by Purser, Ann
ON SATURDAY, ELVIS turned up promptly at ten o’clock and loaded Roy and his trundle into the taxi. Ivy sat in the front, and they went off smoothly through the sunlit village, while Elvis warned them not to be fooled, there was a chill in the air. “There’s a rug in the back there, if you’re chilly, Mr. Goodman,” he said.
They assured Elvis that they were indeed warm enough, and chatted idly until Roy said something about Ted Blatch being a tough old farmer if he’d lived in that derelict house for many years.
“Ted?” said Elvis. “Ted Blatch? He was a nice bloke, never mind about being tough. A bit mean, maybe. He and his wife, they were a pleasant couple. The number of times I’ve given him and her a lift into town, but neither of them ever had any change to give me. I gave up hoping in the end, and decided I’d get a bonus point on the day of Judgement!”
“Perhaps they were really poor,” said Ivy. “The place is certainly derelict now. Nobody in the village really knows what’s going to happen to it.”
“They were certainly poor. Ted sunk all his savings into the place when he took it over. His uncle was a bank clerk, with the National in Thornwell. I think that’s how Ted got a loan to do what he wanted to the place, and he really worked hard at it. He was a good-looking man, was Ted. Tall and dark-haired. Wiry build, and kind of loped along, like a cowboy! Him and Eleanor made a handsome pair. But after he’d gone, she lost heart, I reckon. Let the place go. It’ll take a bit of capital to put it right.”
“How do you know all this, Elvis?” asked Roy.
“Ah, you’d be surprised what I hear in my job. People don’t reckon I’m human. A deaf human at best! Conversations, arguments, threats and courting couples. All human life is here, Mr. Goodman. I hear it all.”
“So I suppose Ted had to sell up, in the end?” said Ivy.
“No, he said he’d never sell. He told Eleanor one day in the back of my vehicle that although it was a millstone around his neck, he intended to carry on until he died, and then it would be her millstone to do what she liked with. Left it to her in his will, so he said.”
“And you never heard a whisper about it being sold?”
“No, nothing like that. Why are you so interested, Miss Beasley, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Oh, no reason, really. It’s only that I’m doing this writing course at the Manor House College, and am interested in background material to the life of the farm, then and now.”
“I see. That’s really clever of you, at your age. Do I get a copy when it’s published?”
“Of course. Perhaps you know of some knowledgeable person I could talk to? Everything that’s told to me is confidential, and I’d never use any names an’ that.”
Elvis was quiet for a moment, and then came up with a real person, a lady he took every so often to her chiropodist. “She has always lived in Barrington, with her family at Church Farm. I think they have been in the village for generations. I could ask her if she would have a talk with you, Miss Beasley?”
Ivy thanked him kindly, and said she could walk along to Church Farm, if Elvis would make the introduction.
They wandered around the market, and Roy persuaded Ivy to let him buy a little black cat brooch. Then a happy half hour in the café with coffee and doughnuts worked its magic, and by the time they returned to Springfields they were back to their happy relationship. Elvis promised to be in touch in a couple of days, after he had spoken to the farmer’s wife, Mrs. Coleridge.
Forty-five
ELVIS WAS AS good as his word, and on Sunday morning around eleven o’clock Ivy’s phone rang.
“Morning, Miss Beasley!” he said. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything? Good. I thought you’d like to know I talked to Mrs. Coleridge, and she says her memory of the old days is pretty good, and she’d be happy to see you for a chat. Here’s her phone number.”
Ivy wrote it down in her clear, precise handwriting, and thanked him kindly. Then she looked at her watch and decided to ring the number straight away. Roy was still upstairs, and she planned to fix an appointment before he appeared. Gus and Deirdre had not been in touch since a quick call saying they would be back around four this afternoon, so she might have something useful to tell them.
“Hello? Is that Mrs. Coleridge? Ivy Beasley here. Elvis spoke to you, I believe. Well, that’s very kind of you, I’m sure. Around half past two, then? No, no, I shall be perfectly able to walk that short distance! I look forward to meeting you.”
