by Ann Purser
“Oh yes. He was really furious and shook his boss vigorously. But he couldn’t wake him, and it finally dawned on him that it wasn’t sleep, but death. Mr. Maleham had arrived by then, and he reported immediately to the police.”
“And then?” Ivy was sitting bolt upright, holding on tightly to Roy’s hand.
“Mr. Maleham closed the store for the day. All the staff are being interviewed, of course.”
“What about Wendy, Steven’s wife?” asked Ivy. The germ of an idea was already forming in Ivy’s mind. Uppermost in her thoughts was a vivid picture of Steven Wright, and it was not a happy one. She had found him unpleasant and unlovable.
“Don’t know about her,” Deirdre continued. “I’ve told you everything the police told me. They thought I should break the bare bones of it to Roy, and then it would be easier for him this afternoon, when the police will be interviewing him.”
“Right, well, that’s all we can do for the moment. Perhaps we could carry on with Alf’s troubles until four, and then Roy and me will be getting back to Springfields, ready for the police when they arrive.”
“Right,” said Gus, taking his cue from Ivy. Normality was to be maintained until it was time for Roy to be questioned. “I suggest we concentrate our investigation on the identity of the man who interrupted the banns. Someone in the congregation might have recognised him. We’ll make a list of everyone we can remember of the few who were in church this morning, and divide them up between us, to see if anyone can help.”
“And I’ll study all the info about reading banns and having them challenged and that.” Deirdre had rallied, and followed Gus’s example.
Gus loaded Ivy and Roy into his car, and they waved good-bye to Deirdre, who was standing at her door with a concerned expression.
“What a day!” said Ivy, when they arrived at Springfields. “Good job we’re fit and well, and all our marbles are intact. What say you, Roy?”
Roy looked at her with a blurring of tears in his eyes. “What I say, Ivy, is that I love you so much that nothing else matters,” he said.
Twenty-one
WENDY WRIGHT HAD, of course, been told the bad news earlier, and now she sat with her neighbour, Marie-Agnes, in her kitchen, drinking one cup of tea after another, weeping bitterly, or speaking in rushes of nostalgia in response to consolation and support from her best friend.
“I thought he was with another woman,” she said, after a short silence. “He often spent the night away, and said that he was here or there on business trips. He did some buying for the department, as well as organising his salesmen and doing some selling himself.”
“But what was he doing there on a Sunday?” asked Marie-Agnes gently.
“Oh well, the store started Sunday opening a couple of months ago. Apparently masses of stores do it these days, and business is always good. I suppose with big things like furniture, partners like to come and choose together. It meant that Steven had to give up his regular golf four on a Sunday morning, but he didn’t seem to mind.”
“What makes you think he had another woman, Wendy dear? He could have been telling the truth.”
Big tears plopped into Wendy’s cup. “I checked up on him once. He told me he was going to Liverpool to an appointment with a big supplier. I knew the name, and phoned to talk to him. I said it was urgent. They knew nothing about his appointment, and were very nice, checking round every possible person who might have been expecting him. Then when he came home, I asked him how it had gone, and he said it had been fine, and he’d given them an order. So I knew.”
“Did you face him with it?”
Wendy shook her head. “I said nothing. Didn’t see the point. I just hoped it was a one-off.”
“I’ll make some more tea. Are you hungry? Could you eat a sandwich?”
Wendy shook her head. “Didn’t get much sleep last night, wondering where he was this time. Then I got up early and had some cereal and a coffee, and after some serious thinking, decided I was going to leave him. He was a difficult man, as you know, and I had had enough.”
“So instead of you leaving him, he’s left you,” Marie-Agnes said. “Did the police know how . . .”
“How he died? Not for definite. But they were looking at suffocation, they said. Those beds are made up with pillows and such, and apparently it would have been easily done.”
“Provided he was already in the bed and asleep. He was quite a strong man, wasn’t he?” Marie-Agnes suggested.
