The Measby Murder Enquiry

by Ann Purser

  “He’s dead,” Deirdre said. “Recently popped his clogs. In the local paper.”

  “Ah. Right. Yes. So, if this Mrs. Jones is a widow, but not of George, who’s only recently died—her husband could have been William. She’d have been very closely connected if he was the one. Can’t remember much about him. I think he was a solicitor or accountant, or some such. Maybe financial director of the brewery, or something like that? You could find out easily enough. Now can we go to bed?”

  Deirdre shook her head. “Did William marry a Wilson woman?”

  “And did she drop poison in his beer? And was there a scandal with one of the bottle-washers in the brewery? I know your game, my lady,” he added, rising to his feet and taking her hand. “Enquiring within? Well, I’ll think some more, and let you know if I come up with any juicy morsels. And now, off to bed!”

  Much later, as they say in romantic fiction, Deirdre awoke from a pleasant doze.

  “Theo,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Um, hungry, yes. Capable, not sure.”

  “No, fool. Shall we raid the larder? I could murder a ham sandwich.”

  Seven

  GUS POURED HIMSELF a cup of coffee and opened the last letter of a pile of junk mail. He had not slept well. Images from the past had floated repeatedly into his half sleep. A rain-soaked city street in total darkness, with shadowy figures scuttling from doorway to doorway. Nights spent in a shepherd’s hut halfway up a Greek mountain. Bare rooms furnished with dubious-looking recording devices and unshaded lightbulbs.

  At half past three, sweating with fear, he had drunk half a glass of water and reached for a book. He needed something to redirect his thoughts but knew from bitter experience that this did not always work. If the book was a spy thriller, his favourite reading, his dreams would be a jumble of experiences, and he would wake up doubly exhausted, unable to sort out fiction from reality.

  Coffee helped to improve the morning, he now decided, as he spooned brown sugar into his breakfast mug and downed the strong brew. He slit open the envelope. At least this letter was addressed in handwriting, but it was familiar and unwelcome. He read it quickly. It was brief and to the point. On a matter of personal obligation, would he remit the aforementioned sum by the end of the month without fail. Or else.

  He had met his persecutor years ago, and he had seemed a good sort, reliable and trustworthy, but he had turned out to be none of these things. He had led Gus into a world of gambling and deceit, from which he had still not broken free. This was his last unsettled debt, but with the relentless accumulation of interest at a high rate, it had now mounted to a total which Gus had no hope of finding.

  His telephone rang. “Shut up!” he shouted, his nerves jagged. Why had he thought living in a remote Suffolk village would be peaceful seclusion? It continued to ring, and he finally answered it.

  “Hello? Oh, good morning, Ivy.”

  “What’s up with you, Augustus?” Ivy said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course there’s something wrong. I am not stupid.”

  “Sorry, Ivy. Didn’t sleep well. I’ll tell you later.”

  “Unquiet mind,” she said, more perceptively than she knew. “Nothing like a clear conscience for peaceful nights.”

  “Yes, well. Anyway, had you something special to ask me? Has Alwen Jones gone into a decline?”

  “No, but you will, if you don’t get over here in good time. You’ve not forgotten again your talk with old Mrs. Worth? Mrs. Spurling will have your guts for garters if you don’t turn up.”

  Gus had forgotten, but now he assured Ivy he would be there on the dot of eleven o’clock. He had to pick up bread and milk from the village shop but would come on from there. He only hoped he had the energy to keep up a one-sided conversation.

  “I’ll come to see her with you, if you like. Mrs. Worth won’t have any idea who I am, or you, for that matter, but any visitor is better than none. See you later, then. And don’t be late.” Gus groaned. He desperately wanted another coffee but dared not risk the heart flutters and racing pulse that would inevitably go with it.

  THE SHOP WAS crowded with children who had the day off from school because there had been a power failure. They were excited and noisy with the heady knowledge that they had an unexpected day off. The new shopkeeper, James, smiled at Gus over the heads of milling children. James knew he had no hope of spotting the odd chocbar finding its illegal way into a jacket pocket, and allowed for this in his budgeting. He was learning fast.

