The Blackwoods Farm Enquiry (An Ivy Beasley Mystery)

by Purser, Ann

  “Mm, well, thanks for putting me next to the inspector. But he was like an oyster, clammed up for the evening. Still, he suggested a meeting with Enquire Within, so we may get further tomorrow.”

  “The caterers have gone,” Theo said hopefully. “A little nightcap before bedtime, my sweet?”

  “A hot water bottle would be more to my taste,” she said, her eyes heavy with tiredness.

  “No need for that, Mrs. B,” he said. “I put on the electric blanket earlier, so up we go. Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire!”

  • • •

  GUS, MEANWHILE, HAD heard about the dinner party, and wondered how Deirdre was getting on. He ate a solitary fish cake, drank a beer and turned on the television to watch a film about love on a motorbike. But he couldn’t concentrate, and since he had no grounds for being jealous of the squire, he forced his thoughts into a more useful channel.

  Mrs. Eleanor Winchen Blatch. Age? About fifty-five to sixty, he guessed. Living alone, but not always alone, according to Deirdre. There had been a man on the scene for a while, a younger man named Sturridge who had left carrying loot, and was never seen again. Miss Blatch had been in despair, and relapsed into a sad, reclusive existence, getting by on a meagre private pension. There were no real clues as to the background of the young man. There might be more information from Deirdre’s friend in town, but other than that, it was difficult to know where to start. But if, as seemed possible, he had returned for more goodies and had been given the boot by Eleanor, he might have been the one with the weapon.

  Unlikely as it seemed, searching for evidence of the vanished lodger was the first and most important step to take. He had felt that Ivy’s heart was not really in this investigation, and perhaps she was rather taken up with her new interest. Couldn’t blame the old thing, really. She certainly had all her marbles, and, as she said, she would have plenty to write about. He wished her luck, but at the same time, felt that Enquire Within needed Ivy at the helm.

  He switched off the television, and considered an early night. There was a light tap at his back door and he groaned. Miriam, with a friendly suggestion of a last glass of wine.

  “I felt you were a bit down when I saw you coming home,” she said. “Nothing like a glass of my old mother’s primrose wine to cheer you up. Shall I bring it round, or will you come to me?”

  Gus sighed. Given a real choice, he would have shut the door on her and told her to go to hell. But that wouldn’t do. He forced himself to be neighbourly, and invited her in. He already had primrose wine left from the last bottle, and said they could share that. If he had had the courage, he would have poured it down the sink, since it was always followed by a dull headache, but he duly administered the poison and sat her down by the fire.

  “So what’s new in the village?” he asked.

  “Nothing much,” she replied. “Except they’re still talking about Mrs. Bloxham’s good deed. I must say I would not have liked to be in her place. That Blatch woman can be very unpleasant. I know everyone’s feeling sorry for her, being hurt an’ that, but I haven’t forgotten how nasty she was when I took her a bottle of this wine last Christmas. I thought she would need cheering up, but she told me to get lost. Didn’t want any charity, she said. So that was the last time I try to be nice to Mrs. Blatch!”

  “What about that bloke, Miriam? The one who lived with her for a while. Nobody seems to know where he came from, or went back to.”

  “Well,” she said, taking a good swig, “I remember hearing him talking to James in the post office one day, and I reckon he had no particular accent. I’m pretty good on accents, and he sounded slightly posh to me.”

  “That narrows it down a bit,” said Gus with a smile. “No idea what part of the country?”

  Miriam laughed, a throaty, primrose wine laugh, and said it certainly wasn’t Edinburgh, because she had had a friend at school who had come from Morningside, and that was an accent you couldn’t forget. Scottish posh, and he wasn’t that!

  “Can we change the subject now, Gus?” she added. “I’m feeling quite sleepy. How about you?”

  Gus shook his head. “Watch the news, then work to do before bedtime,” he said, but they had no sooner settled down to watch the television news than his head drooped and he was fast asleep. Miriam fetched a soft rug from the window seat, curled up beside him on the sofa, and closed her eyes.