• • •
IVY AND ROY sat in the interview room at Springfields, holding hands, while a kindly Inspector Frobisher asked them as tactfully as he could about what they knew about Roy’s nephew, Steven Wright.
Roy took most of the questions, and answered them honestly and straightforwardly, with Ivy occasionally unable to resist chipping in. But the inspector was a patient man. He knew Ivy Beasley of old, and had considerable respect for her. He had had past dealings with the Enquire Within agency and, though reluctant to believe that they could be of any use to him, had to admit that their enquiries had been extremely useful in previous difficult cases they had taken on.
“What kind of a man was your nephew, Mr. Goodman?” the inspector asked. “Take your time, sir. I am in no hurry.”
Roy sighed. “To tell the truth, Inspector, I hardly knew him. He was my sister’s son, and she is sadly—or maybe not so sadly, in view of this terrible news—no longer with us. I was very fond of her, and as children we always played together. She married against our parents’ wishes, as her husband was known to be a violent man. But they seemed to rub along together reasonably well. He died young, and my nephew was brought up mostly by my sister on her own, so there was no masculine role model, as they say, for young Steven.”
“We have talked to his wife, and she says he used to visit you here?”
“Once or twice a year,” said Roy.
“And then he would look at his watch after about half an hour,” said Ivy.
“And I understand he was your only living close relative?” The inspector shifted in his chair.
“He was my heir, and until I met my dearest Ivy here, he would have inherited everything on my death. When he got married, I was very pleased and assured him that his family would, of course, be special to me.”
“And would have shared in what must be a sizeable sum?”
Roy nodded. “Of course. But I am to marry Miss Beasley shortly, and that will mean changes.”
“Ah,” said the inspector. “Then your relationship with Wright became very important. Could you tell me something about that?”
“I asked him to be my best man, and he agreed. He seemed pleased; didn’t he, Ivy?”
Ivy sniffed. “I suppose so,” she said.
“And he was due to be in church this morning to listen to your banns?”
“We asked Steven and Wendy, but I don’t think they could make it.”
“Right,” said the inspector, again shifting in his chair. He hesitated before asking his next question, because he realised how ridiculous it was. But it had to be asked.
“You may think this a silly question, sir, but I have to ask you what you were doing from six o’clock last evening to around eight o’clock this morning?”
Ivy puffed her chest out like an angry pigeon. “I’ll tell you what he did,” she butted in, her face scarlet with rage. “He went over to Thornwell in his trundle, parked it outside Maleham’s store and waited until all the staff had gone. Then he crept in through the keyhole, found his nephew, Steven Wright, tidying up the bed department, challenged him to a fight and punched him to death. Then he lifted him into the best bed, arranged the duvet over his lifeless body, and tiptoed out, back through the keyhole, and returned to Springfields on his trundle. How’s that?”
Inspector Frobisher frowned and reminded Ivy that this could well be a murder investigation, and therefore extremely serious. “I think that will be all for the moment, Miss Beasley, Mr. Goodman,” he added. “Thank you
for your cooperation. I shall, of course, be in touch very soon. Good evening.”
Miss Pinkney was waiting for him in the reception hall. “Are you off now, Inspector?” she said. “I do hope this will all be cleared up very soon. I really fear for Mr. Goodman and Miss Beasley. Old people should not have such terrible shocks, should they?”
Inspector Frobisher looked her straight in the eye, and said, “Have no worries about Miss Beasley, madam! She has the heart of a lion, and will make sure no harm comes to Mr. Goodman. Good evening.”
Twenty-two
NEXT DAY, IVY and Roy sat at the breakfast table in silence, each busy with their own thoughts. Roy was thinking back to when Steven was a boy, being brought up by an over-loving mother. He could have done more to help with his upbringing, he knew, and would not forgive himself for selfishly leaving his sister to tackle it alone.
Ivy, on the other hand, was thinking about her wedding, and how she intended to make her own list of likely people in the congregation who might know the interrupter. The squire, Theo Roussel, who hardly ever came to church, had sat in the front pew opposite them. She knew him from a previous Enquire Within case, and felt happy about asking him for a suitable time when they could talk. Then behind them, a couple of pews back, had been an ancient couple, a famer and his wife, now retired.
