by Ann Purser
GUS WAS ALREADY in the Enquire Within office, and greeted Ivy and Roy with a cheerful smile. This was not returned, and Deirdre, who had answered the door and accompanied them up the stairs, knew at once that something was wrong.
“Now then, Cousin Ivy,” she said, sending a warning look at Gus, “you and Roy could use a good strong cup of tea. Right?”
“Thanks, Deirdre,” Ivy said, and Roy said that he would appreciate that. The wind had been cold as they made their way to Tawny Wings. “And added to that,” he said, before Deirdre left to make the tea, “we had a bit of sad news at Springfields this morning.”
Deirdre sat down at once. Her mind flew around the various possibilities, but strangely enough, considering it was an old folks’ home, she did not consider a death of a resident, not even Alwen Jones, who had certainly looked a bit middling lately.
Gus asked the question for her. “Who was it, then, Roy?” he said, as sympathetically as he could manage.
“Mrs. Worth,” Ivy said baldly. “The old trout who yelled a lot, and whose husband was gardener for Mr. William Jones, and who got pregnant from a secret assignation with the said William Jones. Joe Worth never knew the boy wasn’t his, and William, or, more likely, George Jones, paid up to keep Mrs. Worth quiet. And knowing what we know about her, he must have paid a lot.”
There was a stunned silence, broken finally by Deirdre saying that if there had been a son, why on earth were there never any visitors for poor old Mrs. Worth?
“The boy, named Samuel, aged eleven, was run over by a brewery lorry and killed outright.”
Roy looked at Ivy in astonishment. “Did she tell you that, Ivy?” he said.
Ivy nodded. “Last night, when I went up to see why she was yelling again. She was quite lucid, for once. Sometimes happens, so I’m told, just before the end. My mother did the same. Sat up in her bed, straight as a die, and announced that she wanted to live. Then she lay down again and breathed her last. Odd, really.”
Gus was puzzled by Ivy’s apparent indifference to what must have been something of a shock to Springfields. Then he noticed Roy surreptitiously handing her a clean white handkerchief. Ivy turned away, as if to look out of the window, and Gus saw her pat her cheeks swiftly and hand back the handkerchief. So, thank goodness for that! He could not believe the old thing was so completely stonyhearted.
When Deirdre returned with the tea, Ivy said it was time they got down to business, and she personally was anxious to hear how they got on in Measby.
Gus looked at Deirdre. “Will you start?” he said.
“No, you.”
“Right-o, but feel free to correct me if I get anything wrong.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, get on with it!” said Ivy.
And so Ivy and Roy listened with interest to an account of a visit that had turned up some very strange facts.
“First of all,” Gus said, “we had great trouble finding Doris May Osborne. We tried at the shop, but the shopkeeper was no help. In fact, he did his best to persuade us to forget all about the cottage for sale, and hinted that it was already sold.”
“O’course, we didn’t believe him,” chipped in Deirdre. “Nor did we accept that his boss had gone on holiday to New York and hadn’t said when she’d be back! He was clearly making it up as he went along, wasn’t he, Gus?”
Gus nodded. “Which, of course, made us all the more keen to find out what was going on,” he added. “In the end, Deirdre reminded me that Doris May had said she lived at the Manor, and we decided to call there. So off we went, up the long drive, to a very impressive manor house of Tudor origin, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Is that relevant?” said Ivy shortly.
“Could be,” Gus replied defensively. “In my experience, Ivy, every little detail can be relevant. So, as I was saying, the house was very impressive and very expensively maintained, Deirdre reckoned.”
“Yep, just like Doris May herself,” Deirdre said, taking over the narrative. “Talk about manicured lawns! And the flowerbeds immaculate. We pressed the bell, and waited.”
“Yes?” said Roy, who was beginning to side with Ivy in wanting them to get to a few important points.
“After a while,” Deirdre continued, “we heard footsteps coming towards the door.”
“And it opened slowly with a terrible creak, and there stood Adams the butler, with only one eye and a menacing leer on his sallow face!” This was from Roy, and spoken with a completely straight face.
