by Ann Purser
“What a sweet doggie,” the blonde said. “This is my son, Simon,” she added, “and I’m Rose Budd. Now we’re introduced, and if you need any help or information about the village, you must come and knock at our door. My husband works on the estate, and he’s always around.”
“How kind,” he said. “It seems a very friendly village. I’ve just met Miss Beatty and her . . . um . . . dog. She was pleasant, though I’m not so sure about the dog!”
Rose laughed. “I can assure you that Miss Beatty is much more dangerous than Lucifer,” she said. “Stay well clear. She runs the place, you know, and nothing is secret from her.”
“Seems to be the general opinion,” he said. “I shall take the advice. Oh, and by the way, what is her Christian name?”
“Beattie,” Rose said, smiling.
“No, her Christian name,” Gus said.
“Beattie. She’s Beatrice Beatty, but always known as Beattie,” Rose assured him.
“My God, no wonder she looks like she’s swallowed a fish bone!” he said. “Fancy being saddled with that!”
To Gus’s embarrassment, she answered that her own name was odd, wasn’t it. “But at least Rose Budd sounds pretty, and anyway I acquired it by marriage. Apparently Beattie likes hers. Likes being different, she says. Old bag! Oops, there’s the phone—must go.” She scooped up the child and disappeared with a cheery wave. “See you later!” she called as she went.
“Hope so,” said Gus, and proceeded on his way.
Fifteen
THE WOMEN’S INSTITUTE in Barrington was one of the oldest in the county. Theo Roussel’s grandmother had set it up and become its first president. Originally, the meetings had taken place in the Reading Room, and the membership had never amounted to more than ten or so women, all with husbands working on the estate. It had been the usual thing for the lady of the manor to be president, or failing that, the wife of the grandest farmer around. The village women had been encouraged to join and it was made clear they were there to be educated in the traditional homemaking skills, plus the occasional speaker and, as in Barrington’s case, an enthusiastic folk-dancing team as a healthy hobby and a useful entertainment at village fetes.
Of course, things had inevitably changed over the years. Presidents were voted in, and there was now an influential national organisation overseeing the branches, conducted in a democratic and broad-minded way. Very few folk-dance teams could now be found, but instead there were Scrabble tournaments, rounders, drama competitions, and for the more adventurous, a college of education where courses spanning a wide range of interests could be taken. At the AGM in the Royal Albert Hall in London, serious matters were debated and voted on. Some older members said regretfully that the Institute was now neither one thing nor the other.
Ivy Beasley had been a stalwart member of Round Ringford WI, and when she moved to Suffolk, she had immediately joined the local branch. There were a number of things she objected to, but sensibly kept them to herself until she became established. Her old friends would not have recognised her. She had been known to be dreaded by many a speaker, her awkward questions leaving them trembling and unsure as they hastily packed up their leaflets and samples and left, excusing themselves from tea and cakes on obviously trumped-up excuses. Now she sat mostly silently, applauding with reserve, and phrasing her suggestions in a completely non-Ivy way.
This evening, she had a new mission. She knew from long experience that the WI was a clearinghouse for village gossip. After the speaker’s talk, plastic cloths were spread on card tables and plates of homemade cakes handed round by whoever was on duty for refreshments that month. Ivy already knew the women who would be the most reliable informants on rumour and secrets in the village, and she folded her arms, planning the questions she would ask.
The speaker, however, proved to be an unexpected challenge to the new Ivy. Esther Chantry was a tall, narrow-faced woman with the confident air of an infant teacher. She wasn’t a teacher, but an author, and her special interest was historical novels about village life. Claiming she had always lived in villages, she described life in the “olden days” and how today differed from those treasured times. Ivy simmered, but said nothing. In the end, after the speaker had said that then everybody had plenty to eat, kept warm in winter, lived longer and was supported by the neighbours when illness struck, it was too much for Ivy.
