The Blackwoods Farm Enquiry (An Ivy Beasley Mystery)

by Purser, Ann

  Deirdre and Gus were stunned. They knew the old dragon disapproved of Enquire Within and all its activities, but her deputy, Miss Pinkney, who stood close behind her, knew equally well that Miss Beasley and Mr. Goodman were so incredibly well and active because the whole business of detection and contact with the outside world was largely responsible for their excellent condition. That, and the wonderfully good food cooked by Katya and Anya in the kitchen.

  “Perhaps you would kindly check that Miss Beasley and Mr. Goodman are expecting us? I think they might be disappointed if you send us packing, dear Mrs. Spurling,” said Gus.

  “I’ll go and check,” butted in Miss Pinkney quickly. “Shan’t be a minute,” she added, and disappeared. Mrs. Spurling, meanwhile, somewhat mollified by Gus’s charm, returned her arms to her sides and said they could wait in the lounge until Miss Pinkney returned.

  “I know Miss Beasley and Mr. Goodman have gone upstairs, so I would not want to disturb their little snooze,” she said.

  Good gracious, thought Gus. What can the woman mean? Surely not rumpy-pumpy under the duvet? The idea was so ludicrous that he laughed out loud.

  “Here comes Pinkers,” he said. “What’s the score?”

  “All clear,” said the plump deputy, puffing a little. “You are to go up immediately, if that’s all right with Mrs. Spurling?”

  Upstairs, Ivy and Roy had rearranged the room so that two extra chairs could be accommodated when Deirdre and Gus joined them.

  “Katya is bringing hot chocolate,” whispered Miss Pinkney, as she left them, and soon they were comfortably settled, ready to catch up with what had been discovered during the afternoon.

  “You first, Ivy,” said Deirdre. “You take the chair.”

  “My report will be brief,” she answered. “Roy and I went for a walk and happened to find ourselves outside Blackwoods Farm.”

  “Only happened?” said Deirdre, and they all laughed.

  “Anyway,” continued Ivy, “we noticed a police car outside and we could see a young constable and a policewoman opening and shutting stable doors and storerooms at the back of the house.”

  “Still looking, then?” Gus did not ask if they had found Whippy. He knew Ivy would have told him by now if they had.

  “Yes, it seems so. The last we saw of them was walking away up the Home Close. There’s a spinney up there, and I suppose they were taking a look. Up there somewhere is Spinney Close. You know, the place where Eleanor’s sister lives. We should maybe introduce ourselves at some point?”

  “Agreed,” said Roy. “But this time the light was going, so we carried on back here. We did also look back at the fire escape, but it looked exactly the same, and there were no lights showing anywhere in the whole house. It looked very empty and sad. Or so my Ivy thought.”

  “And then I told myself to skip such sentimental rubbish, and get on with matters in hand. We hadn’t forgotten Whippy, Gus, but believe it or no, we didn’t see a single dog. Not one. Or, wait a minute, I tell a lie. Wasn’t there a snappy little terrier in the vicar’s window? But it was nothing like Whippy, I’m afraid.”

  “Never mind, and thanks for looking,” said Gus. “I plan to stay up most of tonight, roaming round the village and empty houses and barns where she might be.”

  “You’ll get arrested,” said Deirdre. “Loitering with intent, or some such.”

  “I think if it was me, I’d do the same, if that would make you feel happier,” said Roy. “I should carry on, and risk arrest.”

  • • •

  GUS SET OUT from his house as dusk fell. Most people would be indoors, he reckoned, and be unlikely to wonder what Mr. Halfhide was doing, peering into gardens and driveways.

  As he went, he whistled. Whippy was very accustomed to his whistling her to return to him when they walked in the woods, and even if she couldn’t escape, she was very likely to bark. Her bark was sharp and high, and would carry quite a way.

  He circled the Green, loitering outside houses with outbuildings or garages and whistling loudly. Once or twice curtains were drawn back and a head would appear, but only for seconds, and he moved on. He arrived outside Springfields and wondered whether to go in, but thought it most unlikely that Whippy would be hidden anywhere there. There was constant coming and going, and somebody would be sure to notice if a strange—or even familiar—whippet appeared.