Silence. Then Gus gave a shout of laughter. “Point taken!” he said, and patted Roy on the shoulder. “Come on, Deirdre, let’s be brief.”
Deirdre was looking distinctly offended, but she shrugged her shoulders and said that Gus should carry on.
It was an interesting account. Doris May had finally opened the door and invited them in. She had been pleasant and polite, but firm in her confirmation that the cottage had been sold. She was sorry, but had gained the impression that Mrs. Bloxham had not been seriously interested in it, and so she had accepted an offer from a subsequent approach. She had apologised if they felt they had wasted their time in coming over to Measby.
“So we left. Nothing much else we could do. Then, as it was nearly lunchtime, we went to the local pub for a bite to eat. And that was when it got really interesting. Go on, Deirdre.”
“Well, we got into conversation with the publican, and naturally we mentioned the sad business of a possible murder and that nasty stuff about the old man’s demise.” She looked at Gus.
“And he said,” Gus carried on slowly, determined not to be done out of his moment of drama, “he looked at both of us as if we were barmy, and said, ‘What murder? You got the wrong village, mate.’ ”
“That’s right,” said Deirdre, “that’s what he said. ‘What murder?’ ”
Thirty-nine
DOWN THE LONG Measby farm track, Max and Margaret huddled over a small fire which Max had lit on their return to base, the run-down cottage once occupied by a misguided artist.
“This place will be the end of us,” Margaret said gloomily. “Damp through and through, no matter how many fires we light. Look at the paint peeling off the ceiling! And there’s our Doris, rich as Croesus, with her designer outfits and smelly scent. You’d think she would at least slap a coat of paint on this hovel before she rented it out. She owes us, after all we did for her when we worked in the casino.”
Maxwell sighed. “Maybe,” he said. “But remember how much we owed her. Both of us gambling away as if there was no tomorrow! She says she wrote it off, but would you trust her? And think how little we pay in rent. We wouldn’t get anywhere else as cheap as this.”
“But why don’t we just pay a bit more? After all, we should soon have money in the bank when she gives us our share, and the strong possibility of more to come. Doris has got a list, y’know. Surely we could shell out for a bit more comfort?”
“There is another thing you seem to have forgotten,” he said coldly. “We are not exactly anxious to be known around here. Keep our heads down. That’s what we agreed. The next thing you’ll want is to join Measby WI! For God’s sake, woman, be thankful for small mercies. When the job’s done, that will be the time to enjoy the fruits of our labours. And miles away from here.”
“Oh, shut up, Max!” she said, and threw another log on the fire.
A shadow passed by the window, and then a knock at the door sent Max scuttling upstairs. “It’s that farm bloke,” he said as he went out. “Get rid of him.”
The farmer touched his cap politely, and said he was sorry to disturb Margaret, but he had a message for her. Well, for her husband, actually.
“Sorry, he’s not here,” she said blandly. Lying came as naturally as breathing to Margaret.
“Well, perhaps you could pass it on. A visitor was here looking for you. A woman, in a big black car. She seemed disappointed to find that you were away, and I said I would tell you she had called. Didn’t leave a name, I’m afraid.”
&nbs
p; “Thanks,” said Margaret. “I’ll tell my husband when he returns. Probably some old business associate,” she added and shut the door firmly in the man’s face.
When he judged it was safe, Max crept downstairs. “What did he want?” he asked.
“Some woman called while we were away,” she answered, shrugging her shoulders. “I expect it was you-know-who. I saw in the paper the brewery’s been taken over. Maybe she’s out on her ear, and skint. Who could blame them? Snooty bitch. Thank God we weren’t here.”
“No good antagonising her,” Maxwell said. “She’s part of the plan, ducky. Just watch what you say.”
“I’m getting sick of watching what I do and say all the time! Why can’t we take what we’ve got and cut and run? You’re just being greedy, Martin!”
“What do you mean?” he said angrily.
“I mean greedy, always wanting more! Just like when you couldn’t wait for that shaky old Smithson to fall down stairs by himself, which he certainly would’ve done after the pressure you put on the poor old bugger. Pay up, Bernie, or else! How many times did you threaten him? No, you couldn’t wait for nature to take its course. You had to pull that mat out from under his feet, didn’t you? Proud of that, weren’t you.”