“Bunkum!” she said loudly, her face scarlet and her glasses steamed up with fury. “Have you ever read the tombstones in a village graveyard? All them little’uns that died in infancy?”
The president was immediately alert. She had long practice in keeping the meeting to order, including being forced to have a private word with a member who had chipped in to every speaker’s talk with her own opinions and experiences.
“Thank you, Miss Beasley,” she said. “There will be plenty of time for questions and comments at the end. Please carry on,” she added, beaming at the speaker.
So Ivy sat more or less quietly, except for the occasional “Huh!” until the end.
“Any questions, members?” said the president, with a reproving look at Ivy. She did not yet know that Ivy Beasley had never been permanently squashed, and did not intend to change.
“Yes,” Ivy said at once. “I would like to know where you got your stuff about old days in the villages? My family lived in a Midlands village for generations, and tales told by them speak of hardship, illness, early deaths in farm accidents and children wasting away in damp, cold cottages. They had food, yes, but what food? We wouldn’t touch it now. So where were your ideal villages, missus?”
To give the speaker her due, and even Ivy said this later, she reacted with an energetic defence of her evidence. Some villages were as Ivy had described them, she agreed, but it all depended on the squire, and there were probably a good few who were oppressive and mean. There were also, she stressed, many kind and paternal squires and their families. Neighbours were helpful and often shared what they had. There were feuds and enmities, of course. Any group of people could produce those, even the most affluent.
Finally, after the president had looked at her watch several times in as obvious a way as she could manage, the speaker very sensibly said she would love to continue their chat over tea, and Ivy subsided.
Settled with a thick slice of fruitcake, Ivy looked around at the women. They were quiet, embarrassed by Ivy’s intervention. Then one of them, younger than the rest and known for being stroppy, said that she had quite agreed with Ivy.
“These women who think they know everything about country life, and live in restored cottages with loads of cats and scribble all that rubbish about lovely simple, uneducated people, ought to go back where they belong.” Fortunately, the speaker had excused herself and disappeared into the Ladies. “Half of ’em are weekenders,” the woman continued, “and never take part in the real life of the village. Well done, Miss Beasley,” she said. “I bet that woman steers clear of our table!”
The other half dozen sitting with Ivy burst into laughter and all talked at once about the evils of incomers. The president tactfully steered Esther Chantry to a table at the other end of the room. “Sorry about the interruption,” she whispered before the writer sat down.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” said the writer, “it’s all good copy, you know.” She smiled confidingly, and the president wondered what on earth she was talking about.
Meanwhile, Ivy was having a splendid time. Now their embarrassment had vanished, her companions were only too pleased to talk to Ivy. They quickly assured her that as she had not bought up a village house, but had come to retire in Springfields, she was not considered an incomer. She steered the talk around to the murder without difficulty. One said she was glad Miriam Blake hadn’t turned up tonight, else it was going to be very difficult. “I mean,” she said, “we none of us know who did it yet, and, well, she has to be one of the suspects, doesn’t she?”
“I can think of others,” said a small, thin woman, dress
ed entirely in beige.
“Who?” they chorused.
“Well, that new man, for a start. Who is he? Where did he come from, and why Barrington?”
“He’s been seen talking to Miriam and going into her house,” contributed another.
Ivy thought it was time she said something in Gus’s defence. “He’s all right,” she said. “Came to Springfields and offered to be a volunteer. Not many of those around,” she said meaningly.
“After the old folks’ money, I shouldn’t wonder,” said the stroppy woman. “There’s always cases in the newspapers about con men getting life savings out of old women.”
Ivy laughed. “He hasn’t tried it on me yet, and he’d better not,” she said. “Anyway,” she added, turning to the woman in beige, “who else is on the list of suspects?”
For a moment, the woman did not answer, and the others looked at each other.
“Well,” said the stroppy one, “not so long ago, our Miriam spread it about a bit. You know, for a while she was anybody’s, including other people’s husbands. Several wives I could name who were so humiliated they would gladly have knifed anybody called Blake.”