• • •
ARRIVING OUTSIDE CHURCH Farm, Ivy could not help comparing it with the sadly neglected Blackwoods. A shallow stream ran parallel to the road, crossed by a small bridge with a freshly painted white handrail. The house itself was clearly very old, but well maintained, with window frames and a simple front door also painted white. The general appearance was of a busy, hardworking family farm.
Mrs. Coleridge was waiting at the door with a welcoming smile, and Ivy stepped inside with a pleasant feeling of familiarity. This was exactly how a farm should be, she thought, and was reminded of her own grandparents, who had farmed in the Midlands.
“Do sit down, Miss Beasley. My daughter will bring us tea in a couple of minutes. I do hope you take tea? I am afraid I am not a coffee lover.”
A woman after my own heart, thought Ivy, and relaxed into a comfortable, plush-covered armchair. “This is very kind of you,” she began.
“Not at all. I love talking about the old days. Don’t ask me the name of the man who brought the bread yesterday! But where shall we start?”
Ivy explained about her writing course, and said she was interested in the history of Blackwoods Farm, but could find nobody who could remember, or wanted to remember! “It is such a neglected old place,” she said. “I wondered what could have happened there in the past?”
Mrs. Coleridge heaved a deep sigh. “Ah, Blackwoods Farm,” she said. “Not a happy tale, I’m afraid, Miss Beasley, but a very interesting one. I must think carefully and make sure I get it right.”
“Perhaps if I tell you what I have found out already? I know Ted Blatch lived there, and his wife was from a family called Winchen, from Lincolnshire. Eleanor Blatch was, as everybody in Barrington knows, found dead from a fall down that fire escape recently.”
Mrs. Coleridge looked at her, paused and smiled. “Miss Beasley,” she said, “shall we get this clear straightaway? You are, I know, doing a writing course up at the Manor, but you also run a private enquiry agency from Springfields? Now, that doesn’t make any difference to me. In fact, it is more interesting than putting words together in the right way. Can I suppose you need to know about the Blatches because you’re on a case there? Did she fall or was she pushed?”
Ivy frowned, and then her face cleared and she broke into a rare cackle. “Got it in one, Mrs. Coleridge,” she said. “What a relief to talk to someone like you! Yes, you are quite right. Eleanor Blatch came to us before she died, quite a while before, and said she thought she was being persecuted by the ghost of her husband. We thought she was a bit batty, but took her on. My colleague, Mrs. Bloxham at Tawny Wings, got to know her, and said she was perfectly sane, and actually became a good friend. Then this awful thing happened, and we felt duty bound to help find the truth surrounding her death. We suspect there is something to do with a family feud that goes a long way back. And that’s why I’m here. Is that still all right with you?”
Mrs. Coleridge told her a great deal about the rumours that began almost as soon as Eleanor Winchen came into the village as Ted’s fiancée. It seemed it had been common knowledge that there was another Winchen girl, who was much prettier than Eleanor, and who was reputed to have turned down Ted when he proposed to her first. So Eleanor had been second best, the village decided, and waited to see what would happen. They waited in vain for trouble, and when Eleanor said she was pregnant, everybody thought they must be getting on all right together.
> And then the miscarriage,” Mrs. Coleridge ended. There was a pause, and she passed a hand over her eyes.
Ivy got to her feet. “I have taken up quite enough of your time,” she said. “Perhaps we can talk again soon. I don’t have to tell you how useful your recollections are. Such a shame about the Blatch baby,” she added, as she put on her coat and hat. “Things might have been so different if it had lived.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Coleridge. “But they always refused help, you know. None of us ever found out whether the baby was a boy or girl. And in fact, it must have been an early miscarriage. Eleanor never showed. Poor little thing.”
Ivy walked home with her thoughts busily turning. An early miscarriage? Eleanor never showed a bump? A prettier younger sister who had turned down Ted?
“So here you are, my love. And with roses in your cheeks from cosy conversation. I hope you gleaned some useful information?” Roy was sitting comfortably by a sunny window, with the Sunday newspapers on his lap.
“I have, I think. Useful but sad. Anyway, I can see you’ve been busy,” she replied sharply. “Any more news from Gus and Deirdre?”