As she went through the list, she realised that all that day’s churchgoers were in late old age, except for Theo Roussel, and were not likely to be much help. She decided to start with Theo, and, after explaining to Roy what she intended to do, went upstairs to make the call.
• • •
THEO HAD BEEN very helpful, and said she must come along at once and bring Mr. Goodman, too. As they made their way up to the front of the Hall, they remembered how Theo had been the victim of a wicked housekeeper, and Enquire Within had helped to rescue him from her. Now they were concerned with themselves, and when he greeted them at the door and helped Roy along to the sunny drawing room, Ivy felt sure he would be able to help.
“Afraid I didn’t catch a good look at him,” said Theo, “other than the back view when he went off to the vestry with the vicar. Ran off, did you say, and disappeared? Now, let me see. He was bald and thickset. Overweight, I would say. Jeans and an anorak, and some kind of boots. And, oh yes, he dropped a handkerchief in the aisle.”
“Very good, sir,” said Roy. “Excellent memory. Now, did you recognise him at all? Someone local, maybe?”
Theo thought hard. There had been something about the man. Who was it he reminded him of? “Just something about the way he walked,” he said. “Sort of loped along. Strangely enough he reminded me of an old bloke who used to work on the estate when I was a child. He was the farrier.”
Theo Roussel looked out of the window, his eyes seeing another time, another way of life. “We had a lot of horses in those days,” he continued. “Father was keen on hunting, and a guest was out with him when the horse tripped and fell. Rider badly damaged. All blamed on the farrier for not noticing a loose horseshoe. Strange that I should have remembered that! Can’t remember his name, though. I can see him now, loping across the fields.”
Ivy smiled. “That’s most interesting, Mr. Roussel,” she said. “I am sure we can follow up the family, and it may be of some help. If you do think of your farrier’s name, do let us know.”
• • •
THE OTHER NAMES on Ivy’s list, Mr. and Mrs. Bourne, came as no surprise to Roy. His farm had bordered theirs and they had been good friends. As Ivy and he left the Hall, Roy said they should try the Bournes straight away, while their memories were fresh. If they were anything like his own, they had a habit of vanishing overnight.
“Shall we ask Elvis to collect us and take us over there, if he’s free?”
“Good idea,” said Roy. “We’ll ring them when we get back. They may well be at home now. I seem to remember they did up one of the farm cottages when they retired, and I should have their number.”
They were in luck, as Elvis was happy to take them, and the Bournes said they would be delighted to see them.
“Off enquiring again?” said Elvis, as they drove along through the slushy lanes to the Bournes’ farm. “So here we are. Not far to go. Shall I wait for you, if you’re not too long?”
“Fine,” said Roy. “This’ll take me back, I don’t mind telling you! But we’ll try not to be long. Soon be lunchtime, and we don’t have to tell you how Mrs. Spurling hates latecomers!”
• • •
“THAT WAS A bit of a facer, Roy!” said his old friend Ted Bourne. “Never known it to happen before. There’s always that little gap, when people look round the church, and that’s what me and Mother did yesterday. So we got a quick look at him. Can’t say we recognised him, though both of us felt he was a bit familiar.”
Roy told the Bournes about the squire remembering the likeness to his father’s farrier, and Mrs. Bourne said, “I remember that man. Used to go round all the farms shoeing the working horses. Sullen sort of chap. No wonder, when you think, Roy, what it was like in our young days, when farm workers put in more hours and got less pay than any of the young blokes today!”
After a short and pleasant trip down memory lane, Ivy stood up and said they must be leaving, as Elvis would need to get going. She walked towards the door, and a faded photograph on the wall caught her eye. It was of the hunt meet up at the Hall, and elegant ladies and gentlemen, high up on their horses, engaged in conversation, while the hunt servants busied themselves at ground level below.