“But not the old woman, surely,” Ivy said.
“It was said,” the woman in beige pronounced with emphasis, “that Miriam’s mother encouraged her. Was desperate to get rid of her, shift her on to someone else. They hated each other, Miss Beasley. We all knew, and some of us sympathised with the old woman. But others said a mother should control her daughter, that she was the one at fault. It must be stopped, the Mothers Union decided. It could be that somebody thought that by stopping the mother, the daughter would be shocked enough to give up her tricks. And also, of course, Miriam would be bound to be suspect number one.”
It had proved quite the opposite, a sober-faced woman said. Ivy recognised her as one of the church workers who visited Springfields now and then. “Miriam’s as free as a bird now,” this woman said. “Very chirpy when she forgets to be the grieving daughter. And got her claws into that new man already, so I hear.”
Ivy smiled. “I doubt it,” she said. “Any other suspects?”
A quiet woman, the only one who had said nothing so far, cleared her throat.
“How about our own beloved squire?” she said. Everybody turned to look at Miss Beatty sitting at the speaker’s table, but she was deep in conversation. Which doesn’t mean she’s not listening, thought Ivy.
The quiet woman lowered her voice to a whisper, and leaning forward said she remembered when he’d been seen going into the Blake’s cottage on a regular basis.
“I reckon you’d better not say any more about that, Doris,” the stroppy one said. “You don’t want to be had up for libel. Still, what you said is very interesting, eh, Miss Beasley?”
WHEN IVY RETURNED to Springfields, she immediately rang Gus. “Listen,” she said. “Apart from that notice about Enquire Within in the village shop, which anyway sounds as if we’re mostly prepared to look for lost dogs and cats, I reckon we should keep our heads down. No extra publicity. I got some really good stuff at the WI tonight. But only because they think I’m a crotchety old woman who’s waiting to die in an old folks’ home. Let’s keep it to ourselves for a bit,” she added, and said she was about to phone Deirdre to tell her the same thing.
“Did you tackle Beattie?” Gus said.
“No, not yet,” Ivy said. “Better than that. Tell you Monday, if not before. Good night, Augustus.”
She told Deirdre the same thing, and to her relief her cousin did not argue. “Same thing had occurred to me,” she said. “Glad to hear the WI was a success. I’m working on a way to get to Theo without the dragon knowing.”
“Speak to me first, before you see him,” Ivy said. “Come round for coffee tomorrow morning. Katya has promised to bake me a special cookie—whatever that is. Not such a bad child, that one. I may make something of her yet. Night, Deirdre.”
BEATTIE BEATTY HAD stayed on in the village hall to help with the washing up. She did not usually do this, and the others were curious. Why now? They soon found out. Beattie buttonholed the ones who had sat at Ivy’s table and asked what all the hilarity had been about. “Share the joke,” she said, punishing a soapy saucer with a drying-up cloth.
After they had given her an edited version, leaving out all mention of Theo Roussel, she had more questions, this time about Miss Ivy Beasley. Who was she? Some relation of Deirdre Bloxham, she understood. Spoke her mind, didn’t she. She approved of that. What else could they tell her about Ivy?
But the others did not cooperate, and said they knew no more than she did. Miss Beasley had seemed nice enough, once you got to know her.
Finally, the hall was cleared, and Beattie walked slowly up the long drive to the Hall. She was convinced that Ivy’s table had been talking about Theo. She had even heard his name, she was absolutely certain. She quickened her steps. He had been about to say something to her this morning, and she knew perfectly well what it was. He was going to sack her for the imprisonment. But she knew him of old, knew things about him he would rather not have spread around. Then she was so nice to him at breakfast time that when she asked him if there was anything else before she started baking, he had hesitated and said no, nothing else, and had thanked her for a delicious breakfast.
