job for you then, Deirdre love,” said Gus. “Now, who’s for ferreting about in the archives to find mention of a lodger? Ivy and Roy? You two are really good at that. Perhaps your faithful taxi driver might take you in to spend a couple of hours in the reference library?”
“Of course,” said Ivy. “Roy, you can ring Elvis later and book the taxi for tomorrow. Ten o’clock sharp.”
Elvis was the driver of a specially adapted vehicle which accommodated Roy’s trundle and had been used by them on many occasions.
“Right,” said Gus, “so that leaves me. Any suggestions?”
“Liaison officer with the local police,” said Ivy. “One of us will most likely be questioned further by them, so we shall be ready for them. You’ll be best for that, Augustus. Be very helpful, and say we’ll keep them informed if anything turns up. Stress that we will let them know if we discover something really useful. Agreed?” she added, looking round the group.
All agreed, and Ivy said she could eat another fairy cake, and lifted the phone to order supplies from the kitchen. After that, she smiled beatifically, and held up the college prospectus.
“Changing the subject,” she said, “Roy and I have decided what course I should do up at the Manor House College.” She spoke as if it was already her alma mater. “Creative Writing. ‘Memoirs of a Useful Life.’”
Six
ROY HAD SPENT the early part of the morning in Ivy’s room, going through the Manor House prospectus once more. They had decided that she would start the course more or less straightaway, have a break for their wedding and honeymoon, and then restart when they returned to Springfields.
“Always supposing this fits in with the timetable of the course,” said Roy now. He had been reading all the small print under Creative Writing, and had one question for Ivy. “Do you realise, beloved,” he said, “what ‘creative’ actually means?”