  Then he came to the farm. Everywhere was dark and unwelcoming. He told himself that spooks do not exist, and walked into the yard, still whistling. Silence. No acknowledging bark, nor even a whimper. He knew that the police had done a thorough search, looking for the murderer. Frobisher had said nothing had been found there, except a half century’s worth of old junk dumped at random.

  He stood looking over the field gate, whistling as loud as he could, and through the darkness saw a dim light. That would be the new houses up towards Tawny Wings. A small development of affordable housing had been built in a field the other side of the Blatches’ spinney, including some old persons’ bungalows. The spinney was mature, with a leafy canopy over tall, bare trunks, so that lights could easily be seen. Then the dim light went out, and he moved across the road to the Manor House College.

  No streetlights up there, and Gus put on his torch. The footpath had stopped by the farm, so he walked close to the verge. He decided there was no point in whistling as he walked by a field, and so started again once the Manor House was in sight. There were plenty of outbuildings there, some of them half constructed in Rubens’s plan to turn them into flatlets for his students. Keeping as quiet as he could, he walked up the drive to the house, and then crept round and along the line of outbuildings, several of them clearly originally stables. He hesitated. Best not whistle so close to the house, but he couldn’t resist a short, soft burst. Then, at the same time exactly, lights came on and blazed at him, and over one of the stable doors leapt a small grey whippet.

  “Whippy! Whippy, Whippy, Whippy. . . .”

  Gus gathered her up in his arms and put his cheek to the top of her velvety head. Then a door opened, and Peter Rubens strode over to where they stood.

  “Exactly what do you think you’re doing? Oh, it’s you, Halfhide,” he said. “You’re trespassing. I watched you on my yard camera. Very useful piece of technology. You’d better come in and explain.”

  Once inside, with a glass of brandy, Gus gave Rubens an edited version of what had happened.

  “She must have somehow run off, maybe followed my spaniel dog,” said the high master with a fruity chuckle. “He’s a terror for escaping when he sniffs a bitch in the vicinity. He probably brought her home to meet the family! One of my students, meaning well, must have shut her in the stable. But fancy her leaping over the half door! It’s very high for such a small dog. She could only have done it when she heard her master’s voice. Still, no harm done.”

  Gus sighed. “Well, thanks, Mr. Rubens,” he said, draining his glass. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to have her back again. There’s no danger of puppies, since she’s been fixed. So sorry to have disturbed you, but at least you know your yard camera worked a treat! I must be going home. By the way,” he added, as Peter Rubens showed him out, “a friend of mine is about to be one of your students. Creative Writing, I believe. Miss Ivy Beasley, from Springfields. She’s looking forward to it.”

  “And we’re looking forward to having her here,” said Rubens. “I like a challenge. No disrespect to your friend, but I anticipate a small upheaval! Miss Beasley is clearly not one of your run-of-the-mill students, and she has not been able to be part of our bonding sessions in the last couple of weeks. But from what I have seen of her, I’m sure she will very soon find her feet with us. I have every faith in Rickwood Smith, who has said he is really looking forward to the course.”

  “Very good! Best of luck, sir,” said Gus, as he walked on his way.

  Twenty-six
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  AFTER A QUIET Sunday spent reading and watching television, this Monday morning there was a general air of something about to happen in Springfields. Ivy and Roy had been up earlier than usual, and Ivy had eaten a hearty breakfast before going up to her room.

  “To titivate, so she told me,” said Roy, still sitting over his toast and marmalade, and answering Katya’s question as to her whereabouts.

  She smiled, and picked up his empty coffee cup. “Ah, she is having a wash and brush-up, as my mother-in-law says. Before going off to college?”

  “More or less,” said Roy.

  “And you are down in the dumps? Would you like more coffee?”

  “I’ve been deserted, Katya. That’s what. So close to having a wife to keep in order, I am now merely the fiancé of a college student studying creative writing. Fate has dealt me an unexpected blow.” He looked at her shocked face, and laughed. “I’m joking, my dear,” he said.

