by Ann Purser
“Well, think back, Ivy. Money in all its glorious guises. Investment, gambling, extortion, whatever you like to call it. And all preying on old, vulnerable people. Maybe like the old man who died. Could mean revenge, and you can take it from me, the world of gambling is full of cheated people out for revenge.”
Deirdre had begun to see a glimmer of light. “Maybe like Alwen? Has she been one of these vulnerable victims? I do wish you could be more forthcoming, Gus.”
“Sorry, can’t help you there,” Gus said quickly, and changed the subject. He asked more questions about Doris May Osborne, and said he thought Deirdre had done very well. “We might have a return visit to that interesting village,” he said. “But this time, I go with you. Now, who wants this book? The very sight of it gives me the creeps.”
“I’ll have it,” said Ivy. “Might help me beat our newest recruit at pontoon.”
The ghost of a smile crossed Gus’s face, and he said quickly, “Goodness, look at the time. If we’ve nothing more to discuss at the moment, I must be off to the shop before it closes. Come on, Whippy girl, let’s be making tracks. Oh, and Ivy, I must tell you again how pleased I am about you and Roy. It’s the best news I’ve had for a long time. Bye, Deirdre, thanks for coffee.”
After he had left, there was an uncomfortable silence. Then Ivy said that it was quite possible that Gus did not know anything more about Alwen Jones, but as this was part of their investigation, perhaps they should carry on for a bit without him and plan what they would do next in that direction.
“Excellent,” said Roy.
“If I’m right,” said Deirdre, “when Gus sees how determined we three are to continue our enquiring, he will not be able to keep away from joining the team.”
“Thank you for that, Deirdre,” said Ivy. “And now who’s for one more cup of coffee?”
Thirty-five
“WHERE DO YOU think you’re going?” said Bronwen, staring at Trevor. He was wearing a loud check sports jacket that she had not seen before. Clearly new, then. Added to that, he was carrying a new leather briefcase, stuffed with papers, and was accompanied by a strong smell of aftershave.
“Out,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting with an important client. He can only manage this evening, in the County Hotel.”
“And I’m expected to believe that, am I? And what about the new jacket and briefcase? I suppose you think now that Mother intends to put right some financial problems, you can spend, spend, spend, just as before? Well, you can’t, Trevor my lad. I haven’t had an extra penny direct, and what little I have left in my bank account is staying there. So you can just go and get changed and come back down and watch telly with me. Her at the County Hotel will just have to have a meeting by herself, won’t she.”
Trevor’s face was an angry scarlet, and his developing boozer’s nose took on a distinctly purple hue. “Don’t you speak to me like that!” he said, but saw that she was smiling triumphantly and knew that he had lost.
“I have to make a call, then, to cancel the meeting. Probably lost us a good client with your stupid suspicions!” he added, but Bronwen merely turned up the sound on the telly and settled comfortably in her armchair.
“No need to use your mobile,” she said over her shoulder, as he put his hand in his pocket. “You can use the phone over there. Then I can enjoy your feeble excuses.”
IN BRONWEN’S SISTER’S house, the atmosphere was very different. Her children were safely tucked up in bed, and she and her mild husband Clive were listening to opera on the radio. Clive was absorbed in the latest choice from their reading group, and Bethan leafed through a catalogue of French children’s clothes, much cheaper than the English equivalents, and with, as sister Bronwen would say, a certain je ne sais quoi. She had tidied up the scattered toys and put them in a big yellow box in the corner of the living room, and now she and Clive sat side by side on a sofa that had seen better days, with threadbare patches covered over with a cheerful tartan throw.
Bethan closed the catalogue, and said hesitantly that if Clive could have a pause from reading for a bit, she would really like to talk something over with him.
“Of course, chump. What’s on your mind?”
“It’s Mother. I had a call from Mrs. Spurling at Springfields this afternoon. She said she was a little worried about her. Nothing serious, she said, but she had been very quiet lately and seemed rather solitary.”
