by Purser, Ann
“Who are you, then?” said granddaughter Daisy suspiciously. “Aren’t you one of them from up Springfields?”
Ivy announced herself, and said she would not be very long. She introduced Roy, and said Mrs. Robson would remember him, as he had farmed in the county for years. A few minutes would do.
“Who is it, Daisy?” came a voice from inside the house.
“A Miss Beasley and Mr. Goodman from up Springfields wants a word with you. Says she’s got a message.”
“Tell her to give it to you. I’m sitting by the fire!”
“You’d better come in, dear,” said Daisy, obviously having decided Miss Beasley was not a burglar or selling anything, and she recognised Roy as a very respectable retired farmer.
“What’s this message, then,” the old lady said. “They’re not thinking of putting me in Springfields, are they? She darted a look at her granddaughter hovering in the doorway. “Go on then, Miss Beasley,” she added. “Get on with it.”
“Well, first of all, my message was to tell you that we represent an enquiry agency, Enquire Within, and if you need our help—no matter what—we’d be pleased to oblige. And then, in connection with one of our present cases, to see if you remember any mention of the Winchens when you were working for the Blatches at Blackwoods Farm.”
Mrs. Robson senior stared at Ivy with a frown, and said she couldn’t remember what happened yesterday, so there wasn’t much chance of her remembering the Winchens.
“But you did perhaps see one or two of them when Eleanor Blatch was young and just married to Ted?” said Roy. “She had been a Winchen, and some of the family might have visited the farm at that time?”
“Wait a minute, now,” said Mrs. Robson. “Oh lor, Miss Beasley, I ain’t going to be much use to you!”
“But there must have been Winchens of some kind visiting the farm? After all, Eleanor was a girl Winchen before she met Ted. Do you remember if there was one called Mary among them?”
Mrs. Robson senior frowned. “Mary . . . Mary . . . Now that rings a bell. Yes, I’m sure one of them was called Mary! But no, it was Margaret. Or was it Marion? Oh, I don’t know, dear. It might have been the Wrights next door. I’m a poor old thing, as you see.”
“I think you’d better rest now,” said Daisy. “I’ll show you out, Miss Beasley, Mr. Goodman.”
“Come again, dear,” shouted the old lady, when Ivy had reached the door. “We can talk about old times.”
Ivy nodded her thanks to Daisy, and she and Roy returned slowly to Springfields. The old lady had been unreliable, certainly, and she seemed sure of Mary at first. But that was about all! A wasted journey.
Miss Pinkney was waiting for them. “Here you are then, fresh as a daisy from your walk. Come and have supper, my dears.”
• • •
GUS AND DEIRDRE, still trawling through railway timetables and possible routes from Tawny Wings to Boston, Lincs, finally decided that the train connection was not good, and it was not that far away, so they’d go by car.
“We’ll take the Bentley,” Deirdre said. “You can drive, and I’ll argue with the satnav. She’s called Prudence, by the way, and is reasonably reliable.”
Deirdre booked them in for a couple of nights into the Peacock and Royal Hotel in the main marketplace. “It looks a nice old place,” she said. “And that amazing church called the Stump is just a few yards away.”
“I hope the church clock doesn’t chime all night, then,” said Gus. “Could disturb our beauty sleep.”
“No comment,” said Deirdre. “Let’s pack a few things, and I’ll pick you up first thing tomorrow. We’d better tell Ivy and Roy, and also see if she had any luck with old Mrs. Robson. I’ll give her a ring.”
• • •
“SO YOU TWO are off on a jolly,” Ivy said. “Well, try not to forget what you are there for. Pork butchers named Winchen, especially. And with an emphasis on the mystery of Eleanor Winchen Blatch’s sisterly feud. If we can establish a reason for such a serious, almost lifetime estrangement, we might establish some answers.”
Thirty-three
NEXT MORNING DAWNED with clear blue skies and puffy white clouds speeded along by a brisk wind.