“Look at that man there, Roy,” she said. “Who does he remind you of?”
Roy stretched up to look at the photograph. “Him on the left there? Good heavens, Ivy, it could he him! Still, he’s no doubt been dead and gone these many years. Come along, now, dearest. Elvis will be getting restive. Wonderful to see you both,” he added. “Keep well.”
After they had gone, Mrs. Bourne stood looking at the old photograph. “I haven’t looked at that for years, Ted,” she said. “That man they were looking at, come and see. Isn’t that the farrier they were talking about? And it’s quite true—he does look like that wicked so-and-so who interrupted the service yesterday. Do you think he could be one of the same family?”
• • •
IVY AND ROY had been in Deirdre’s thoughts when the phone rang in the kitchen. She had been stacking plates in the dishwasher and humming quietly to herself.
“Hello? Oh, Gus, it’s you. Have you heard any more news? I’m really worried about Ivy and Roy. The news about Steven Wright coming on top of that challenge to their banns could be too much for them, poor old things. Are you busy? Do you want to come up for a snack lunch, and then we can talk about it without disturbing them?”
“Good idea. See you in a few minutes. I’ll take Whippy round to Miriam, in case we need to go off somewhere and investigate.”
“And if she invites you to lunch, please say you have a prior engagement.”
“I’ll see what Miriam has to offer, and then decide,” Gus said, half laughing. Deirdre put the phone down on him.
• • •
“WELL? WHAT DID she have on her menu?” she said acidly, when he arrived at Tawny Wings.
“Guess,” said Gus, putting his arm around her shoulders. “Lamb with apricots. She’s trying them out for James at the shop.”
“So what did you decide?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” he said, giving her an affectionate peck on the cheek. “Let’s get down to business.”
“I’ve been thinking since I rang you,” she replied. “There’s a good chance that the belligerent man we saw when we were in Maleham’s beds department is a candidate for murderer, don’t you think? After all, he threatened to deal with Wright next time he saw him.”
“Mm, yes. But he was nothing like the chap who challenged the banns. And wouldn’t the bed department be immediately on guard if they saw him again?”
“I don’t know. Just because it’s obvious, it isn’
t necessarily wrong. I think we should report all we saw that day to the inspector, anyway. The police can easily find him from the furniture purchase documents.”
Gus was silent while he struggled with a nourishing but not particularly appetising vegetarian salad. He frowned and shook his head. “My instinct tells me it wasn’t him,” he said. “And it occurs to me that we may not have been the only ones to overhear that quarrel between Wright and the customer. Do you remember seeing other people around?”
“Oh gosh, I’ll have to do some thinking,” Deirdre said. “Meanwhile, I’ve had another idea. Steven was his only relative, so far as we know, and his heir, so who’s going to benefit now?”
Gus stared at her. “Deirdre, you’re a marvel,” he said.
“I know that,” she said. “But answer my question.”
“I do remember Roy saying at some stage that there was another branch of the family over at Settlefield, but generations ago there had been a feud and the two lots hadn’t had anything to do with each other for years and years. So, Mrs. Cleverclogs, the first thing we do is take a trip to Settlefield and ask around.”
“Their name may not be Goodman, but we can look up records. Shall we go now?”
“Why not?” said Gus, “I’ll drive you in my car, and establish the correct relationship between us.”
“What? You mean the man should drive and the woman be a mere passenger?”
“Correct,” said Gus. “You may take my arm.”
• • •
GUS WAS A good driver, and Deirdre relaxed. “It is rather nice being driven,” she said. “Bert always used to drive when we went out together.”
“You must miss him still, love,” said Gus, neatly avoiding a splendid cock pheasant stalking across the road in front of them.
“Of course,” she replied. “But I often hear him in my head. He was a practical chap, and still keeps me from making unwise decisions.”
“Such as remarrying?”
“Certainly that,” she said. “But I decided that myself long ago, and I must say with all the kerfuffle with Ivy and Roy, I am not so sure they are doing the right thing.”
