The Blackwoods Farm Enquiry (An Ivy Beasley Mystery)

by Purser, Ann

  He cleared his throat and looked round the three. “Have you anything to add to that?” he asked. “Anything at all that you can think of that might be helpful?”

  “I think you should know, Inspector,” Ivy said slowly, “that although Deirdre here really took to the woman, I had my doubts. It seemed to me that she was not always telling the truth. Nothing important, but one of those people who can’t resist the odd white lie, where necessary to make themselves appear in a good light. And, as you perhaps know, she quarrelled years ago with a disabled sister living in Spinney Close, and they haven’t spoken since. As she was a client of Enquire Within, it doesn’t matter what I thought of her character. It was a job for us to do. Whether we shall want to carry on, I must discuss with colleagues. Releasing Gus is vital. He knew the deceased better than any of us. He’d spent two nights there, you know.”

  The inspector stood up. “As you say, Miss Beasley,” he said. “He may well have important details to tell us. Please rest assured that I shall do my best to do my job efficiently for all concerned. And we shall naturally be speaking to her sister, and her nephew, did you say? Perhaps you will kindly let me know if you think of anything else that might help us.”

  He nodded at all three and went swiftly out of the room. There was a gloomy silence for a minute or two, and then Ivy got to her feet. “Right! Come on, you two. I regard the inspector’s farewell speech as a challenge. We have a great deal of work to do, and there’s every reason to start straight away. I smell cooking, and I suppose we can fuel ourselves with lunch first. Open the door, Deirdre. You’d better go home now in case Gus wants to get in touch. We shall be up to join you at half past two. Let’s hope there’s good news by then.”

  • • •

  AS IF TO help them, dark morning clouds had dispersed and watery sunshine lit their way up to Tawny Wings. By three o’clock they were settled and Ivy had taken the chair. “I’ve looked at notes I made after our visit to the library. Now, do we all think there was anything at all in Miss Blatch’s suspicion that her former lodger had returned to persecute her?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” said Deirdre. “After all, there was definitely something going on in the dark chamber, as Gus calls it. Dammit! We should have asked Frobisher if his men had broken into that, and what they found. Anyway, I think it is a line still needing to be pursued.”

  “Gus went in once, didn’t he? Found nobody, but evidence of recent occupation,” Deirdre said. “He told me later that he reckoned you can tell when a room is being used, and in spite of what Mrs. Blatch said, that room was. Being used, that is.”

  “I’d like to take another look at the bottom of the fire escape,” said Roy. “I think I remember that cage thing. Not locked up, most of the time, like when Gus went in and found the cigar butt. I believed we had mentioned the need for the fire escape to be always accessible, so perhaps Eleanor had remembered that. Perhaps we could take a look up there, Ivy?”

  “Police won’t let you anywhere near it. Still, we might be able to creep round and see what’s to be found.”

  “The reason I ask is that it would be the obvious way for an attacker—if it really was an attack this time—to get away from the house without waking Gus, who was asleep upstairs, but in a room with a door very close to Miss Blatch’s. But why? Lord knows why she was found at the bottom of the fire escape, unless either she tripped and fell, or she was pushed. It seems almost ridiculous to contemplate that, but it must be looked at as a possibility.”

  “And if the killer had lured her into the dark chamber and then done the deed, he could easily have scarpered out of the house and away. But, anyway, I’m sure with all that going on, Gus would have woken. That’s probable, isn’t it?” said Deirdre.

  “Or,” said Ivy, “maybe the lodger was already living there and sharing Mrs. Blatch’s bed, creeping in after there was no risk of Gus hearing him. Then he could easily have thought of a reason for the two of them to go into the dark chamber and unlock the escape. It would have been easy for him. Lord knows where he’s living, if he is around. I suppose it could have been him who left the cigar butt? Perhaps he stays out of the way while people are around. Skulks in the dark chamber?”

  “Ivy!” said Roy, “My dearest girl, what a terrible thought! No wonder you have joined a creative writing class. We shall wait in trepidation for publication day!”

