The Measby Murder Enquiry

by Ann Purser

  “But not the cheat! Don’t tell me he was the cheat, because I don’t believe it. Unwise he may have been, but not a cheat.”

  Theo raised his eyebrows at the vehemence in Deirdre’s voice. Did she fancy his stringy-looking tenant? He smiled. Good luck to her, he thought. At our age we take our pleasures where we find them, and as he felt a pang of jealousy he reminded himself of his plans for little Katya.

  “No, no,” he reassured her, “it wasn’t Halfhide. The cheat was discovered, and duly punished. He wasn’t a Londoner, and I have no idea of his name. Came from the provinces somewhere. Never heard of again, as far as I know. Anyway, it’s probably not relevant to your search for Gus.”

  Deirdre was silent for a few minutes, and Theo got up to refill their glasses. “What was Halfhide’s wife like?” he said idly, filling in the gap in conversation.

  “Brisk,” said Deirdre, smiling back at him. Things were not good, but meanwhile, here was Theo, looking particularly attractive this evening, twinkling at her over the edge of his glass. “She hadn’t a good word to say for her ex-husband, but when I said he might have been kidnapped and shot, she softened up. Became quite helpful, in fact, and asked us to let her know if we found him.”

  Theo walked over to the window and drew up the blind. “Come over here, Mrs. B,” he said. “Just look at that glorious sunset. It’s just possible Gus Halfhide is on the other side of the world enjoying a fantastic sunrise coming up on his horizon. More things in heaven and earth, Deirdre love.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Theo,” she said, taking his arm.

  “No matter,” he said, not all that sure himself. He turned her round from the window, and suggested they go upstairs, where he would explain everything.

  Except how to find Gus, Deirdre thought, and followed him slowly up the stairs.

  IN THEIR PRISTINE, soulless house, the Evanses were clearing up after lunch. Trevor was taking the afternoon off, planning to work over the weekend to see if he could force a few sales.

  “Do you fancy going to the Friday market this afternoon? We might pick up some fresh veg at half the price of the supermarket,” Bronwen said. She had decided to warm up her relationship with Trevor. It had been sorely tested since she had failed to persuade her mother to lend them money. Now they scarcely spoke to each other, and she needed to talk to somebody. Her sister had been distinctly cool, and her mother was taking refuge behind the wretched Spurling woman.

  Bronwen was feeling lonely, and, she had to admit, along with losing her job she had lost a sizable amount of self-confidence. Trevor had changed, too, and now that she wasn’t bringing money into the household kitty, he had been treating her like an unwelcome dependent. She would not be at all surprised if he suggested divorce. Would she miss him? She had considered it a number of times, when she had discovered his lies and secret assignations. But what else was there in her life? Only one other preoccupation, and that was now under threat.

  “The market? Is that what we’ve come to?” answered Trevor, not taking his eyes from a tired-looking quiz show host going through the motions with obvious boredom.

  “What do you mean? Other people swear by the fruit and vegetable stall. Much fresher and all local, instead of the stuff supermarkets import from God knows where.”

  “Can you see me with a shopping basket over my arm, bargaining with some ignorant stallholder in Thornwell market, where I might bump into any of my clients. I do have an image to maintain, Bronwen. I am aware that yours has crashed, but all the more reason why I should continue to be the best estate agent in town. No, no, no. You go, if you want to. Mingle with the peasants, by all means. This afternoon I’m having a well-earned rest, and for the rest of the weekend I shall be busy selling houses, with any luck, and bringing in at least enough to keep us in fruit and vegetables, from wherever you choose to buy them. And now,” he added, turning up the sound, “can I be left to enjoy the telly in peace?”

  Bronwen said nothing. She got up from her chair and left the room. Upstairs in their bedroom she put a small overnight bag on the bed and threw some clothes into it.

  Then she scribbled a note and put it on the dressing table, picked up the bag and her waterproof coat and crept down the stairs and out of the door without disturbing Trevor, who, she could see through the open door, had gone to sleep with his mouth open and the television blaring out, covering her departure.