“What about her card-playing friends?” Clive said. He had a small, pointed beard and had a habit of pulling it gently when puzzled. When his small son had asked why Daddy had hair on his face, he answered that it made up for losing it on his head, and for the moment that seemed to satisfy. The truth was that long ago a disillusioned girlfriend had said he had a weak chin, so he had taken action.
“I thought she was really happy with Ivy Beasley?” he continued. “Settled down well, we thought.”
“Yes, well, that has cooled down a little. This deterioration is very recent, Mrs. Spurling said. But she thought that perhaps if we all went to see her as soon as possible it would cheer her up. She felt quite sure there was nothing wrong physically. It was depression, she feared, and this could be very debilitating.”
“Right! That’s easy enough. I’ll take tomorrow afternoon off, and we’ll all go. The boys will surely lighten things up.”
“What about the garden centre?”
“Oh, that’s okay. I’m owed a couple of days, so that’ll be no problem. I’ll go in early and leave at lunchtime. I can give the kids their jobs for the day, and Caroline will supervise the work.”
Clive was in charge of a garden centre outside Thornwell. It was part of a workbridge setup for people with learning and physical disabilities, and under his management it had become a valuable resource for the young people, and also financially successful, which endeared it to the local authority under whose umbrella it existed.
Satisfied with the plan, Bethan found her own book, and with the music turned down so as not to disturb the boys, they relaxed.
NEXT MORNING, GUS turned up at Tawny Wings soon after nine and asked Deirdre if she fancied a run over to Measby to have another look at the cottage. She was still in her dressing gown and said she wished he had given her a little notice, but if he would wait in the sitting room, she would shower and be happy to go with him. Then she had second thoughts. She had been right about his change of heart, but what about his promise, and if he’d been warned off, was it safe for him to go?
He replied that he had lost count of all the warnings he had had over the years, and he had considered this one carefully. Now he was prepared to risk calling their bluff. He hoped the others would approve.
“So long as you’re not on your own, I’m just pleased to have you with me,” Deirdre said, almost shyly. “Shall I ring Doris May Osborne first?” she said. “We don’t want to go over and find she’s not around. I think she’s the only one with authority to show people the house. She actually made a point of that. She may even refuse.”
“No, no, don’t ring her. I’ve got a good idea from your description what the house is like. No, I’m more interested in the old man. You found that book in his cottage, and I know only too well the rotten core of the gambling scene. Ripe for blackmail and worse! If you remember the rumours that apparently flew around at the time of his death, a connection with a racket behind that and Alwen’s nasty experience looks increasingly likely. After all, she’s a dab hand at pontoon, as we know! Maybe we could speak to a few people in Measby? I’m learning that village folk don’t forget easily. I’ll try a bit of local research on your computer, while you’re gilding the lily.”
She sighed. “When you get to our age, Gus,” she said, “you have to do a bit of gilding. But goodness,” she added, cheering up, “what did you think of Ivy on her birthday? She looked almost pretty, with colour in her cheeks and her eyes sparkling! And that nice dress and matching shoes. No wonder Roy was bowled over! I’ve never seen her looking so fine. Probably Katya
who insisted on smartening her up. That girl is very fond of Ivy.”
“And Ivy’s fond of her,” Gus said. “I think she means to save her from Theo’s evil clutches if it’s the last thing she does.”
“Yes, well, I’m with her there. The old devil is very persuasive, and I saw the way he looked at her at his cocktail party. I think he’d like her as a permanent fixture. But what a lousy life for a young girl in that great mausoleum with Theo’s dreary friends all at least a generation older!”
“Glad to hear you say that, Deirdre,” Gus said, and lightly patted her bottom. “Off you go and get ready to go enquiring. I’ll be busy down here.”
He waited until he heard the shower running, and then switched on the computer.
“WOULD YOU LIKE to drive?” Deirdre said, reappearing in a cloud of intoxicating scent. Under the shower she had been thinking, and had decided there was no time like the present to start on a campaign of wooing Augustus Halfhide, and she would begin straightaway by changing her image a little from the feisty, independent widow to a softer, more emotionally needy woman.