  “Form a queue, you lot,” he said good-humouredly. “Now, girls first. Where’s your manners, boys? Susan Rampling, were you first?”

  Gus found his milk and a brown loaf, and waited his turn, filling in time by reading the front pages of the newspapers on the stand by the door. The nationals were full of economic doom and gloom, and he moved on to the Thornwell morning paper. This was usually good for an entertaining story.

  Sure enough, the brewery story still made headlines. The takeover had been completed, and the new giant brewers were promising that nothing would change.

  Inevitably there would be redundancies, but this would be achieved in the most sympathetic way possible. Early retirement, reallocation to other allied companies, that sort of thing, said a spokeswoman. Gus saw her name and peered more closely. Mrs. Bronwen Evans. Bronwen? Wasn’t that Alwen Jones’s daughter’s name? The clever one, the one Alwen had positively ruled out as confidante?

  “Your turn at last, Gus!” James called out. “Sorry about the wait. It’s best to get rid of them as quickly as possible, before they filch the entire stock of sweeties. Hope you’re not in a hurry?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do have to be at Springfields by eleven.” Gus glanced at the big wall clock behind James. “Still five minutes to go. I’ll just have these, please. Then I’ll be in later for more supplies. Oh, and have you any idea what I can take a poor old thing with few faculties left?”

  James did not hesitate. “Juicy Jellies,” he said. “Always acceptable. Fastest selling item in the shop. And when you bear in mind my customers’ average age, I rather dread the first packet put into my own shaking hand.”

  “Oh, come on, James, you’re only a boy. What about a pint at the pub tonight? I’ve discovered Jones Brothers Best. That’ll cheer you up. Darts match at eight, isn’t it? Steady hand and eagle eye, my boy. See you then.”

  Gus took his purchases and started off at a trot for Springfields. He was not looking forward to the wrath of both Spurling and Ivy, so he kept it up until he reached the gate of the home, gasping for breath.

  “You needn’t have hurried,” Ivy said critically, seeing his red face. “Mrs. Worth is in the bath. They’re changing her bed, too, so we’ve got a reprieve for ten minutes or so.”

  Gus banished thoughts of soiled beds and scrubbed-down old ladies, and asked Ivy if she’d heard from Deirdre this morning.

  Ivy nodded. “She phoned. Said Theo had been helpful. He told her about the brewery Joneses. George had a brother William who was married, but he couldn’t remember his wife’s name. Now the lovely Deirdre is lying low after the drinks do up at the Hall last evening. If I know my cousin, she won’t have gone to bed until the early hours.”

  “Or, alternatively, will have had a very early night,” said Gus mournfully. His threatening letter this morning had kyboshed any hope he had of competing for Deirdre’s favours, and he sighed.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, cheer up!” Ivy said sternly. “How would you like to be incarcerated in here? At least you’ve got your health and vigour, and, what’s more, your freedom from gaolers like this one approaching.”

  “Morning, Mr. Halfhide!” Mrs. Spurling was wearing her most cheerful face, and beamed at Gus. “Dear Mrs. Worth will be receiving guests in five minutes. She’s so looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Ivy said. “She don’t know chalk from
cheese, poor old thing. Still, I’m going with Gus, and the two of us might raise a smile at least.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Mrs. Spurling said. She frowned. Why couldn’t Ivy Beasley mind her own business? It had been nothing but interference and criticism since she arrived. She just hoped the new resident, Mrs. Jones, could deal with her and modify her influence. After all, the ex-teacher had dealt with unruly classes of small children for years. Ivy should be child’s play for her. She watched them go upstairs to Ivy’s room, and thought sadly that Mrs. Jones didn’t have a chance. “I’ll give you a call when Mrs. Worth is ready,” she shouted after them.

  Ivy turned on the stair. “Don’t bother,” she said. “We’ll go when we’re ready. Shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.”

  Gus smiled apologetically at Mrs. Spurling. “Ivy knows best,” he muttered, and followed on behind the upright figure.

  IT WAS HARD going. Mrs. Worth appeared to be fast asleep, and so Gus and Ivy talked idly of this and that and waited for her to surface.

