by Ann Purser
“No, not me. Nor Mrs. Jones, I’m afraid. But you’d better go and take a look. I shall be in the lounge with Roy when I’m wanted.”
Fifty-six
THE WAILING SOUND of the ambulance spread alarm throughout Springfields. When it pulled up outside the gates and paramedics rushed in and up the stairs, hearts were beating dangerously faster, and Katya and daily carers were busily occupied reassuring residents that it was not really an emergency, but something that had to be dealt with straightaway.
In a sense, they were telling the truth. It was not an emergency, because Alwen was already dead, and all efforts to revive her had failed. It had to be dealt with at once, because there were rules to be followed when a death occurred in the home. Mrs. Spurling supervised the whole thing with efficiency and long experience of such happenings. It went with the job, as she had told her husband before he ran off with the cook.
Other residents were manoeuvred into the dining room for their tea, so that they should not see Alwen being carried out with her face covered, and by the time they had had their cake and as many cups of tea as they liked, all was quiet and the television switched to a cheerful quiz programme.
Ivy and Roy went quietly with the rest, speaking in low tones to each other, and most of the time holding hands.
“I saw an empty pill bottle on the table by her bed,” Ivy whispered, and Roy nodded. “But where did she get it from? We’re not allowed to have pills permanently in our rooms, not even painkillers.”
“I suppose she brought them in with her. Do you remember how she guarded her handbag as if it carried a gun? Well, sleeping pills can be equally effective. I bet that’s what happened. But what on earth possessed her?”
“Worry,” said Roy flatly. “That poor woman was consumed with worry. She’s been up in her room brooding alone ever since we came back from our outing. And we know what she was so anxious about, don’t we, my dear? Daughter Bronwen, deeply in debt and being squeezed by her Auntie Doris.”
“I think it was Alwen who was being squeezed,” Ivy replied. “After all, she was the one with the money. We don’t know how much. Maybe Bronwen knew, and was putting pressure on her mother. So Alwen was getting it from her sister Doris and her daughter as well.”
Roy shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of thoughts of a desperate Alwen. Ivy took his hand again, and moved a little closer.
“Let’s think, Roy,” she continued. “When Alwen came here, she seemed a straightforward sort of woman. Retired teacher, good position in the town. Proud of her daughters, and secretive about their father. But nothing suspicious about her at all. Good family background over at Measby, comfortably off. Then we find out husband William was an adulterer and a gambler, and went through his own money, some of the brewery’s, and probably Alwen’s as well. She made it plain she had to work to bring up the girls.”
“Ah, but there’s the mystery,” Roy said. “We don’t really know. She may have tied up her own money safely so William couldn’t get at it. Probably inherited a fair bit from her parents, as did Doris. Alwen must have had savings, Ivy, to afford to come and live here.”
“So now that Bronwen has no job and no means of raising money on her own to pay her debts, she’s a pawn in Doris’s cunning little game of blackmail and extortion? All carefully planned in order to get Alwen to shell out all she has to rescue her daughter,” she continued. “Oh my dear Roy. It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“I agree,” Roy said, patting her hand. He could not help contrasting his Ivy now, visibly deeply upset, and the Ivy who reacted with mirth at the death of Daisy Worth. A complicated little person, his beloved. He said he could see how trapped Alwen was. But why should she decide to end her life? After all, she could have released her money, rescued Bronwen, told Doris to go to hell, and found a nice state-run retirement home where she could end her days, couldn’t she?”
Ivy was silent for a couple of minutes, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think she would have been able to face that. And anyway, she was probably past thinking straight, poor soul. Escape must have looked like the kindest way out.”
They looked across at the entrance hall, where the door had opened and Alwen’s two daughters appeared.
“And there they are,” Ivy said. “And if I’m right, one as innocent as the day is long and the other as guilty as hell. It will be a nasty business, Roy, and I’m afraid we shall be deep in it.”