“It would certainly make a change from rusty old bangers,” Gus said happily, as he climbed into the driving seat. “Wow, this is the life!” he chortled, as he cruised along. It wasn’t quite as nippy as he’d expected, but the comfort factor was superb. “I feel like Mr. Toad in Wind in the Willows. . . . ‘Poop-poop’!”
“Yes, well, when you’ve come down to earth, perhaps you’d like to tell me a bit more about your time spent incarcerated in London. Was it London?”
“Yes, I got there thinking I was meeting Martin, but a couple of nasties had other ideas,” Gus said, quite serious now. “But Deirdre, I’d really rather not talk about it anymore. Let’s concentrate on our mission to Measby, shall we?”
“Sorry. Shan’t mention it again,” she said. If she really wanted him, she did not want him to think she was a nagger. “Did you get anything useful from the computer?”
“Not much. There was the usual factual death notices, including several in Measby, but no details. Could have been anybody. No sensational story.”
“Honestly? Well, that’s interesting! So that explains Doris May’s lighthearted dismissal of the tragedy.”
“Not necessarily,” Gus suggested. “She might have been concentrating on getting information from you, not giving it out.”
“But why, Gus. Why should she bother? Oh, and if you don’t mind my pointing it out, the hand brake is still on.”
Thirty-six
“GOOD DAY, ALWEN,” Roy said politely as he and Ivy were on their way across the lounge to the dining room. “We missed you at breakfast. Are you feeling well? Coming in to lunch?”
Alwen shook her head. “It’s fish,” she said. “Can’t you smell it? I can’t abide cod, and that’s what it is. I’m fine with a sandwich.”
“Why don’t you bring it in and eat with us? We haven’t had a chat for quite a while, and now Gus is back we need to fix a time for our next pontoon session. Mustn’t let the old grey cells get rusty!” Ivy said firmly.
But Alwen again shook her head. “I’ll give it a miss at the moment,” she said. “Just don’t feel like it. But it’s kind of you to ask.”
“Well how about a walk after lunch? Ivy and me are going along to the church. They’ve got a flower festival on, and it’s very beautiful, so Katya says. Won’t you come with us?” Roy smiled kindly at her.
“No, I’ve got Bethan and her family coming to see me. Not that I wouldn’t rather stroll along with you. They’re a noisy lot, and the way I feel at the moment I prefer peace and quiet.”
“Can’t you put them off?” Ivy said.
“No. Bethan’s husband has taken the afternoon off specially. Mrs. Spurling told me about it too late to change his arrangements. Don’t worry, I’ll get rid of them as soon as possible. I might stroll up to meet you, if I can find the energy.”
Ivy and Roy sat down at their table and began to eat cod in parsley sauce. “It’s delicious,” said Ivy. “The silly woman has got herself in a state. I suppose it’s up to us to find out why.”
“Obviously something to do with Gus and his escape,” Roy said indistinctly, attempting to extract a fish bone from between his teeth.
“And her part in it, d’you mean? I doubt if we’ll get anything about that from her. She knows how to keep her trap shut.”
“Her trap? That’s an old Ringford Juniors expression, if I’m not mistaken!”
“And a perfectly good one,” she answered, wiping the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “You must have seen plenty of rat traps in your farming days. Snap! Nothing more final than that. And Alwen ain’t going to talk. We’ll have to find out some other way. She’s not a bad old thing, and a good one, if she really did play a part in Gus’s release. We’d like to help her, wouldn’t we?”
“Maybe we could have a word with her daughter when they leave. Bethan, isn’t it? She seems like the nicer one. Don’t care for that Bronwen at all.”
WHEN IVY AND Roy came out of the dining room, Alwen had disappeared. Miss Pinkney was on duty, and she said Mrs. Wilson Jones had had a sandwich in her room and was resting before her visitors arrived.
“Right-o,” said Roy. “Miss Beasley and I are going for a stroll down the High Street to have a look at the flower festival in the church. It’s on for a week, and will still be fresh from the weekend.”
Ivy nodded agreement. “Flowers always stay fresh in church,” she said. “God’s blessing, probably.”