  “But surely you will support her? And be very interested in her memoirs? I believe she told me that is what she intends to work on? All kinds of things you could learn about your intended bride!”

  “That’s the trouble. I may learn all kinds of things I’d rather not know!”

  “Rubbish,” said a brisk voice from behind him. Ivy had put on her coat and hat, and looked exactly as usual, except for a brighter look in her eye and a bundle of books in a capacious bag held in her hand.

  “Are you going to walk me up to the Manor House, Roy?” she said. “I’d like to go early and take a look at that stable where Whippy was found. Leapt over a half door as high as a five-barred gate, Katya! Gus is ecstatic, of course.”

  “And now I shall help you with the trundle, Mr. Goodman. Mrs. Spurling asked particularly to let her know when you leave. I think she is worried you might go off and never return!”

  “Oh, Roy will be back quite soon, but I shall be home around half past three this afternoon. Ready for tea, I expect!”

  One or two of the younger residents had gathered to see them off, half jealous of Ivy’s break for freedom, half critical of a reckless plan that was bound to fail.

  “If anybody asked me,” she said, as she followed Roy in his trundle out of the gate, “I would say it’s all a lot of fuss about nothing. I shall start with the best of intentions, but if I fail, or don’t enjoy it, I shall stop. Simple as that. Careful, Roy, there’s a dead hedgehog on the path. Poor thing. Still, they’re covered in fleas, you know. Best not to touch it,” she added, kicking it accurately into the ditch, where it unrolled and glared at her.

  • • •

  THE FIRST SESSION of the creative writing course began with a dozen or so chairs positioned casually around a pleasant room smelling of new paint. A real fire blazed in the hearth, with a large basket of logs ready for replenishing.

  Ivy took one of the seats directly facing a large desk, behind which sat Rickwood Smith, who smiled familiarly at her, and said how pleased he was to see her again. He jumped up to help her, and she brushed him away like an annoying fly.

  “I am perfectly capable of finding my seat, Mister, er . . .” she said sharply.

  “Rickwood,” he reminded her. “We met when you came for interview.”

  “And your surname again?” said Ivy, not smiling.

  “Smith,” he said. “Easy to confuse me with other Smiths, so Rick would be better. May I call you Ivy?” he asked.

  “No,” said Ivy, and began rooting about in her bag to find the first Creative Writing unit.

  Fortunately for Rickwood Smith, other students began to arrive and were jolly and friendly, and did not mind in the least being called by their Christian names. One pretty girl of about seventeen sat down next to Ivy. She said nothing, and Ivy could see she was a little uneasy.

  “Morning, my dear,” Ivy said quietly. “Are you as new to all this as me? I am sure we’re going to enjoy ourselves.”

  The girl visibly relaxed, and said confidingly to Ivy that she had been encouraged by her parents to sign on, as she had written some interesting stuff in English lessons at school. “And I’ve been together with the students who are resident here, though I am local. We’ve had great evenings in the pub, and our tutor”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“is a lovely man. Really kind and supportive.”

  And sophisticated and handsome, thought Ivy. But she smiled and said that she was intending to write her memoirs. “As I am very old, I have a great deal to remember, and I’d like to put it all in order and in print for those who come after me.”

  The girl nodded. “Great idea,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Miss Beasley. What’s yours?”

  “Samantha Earnshaw,” said the girl. “My friends call me Sam, mostly.”

  “I shall call you Samantha,” Ivy said. “Very pretty name. Our prime minister’s wife’s name.”

  “Um, now, if we’re all ready?” Rickwood smiled round at the assembled ten students. All but Ivy were late teens or early twenties, and Rickwood asked them all to say their names and tell the group a little about themselves.

  “What’s the point of that?” said Ivy. “Surely we’ll get to know each other even better over time?”

  Rickwood sighed. He had been warned by Mr. Rubens, but had not anticipated trouble quite so early in the day.