  Eleven

  NEXT MORNING, AFTER breakfast, Roy received a message from Mrs. Spurling via Katya that Thornwell library had telephoned to say they had information on another mention of the strong young man living in Barrington, with the same description as the one previously found. The name was definitely Green. Would Mr. Goodman and Miss Beasley like to call in and go through some papers with the librarian?

  “How very kind of her,” said Roy. “Really kind to take so much trouble for a couple of oldies, don’t you think, Ivy dear?”

  “Just doing her job, I would say.” Ivy pursed her lips and continued with instructions for Elvis to take them into Thornwell more or less straightaway. “But we are not really interested in Greens, are we? Still, I suppose it might lead us somewhere,” she said, looking prim.

  “Good idea,” said Roy. “And then I’ll give the librarian a ring to say we’re coming in. Such a nice woman!”

  • • •

  WHEN THEY ARRIVED outside the library, a member of staff was waiting for them. “Nice to see you two again,” she said. “Our chief was really struck with how keen you were to use our facilities! She’s been glued to her computer ever since. Jacqueline, her name is. Come along now. I think there will be a cup of coffee waiting for you.”

  “Tea,” said Ivy. “And thank you, that will be most acceptable.”

  Her voice was about as warm as a tinkling icicle, and she was silent from then on until they had reached the reference department and found the chief librarian waiting for them.

  “How very kind of you, my dear,” said Roy, at his most charming. The librarian, a pleasant-looking woman in her thirties, smiled warmly at him.

  “Now, come along here and see what I’ve found,” she said.

  “Before we start,” said Ivy, “could you tell me where the toilet is. One of the little trials of old age, I’m afraid. I expect you’d like to go, too, Roy,” she added, well aware that old age was not what he wanted to talk about at this moment.

  When they were finally ready to start work with the smiling librarian, Ivy touched Roy’s arm. “Got your glasses, dear?” she said, with the sweetness of a stick of rhubarb. “Forgotten them again? Never mind, borrow my spare pair. Now, shall we begin?”

  “Here we are, one Colin Green,” the librarian said. “I remembered you saying there might be a sporting connection, and I found this in Sleaford football club records. But I am afraid there are dozens of Greens. I have listed them all, and printed them out for you.”

  “That is so kind of you,” said Roy. “I know we have to pay a small charge, but we do appreciate all the trouble you have taken.”

  His mobile began to ring, and he excused himself off to the other side of the room to answer it. Meanwhile, Ivy took charge of a sheaf of papers, all of which contained particulars of sporting Green families who might have visited Barrington.

  When Roy returned, saying he had spoken to Gus, who had had a question or two, Ivy asked what had they had been about. “And didn’t he ask for me?” she said.

  Ivy was frowning, but Roy proceeded gently. “Afraid not, beloved. I think you have been rather taken up with planning your writing course lately, and Gus and Deirdre don’t like to spoil your new enthusiasm.”

  “Rubbish! I am as concerned with Enquire Within as ever I was!”

  Ivy’s face was red with chagrin and annoyance mostly with herself. What Roy had said was true, and she was determined to put the writing course firmly in its place as a secondary interest.


  As they drove home with Elvis at the wheel, he asked if their visit had been productive.

  “Very,” said Ivy. “We learned a great deal about dozens of men called Green, any of whom might be the one called Sturridge that we are trying to trace, and I learned a lesson on the way.” She did not elaborate, but Roy took her hand and planted on it one of his gentlemanly kisses.

  “Well done, my love,” he said. “And here we are, back in time for lunch.”

  • • •

  AFTER A VERY satisfactory meal, the two retired to Ivy’s room for a short nap. This had become a comfortable habit for them, with Ivy stretched out on her bed, and Roy in a chair with a cushion behind his head.

  Today, however, neither felt sleepy. The morning in the library had produced not much more than a large chunk of paper for them to go through, and Ivy sat on the edge of her bed with a pen and writing pad, making notes for Monday morning’s meeting of Enquire Within.