“Oh, yes. They did ring about an hour ago, and said they were nearly home. They would come and see us after tea this evening. Will that be all right?”
“Yes, of course. I shall have quite a lot more to tell them. In fact, if you don’t mind, Roy dear, I will keep it all until then. Meanwhile, you can tell me what’s been happening at Springfields.”
Roy smiled at her sweetly. “Well, my dear,” he said. “After you had gone, a small jazz trio arrived, and Mrs. Spurling, clad in a short skirt and dancing pumps, got us all doing the cha-cha-cha. Then Mrs. Cornwall said she would like to sing ‘Summertime’ from Porgy and Bess, and the jazz trio provided the backing.”
Ivy stared at him. “And then what?” she said sternly.
“And then Katya went into labour and produced twins in the dining room, while La Spurling acted as midwife. After that, you came home, which was the most exciting happening of the afternoon.”
• • •
IVY HAD TAKEN exception to Roy teasing her, and had stomped off to have a rest, she said, in the peace and quiet of her own room. She did not invite Roy to go with her, and the air was distinctly cool when she reappeared for tea. However, by the time Gus and Deirdre arrived, good relations were restored, and Ivy greeted her cousin warmly.
“You look tired, girl,” she said. “Come and sit down and tell us everything.”
Gus looked at Deirdre, and they both laughed. “Nice to be home,” Gus said. “And I am sure you have lots to tell us, too.”
Ivy said she would start, as her afternoon’s visit was still fresh in her mind. When she got to the wedding of Ted and Eleanor, and the rumours surrounding it, Deirdre was all ears. “Honestly, Ivy? Did Ted really fancy the young sister first?”
“And she turned him down?” said Gus. “That begins to make some sense, doesn’t it? I don’t suppose sister Mary was very welcome at the farm. Eleanor would not have wanted to risk it!”
“And the baby, Ivy, how far gone was Eleanor when she miscarried? And why did she? Did your Mrs. Coleridge know any details?”
“Not many. She said the Blatches kept themselves to themselves at this time, and shut themselves off from friends. They didn’t seem to have much in the way of family, either. The sister never came to see them again, until Ted’s funeral. And then she didn’t turn up, although she was apparently expected.”
“We didn’t get round to that, but we know Mary might have been in Australia, or perhaps already disabled. But you are going to see Mary Winchen, aren’t you, Deirdre? Now you know some of the background, it might be easier. Mrs. Coleridge has offered to see me again, so I shall take her up on that. We got on very well. A very nice woman.”
“Well done, Ivy,” said Gus. “There are several leads there for us to follow. Now, Deirdre, you’re next.”
“Nothing as interesting as Ivy’s report,” she said. “But we did find the birth of Mary Winchen recorded in the registry. After Eleanor. About four years after.”
“Four years after the birth of Eleanor Winchen. It is strange, imagining Mary as a tiny squalling baby, arriving in this world with an already jealous big sister.”
“You don’t know she was jealous, Ivy.” Roy had listened to all that was said, and now considered all that was new, what was surmise and what fact.
“I think Ivy’s right,” said Deirdre. “My sister was four years younger than me, and I remember tipping her out of her pram in a fit of jealousy. The neighbours had been in to bill and coo over the new arrival.”
“Did she survive your attack?” said Roy anxiously.
“Oh yes, my mother held on to the handle of the pram and it only tipped very slightly. Baby yelled, but was quite safely tucked in.”
“So sister Mary remains the most important unsolved mystery in our case so far,” said Roy. “We’re pinning our hopes on you, Deirdre. And let’s hope Mrs. Coleridge has remembered more when you go to see her again.”
“Did she talk to you about the lodger who must have figured largely in Eleanor’s life at one time?” Gus was interested in encouraging Ivy to remember everything before it faded.
“She mentioned him, but couldn’t tell me any more than we knew already. So now, Gus, anything else to tell us?”
“That’s all, I’m afraid. I am sure if Deirdre finds Mrs. Winchen cooperative, a lot of all this will fall into place. Meanwhile, I propose we take time to consider what we do next, not forgetting one important piece in the jigsaw.”
