by Ann Purser
“Well, if you’re sure, Ivy, that would be very nice. I don’t want to play gooseberry, you know,” she added with a wan smile. “But if you don’t mind, while you are visiting Martha, I will stroll up the road to the cemetery and have a look at George’s grave. I suppose the headstone won’t be up yet, but there’s bound to be lots of flowers still. It’ll be balm to the spirit, maybe.”
“My goodness!” said Ivy. “It’s not where I’d choose to go to be cheered up! But if that’s what you want, of course it’s all right. Then we can all go and have lunch in town.” She looked at her watch. “Better get some porridge into you, then, Alwen. The taxi’s coming at half past ten.”
As Ivy reached for her large handbag, there was tiny mewing sound.
“Ivy?” said Roy.
“Yes, Roy?”
“Is that a miaow I heard?”
“Yes, Roy.”
“Tiddles?”
“Yes, Roy.”
“Then we had better leave Alwen to her porridge and get out of here before La Spurling comes bearing down on us like a wolf on the fold.”
“Yes, Roy,” said Ivy, and walked out of the dining room with a seraphic expression on her face.
“COME ON IN! Coffee’s all ready, and Stanley is looking forward to meeting you.”
Martha Sparrow beamed at Ivy and Roy, and ushered them into a comfortable sitting room where an elderly man was standing, smiling a welcome.
Roy had failed to persuade Alwen to come in with them, and had said they would pick her up at the cemetery gates in an hour. When he had seemed worried, Ivy said that Alwen Jones was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and would he kindly forget her and concentrate on the task in hand, which was ferreting for any information likely to emerge in the conversation and be useful to Enquire Within.
Stanley Sparrow was a big, burly man with plenty of iron grey hair brushed back and grey eyes to match. He wore steel-framed half spectacles, which gave him a scholarly air, and with his grey cablestitch jersey and good grey cords, he blended in nicely with the largely muted tones of Martha’s sitting room.
Roy took to him at once. “Sparrow?” he said. “That’s a good old Thornwell name, I know. I’m sure my father had a friend called Sparrow. Sid Sparrow, that was it. Bred horses over Oakbridge way.”
After that, with reminiscences lasting more than a half an hour, Ivy began to think they’d never get around to talking about Daisy and Joe Worth. Finally there was a lull in the conversation, and Ivy commented that it had been a good funeral yesterday. Had Stanley ever met the Worths? She was immediately alert when she saw Martha and husband exchange wary looks.
“Yes, I knew Joe vaguely,” he said. “I seem to remember he came to us once or twice to do a bit of gardening, isn’t that right?” he asked Martha.
She nodded and repeated what she had told Ivy and Roy already, that she had been at school with Daisy but had lost touch. “There was such a lot of unpleasantness around at the time of William Jones’s disappearance. Quite frankly, Ivy, we felt that the less we had to do with them the better.”
“Especially as rumours flew about that Joe Worth had blown the whistle on William’s gambling debts, just before he disappeared,” Stanley added.
“Seems Joe loved a flutter on the horses himself, and had watched William for years,” Martha continued. “Oh dear, it does seem such a long time ago now. I was quite taken aback when Alwen Jones walked in yesterday. I think she was, too! She certainly didn’t want a chat.”
“But she recognised you,” Roy said. He felt guilty. All those reminiscences with Stanley had been so enjoyable, but now he remembered what Ivy had said about why they were here.
“Oh, yes,” Martha replied. “I expect she’d have seen me at brewery Christmas parties, and things like that over the years.”
“I worked at the brewery,” Stanley explained. “Half of Thornwell did at that time. They were good employers, too. Sad what happened with those brothers. The brewery suffered, I reckon. Never was the same place after the gambling scandal. And now the Joneses have all gone. I expect they’ll turn the place over to nasty fizzy lager.”
“There’s still a Bronwen Jones at the brewery, I believe?” said Ivy innocently. “She works in Public Relations, whatever that is.”
Again that wary look between the Sparrows.
“Not anymore, she doesn’t,” said Martha. “Now, more coffee, anyone? I can easily make some fresh.” There were no takers, and Roy looked at his watch.