  “So, all we know is that out of this list of Greens, there might be one who visited Mrs. Blatch and stayed on for quite a time. Do you think this might be a waste of time, dear?”

  Roy nodded. “I suppose it might be useful to look for local addresses,” he said. “We might as well, since that nice librarian went to so much trouble. If we do find one, we can investigate and see if he ever appeared in Barrington, sweetening up lonely women, and then disappearing with their life savings.”

  “And clever with it! I think the others will agree that we need to find our particular Sturridge as soon as possible. He left Miss Blatch long ago, but there’s a possibility he may have returned, especially if he had fallen once more on hard times.”

  Ivy closed her notepad and with difficulty wriggled round and lay down on her bed.

  “And last but not least,” she added, “was he ever wanted by the police? There is no record of him being violent. One for Deirdre to find out from her friend Frobisher. Now for a bit of shut-eye, and you, too, Roy dear, then we shall be fresh for our tea.”

  Twelve

  DEIRDRE HAD BEEN much occupied since Friday, thinking about Mrs. Winchen Blatch and her life since the departure of her lover. “Lover” was probably the right word, she was sure, and when this younger man came into her life, teasing her out of her widowhood and changing her life, it must have seemed like a miracle. And when the miracle did not last, her new world of love and affection came to a cruel end. It was not surprising that she reverted to her old ways.

  The telephone rang, and Deirdre arose from her solitary breakfast table to answer it. It was Gus, and she was determined to be especially nice to him.

  “To the hospital? Well, yes, I suppose so. Is she still in there? They hope she will go home tomorrow, after the doctor has signed her off. Why did they ask you to go in?”

  Gus was sitting with his feet up on his sofa, reclining back on a cushion. “Obvious, my dear,” he said. “I was with you soon after you found her. And a man of my charm and winning ways is the obvious choice. But no, Deirdre love. They reckon I must have seen her around, at least. She has no friends or family, apparently. James at the shop suggested me, as a likely character to bring her out of her trauma. God knows why, but there it is. And I thought immediately of you, as I do frequently. So will you come? I could pick you up about two o’clock.”

  He said a fond farewell, and then got to his feet. He looked at his watch, and saw that he had more than four hours before he needed to pick up Deirdre. Plenty of time to walk up to Blackwoods Farm and have a snoop around. If the hospital was intending to send her home tomorrow, there would surely be some swift cleaning work necessary, something he was sure Deirdre could organise. He set off with his small dog, Whippy, on her lead, across the Green and over towards the shop, where a gang of twelve-year-old boys yelled obscenities at him. Whippy broke away from him and approached the boys, who immediately became warm human beings, making an excessive fuss of her.

  I suppose there’s a moral there somewhere, thought Gus, but for the moment he could not think of one. On then, and with Whippy returned to him, he walked up Manor Road, and came very soon to Blackwoods Farm.

  The wind was sharp, and the previously blue sky clouded over as he approached the building. At first sight it looked completely derelict, and Gus’s heart sank. But then he noticed new paint on some of the windows and doors around the back of the house. Perhaps Mrs. Blatch had continued to make some improvements. Inside was what mattered, and Gus took the route through the dairy and into the kitchen, where he looked around without much hope.

  But after half an hour or so, he had made some notes on what could be done to make it habitable. She would need only the kitchen and bathroom, one sitting room downstairs and a comfortable bedroom upstairs. He was pleased to find that the stairs were solid and safe, and when he pushed open the doors of the bathroom, lavatory and the biggest bedroom, he reckoned that with the help of a good cleaning service, they could work wonders.

  The big bedroom had been cleared of traces of the accident, and Gus opened all the windows to admit gusts of chilly wind. He stood looking out at the road which led to the Manor House, and suddenly heard a noise behind him. He turned around quickly, but could see nothing. Then Whippy began to whimper and whine, looking fixedly at the door.

  Gus strode over to the landing which connected all the bedrooms, and sniffed. Cigarette smoke? He sniffed again. Yes, that was it. Or perhaps a cigar? Anyway, someone had been in behind him, and was having a smoke somewhere in the building.