Fifty-seven
TREVOR EVANS HAD tried hard to get a word out of Bronwen ever since she came back from Springfields. She would not look at him but went through the motions of making supper. “I’ll do that,” he had said, but she pushed him out of the way without a word.
They sat now at the table in the kitchen, eating baked beans and sausages. Trevor had cleared his plate, but Bronwen had managed only half a sausage and then moved her plate to one side. She sat looking down at her hands, her shoulders hunched, and Trevor could take it no longer. He got up and came round to her, leaning forward and putting his arms around her.
“Come on, Bron,” he said. “Let’s go into the sitting room and have a cuddle on the sofa. We’ll not bother about talking. I can’t bear to see you so alone.”
She allowed him to pull her to her feet, and take her hand. They sat like young lovers on the sofa, except that there was none of the lovers’ spark. After about half an hour, Bronwen moved her head away from his shoulder and looked at him.
“I murdered her,” she said, and silent tears streamed down her cheeks and plopped onto her clenched hands.
BETHAN AND HER family were in a huddle, crouched on the floor and lamenting in a loud, uninhibited wail. There was a sudden knock at the door, and Bethan went to open it. It was her neighbour, looking anxious.
“Are you all right, dear?” she said. “We heard this awful noise, and had to come and see what has happened. I do hope you don’t think me nosy and interfering.”
Bethan reached out a hand. “Come in, Marjorie,” she said. “My mother has died, and we are grieving together. I know she met you once or twice and liked you very much. She would be so touched that you cared. Come, join us for a minute or two.”
Marjorie was acutely embarrassed, and perched on the arm of a chair. She muttered how sorry she was and how sad to lose your mother, and then said that she had left potatoes boiling on the stove and must go and check they hadn’t dried out. “You know where we are if you need any help,” she said, relieved to be out again and on her way home.
“Right,” said Clive, as Bethan returned. “I think a warm drink for us all, and then we must get these boys into bed.”
“But what about Doctor Who on the telly?” said Freddie.
“You can see the repeat on Tuesday,” said Clive. “Just for tonight, lads, we are going to be quiet and think how much we loved Grannie.”
“But she won’t know,” said Freddie, “she’s dead.”
“But our love will go winging its way to where she has gone, and comfort her,” said Clive with a dreamy look.
“Where has she gone, then?” Freddie persisted.
“Be quiet, and get upstairs to your bedroom,” said Bethan sharply. “And you, William. And no quarrelling in the bath. I’ll be up in two ticks. Go on, get going, both of you.”
Their mother’s change of tone sent them scuttling upstairs, and Bethan gave Clive a hug. “Thanks, love,” she said. “I’d better give Bronwen a ring and make sure she’s all right.”
“The woman’s a murderer,” Clive said, forgetting all about sweetness and light to all mankind. “No doubt about that.”
DORIS MAY FELT quite pleased with herself. Everything was working out as she had planned. Bronwen was now completely under her control, and in due course would persuade her mother, already softened up by her sister’s visit, to hand over some of the cash Doris was certain Alwen had salted away years ago. At least that would enable her to pay off some overdue wages at Ozzy’s, and allow her to keep on the gardener for a while l
onger. She could see a time coming when she would not be able to stay on at the Manor, but not yet.
Business had been falling off for some years, with online gambling now so widespread that it was having a major effect on her profits. The big casino chains could draw on resources and widen their services to the punters. But Ozzy’s was a small concern, and Thornwell an increasingly industrial town. Every family had a computer, and those who felt like a flutter had only to switch on.
No, she had done the right thing. She felt a sudden pang of regret at being so harsh with her sister but then consoled herself with memories of childhood when Alwen had treated her, the much younger sister, with a strict regime which in her opinion bordered on cruelty. It was her turn now, and after all, Alwen wouldn’t miss the cash. She was old, and her wants were small. If she could no longer afford Springfields’ fees, she could easily be moved into that place in Broad Street. It was quite adequate, people said.