Max took a step towards her, but she put out her hand as if holding him at bay. “Don’t touch me,” she said. “You’d be nothing without me.”
Max subsided onto a chair, and Margaret continued her tirade. “Poor old Bernie. An’ then those kids coming in and messing everything up around the cottage and covering up any traces you might have left. And taking the rap. Jammy old Max! But we won’t always get away with it, y’know!”
“Oh, sod off,” he said wearily. “How many more times are you going to rake over all that? And next time you want three weeks’ luxury holiday in the Bahamas, just remember which of us is the greedy one.”
THE MEETING OF Enquire Within had broken up, and Ivy and Roy went their way slowly back to Springfields.
“Funny old day,” said Ivy eventually, after a long silence between them.
“Certainly is,” Roy said. “First that poor lady dies in the night. Then we hear that odd report from Gus and Deirdre. What on earth is going on over at Measby, Ivy?”
For once, Ivy was not sure. “We’ve got to find out more about that old man who was found dead. Not murdered, said that publican. I reckon he was lying, for a start. And he told them that the old boy died of falling downstairs, and some evil yobs got into the cottage and splashed red paint about? Does that seem likely to you, Roy?”
He shrugged. “Could have happened, I suppose. But if it was true, why was Doris May so cagey with Deirdre the first time she went?”
“We should have talked about all this straightaway, instead of listening to Deirdre complaining of a migraine and ending the meeting before we had really started.”
“Oh, don’t be hard on her, dearest,” Roy said, stopping his vehicle and looking up at her. “Didn’t you see how pale she was, and those dark circles under her eyes? Poor love, she was obviously suffering.”
“Mm,” said Ivy. “And didn’t you see how Gus stayed behind to comfort her? If you ask me,” she added, her confidence returning, “they realise now they were taken in by a pack of lies and needed to think it all over. I reckon the whole thing, from the shopkeeper and his crafty boss to the man in the pub, was a crude attempt to get rid of a nosy pair of intruders for good.”
“Or maybe they knew perfectly well who they were, and had a good reason for wanting them out of the way,” Roy suggested.
They had arrived at the door of Springfields, and Katya rushed out to help Roy out of his vehicle. “You are sooner home than we expected,” she said. “Now you can come in and have hot chocolate and freshly made cookies. Anya has found a new recipe, and I need you to road test them. ‘Road test,’ is that right?”
“It’ll do,” said Ivy, smiling kindly at her. “I can’t think of anything more welcoming. Thank you, my dear. I must just go upstairs and collect Tiddles. She will be lonely, and I can keep an eye on her in the lounge.”
The atmosphere seemed to have warmed up since breakfast. Residents were talking to each other, and Mrs. Spurling was arranging fresh flowers on the window ledges. She turned to see Ivy coming in with Tiddles cradled in her arms, and shuddered. She had never liked cats, and heartily wished she had not allowed Roy to persuade her.
“Has Tiddles been out in the garden this morning?” she asked, but Ivy was apparently deaf to her question. “No? Then later perhaps,” she insisted, but thought that she might just as well have held her tongue. Ivy Beasley was really impossible, but what could she do?
“When’s the funeral?” Ivy said to Katya as they sat down.
“Ivy!” said Roy, shocked at the baldness of her question.
Ivy ignored him, and looked enquiringly at Katya.
“I do not know at the moment,” the girl said. “There are so many arrangements to make, so I am told. As soon as we know, I am sure Mrs. Spurling will tell all the residents. Not many will be able to go, but I hope enough of us to send Mrs. Worth respectfully on her way.”
“I shall go,” Ivy said bluntly, gently stroking the curled-up kitten. “And so will Roy, I am sure. They say the parson here does a good funeral. At least there’s not likely to be pop music and sentimental poetry. Mrs. Worth claimed she had no family, but you never know at funerals. All sorts of hopeful relations crawl out of the woodwork.”
“Ivy!” repeated Roy.