  “It is a nice way of getting together, Miss Beasley. Always done, these days.”

  “Not in my day,” said Ivy, shaking her head. “But carry on, Mr. Smith. I am all ears.”

  After all had had their say, Rickwood turned to Ivy. “And are you going to tell us a little about yourself? I am sure the others would be most interested to know . . .” He tailed off, aware that whatever he said would probably annoy her. Sure enough, she snapped back at him that if he was implying that because she was old she’d want to talk about the past, he was wrong. And could they get on with creative writing, especially memoirs, which was why she was present?

  Round one to Miss Beasley, thought Rickwood, and said he would begin with outlining the different kinds of creative writing the students might be planning. “Becoming a journalist is very popular,” he said. “Also travel writers, novelists, magazine contributors, poets, biographers and so on. All are using words to express what they wish to say. And, as Miss Beasley has told me, there are those of us interested in writing our memoirs. And that is not a bad place to start.”

  Ivy nodded in approval. She felt she was making headway, and managed a small smile of encouragement for Rickwood Smith.

  • • •

  ROY, BACK AT Springfields, was feeling very odd. He had become so used to having Ivy as his daily companion, and now he was lost for something to do with himself. He was about to suggest a game of chess with old Fred, when his mobile rang.

  “Roy? Gus here. Has our novice writer gone off to college?”

  “’Fraid so,” said Roy. “And she’s been there a good hour and a half, so I must assume she’s not giving up before she starts. That is what I suspected might happen, but no. Not my Ivy. Anyway, how are you, my boy?”

  “I’m fine. I’m ringing to find out if you fancy a trip out this morning? I was planning to go into Oakbridge library, to see if we could broaden out our background knowledge of Mrs. Winchen Blatch. They are very helpful there, and I can easily take you plus a folding wheelchair in my vehicle.”

  “Oh, how kind! Are you sure you’re not doing this to cheer me up?”

  “Of course not! I have been thinking we still know very little about Eleanor Blatch, or her family and early life, and we could do with a new lead. We know her estranged sister is disabled and lives in the village. And that her nephew is a creative writing tutor. But who, for instance, were the Winchens, Eleanor’s second name? You’ve lived around here all your life. Have you ever heard of them?”

  “Come to think of it, no, I haven’t. As you say, could wel
l be worth a hunt. When would you be picking me up?”

  “Now,” said Gus. “At least, I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. I’m going to leave Whippy with Miriam next door. I shall never again be happy to leave her alone. See you very shortly.”

  Good lad, thought Roy. And he was right. They knew next to nothing about Eleanor Blatch’s background. He limped out of the lounge and into reception, to tell Miss Pinkney he would not be in for lunch. He was going on an important mission with Mr. Halfhide.

  Miss Pinkney smiled broadly. “How lovely!” she said. “Exactly what the doctor ordered. I do hope you’ll have some success with your mission. Will you be back in time to meet Miss Beasley out of college?”

  “Heavens, yes! It wouldn’t do for me to be late for that! And with luck, I shall have something interesting to tell her, as well as listening to an account of her day. Which, you know, is bound to be amusing and informative. My Ivy, Miss Pinkney, misses nothing.”

  Twenty-seven

  THE FIRST SESSION of Rickwood’s creative writing course had, after a halting start, gone reasonably well. Several articulate students had spoken up, and one in particular, Alexander, had dominated the conversations. A lad to watch, Rickwood had thought. And then there was Miss Beasley, who had said at one point that in her school days, she remembered that the best learning was done by pupils who only spoke when spoken to.

  All the others, including Alexander, had laughed, and Rickwood had begun to think that, if handled properly, Miss Ivy Beasley could be a real asset in the class.

  Ivy, for her part, had listened carefully to everything he said, and made a few notes in a fat notebook she had bought from the village shop. The introduction Rickwood had made to the subject of memoir writing had been very interesting, especially his emphasis on being brutally frank with oneself! Who is going to be interested in reading your memoir? Have you a talent for humorous writing? Does your long life contain historical or dramatic episodes that are likely to move the story on?