“Wrap up warm, Miss Beasley, if you’re insisting on going up to the college,” said Mrs. Spurling. “There’s a definite change in the weather. For the life of me I can’t see why you cannot be content to stay in the warm with my other residents.”
“I have explained many times,” said Ivy, “and I don’t propose to explain again. I know you are responsible for us, and if we go down with pneumonia it will be you who gets the blame, et cetera, et cetera. If it will help, I will sign a piece of paper saying I take full responsibility for myself in walking two hundred yards up the road to the Manor House College, and back again. Will that do? Oh, and no, I shall not be requiring lunch today. Thank you.”
Mrs. Spurling could think of nothing polite to say, and so turned away and slammed herself into her office.
Ivy grinned, and went to find Roy in the lounge. “I am off to college, dear,” she said. “And there is absolutely no need for you come with me today. I know all the ropes now, and shall be back here, considerably wiser, around a quarter to four.”
Roy, who respected Ivy’s independent nature, agreed, saying that if she felt like having a companion on her way home, she was to ring him at once.
Once more, Ivy walked along Manor Road and stopped at Blackwoods Farm. It looked even sadder with the windows boarded up and weeds taking over the front garden.
Was it too soon for a will to be read and ownership safely established? After all, Eleanor, as far as they knew, had had no children and refused to acknowledge her sister, Mary, and nephew, Rickwood. There was the elusive lodger, of course, but he had vanished years ago, and they had turned up nothing to connect him with her demise. She thought hard, and as she walked into the front entrance to the college, decided to ask Roy if he thought Rickwood could have inherited so soon.
• • •
SAMANTHA ARRIVED IN the class ten minutes late, and was full of apologies. “Sorry!” she said, as she sat down next to Ivy. “Plumbing problems! You’d think it would be impossible in a new house, but no, this morning we had no water in the bathroom!”
Students had been asked to bring along the results of an assignment, and in particular, a short specimen chapter telling the story of an event in each’s past life. Instructions had been to avoid a standpoint of everything being better in the good old days, and not always putting oneself in a good light.
Discussing this with Roy, Ivy had said that if anyone asked her, she would say everything was better in the good old days. He had tried to help by taking as examples things like cooking, travel and the national health service, and each time Ivy had given him watertight reasons why these had been much better years ago.
When it was Ivy’s turn, the entire class waited in happy anticipation. Clearing her throat, Ivy began with a vivid description of Victoria Villa in Round Ringford, where she had been born and lived until coming to Springfields.
Far from giving the expected rose-tinted account, she described a battle-axe mother and browbeaten, henpecked father, and her own struggles to keep clear of both. And it was humorously written! By the time she related how her father had been scolded out of the house one night, and greeted the postman next morning from the garden shed in his pyjamas, Samantha and all the rest of the class were laughing aloud.
“So we couldn’t say you were an indulged child?” said Rickwood the tutor.
“Good heavens, no. Mind you, my mother’s favourite saying was ‘spare the rod and spoil the child.’ All the children in the village knew how to dodge, though. We knew right from wrong, and expected it.”
At coffee break time, Samantha brought a cup across to where Miss Beasley sat fiercely cleaning her spectacles.
&nb
sp; “That was great, Miss Beasley,” she said. “Well done. I’m afraid my effort will sound a bit pallid.”
“If you can use words like ‘pallid,’” said Ivy, “and what’s more know what they mean, I should think you’re on the right lines, dear.”
At lunchtime, Ivy once more sat at a table surrounded by young people. One of them asked if she felt a bit out of it, being so much older than the rest. She did not bother to answer, pretending to be deaf, but asked Samantha if she would like a little walk around the garden before getting back to class.
“Of course. And I can help you find your way back inside, since you’re so old, Miss Beasley.”
Ivy smiled. She was, in fact, beginning to feel quite at home at Manor House College.
• • •
BACK INSIDE FOR the afternoon, the question and answer session began enthusiastically. After a discussion about describing the weather and the landscape, and how boring this could become, Ivy asked how much other students had noticed about their surroundings, here in Barrington village.
“Good question,” said Rickwood. “Anyone?”