  “I tell you one thing, Augustus,” Ivy said, sniffing. “This home always smells nice. Most of ’em smell of pee, and I couldn’t be doing with that. But old Spurling is a stickler for keeping us clean. Not that I need her help—yet!”

  Gus remembered his purchases, and withdrew the box of Juicy Jellies from his shopping bag. “Here, Mrs. Worth,” he said to the comatose figure, “do you like these? Juicy Jellies?”

  At the magic name, the old lady suddenly opened her eyes and stretched out her hand. “My favourites,” she said quite clearly. “Joe always brought me them, every Friday.”

  Gus and Ivy exchanged glances. Perhaps they could keep the old thing awake now.

  “Was Joe your husband, Mrs. Worth?” Gus said, leaning forward and helping to open the box.

  “Fifty-three years we was wed,” the clear voice said. “After I got bedridden, he brought me Juicy Jellies every Friday. Did I tell you that? Have one, go on.”

  Ivy extricated a green jelly from the box. “I’m Ivy Beasley,” she said. “I live here, too.”

  “I know who you are,” Mrs. Worth said. “The girls who help me—are they my daughters?—talk about you. The one called Katya is always on about you. Says you shouldn’t be in here. Much too clever, she says. Are you? Are you clever?”

  “No, of course not. And the girls shouldn’t gossip.”

  “My Joe,” said Mrs. Worth, “he worked at the brewery, you know. Brought me Juicy Jellies every Friday. Did I tell you that?”

  “Jones Brothers brewery?” Ivy said. “What did he do there?”

  “Don’t ask me, dear. Always stank of hops when he come home. Mr. William was his favourite. Two bosses, there were. Mr. George and Mr. William. My Joe used to do gardening at weekends for Mr. William and his bossy wife. Did I tell you my Joe used to bring me Juicy Jellies every Friday?”

  Gus was about to ask more questions, but Mrs. Worth’s eyelids suddenly closed like blinds being lowered, and in seconds she was snoring deeply.

  “That’s that, then,” Ivy said. “Not a waste of time, after all. Come on, Augustus, let’s go and ring Deirdre. I’ll tell her to come here this afternoon, and we’ll see what she picked up at the Hall.”

  Gus stopped halfway along the corridor. “Ivy,” he said.

  “What’s up?”

  “Did it occur to you to wonder how Mrs. Worth’s husband, who worked at the brewery and did gardening at weekends, could afford to pay the fees here at Springfields?”

  “Oh, yes, that occurred to me, no mistake,” replied Ivy, who had in her armoury a lifetime of speculating on village events from behind lace curtains in Round Ringford. “The likes of Mrs. Worth and her Joe don’t usually end their days in a private residential home charging ridiculously large fees.” She paused, then walked to the top of the stairs. “There’s something odd there,” she said, turning back to look at Mrs. Worth’s door. “Money like it costs to be in here don’t come from nowhere. If old Joe worked at the brewery and gardened for Mr. George’s brother William, old nuisance back there might well remember who his bossy wife was. Come on, best foot forward, Augustus. You’re looking more cheerful already!”

  Eight

  ROY HAD BEEN somewhat snitched to be sent packing yesterday from the mission to rescue Alwen Jones. He suspected Ivy had noticed his appreciative twinkle as he talked to Alwen, and in her characteristic way had taken immediate action. Nobody must rock the Enquire Within boat! Still, a chap couldn’t help reacting to a well-endowed bottom with a wiggle as it walked.

  Now he sat talking to his old buddy, Felix Galloway. They had arrived at Springfields at the same time, and had comforted each other in their misery. Roy was at first determined to be miserable, and Felix always agreed with everything he said.

  “Seen your daughter lately, Felix?” Roy said. He knew she was a regular visitor, and demonstrably very fond of her father.

  “She’s coming in this afternoon, bless her,” Felix replied. “Always brings me something nice, but I tell her nothing’s as nice as herself, and that would do, without presents.”

  Roy nodded. “I should’ve married years ago. Nothing like a family, when you’re old. Mind you,” he added, thinking of Alwen Jones and her bossy daughter, “they can be a mixed blessing, so I’m told.”

  “It’s never too late, they say. Mind you, I can’t see the patter of tiny feet coming along at our age!”