“Rickwood Smith,” said Ivy. “Now, it seems, master of all he surveys.”
Forty-six
ROY WAS STILL asleep, but surfaced when he heard Ivy’s voice, in a stage whisper, outside his door.
“Roy! Are you awake? I’m coming in, dearest.”
Bolt upright now, Roy called to her to come in. He was more or less decent, he said.
The door opened quickly, and was equally quickly closed behind her, and she put her finger to her lips. “La Spurling is on duty today, so we have to be quiet, unless she goes to my room and finds me gone. I had to come along to talk about something urgently, before I forget it!”
Roy pulled the bedcovers back, and indicated for Ivy to sit in beside him. She hesitated.
“Come along, Ivy. I shan’t ravish you, and you’ll get cold in your nightie.”
“Oh, very well,” she said, blushing furiously. “As long as you promise not to compromise me.”
Ivy climbed in beside him, insisting on leaving a wide stretch of bed linen between them. “It’s that premature baby of Eleanor’s,” she said. “She might have been one of those women who don’t show for months. But when it was born, and either was born dead or soon after birth, where was it taken? I’m sure Eleanor would have wanted to mark its brief sojourn in this world.”
“Ivy! That’s a beautiful thought. You are quite right, and it’s more than likely there was a note in the church register.”
“Right! First thing after breakfast, we walk up to the church and have a good look around the churchyard and cemetery.”
Roy pricked up his ears. “Do you hear what I hear, beloved?” he said.
“La Spurling, calling my name,” said Ivy. “Move over, and sit on the edge of the bed! Quickly!”
Roy muttered that he had every right to have his fiancée in his bed if he so chose. But Ivy gave him a push, and then dived down under the bedclothes behind him. Then she flattened herself out under the covers and was still.
The expected knock on Roy’s door came within seconds, and Mrs. Spurling called that she was coming in. She stood at the entrance to his room, and said she was sorry to intrude, especially as he was about to get up, but had he seen Miss Beasley?”
“Good heavens, no, Mrs. Spurling. As you see, I am in a
state of undress, and I would hate to frighten my beloved into ending our engagement! Have you thought of looking in her bathroom? Or perhaps she has gone downstairs to feed Tiddles. I know that is one of her first chores in the morning.”
Apologising again for bursting in on him, Mrs. Spurling left, and her footsteps were heard going down the stairs.
“Wow! That was close!” Ivy said, popping her head out from under the duvet. She began to move to her side of the bed, when Roy turned swiftly and put his arm around her shoulders. “Whoa!” he said. “Too good an opportunity to miss, Miss Beasley!” and he pulled her back into his arms . . .
• • •
MONDAY MORNING BREAKFAST time was usually late, as new staff coming in and changing of rosters and diet sheets, et cetera, took time. Even so, Mrs. Cornwall, already on to her last cup of coffee, noticed that Ivy and Roy came downstairs hand in hand, and looked, she said to her neighbour, decidedly shifty.
“If I didn’t know Ivy Beasley better,” she said, “I should suspect hanky-panky!”
“I reckon she’s had her moments,” said her friend. “Dark horses are always the worst.”
“Or best, depending how you look at it,” said Mrs. Cornwall sadly. “It’s so long since I had the chance. Anyway, don’t stare. You know what she’s like. You’ll get the rough end of her tongue, else. Here, have another piece of toast and we can linger a bit longer.”
• • •
AS SOON AS they had finished breakfast, Roy and Ivy set out up Cemetery Lane.
They were at the main gate now, and Roy began to dismount. “Nobody around,” he said. “We can take our time. Those shouts are coming from the sports pavilion. I can hear the dulcet tones of Miss Pinkney hitting an ace. Now then, Ivy dear,” he added, “shall we wander round and see what turns up?”
“The baby’s grave? Yes, well, in we go.”
They walked slowly round, reading the epitaphs and commenting on extraordinary ones. “Look here,” said Ivy. “Not what we were looking for, but interesting. It’s Ted’s grave.”