  It could have been a homeless person making use of the house whilst it was empty. Getting in had been easy enough. But homeless persons do not usually smoke expensive cigars, even small ones. He opened first one door and then another, until he came to a half landing with one closed door at the end of the short passageway.

  The smoke smell was stronger now, and he had a shiver of unease. He knocked. No reply, but a rush of cold air passed him. Again he knocked, but there was no response, so he turned the handle and pushed open the door. The room was empty, with its one long window, almost reaching the floor, standing open. He walked swiftly over, and looked down to the yard beneath. Then he noticed the fire escape, leading to the ground below. The door of the cage at the foot of the escape was open.

  Taking a deep breath, Gus perched on the edge of a neatly made bed. There were signs of occupancy all around. A small cigar, half smoked, but black and cold, had been stubbed out in a saucer.

  Had someone been living here, using the fire escape as entrance and exit? Had he been living here all the time, and keeping his head down? Perhaps her lodger had returned, needing somewhere to hide. The dark clouds were overhead now, and a sudden burst of heavy rain beat down on the yard outside, sending hens scuttling for shelter and forming instant puddles and streams rushing out into the road. He closed the window, and decided he had seen quite enough. He needed Deirdre’s commonsense reaction to all of this, and he made his way downstairs and out into the real world in Manor Road.

  • • •

  “A FIRE ESCAPE?” asked Deirdre, as they drove into Thornwell to visit Mrs. Blatch in the General Hospital. “That’s unusual, isn’t it, in a domestic building like that?”

  Gus nodded. “But very useful for our mystery lodger. If it was his room, it was very neat and tidy, but he had left a smouldering cigar. Not the most sensible thing to do in a house full of old beams and rafters.”

  “Turn right here,” Deirdre said. “We can park on the roadside. I’ve spent hours trying to find a place in the car park. And you don’t have to pay here.”

  They walked into the hospital reception, and were directed to a lift. “First on the left, down the corridor we call the street, and you’ll find Roussel Ward at the end.”

  “Must have been a philanthropic ancestor of Theo,” said Deirdre.

  Gus snorted. “Pity he didn’t pass down his taste for philanthropy to our present Roussel. He could
start with reducing my rent! Daylight robbery for that hovel.”

  “Talking of hovels,” said Deirdre, “we must report what you found out this morning. It will surely affect her home-going tomorrow. Ah, here we are. In you go, Gus, and announce your charming self.”

  • • •

  HAVING ESTABLISHED THEIR bona fides, they found Roussel Ward and hesitated at the entrance.

  “Can I help?” said a young nurse.

  “We’re looking for Mrs. Blatch,” said Gus.

  Deirdre, meanwhile, had looked around the ward, but could recognise none of the old ladies, most of them asleep.

  “The bed in the corner,” said the nurse quietly. “We’d be very glad if you could get some response from her. Gently, of course. But your voices might bring some recognition. I am afraid the poor lady had a terrible accident.”

  They tiptoed down the ward, aware of one or two pairs of eyes following them. Then a voice spoke loudly across to them.

  “You’ll get nothing out of ’er! She’s away with the fairies, that one.”

  “Thank you,” said Deirdre politely, and took Gus’s arm. “Come on, let’s find the old dear. I shall recognise her.”

  “Let’s do five minutes and then scarper,” whispered Gus.

  The bed in the corner was almost as flat as if nobody were in it. Only the grey head on the pillow disturbed its pristine appearance. The nurse drew up two chairs, one each side of the bed, and they sat down. Deirdre saw two pale hands resting on the cover, and gently covered one with her own.

  “Mrs. Blatch,” she said quietly. “Mrs. Bloxham and Mr. Halfhide are here to see you.”

  An eyelid flickered.

  “Hello, Eleanor,” said Gus. “I hope you don’t mind my using your Christian name? Mrs. Winchen Blatch is a bit of a mouthful.”

  Another flicker. Then her eyes opened. Deirdre held her breath, and then Gus said in a loud, chatty voice, “Shame you fell over, my dear. Still, old age is a bugger, isn’t it!”