  Twenty-seven

  SOON AFTER BRONWEN had left home, a warning light winked on her dashboard, signalling that she was running low on petrol. “Blast!” she cursed. She had not planned on filling up for another week, when her bank balance would be a little healthier with income from a small investment. It would have to be a credit card, and she prayed that she was not over her limit.

  She headed out of town and stopped at the next filling station. She held her breath as the card went through the machine. Approved, thank goodness. As she walked back to her car it suddenly struck her that this was how a lot of people lived all the time, up to their ears in debt and living on yet more credit whenever they could. No wonder some women turned to shoplifting! She found herself wondering what would happen if after she had filled up, she just drove away without paying,

  Turning into the side road that would take her to the village of Measby, near Oakbridge, she began to relax. She would stay away for a couple of nights and then return to Trevor, hoping he had been sufficiently alarmed to think again about the way he was treating her. If not, well, that would be that, and as she thought about her future, she quite fancied the idea of a completely new start.

  The house was not in the village itself, but down a rutted track and set amongst a cluster of ruined barns, too small to be used for modern farming equipment. It had previously been rented by an artist with a taste for solitude and a love of crumbling relics of the old farming ways. But he had soon had enough of rural delights, and disappeared without paying the rent.

  The house had not stood empty for long. The low rent had attracted tenants in no time, and as Bronwen bumped along over the ruts she wished they had chosen somewhere more accessible. She knocked several times at the front door, and then trudged round the back through scratchy brambles and high grass. Still no reply. She had not bargained for this, and returned to her car. The sun had warmed the interior, and she leaned back in her seat, closed her eyes and considered what to do next. Now that they weren’t here, she realised that asking for help from them would have been a stupid mistake. She must have been desperate even to think of it.

  She was about to drive off, when she heard a dog barking loudly. It was too late to make a getaway, and she sought rapidly for an excuse for being here. But it was not them returning. It was a man with a gun and a growling Labrador wearing a muzzle.

  “Gone away,” he said abruptly.

  “What, for good?” Bronwen said anxiously.

  “No. They said they’d be back in a few days, maybe a week. Shall I give them a message?”

  “No, no thanks,” Bronwen said. “I’ll catch up later. Thanks,” she repeated, and drove back slowly over the ruts to the road, where she turned to go back to Thornwell and Trevor.

  It had certainly been a silly idea. Those two could not possibly have helped her. She could see that now, and tried to order her thoughts and come up with a more sensible plan. Best to go back home, think of some convincing explanation for the note and the overnight bag, and try another approach.

  It proved to be easy. As Bronwen went quietly through the back door into the kitchen, she heard the familiar blaring sound of the teatime soap opera. She went through the hall and peered into the sitting room. Trevor was where she had left him, head lolling back, mouth open and snoring for England.

  She turned and went upstairs, screwed up the note and flushed it down the lavatory and then unpacked the bag, returning her clothes and toothbrush to their proper places. Then she walked slowly downstairs and into the kitchen, where she filled the kettle as tears streamed
down her cheeks.

  ALWEN JONES, HAPPILY unaware of her daughter’s misery, joined Ivy and Roy after supper for a game of pontoon in the lounge. Without Deirdre and Gus, they could easily pass a quiet hour or so before bedtime in there without disturbing the other residents. In the event, it was another resident who disturbed them. A piercing shriek came from upstairs, just as Roy was dealing out the cards.

  “What on earth?” Alwen said. “Where’s Pinkers? Mrs. Spurling went home hours ago.”

  Then Katya rushed in and up to Ivy. “Miss Beasley! I must go quickly to attend to Mrs. Worth, and please will you come with me as I know she likes you and you can calm her down. I cannot find Miss Pinkney anywhere. I expect it is another of Mrs. Worth’s nightscares.”

  “Not the right word,” Ivy said calmly, “but quite a good alternative. Come along then, lead the way.”