  Deirdre did not laugh. She was impressed with Ivy’s guesswork, and now asked her why a wayward lodger should do such a thing. After all, he was living in some comfort, perhaps blackmailing Eleanor Blatch into keeping him in food and drink. Why disturb what was a cushy billet?

  She paused, frowning. “What’s that noise?” she said suddenly.

  Ivy drew in her breath sharply. “Sounds like someone trying to get in the French windows in your drawing room,” she said.

  Roy struggled to his feet. “I shall go and look. You two ladies stay here. It’s probably nothing more than a bird flying into the glass. They do, you know.”

  Before he could get to the door, it opened and Deirdre moved swiftly to protect Ivy from an intruder.

  “Sorry to break in, Dee-Dee,” said Gus, half smiling, and unsure of his welcome. “I think your doorbell is broken. Anyway, I’m here. And before you say another thing, there’s a development I gleaned from the nice policewoman. Our friend Eleanor Blatch was a smoker, and her chosen puff was a small cigar. An immediate inspection found a small pack in her pockets, apparently, and a strong smell of cigar smoke pervading her clothes.”

  Twenty-three

  “THAT EXPLAINS IT, then. I suppose in her generation ladies didn’t handle cigars, at least in public, and she would retire to the dark chamber for a quiet smoke. So did you escape, or did Frobisher let you go?”

  Deirdre now sat on the sofa beside Gus, plying him with coffee and chocolate biscuits. She even offered one to Whippy, but was immediately thwarted by Ivy saying that chocolate was certain death to dogs.

  “Oh, he was quite happy to let me go,” Gus said, “and I must say he was very professional and decent with it. Good chap, Deirdre, I must say.”

  “Naturally,” said Deirdre. “I don’t consort with rotters. Anyway, enough of that. Tell us all the interesting things he said about what the police have found so far.”

  “I don’t think he felt much like confiding in me—yet! But he did close question me about Whippy.”

  “Whippy?” said Roy. “I hope he was not suggesting she had a hand in the business?”

  “No, but he did pick up from what I said that Whippy had not barked or whimpered in any way once I was in bed. Which indicates that Eleanor Blatch was persuaded to go into the dark chamber by person or persons known.”

  “That’s quite enough of those known persons, Gus,” said Ivy. “If anyone asked me, I’d say that the big question is WHY? Surely, at her age, she wasn’t up to participating in athletic high jinks? And dear Whippy would certainly have pricked her ears at any squeals of delight?”

  “Yep, Ivy, quite right,” said Deirdre. “Of course, now we know she is the smoker, I suppose if she couldn’t sleep, say, she could have retired to the dark chamber for a quiet smoke alone.”

  Gus thought for a moment. “Not when I first went up to bed,” he said. “I think it was quiet inside the house in the early morning. But I couldn’t swear to that.”

  “I suppose you didn’t think to look at the dark chamber door? No, of course not, why would you?” said Roy.

  “And the back door, Gus, the one in the kitchen? Was that locked?” Deirdre had a clear map of the ground floor of the farmhouse in her head, and since she had helped clean up the place, she remembered the front door was almost never opened, as Ivy had found. The back one was in constant use. So it was either a good push at the front or the back kitchen door leading out into the yard.

  “Yes, it was locked,” he said miserably. “I’m quite sure on t
hat one, because I unlocked it to let the inspector in, after I phoned. So nobody went out that way.”

  “Did Barry Frobisher ask you about the missing hens, or the dog?” persisted Deirdre. “I know you won’t agree, but I think those horrible things surely meant that someone reasonably local intended to frighten her. First bantams, then a dog, and finally a vulnerable lady. She could have had another nightmare and . . . Well, it’s difficult to guess what happened. There might well have been someone very cunning who chose their moment, knowing you were sleeping in the house and would be an obvious suspect.”

  Gus looked grim. “I have to confess that I took a sleeping pill when I got to bed. I couldn’t face another hysterical session. She was in a lousy mood when she went up, as I’ve said.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Ivy. “None of us has reason to go back there. We can safely leave that to the police. One thing is definitely sure. The murderer is not likely to be hanging around there, waiting to be found.”