So next she had to deal with Margaret and Max. They had worked for her for years, and she still had plenty of information about former indiscretions that they would rather not have made public, plenty enough to keep them loyal. They had been bluffing last time she saw them, she was sure of that. She wished she had picked up those tickets and checked the dates. Probably old ones. She had noticed they’d been turning out drawers. She had another job for them now, and intended to encourage them to work on a confiding relationship with the vicar. She had handled him gently up to now, but it was time to move things along. Vicars were poorly paid, she knew, but there were clear signs of family wealth there. She could see the evening sun streaming in through the coloured glass in the hall windows, and decided to walk up the lane and pay the pair a visit.
As she approached the cottage, she felt a sudden sense of foreboding. No car was visible, and although it was now twilight, there were no lights on in the house. She knocked several times, but nobody came.
“Evening, Mrs. Osborne,” said a voice behind her. It was the farmer, and he smiled knowingly. “They’re not there. They’ve gone,” he said baldly.
“Gone where?”
“Gone for good, I should say,” he replied. “They packed that old car of theirs, and made off down the lane. Went so fast it almost shook the old banger off its wheels! Anyway, they’ve gone. If you want a new tenant, I know somebody who’ll take the cottage. At a reasonable rent,” he added.
Doris was stunned. How dare they! She set off back down the track, and her mobile began to ring. She stopped and listened. It was Bronwen.
“Between us, Auntie, dear,” the ice-cold voice said, “we have murdered my mother.”
Fifty-eight
THE FUNERAL OF Alwen Wilson Jones took place in the parish church of Thornwell one week later. It was a big church, and Bronwen and a forgiving Bethan had made all the arrangements with a local undertaker. Mrs. Spurling had suggested that they might like to have a service in Barrington church with refreshments afterwards at Springfields. But Alwen’s daughters had remembered the days when their mother was a notable figure in the town, when they could not walk with her down the High Street without at least half a dozen people smiling and saying hello. “I used to teach that girl, and her mother,” she would say.
Trevor had said the church would be half-empty and echoing, whereas they could fill Barrington village church with no trouble. But the girls were adamant. Mother should have a decent funeral, and Trevor would be surprised how many turned up.
In the event, even Bronwen and Bethan were surprised. The big church was full, with extra chairs brought in. Men and women of all ages trouped through the big doors, greeting each other and exchanging memories of the teacher who had made their first experience of “big school” friendly and exciting.
Deirdre had offered to take Ivy and Roy, and Gus had surprised her by asking if he could cadge a lift, too. They sat towards the back of the church, and remained quiet, waiting for the entry of the coffin and mourners. As the vicar led the way up the aisle and the pallbearers gently set down their burden on trestles before the altar, Ivy watched the procession of family as they followed and filed into the front pews.
“There she is,” she whispered to Roy. “She should have been banned from the church.”
“Ivy!” Roy answered, deeply shocked. “She is her sister, my dear.”
“So what? There’s probably a word for—”
“Shhh!” hissed Deirdre, who had heard all of this, and knew what Ivy was about to say.
Gus was not watching Doris but had his eyes fixed on Bronwen. The woman was pale as a ghost, and hung on to her sister’s arm as if she might faint any minute. As well she might, thought Gus. But alone amongst the members of Enquire Within, he felt compassion for her. He knew the alternating elation and terror of the compulsive gambler, and thanked God he had overcome it. But he knew that, like any addict, he could never again risk the smallest indulgence, not even an innocent little bet on a rural pointto-point race. Never again, he told himself.
The vicar delivered an excellent address, describing Alwen’s valuable teaching career, and confessed that he himself had been for one year under her guiding hand. He commented on the full church and the warmth of feeling for this much-loved citizen of Thornwell.
Bethan read a passage from the Bible, and Bronwen got up to give a second reading. It was to be a poem by Christina Rossetti, and she got as far as “Plant thou no roses at my head” and then choked and stopped. Trevor immediately joined her, took her hand and finished the poem for her. Then he put his arm around her shoulders and gently shepherded her back to the pew.