  Mrs. Worth had slid from her pile of pillows and her head was half-submerged. She was still screaming and shouting. Katya and a care assistant who had joined them heaved the old lady back until she was resting comfortably once more.

  “There we are,” said Ivy, in her best attempt at a motherly voice. “Now tell Ivy what you were dreaming about? Nasty dream, was it?”

  The old lady stared at her. “Who are you?” she said suspiciously. “Are you the one that flirted with my Joe? I’ll soon put a stop to your nonsense!”

  “No, I’m not that one,” Ivy said through gritted teeth. “I live here at Springfields. I’m your friend. Tell me why you were so upset.”

  Mrs. Worth looked at her craftily out of the corner of her eye. “What’s it to you?” she muttered.

  Ivy turned to Katya. “I’m doing no good here,” she said, and walked towards the door. Katya nodded, and dismissed the care attendant. “I’ll stay with her for a bit, thank you, Miss Beasley. I expect she’ll soon go back to sleep.”

  Ivy was halfway down the corridor when the office telephone began to ring. Katya came flying out and called her back. “I must answer that,” she said. “Would you mind, Miss Beasley? Just until she’s gone back to sleep?”

  Ivy sighed and went back into Mrs. Worth’s room. She sat on a chair beside the bed and looked the old lady straight in the eye. “Now then,” she said. “I haven’t got time to listen to your rubbish. You don’t fool me. I bet you were one of them women who always demand attention. I feel sorry for your husband Joe. Probably waited on you hand and foot.”

  Mrs. Worth’s chin quivered. “My Joe brought me Juicy Jellies every Friday,” she said defiantly.

  “Poor man,” said Ivy dismissively. “Now, do you want to tell me about your nightmare, if there was one, or shall I go and get on with my card game? My friends are waiting for me.”

  Mrs. Worth frowned. “You can bugger off, if you like,” she squeaked. “You’ll not be missed. And anyway, I did have a nightmare an’ it was the one I always have. My Joe had toppled into the beer an’ he was drowning. That daughter of Mr. William’s was standing there, laughing her head off, pushing him under when he tried to get out. Can’t remember her name. Works at the brewery. So there, Miss Ivy Beasley, put that in yer pipe and smoke it!”

  “Did he get out?” said Ivy matter-of-factly.

  “I always wake up before I find out,” Mrs. Worth replied. “But I seen her again, that girl. Can’t tell you where or when,” and she broke into a cracked singing voice, “ ‘but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day!’ ”

  “My Dad used to sing that,” Ivy said. She reached forward and patted the old lady’s hand. “Go to sleep now, gel. You won’t have no more nightmares.”

  It was as if someone had switched off a light. Mrs. Worth’s head fell to one side on her pillow and her eyes shut tight. As Ivy tiptoed out of the room, she heard a muttering and stopped.

  “He did, my Joe did bring me Juicy Jellies every Friday, he did.” Mrs. Worth’s voice tailed off into silence, and Ivy retreated softly along the corridor and down the stairs to rejoin the pontoon players.

  “And one for his nob,” said Roy triumphantly, counting up his score. “First time I’ve won against you two. Ivy, you were miles away, and Alwen’s half-asleep. Pity Gus is not here to keep the pair of you concentrating on the game.”

  “Sorry,” Ivy said, frowning. “It’s just something Mrs. Worth said. Keeps going round and round in my head. I’ll tell you later, Roy, when we have our bedtime hot drink.”

  Alwen looked at her suspiciously. “Why not now, Ivy?” she said. It was more than likely something to do with Gus’s disappearance.

  “Shall we play some more, or watch the telly?” Roy could see that things would not improve with his gambling companions. Alwen yawned widely, and Ivy shuffled the cards and began to put them back in their case.

  “I think I shall go up to my room,” Alwen said. “I can’t keep awake this evening. Must be all that teaching and running about after the children.”

  Ivy stared at her. “Are you all right?” she said. Alwen’s eyes looked watery, more than usual.

  “Yes. Just joking,” she replied with a sniff. “I’ll say good night. Good night, Roy. Good night, Ivy. See you tomorrow.”