“We should be going, Ivy,” he said. “We have to pick up Alwen in a couple of minutes.”
“Alwen?” said Martha. “Alwen Jones?”
“Yes, she’s up at the cemetery, paying her respects to her brother-in-law,” Ivy said. “Now he’s gone, I suppose Bronwen is, or was, the last link to the brewery?”
Martha did not answer straightaway, but as they said their farewells at the door, she looked up the road towards the cemetery and said, “Just keep your eye on Alwen, Ivy. And on her smart daughter Bronwen. Don’t let them fool you. Mother is devious, and the daughter is the spitting image of her father. They’ll run rings round you. Known for it! Don’t get involved,” she added, and Stanley nodded his agreement.
Forty-three
“WELL, I DON’T know, I’m sure,” said Ivy as she and Roy settled into the back of the taxi. “But it sounds like we were right to feel that we should keep our investigations secret from Alwen.”
“What about Gus’s abduction? Alwen knew all about that. Rescued him, if the little we know about that is true.”
“We must get some more information from Gus. He can’t expect us to carry on if he doesn’t explain more about why he was kidnapped, and then released with a warning. It doesn’t really make sense. He must know, Roy.”
“Perhaps Deirdre can get it out of him. They’re off to Measby again tomorrow, aren’t they?”
“Oh, look, there’s Alwen, waiting outside the gates. She looks twice as miserable as she did before she went in. You’ve got your work cut out cheering her up this time, my dear,” said Ivy.
“WELL, WHERE IS she?” Bronwen said. She and Trevor were having a drink in the bar of the Kings Arms in Thornwell, and Bronwen had tried several times to get hold of her mother. The phone in her room was not answering, and Miss Pinkney knew only that Mrs. Jones had left with Miss Beasley and Mr. Goodman in a taxi.
“Gone shopping, I expect,” Miss Pinkney said. “I’ll find Mrs. Spurling, and put her on. I am sure she will be able to help.”
“Do that!” snapped Bronwen. But then her mobile lost the signal, and she put it back angrily into her handbag. “Mother’s not paying those astronomical fees to be allowed to drift off out into the unknown with a couple of senile old idiots.”
“From what I hear, Miss Beasley is far from senile.” Trevor had his ear to the ground. It was his business to engage clients in conversation, and he heard more than one wife explaining to her husband, as they came to commission him to sell the now redundant family house, that Mother or Father would be fine in Springfields. Look at that Miss Beasley we heard about, one had said. Full of life and always off out in taxis.
“I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry to talk to her,” Trevor said. “Won’t it wait until you get home?”
“I’m worried about her. She seemed very down when I left her yesterday. I thought a trip out would do her good, but she seemed anxious from the moment we set foot in the place.”
“No wonder,” said Trevor nastily. “Not exactly a picnic for her, was it?”
“No, no. But you needn’t worry. I was sensible.”
“Thank God for that. We don’t want any more trips over to Measby to face the music, do we. Not that it’s my business, really. But contrary to what you may think, I do still have some husbandly feelings when my wife needs protection.”
“There’s no answer to that,” said Bronwen, and she climbed off her bar stool with difficulty. She had not given up power dressing, even though she
had no job, and her tight skirt made it a tricky operation. “Come on, we’d better get going.” Trevor followed her out, watching appreciatively as she stalked out on her high heels, head held high and not a strand of her dark, shiny hair out of place. He had found himself thinking often lately that she was a valuable asset, and he would do well to hang on to her. He noticed several men’s eyes following her as they left the pub.
“Well, back to work for me,” he said, giving her a peck on her scented cheek. “But hey, wait a minute, Bron, isn’t that your mother over there, the other side of the square, with a couple of oldies?”
Bronwen looked over the square. It was a busy market day, and she peered through the stalls. “Can’t see her,” she said. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. If she’s with friends, what I have to say to her will keep until we can have a private conversation.”
THE CRYPT CAFÉ was empty. It was early, and Ivy, Roy and Alwen had a choice of tables.