  Both men roared with laughter at the ridiculous thought but stopped suddenly when they heard a voice coming up behind them.

  “So, what’s funny, Roy? Share the joke, won’t you?” It was Ivy, and she touched his arm lightly.

  “Ah, there you are, Ivy,” he said, ignoring her question. “Are you ready for a wee drink before lunch?”

  “Not time for that, Roy. Gus is here, and we’ve phoned Deirdre. Meeting in my room in a quarter of an hour. Be there, please.”

  She disappeared up the stairs, and Felix smiled. “Under starter’s orders, my boy,” he said. “Best have a pee before you go. Looks like it could be a long meeting.”

  “SO WHAT’S THIS all about?” said Deirdre crossly. She had a headache this morning, and knew it was her own fault. Still, it had been worth it! Theo back to his old loving self.

  “First of all,” Ivy said, “how was it last night?”

  “Wonderful!” Deirdre said dreamily, and then saw Ivy’s face. “Um, well, I told you on the phone about Theo and what he said. But before that the party was a good one for once. Some quite interesting people. As I said, Ivy, I did have a chance to talk to Theo about the Joneses, if that’s what you’re asking. He knew them, of course. Apparently there were two brothers—”

  “George and William,” interrupted Ivy. “We already know that. Did you sort out which was which?”

  “George was the boss, and William possibly company secretary, or finance director, or some such. He was an accountant, Theo said. He also said if he thought of anything else of interest he would let me know.”

  Gus nodded. “Very useful, Deirdre,” he said.

  “We got some useful stuff, too,” Ivy said. “Daffy old Mrs. Worth—you know, Roy, the one who yells in the middle of the night—she had a few lucid moments this morning when me and Augustus went to see her. I shall see her again, to see what else she remembers.”

  “She made sense for once?” Roy said in surprise.

  “Briefly,” Gus said. “It looks like the most interesting Jones brother who might’ve had something to do with our Alwen is the younger one, William, who had a bossy wife. We wondered if you, Roy, could remember anything about a Jones/Wilson wedding way back?”

  “Do we think Alwen is connected, then?” asked Roy. “I thought she said she wasn’t, or only distantly? And does this have anything to do with her trouble yesterday?”

  Ivy smiled at him. “Yes, we do, and yes, she did say that, and yes, it might have. Remember what we’re supposed to be looking out for? As well as digging around in Mea
sby for more on the old man’s death, we are to keep our ears open for other cases of extortion or blackmail? Well, that means money. Alwen has lost twenty thousand, supposedly, and Daisy Worth is in here, paying out a fortune in fees which she ain’t likely to have in her Post Office savings account. Two and two make . . . ?”

  “You’re not suggesting Mrs. Worth is blackmailing Alwen, surely, Ivy?” said Gus, smiling broadly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Ivy said crossly. “It’ll be more complicated than that.”

  “Only teasing,” said Gus. “Anything you’d like to add, Deirdre?” He felt it necessary occasionally to remind the team he was unofficial team leader. Or was he? He couldn’t remember what the initial meeting of Enquire Within had decided. He had a nasty feeling Ivy had just taken over, although the private enquiry agency had been his idea.

  Deirdre shook her head. “I remember the brewery, of course I do. But in Oakbridge the Jones family weren’t much talked about.” Deirdre had spent her formative years in the town across the other side of the county, moving to Barrington after her marriage to Bert.

  “Well, I remember the lot of ’em,” Roy said. “Sniffy lot. Do-gooders, every man jack of ’em. Very disapproving of people enjoying themselves, though what they thought their beer was for, I don’t know. Methodists, they were. Pofaced lot always sat in the front pew with their noses in the air. What do you want to know?”

  “Well, that’s pretty good for a start,” Gus said, suddenly cheered, as always, by Roy’s resilience and good humour. “Tell us about the brothers, George and William.”

  “Ah, now wait a minute. There was something strange, I do remember,” Roy continued. “George was always the one in the news, o’course, with his large donations and good works. Then he was made mayor, and his picture was in the paper every week, cutting ribbons and kissing babies. Young William was scarcely mentioned.”