  Ivy and Roy watched her limp away, and were silent for a minute or two. Then Roy said, “Poor old thing. Must be grim for her after such a busy life.”

  “Huh!” said Ivy. “Life is what you make it, Roy. We could all feel sorry for ourselves in here. But you don’t and I don’t, and even Mrs. Worth doesn’t. She’s an old schemer, you know. All that shouting. Just to get some attention. Well, I told her straight.”

  “What was it she said that goes round and round in your head?” Roy said.

  “She was having a nightmare, she said, and it was something about her husband working at the brewery. She mentioned William’s girl. Now, who was that, I wonder?”

  “We don’t need a Horlicks to think this one out,” Roy said. “It was Bronwen, of course. Come on, let’s retire to your room and have a brainstorming session, as Gus would say.”

  “If only he was here,” said Ivy.

  Twenty-eight

  ALWEN HAD DOZED off after her morning coffee, sitting in the best and most popular armchair in the lounge. She awoke with a start when Katya gently touched her arm.

  “Mrs. Wilson Jones? It is only me, Katya. Take your time.”

  “What is it? Where is he?” Alwen looked wildly round the room.

  “It is just a telephone call for you. Shall I ask the caller to ring back?”

  Alwen began to shiver. “No, no. Give me a minute, and I’ll come. But I will take it upstairs in my room, if you could give me a hand, my dear.”

  Katya dashed out to tell the caller to hold on for a few minutes, but the hoarse voice said he couldn’t wait, and could she please remind Mrs. Jones that it was Saturday, and midnight was the time. Then he rang off. Katya frowned at this strange message, and went back to tell Alwen Jones. Alwen was already on her feet, and Katya was aware that she was much more wobbly than usual. She was also aware that other residents were poised at the ready to take over the vacated chair.

  “He couldn’t wait, I’m afraid, Mrs. Wilson Jones,” she said. “I am so sorry. Perhaps it would be good if you asked your daughter to obtain a mobile telephone for you?”

  “Oh. Right. I’m sure it was nothing important.” Alwen sank back into her chair, breathing hard, and three disappointed ladies muttered about some new residents being much too pushy.

  “I am to give you a message,” Katya continued. “The caller asked me to remind you that it was Saturday and the time was midnight. I think he must have been mistaken, because it is certainly not midnight! I was about to tell him it was only half past eleven in the morning when he ended the call.”

  Ivy had heard the telephone ringing in Alwen’s room as she and Roy came downstairs. When they entered the lounge she went straight over to where Alwen sat with her eyes closed. “Did you take that call, Alwen?” she said.

  “No, he left a message,” Alwen replied, still wit
h her eyes closed. “It was a reminder that the deadline is midnight tonight. Where on earth is Deirdre Bloxham? She should be here.”

  “As a matter of fact, she told me she thought she would go over to Measby, as she has every right to do,” said Ivy defensively. “The poor girl is more worried about Gus than she lets on, and wanted something to take her mind off what might have happened to him. A preliminary recce, she said, might be useful to us.” Nobody but she was allowed to criticise her cousin, and that included Alwen Jones. “And anyway,” she continued, “she promised to be back well before deadline time. I must say I begin to think the threat is an empty one. If you ask me, we are up against a small operation, maybe just one man. And if he’s after money, and that’s all, he won’t gain anything by doing away with Gus. What d’you think, Roy?”

  “Well, I’m sure you’re right, Ivy, but I do think we should try to get hold of Deirdre, just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it,” he said mildly. “We are rather stuck here, and there’s very little we can do.”

  “I’ve got my mobile. If you think I should get hold of Deirdre, I could try that?”

  “Well done, Ivy,” Roy said.

  “It’s in my drawer upstairs. I’ll make a call up there. There are too many nosy old biddies in here to be private.”

  “It’s Ivy’s birthday tomorrow,” Roy said, when she had gone. “Deirdre’s getting something special for me to give her. I do hope she will like it and not think I am taking a liberty.”