  • • •

  BUT LATER THAT evening, as Ivy and Roy were sitting in companionable silence over a last cup of hot milk, Ivy suddenly spoke with urgency in her voice.

  “Roy! I’ve had an odd thought. Do you think it possible that the villain who killed Eleanor Blatch is still hiding somewhere around the farm? He could wait until it all blows over and the police depart, and then take up his secret residence again and nobody any the wiser. What do you think?”

  Roy shook his head. “Possible, I suppose. But very unlikely. I don’t underestimate police searching powers. They would do a very thorough job.”

  “But think how many places on a farm there are for a person to hide. And that particular farm has not been modernised inside or out for goodness knows how many years. Perhaps worth a look, once the police have gone.

  “Mm, well, perhaps. But right now, Miss Ivy, it is time for bed. Tomorrow is another day, and we shall see what it brings.”

  A light and tactful knock on Ivy’s door heralded Katya. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “I have Mr. Halfhide on the phone, and he says it is urgent. I have told him it is too late to bother you, but he insists.”

  Ivy took the phone from her, and Roy watched her face. She smiled at first, then frowned, and finally nodded after ending the call. She said they must all meet tomorrow. Ten thirty at Tawny Wings.

  “Did he say why, dearest?” said Roy, getting to his feet and going across to hold Ivy’s hand.

  “Seems there’s been another casualty. Very serious, this time.”

  “What could be more serious than murder?” Roy said.

  “Whippy. She has been kidnapped.”

  “But she is only a dog,” Katya said. “She may have run off by herself.”

  “Not with Gus looking after her,” said Ivy. “He is very upset.”

  “Then we shall be at Tawny Wings at half past ten tomorrow, to supply consolation and support.” He limped out of the door and took Katya’s arm. “That dog is like a child to Gus, my dear. A child and close companion,” he said. He patted her swelling stomach gently, and said he was sure she would understand.

  Twenty-four

  IT WAS A very gloomy Gus who accompanied Ivy and Roy up to Tawny Wings. He had seen them from outside the shop, and had run across the green to catch up with them.

  “Morning, old chap,” said Roy. “Any news?”

  Gus shook his head. “Nothing. I’ve been asking around since early morning, and left a notice up on James’s Lost and Found board in the shop.”

  “And a reward?” said Ivy. “That often brings kidnappers to their senses.”

  “Possibly,” answered Gus. “But my bank balance won’t permit much more than twenty pounds.”

  “If it’s kids,” said Ivy, “that could well be enough. Worth a try.”

  They had arrived at Deirdre’s front door, and she opened immediately. “Gus?” she said. He shook his head, and helped Roy to alight from his trundle. “No, Deirdre. I’ve just been leaving notices around the village, and asking everyone I meet if they’ve seen a small grey whippet.”

  Deirdre said coffee was ready to pour and they should have that first, instead of their usual half-time break.

  “So now we have two cases,” said Ivy, when they had settled. “The unresolved death of one of our clients, and the cruel kidnap of one of our colleagues.”

  “Well, not exactly colleague,” said Deirdre, “but one of us, nevertheless.”

  “Thanks, love,” said Gus. “I don’t expect you to spend much time on Whippy. She is, after all, my responsibility.”

  “But the two cases may be linked,” said Ivy. She sat behind the desk, her grey hair neatly confined inside an invisible hairnet, and the barest dab of powder on her nose. She sat straight as a ramrod, her skirt pulled well down over her knees, and was every inch the chairperson. Gus was comforted by Ivy’s confident, straightforward approach, and said that if it was okay by the others, he would sit by the window in case Whippy had escaped and come looking for him.

  “There is one other thing we can do.” Last evening, Ivy had a new idea, and one worth pursuing.

  “Carry on, my dear.” Roy nodded at her, urging her on.