Gus felt Deirdre’s hand creep into his, and he gave it a squeeze. “Nearly done,” he whispered.
When they finally emerged from the church through the chatting crowd, the sun had come out and shone cheerfully on the hearse and procession of cars taking the family to a private interment at the local cemetery, where Alwen would be buried next to her brother-in-law, George.
“I don’t think she liked him much,” Ivy said. “Still, who knows? They might not be going to the same place,” she added enigmatically.
They drove back to Barrington in silence, until Deirdre turned into Tawny Wings, saying she had prepared lunch for them, and if that was all right with Ivy and Roy she would return them to Springfields later.
“That’s very kind of you, Deirdre,” said Ivy.
“Better give Pinkers a buzz to let her know,” said Roy, and watched admiringly as Ivy fished her mobile out of her handbag and dialled the number using her thumbs, just like the kids in the village.
“We shall not be requiring lunch, Miss Pinkney,” she said. “What did you say? Well, how could we let you know before? We’ve only just been invited. Yes, of course you can tell Mrs. Spurling. Time you stood up to that woman, you know. Good-bye, Pinkers.”
“You could have used my phone, Ivy,” said Deirdre as they got out of the car.
“No need,” Ivy replied. “Oh, and Roy dear, remind me to top up my mobile at the shop. My balance is low.”
“There’s no answer to that,” said Deirdre, and led the way into the house.
AFTER LUNCH, THE four sat in the pleasant room looking out into Deirdre’s garden, and carried out a postmortem of their own.
“What did you mean, Ivy, when you said Alwen and George might not be going to the same place? Surely neither was destined for the nether regions?” said Gus.
“If you mean were either of them going to hell, then I couldn’t even guess. But though Alwen was a good woman, a good mother and a good teacher, she was most likely the Barrington informant we talked about. A spy, if you like.”
“What on earth do you mean?” Deirdre said.
“Think about it, Deirdre,” Ivy insisted, “she was best placed to know all our movements, from the moment she arrived in Springfields and realised that we were investigators and on the trail of what turned out to be Doris’s blackmailing activities.”
“But who did she tell?” Roy did not believe in sp
eaking ill of the dead and was not happy with this turn of the conversation.
Gus replied for Ivy. “I’m afraid it was Doris, who was no doubt more or less forcing her to help.” He had worked out some time ago from conversations overheard when he was kidnapped that Doris had Alwen in thrall. “The twenty thousand story was clearly concocted by one or other of them and then dropped when it looked like we would be getting too close.”
Ivy was nodding and the others waited for Gus to continue.
“Doris ordered my kidnap,” he said. “That was quite clear. She needed to know how much we had found out about her schemes. I would be made to talk and then seriously warned with death and destruction if I spilled the beans. The ransom part of it was pure greed, and Alwen was dragged into all of it, I am sure.”
“I’ve just remembered something,” Deirdre said. “You and me, Gus, we must have made them more suspicious of us early on. Do you remember how Bronwen was standing in the newspaper queue that day? And us asking about her father? Couldn’t have been a clearer warning to her, and no doubt she reported to her mother, who passed it on to Doris. Poor old Alwen,” she added. “Talk about motherly love! She certainly did all she could. I bet she cursed her late husband more than once.”
“Late husband?” said Roy. “Do we know that for certain?”
“We do,” said Deirdre, picking up a pile of newspapers and leafing through them. “Look, here’s a death notice. Alwen must have put it in.”
“But I don’t get it,” said Deirdre. “Why kill herself? Now all the money will be divided between Bronwen and Bethan, and Doris will extract all that is due from her powerless niece.”
Ivy looked at her watch. “We should be getting back. But before we go, I’d like to say that Bronwen ain’t necessarily easy prey for Doris now. You can be sure that although Alwen paid up some, she still had plenty in the bank, tied up nice and tight so that Bronwen wouldn’t inherit and be in Doris’s thrall once more. She would have found a way to outsmart her sister.” She paused and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Something in my eye,” she said crossly, but Roy knew better.