“Let’s sit in the corner,” said Alwen. “Then we can watch people as they come in. They’ve made it look very nice in here, haven’t they?”
“Were you a churchgoer when you lived in town?” Roy asked. He had decided the best thing to cheer up Alwen was to talk about her good times as head teacher and important citizen in Thornwell.
“Oh, on and off,” she said. “We used to take the children to special services like Easter and Christmas. Two by two, we walked through the town. Plenty of helpers amongst the parents, and we didn’t have any stupid health and safety regulations in those days.”
“Must have been a pretty sight,” Ivy said, catching on to what Roy was up to. “Did the children have a uniform?” She remembered with a pang the children in the village school at Round Ringford. Smart blazers and grey skirts and shorts. She had watched generations of them walk through the school gates.
“Yes, they did. Scarlet and grey. I always loved the babies, as I called them when they first arrived in the school. Jerseys too big, with room for growing, and brand new shoes for the new term. And if they cried for their mothers, we would give them a cuddle on our laps. Can’t do that now, you know.” The colour had returned to Alwen’s cheeks, and she smiled at Roy. “This is a nice idea,” she added, “and lunch is on me.”
“We’ll see about that,” Roy said. “Now then, what shall we have to eat? Let’s go mad, shall we, Alwen? Take our minds off graveyards? How about a smoked salmon omelette, Ivy?”
Ivy said a ham sandwich on white bread, without mustard, would be fine for her. She could see that Alwen had responded, as always, to Roy’s gentle charm, and she tried hard not to feel jealous. And she did feel sorry for the poor woman. She certainly had something on her mind, and it wasn’t graveyards. Why had she wanted to watch people as they came into the café? Was there someone she would rather not see?
“Well, it’s the omelette for me,” Roy said firmly, and Alwen nodded. “I’ll have the same,” she said. “Thanks, Roy. You’re a star, as my grandchildren say.”
Forty-four
DEIRDRE HAD WOKEN early. She saw sunshine streaming through a gap in her bedroom curtains, and got out of bed. Drawing back the curtains to see the day, she opened the window wide, and heard the piercing sound of the rooster that lived with his wives in an old wooden henhouse on the allotments over the road. His voice had a crack in it, and Deirdre found herself wondering how long chickens lived. Two, three years? That cockerel had been there for longer than that.
It had rained in the night, and the air was clean and fresh. She turned back into the room and pulled the bedclothes back. No Theo last night, after all. She decided she was glad. Yesterday, when Gus had come up for coffee and a planning meeting for just the two of them, she had sensed a coolness in his voice. Well, for God’s sake, what did she expect? He had heard Theo’s voice in the background when he phoned, and no doubt he assumed the worst.
Gus had made it plain that he was very fond of her, and would be happy to take things further, but was not interested in sharing. She had hesitated. Theo had also declared his fondness. The trouble was that neither of them appeared willing to be more closely involved.
But Deirdre Bloxham! Wasn’t this exactly what she wanted? She shook herself and went back to the window. “Oh, blast it all!” she said aloud, and her tame blackbird, perched on the window ledge waiting for his raisins, flew off with an alarmed squawk.
The telephone rang, and Deirdre picked up the bedside extension.
“Deirdre? Ah, I’m glad to hear you’re awake. Have you seen the lovely morning?”
“Hello, Ivy. Yes, I am awake. Just. And yes, I have seen the lovely morning, and am about to have a shower, breakfast and make myself look equally lovely for a trip to Measby with Gus. What’s on your mind so early?”
“For a start, Deirdre,” Ivy said, “I don’t call this early. And secondly, I was wondering whether it wouldn’t be a good idea for all of us to go to Measby together? Four heads are better than two.”
“We’d hardly be inconspicuous, Ivy! Isn’t that what we usually aim at? I bet Measby doesn’t often see four assorted strangers appearing out of a Rolls!”
“Ah. Well, I suppose you’re right. But I have been thinking.”
Deirdre groaned.