  “Well, it was when we were supposing a murderer to be miles away by now. Which, of course, he could be. If he exists. But then I thought perhaps he was working a double bluff, and in fact hiding somewhere on or around the farm, possibly with Whippy. It’s a terrible derelict place, with outbuildings stuffed with old bits of machinery, sacks of rotting animal feeds, bales of hay and straw in the hay barn, half eaten by rats. There would be dozens of places for a man to hide, at least for a while.”

  Gus suddenly jumped to his feet. “That’s her!” he said, rushing to the window and then the door. But the car had gone by, out of reach. “She was there! Sitting on the backseat! I’m sure it was her, Deirdre. Can we phone Frobisher and get the police to keep a look out for an old Peugeot? Faded blue. A woman driving! Go on, Deirdre, go and phone him. Promise him anything.”

  Deirdre frowned. “What do you mean by that, Gus?” she said, but he didn’t answer.

  “What do you think?” she said, turning to the others.

  “Worth a try,” said Ivy. “I seem to be saying that a lot this morning. But it is worth a try, Deirdre.”

  Deirdre left the room, and they heard her talking on the phone in the kitchen. When she returned she was very red in the face. “Job done,” she said shortly. “He’ll deal with it.”

  “Right, now let’s get on,” Ivy said. “First of all, back to the farm. Roy and I are going to have a sniff around when I come back from my first day at the college. The police will probably have finished there by then. The house will be locked up, of course, but it is the rest of it that interests me.”

  “So, Gus is going into town to give more Whippy details to the police. Would you like me to come with you?”

  Gus nodded. “Love you to, Dee-Dee,” he said. “Sorry if I offended you. All in a good cause. So that’s this afternoon fixed, everybody. Meanwhile, we must all keep our eyes well and truly open. Even spotting the blue Peugeot would be a help. It was old, and, as I said, faded here and there.”

  “There is a possibility,” said Roy gently, “that it was not Whippy. It could have been a grey whippet, but not ours. Best to bear that in mind, Gus, old chap. It might save a bit of disappointment.”

  Gus shook his head. “It was Whippy, I’m sure of that. I would know her anywhere. But thanks, Roy. And thanks, everybody. So shall we report back at Springfields early evening? Perhaps after your supper, Ivy?”

  “Fine. We’ll expect you this evening, then. Good hunting!”

  • • •

  AS DARKNESS FELL in the field behind Blackwoods Farm, far in the corner, under a group of beech trees, the old henhouse on wheels and with its few steps leading to a tightly shut door was well hidden from
view. It had been there for fifty or sixty years, but not in use for a good twenty. Eleanor Blatch had housed her few hens in the farmyard, and the field, known as Home Close, had been given over to a pig or two and a lame ewe that had become a pet.

  The police were giving it a brief last look, noting that it was as big as a small caravan on wheels, with a stepladder leading to the door, which was stuck fast. By peering through the window on one side of the door, they could see it was clear and clean. A single chair and desk on one side, and a camp bed on the other. Small curtains hung at the only window, and they looked clean and fresh.

  “Could have been used by a crook, I suppose, but more like a play house for kids. Anyway, you can see there’s nobody in there.”

  “Very unlikely he’s still around, I reckon,” said a young constable to his colleague as they walked back down the field. “Miles away, more than likely. What we need to find is a reason why he—or, I suppose, she—wanted to kill an old woman with no money and little in the way of valuables.”

  “Love,” said the policewoman walking by his side. “A crime of passion, I reckon.”

  “What? With her in her fifties, and not even very attractive with it?”

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” said the policewoman, and climbed into the police car beside him. “You’ll see. I could put money on it. A crime passionel, as the French say.”

  Twenty-five

  MRS. SPURLING STOOD in Springfields reception facing Gus and Deirdre, her face red and arms akimbo.

  “My duty, Mrs. Bloxham, is to my elderly residents. Their health and strength are my primary concern. And in the case of Miss Beasley and Mr. Goodman, who are engaged to be married, don’t you think it would be nice to make sure they both arrive at the church in good heart? And,” she continued, as Deirdre was about to speak, “by good heart, I mean in the best of health in mind and body. Which includes resting after a busy day and retiring to sleep with tranquil thoughts.”