Several students offered answers, and then Ivy said she had noticed a footpath across the field to Spinney Close. Had others gone that way at all? Samantha said she used it every day, as it was a shortcut to college. The others shook their heads. Mostly, they said, they went down to the pub.
Then Alexander, the know-all student with a heart of gold, said that he had actually gone that way once or twice. A friend he’d met in the pub lived in the new houses. They’d gone that way for a walk, and he had noticed the disused farm buildings. The others teased him, asking if he had an ulterior motive. But Ivy brought them back to the footpath. What had they thought of the field, and had they noticed the lame sheep?
“I tell you one thing I noticed,” said Samantha. “There’s one of those old henhouses in the spinney. I can see it from my bedroom window. Somebody goes in there occasionally. I keep meaning to have a look inside. Yesterday, for instance, I could swear I saw you, Rickwood, leaving the henhouse and walking across the field?
“Well spotted,” said Rickwood. “I was collecting eggs. No, but seriously, I do escape there occasionally. It’s clean and tidy, and peaceful when I have work to do. My mother is a little deaf, and loves the telly turned up loud. Aunt Eleanor never came that far away from the farmhouse, so no risk of upsetting her.”
“Perhaps it would be a good idea, Rickwood,” Ivy said, seeing a good way of useful observation, “to get us to go for a field exercise on Monday afternoon to see how different our descriptions would be? Don’t forget the lame ewe. Somebody’s feeding it. Then when we get back to base, we can discuss how we handle what we’ve seen,” said Ivy.
Rickwood the tutor hesitated. He thought his students might think this too childish an exercise. On the other hand, it could produce results. Something to vary the monotony, he thought. He would not need to get permission, of course. If anyone questioned them being there, he could say his aunt had said he could go where he liked on the farm. There was nobody to contradict that now! He cheered up, thinking it could work. He would have to be careful and keep his eyes open.
One or two said they hadn’t suitable shoes, but most of them liked the idea, and it was agreed they would assemble on Monday afternoon and set off through the farmyard and into the field.
“Anyway, I’ll ring you, Ivy and Samantha, if it’s cancelled,” said Rickwood, “otherwise assume it’s all go!”
“No need for Samantha and myself to come in to college,” said Ivy. “We’ll wait for you others by the gate.”
Thirty-four
IVY’S TELEPHONE RANG early next morning, and she was not pleased to hear Deirdre’s voice, bright and breezy, asking if she and Gus had been missed.
“Don’t be ridiculous, girl,” she said. “We’ve scarcely had twenty-four hours since you last left a whiff of Chanel in our noses.”
“Same old Ivy!” said Deirdre. “We thought you might like a report on what we’ve been doing.”
“Go on, then. I haven’t finished my cup of tea yet, so you’ll have to put up with slurping.”
“Well, we’ve found the pork butchers, but they are no longer Winchen’s. A man called John Jones bought the business. We talked with his son for quite a while, and discovered what he knew about the last of the Winchens.”
“Who were they?”
“Eleanor and her sister, Mary. After Mary left, there are no records of what happened to her. Until she turned up in Barrington at some stage, but relatively recently. We shall go through the local archives, of course.
“We’re all set, Ivy. More to report later. Our return will depend on what we find out. Oh, and Gus wants a word.”
Ivy sighed. Her tea was cold, and she could hear sounds of other residents going down to breakfast.
“Hello, yes?” she said.
“Morning, Ivy,” answered Gus, also sounding very chipper. “I wanted to ask a favour. Could you go down to Miriam Blake’s in Hangman’s Row, and make sure Whippy is all right? Not pining for her master? Thanks very much. Looks like being a lovely day, so you’ll enjoy the walk.”
“Thanks very much!” said Ivy. “I’ll say good-bye now. Roy is knocking on the door. Good-bye, both of you.”
• • •
“SO THEY THINK they’re on to something?” said Roy. He turned to thank Katya for a plate of crispy bacon, fried egg and bread, all slightly burned, as he liked it.