Roy thought of disagreeing, pointing out that it was always cold in church and the temperature was what kept them fresh. But he knew Ivy had a hotline to her Maker, and would have mentioned the flowers in her prayers. If she trusted God to keep them fresh, who was he to doubt?
It was a chilly morning, and Miss Pinkney advised wrapping up well. She had had many years’ experience looking after old people, and knew that they could very quickly lose heat. “Coats and hats, and possibly scarves and gloves as well,” she said, keeping her voice light. She knew only too well the need to approach Miss Beasley carefully. If she thought she was being told what to do, it was most likely she would choose the opposite.
Finally Roy and Ivy were ready. They set off at a good pace, Ivy keeping up with Roy in his shopper. If he went too fast, she allowed him to get ahead, and then he would slow up. Neither would imply that the other was failing.
“Oh, lor, there’s Miriam Blake heading in the same direction,” Ivy said. “Shall we walk on past the church up to the river, and then look in on our way back? Give her time to be gone?”
“Now, Ivy, there’s nothing wrong with Miss Blake. She’s lonely, that’s all.”
“I don’t see how you can say that,” Ivy replied huffily. “She works in the shop several days a week, and must see plenty of people then.”
“Not the same as having a person living with you in the house. I know that from experience, and before you can say it, my love, I know you do, too. But now we have each other, haven’t we?”
“And a host of other dopes alongside, especially Mrs. Worth,” Ivy said tartly. “She was the only one who voted against my having Tiddles, didn’t you say? And I know why. That time she was screaming and creating, I faced up to her and told her straight. I mean to go and have another word with her. She’s not nearly so gaga as she pretends, you know. If you ask me, she could tell us a thing or two about her early days with her husband gardening for William and his wife. Have we ever asked Alwen about that?”
Roy turned into the churchyard, and steered his vehicle along the narrow path between fading lavender bushes and the odd late rose. “Well, I haven’t,” he said, as he bumped along. “It isn’t easy to introduce the subject of her husband. Does she go and see Mrs. Worth? Surely she must know the old thing is bedridden upstairs?”
“Something else to ask,” Ivy said. “Still waters run deep, as my mother used to say, and Alwen don’t like the surface disturbed!”
“Oh,
very neat, my love,” said Roy, chuckling. “Now, I’ll park in the porch and we can take things slowly inside the church.”
As Ivy had expected, the flowers were mostly chrysanthemums, from small multiheaded buttons to huge shaggy blooms that reminded Ivy of an Old English sheepdog. She said so, in a loud voice, and several of the flower arrangers tending to their creations glared at her. Almost more beautiful than the flowers were the sprays of leaves in all shades of yellow and red and orange, lit up by rays of sunlight streaming in through the ancient plain glass windows.
“Now look at those Michaelmas daisies, Roy,” Ivy said, pointing to a perfectly symmetrical arrangement at the foot of the pulpit steps. “Those are really lovely. Not a trace of mildew. At home in Ringford, I always got mildew. I wonder whose these are?”
“Mine,” said Miriam Blake, coming out from behind a pillar. “And my gardening secrets are not for passing on!”
“Huh!” said Ivy. “Well, Miss Blake, since I no longer have a garden, I can’t see the harm in telling me. But for the same reason, I have no desire to know, thanks very much.” She turned to Roy. “Come along, let’s go and look at that pedestal arrangement by the altar.”
But Roy knew that every so often he had to stand firm. “I would be interested to know, even though I’m not a gardener anymore, Miss Blake,” he said.
Miriam looked a little mollified. “Oh, all right, then. I’ll whisper my secret, Mr. Goodman,” she said with a murderous look at Ivy.
“Good morning, Miss Beasley! And how are we this morning? Well wrapped up, I’m pleased to see. It’s a cold wind, I’m afraid.” The vicar was pleased with himself this morning. He had just been interviewed for promotion to rural dean, and fancied he had done rather well.
“Seasonal,” grunted Ivy. “You don’t expect balmy winds now. Only barmy people,” she added, glancing sideways at Miriam Blake bending close to whisper in Roy’s ear.