“I have been thinking,” repeated Ivy firmly, “that it is time Gus told us more about his abduction and why exactly he was taken. And who those two mysterious kidnappers are. And don’t forget to find out if he’s phoned that Martin, and what came of it.”
“In other words, Cousin Ivy, you don’t want me to forget this is an Enquire Within trip, and not just a jolly outing to the other side of the county with friend Gus?”
“That’s right,” said Ivy. “You’d better get yourself prepared. I shall ring Gus to remind him of one or two things now. Report back on Monday. Meeting at Tawny Wings? Fine. Good-bye.”
AS THE ROLLS purred along the road to Measby, Gus was silent. When Deirdre spoke he answered in monosyllables.
“All right, then, what is it?” she said in the end, thinking he might be brooding about Theo, and this was her punishment.
He sighed. “It was Ivy’s call this morning. She made it quite plain that she thinks I am not pulling my weight with Enquire Within. She says I have to explain a lot more, and report back on my contact with Martin. Is she right, Deirdre? Are things falling apart?”
Deirdre thought for a moment, then said that on the whole she agreed with Ivy. “As you know,” she said, “it wasn’t exactly a picnic for the rest of us when you went missing. Don’t you think you owe us something, Gus? Okay, so maybe you do still have to keep up some kind of secret agent image, but frankly I’m not convinced. If you want my opinion—”
“—not sure I do, Dee-Dee,” he interrupted quietly.
“Well, you’re getting it, anyway. I think it is a bit of a game for you. I think you know perfectly well who those two kidnappers were and what it was all about. And I am beginning to wonder if the mysterious Martin actually exists.”
“Right!” he said, straightening up in his seat. “Well, here goes. I used to work for a government department, and still have a retainer from them. If they think I can now and then be useful, then I have to jump to it.”
“Why aren’t you still working for them full time, then? You’re not retirement age, for sure.”
“No, not in the usual way. But once your cover’s been blown in that kind of work, you cease to be useful on most occasions. Sounds dramatic, I know, but that’s how it was. Not exactly a secret agent, Deirdre. Investigating, as I have quite honestly told you before.”
“Does that mean you could be in danger?” Deirdre said. He was serious now, she could tell. Or was he just telling a good story?
“As for those kidnappers, I did not know who they were. One object of the exercise was the ransom money. They threatened me with what they knew about my past life. One or two hints about unpaid debts, suspicions of cheating at cards, that kind of thing. Enough, Deirdre my dear, to convince me they were not joki
ng. Someone, if not you, then probably Alwen Jones, paid the ransom, and I was allowed to go, but not without renewed threats of retribution if I tried to find out more about them. They had a gun, and I decided they would use it if necessary. They might have missed the target then, judging from the way they handled it, but next time they might get the bull’s-eye.”
“But you are still investigating them, aren’t you?” Deirdre refused to be frightened off.
“Not just them. That is what we have to find out. We need to know whether there is any connection between that uncomfortable episode and the assignment given to me by Martin.”
“And have you—”
“I have tried to speak to him. I think to save time, I’ll tell all when we meet on Monday. Can’t have Ivy feeling left out, can we?”
They drew up in a lay-by on the outskirts of Measby, and Deirdre switched off the engine. “A little walk will do us good,” she said. “This car sticks out like a sore thumb, and I suppose the less we draw attention to ourselves in this village the better.”
“I have a secret agent’s false moustache in my pocket, if you’d like that? And I could pull my cap down over my face?”
“Any more of that,” said Deirdre, “and I’m going home, and you can find your own way back.”
“Pax, Mrs. Bloxham,” Gus said, taking her arm. “Let’s step out. What did we plan to do first? Oh, yes,” he said hastily, seeing her expression harden, “call at the vicarage. Ask about a distant relation who used to live in the ruined cottage. Right, best foot forward!”
The village street was empty. Deirdre guessed that most people would have gone into town to do supermarket shopping. As they passed the village shop, she glanced into the open door, and saw the shopkeeper standing in the shadows, staring out at them. She bent down and took off her shoe. “Stone in it,” she said to Gus. When she straightened up, the man had gone. “Straight to phone his boss, I bet,” she said.