She checked that every lock in the house was secure and went upstairs to her room. There she undressed and climbed into her high bed, took her book and began to read. Tomorrow was another day, and she would tackle the problem of Miss Ivy Beasley and her cousin Deirdre in the morning.
Sixteen
DEIRDRE ALWAYS ARRIVED promptly, and this morning was no exception. The new, imitation old, grandfather clock in the hall struck eleven as she came into the door of Springfields.
“Lovely morning!” she said, as she went upstairs to Ivy’s room. Mrs. Spurling smiled and called after her that Katya had been busy baking for them both, and coffee would be up shortly.
“I think I’ll move in here with you, Ivy,” Deirdre said, as she settled down in a comfortable chair. “Lovely room with a nice view of the village, pleasant staff and good food. Waited on hand and foot, and an interesting man calling on you most days. What more could you want?”
“To be twenty years younger,” said Ivy tartly. “I’d like to be back in Ringford in my own house, with Doris and Ellen, and the three of us going blackberrying in the autumn. Roots is what I miss, Deirdre.”
“What do you mean, Ivy?” Deirdre asked, wishing she’d not said anything except hello.
“Family roots. Generations of Beasleys behind you. That’s what I mean.”
“Well, you’ve got me. And this is a good second best, isn’t it?”
Fortunately, before Ivy could expand further on the value of roots, there was a knock at the door and Katya came in with a tray of coffee and cookies. Ivy’s smile was warm, Deirdre noticed with surprise, and after the girl had gone, the last of the Beasleys praised the still-warm biscuits, saying only that, in her opinion, biscuits was a good enough name, since that’s what they were.
“Now, down to business.” Ivy then gave Deirdre a succinct account of what she had gleaned at the WI. “If you ask me,” she said firmly, “the most important point out of all this is that our Miriam most probably had an affair with Mr. Theo Roussel. He must’ve been hard up for a woman, but still, there’s no accounting for taste.”
Deirdre bridled. “Hardly hard up,” she protested. “He was a very attractive man in his youth,” she said. “All the girls were after him.”
“Including you?”
Deirdre shook her head. “No, he was after me,” she corrected. “We had a fling for a while, but it fizzled out, like these things do.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Ivy, but reflected that she knew only too well. It was some years ago now, but the pain of being abandoned at the altar by her lodger was still a vivid memory. “Anyway,” she continued, “it’s even more important that you get to see Theo as soon as pos
sible. Blackmail is about the only really solid reason we’ve got for somebody knifing the old woman.”
“Ivy! You’re talking like a private eye already! And yes, I am determined to get to see Theo in spite of his minder. Have you any idea how I can do it without making a scene? I could go blasting in there with all guns blazing, but that would hardly put Theo in the mood for confiding secrets, would it?”
Ivy was silent for a few minutes. “We need Augustus,” she said. “He’s the man we want. I bet he’s solved more things of this sort than we’ve had hot dinners. He’ll tell us how to do it. No, don’t go. I’ll ring him now, see if he’s at home.”
Gus was at home, still in his pyjamas, reading a long letter from his ex-wife. She had enclosed a fistful of bills to be paid, and said that if he did not come up with the cash immediately, she would have to go to the lawyers again, and she was sure he knew how much that would cost. He sighed as he answered Ivy’s call, but when she summoned him to Springfields at once, he was glad of the diversion and showered, dressed and was on his way in a very short time. It was a lovely morning, he noticed with rising spirits as he strode down the High Street. Something would come up. Maybe he’d go to the greyhound stadium in town tonight and have a few flutters on the dogs. Yep, he’d go to the dogs! As if he wasn’t there already, he told himself, and roared with laughter, alarming Whippy who was, as usual, by his side.
BEATTIE BEATTY HAD prepared a cold salad lunch for Theo, and suggested to him that he might like to eat it in the orangery. “There’s plenty of shade under the trees,” she said, “and you wouldn’t be worried by wasps and things. Shall I set it up there for you?”