“Deirdre sounded quite excited. Mind you, that might have had nothing to do with the hunt for the Winchens. I spoke to Gus as well, and he was worried about Whippy, but otherwise sounded sunny.”
“Dear things,” said Roy. “Obviously enjoying themselves. And so shall we, in a few weeks’ time. I have received confirmation from the best hotel in Blackpool, as requested. I shall make sure you are excited and sunny on our honeymoon, my dear.”
“Roy! That’s quite enough of that! Now, let us plan our day so that we have something useful to report when the others return.”
“Do you think we might have a trip into Oakbridge estate agents and pretend to be interested in Blackwoods Farm? I hate to see it all run-down and neglected. We could perhaps get in touch with an old friend of mine. He owns the big estate agents in town, and they specialise in farm sales.”
“Excellent idea! Are you thinking of buying it, if it comes on the market? There is one snag. Neither you nor I look young and fit enough to be working farmers.”
“Me? I ran four farms when I was younger, and you don’t grow out of being a farmer. But you have a point, Ivy,” he added, seeing her crestfallen face, “and we shall say we are looking around on behalf of my grandson. He will have to be fictional, since poor Steven died, and he was my only living relation.”
“Exactly right, Roy dear. What shall we call your fictional grandson?”
“Anthony, Anthony Goodman. Now, I shall finish my breakfast.”
• • •
ELVIS ARRIVED ON time, as always, and came into Springfields reception to ask for Ivy and Roy. Mrs. Spurling was in the office, and she came out to intercept him.
“And where are they off to this time?” she said. “Sooner or later one of them is going to drop down dead from exhaustion, rushing about from pillar to post, and giving me no warning of when or where they are going. And, of course, I shall get the blame.”
Elvis nodded. “They are marvellous for their age, aren’t they?” he said, completely missing her point. “And now we’re off to Oakbridge. They love the coffee shop there, so I am sure that will be first stop.”
Mrs. Spurling sighed deeply and returned to her office, where she sat staring at her computer. She brought up a website of situations vacant for nursing home managers, and looked for a free position miles away from Barrington. Then she saw Miss Beasley and Mr. Goodman, arm in arm, following the taxi m
an out of the door, and they were all smiling. I must be doing something right, she thought. She closed down her computer, and went off to bully the girls in the kitchen.
• • •
HALFWAY TO OAKBRIDGE, Ivy tapped Elvis on his shoulder with her umbrella. “Do you know anything about a family named Winchen?” she said.
“Winchen? No, I don’t think so. Oh, wait a minute, wasn’t the woman from Blackwoods Farm a Mrs. Winchen Blatch? That’s the only one I can think of. Poor soul. They don’t seem to have made much headway with finding her killer. If she was killed! Fell to her death, didn’t she? It was all over the local paper for a while, but now it’s the floods in Summer Meadows in Tresham that’s making the news.”
“Oh dear, that sounds bad. Anybody drowned?” said Ivy.
“Yes, a couple of lads who were mucking about near the river bridge. The water’s running very high, and neither of them could swim. Tragic, really. Now, is it the coffee shop first?”
Ivy nodded. Roy said they could unload him and his trundle from the taxi, and he could park it on the pavement outside the café.
“Back here about twelve?” Elvis said. “Behave yourselves, and not too much sugar in your coffee!”
They parted laughing, and Ivy and Roy were then welcomed into the café as regulars, and ordered their usual milky coffee and jam and cream scones.
“Excuse me, dear,” Ivy said to a pleasant-faced woman who was serving them. “Can you direct us to Botham’s estate agents?”
The woman raised her eyebrows. “Are you thinking of moving away from Springfields, once you are married?” The entire staff in the coffee shop were well acquainted with the several-times-postponed wedding day.
“No, no. We are just enquiring about a property, Blackwoods Farm in Barrington. On behalf of Roy’s grandson.”
“Isn’t that where that poor woman died? Is the place up for sale now?”
Ivy shook her head. “We are not sure. You don’t happen to know who owns it, do you?” she asked casually.