“So now I shall fetch your chocolate drink and cookies,” Katya said soothingly, and walked off towards the kitchens.
“Are you sure you want to go to the funeral, my love?” said Roy. He was anxious to protect her from herself. She had not liked Mrs. Worth, he was certain of that. And a funeral of any of their number would be a reminder of graveyards for them all. And now Ivy’s strong sense of duty would force her to attend. Maybe he could dissuade her before the event.
“Of course I’m sure,” Ivy said. “Goodness me, Roy, don’t you see how important it might be? If Mrs. Worth was mixed up with the disappearing William Jones, there may well be people who are anxious to make sure she is well and truly out of the way. Never forget, my dear, that William Jones has had a second life somewhere, with who knows what ramifications?”
“I love that word,” said Roy. “ ‘Ramifications.’ It covers a multitude of sins. Very useful, Ivy. Very useful.”
“Yes, well, don’t change the subject. We shall both go to the funeral, with our eyes and ears open.”
“Yes, Ivy,” Roy answered meekly. She was a wonderfully strong woman, and he’d better get used to it.
Forty
ENQUIRE WITHIN HAD not met for a week, and apart from brief social visits from Deirdre to Ivy, and Gus calling in at Springfields to make sure both Ivy and Roy were not too distressed by the death in what was, after all, their home, there had been a tacit agreement that they needed a pause to consider all the facts they had collected before taking the next steps.
“Do you feel this is your home, Ivy?” Roy said to her one afternoon as they rested in her room after lunch. She did not talk much about Round Ringford, unless someone asked her questions about her former life, but he knew that she must miss it dreadfully. Maybe not all the time, but even he, who had been at Springfields much longer than Ivy, was occasionally saddened by a sudden picture in his mind of a sunny morning as he stepped out of his house into a yard busy with the life of the farm. In Ivy’s case he could picture her working in her neat vegetable garden or sitting with her friends Doris and Ellen, drinking tea from her best cups.
“It’s all we’ve got, isn’t it?” Ivy said, looking at him in surprise. In all the years of her spinsterhood, she had never dreamed that loving someone as she loved Roy could be so overwhelming. She took his hand and held it to her cheek.
“The thing is, Roy,” she continued awkwardly, “if you ask me, I’d say that home is where the heart is. And mine is here with you .
. . and that’s home enough for me.”
After that, they sat in companionable silence for a while, until there was a knocking and Katya popped her head round the door. “We shall be leaving in about half an hour,” she said. “I expect you can hear the tolling bell? It is a little sad, isn’t it?”
Ivy saw at once that the girl was upset by the mournful ringing of the single church bell. “Oh, don’t let that worry you!” she said. “Our parson loves to make a meal of things. The tolling bell is not much used now, but it used to be. Told everybody in the village that there had been a death, I suppose. Anyway, we just need to get our bonnets on and then we’re ready,” she said, and rose to her feet.
“The day you get me into a bonnet, Ivy Beasley,” said Roy, “is the day our relationship comes to an end!”
THE SMALL PARTY from Springfields filed into the church and took their places at the front. Ivy looked around curiously. One or two village people who had never met Mrs. Worth, but enjoyed a good funeral, sat at the back, and there was a lone figure of a woman in the front pew on the opposite side of the aisle.
“Who’s that?” Ivy whispered to Roy.
He shook his head. “No idea,” he replied. “One of the agency carers who come into Springfields, maybe?”
“Doubt if she’d sit in the front,” Ivy said.
Roy put his finger to his lips as there was a shuffling noise from outside the church door. Then the parson’s loud ringing tones filled the air.
“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”
Katya sniffed, and fumbled in her pocket for a tissue. Ivy opened her handbag and silently handed over a small, lace-edged handkerchief. The black-suited bearers carried the coffin slowly up the aisle, and the organist played softly Mrs. Daisy Worth’s favourite tune, “On a Bicycle Built for Two,” doing her best to make it sound like a funeral march. As the coffin passed by, Roy’s eyes were suddenly riveted by the wreath of white chrysanthemums placed on top. There, nestling in the centre, was unmistakably a box of Juicy Jellies.
