by Ann Purser
Theo sighed. “Good morning, Inspector,” he said. “What can I do for you? Miss Beatty handles everything, you know. You’d be better speaking to her.”
Now the policeman’s voice was irritated. “We have a job to do, and try to do it as tactfully as possible, Mr. Roussel, but you are the owner of the estate, and it is a matter for your ears only. I have to tell you that one of your tenants has been found dead on her cottage floor. Hangman’s Row. Mrs. Winifred Blake. Her daughter is being cared for by us at the moment, but she asked that you be informed. She is naturally distraught. She had been to the shop and returned home to find her mother lying there.”
Theo heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh, that old woman,” he said. “She’s been on the blink for some time, Inspector. Natural causes, you’ll find. Nothing to worry about except funeral arrangements. Miss Beatty will of course be helping Miss Blake. Meanwhile, please let me know if there is anything I can do.”
“Not as simple as that, I’m afraid, sir,” Frobisher said. “A bread knife stuck in the heart does not normally come under the category of natural causes. Questions to be asked. We shall be in touch very soon. Oh, and please tell Miss Beatty that we shall be along to talk to her as well.”
Theo put down the telephone with a shaky hand. For God’s sake, did the man think he was capable of creeping in with a bread knife and helping Nature to send her on her way? He got up, and shouting “Beattie!” made his way into the echoing corridors of the Hall. He had to keep up the fiction that she wouldn’t already know the contents of the call, and so descended to the kitchen to tell her.
IN HER COTTAGE, Miriam sat in a chair by the window, dry-eyed. From habit she peered round the edge of the curtain and saw Gus Halfhide walking down his garden path and out into the road.
“He’s coming here!” she exclaimed in alarm, and ran out of the room to hide in the kitchen. What could he possibly want? Surely he wouldn’t be so insensitive as to call on her at this moment. But there was a sudden firm knock at the door, and although she was still genuinely shocked, she could not help her heart beating a little faster. She opened the door a couple of inches and said, “Yes? Can I help you? I have had a bereavement and can’t ask you in. At the moment,” she added hastily.
“Just came to pay my respects,” said Gus. “I saw the police and the ambulance and realised that you must have had a serious illness or loss. Please forgive me for intruding. I will leave you in peace.” He turned to go, but Miriam said quickly that it was her mother who had died. He turned, his interest caught.
“And in suspicious circumstances,” she added, with some pride at having found the right phrase. “Thanks for coming along.” She shut the door apologetically as he was about to say something more.
Four
SOME DAYS LATER, Gus thought seriously of doing a runner. But then he reconsidered. Was it merely bad luck that right next door to him, in a deserted lane leading to a tiny village in darkest Suffolk, chosen by him because he was sure absolutely nothing would ever happen there, an old woman had breathed her last with a bread knife stuck through her heart? He could not deny that all the old instincts had immediately reappeared, just when he had renounced them forever.
“I rather wish,” he said aloud, “that there was some old chum who could put me right.” His little whippet jumped out of her basket and stood shivering in front of him. “Sorry, sorry!” he said, and tickled behind her ears. “You are quite right.” She made a small grumbling sound, and looked longingly towards the door.
“Right, message taken,” Gus said. “We’ll go for a walk. Clear our heads. I must forget all about it and concentrate on the Great Novel.”
This was one of the reasons why he had come to Barrington. He intended to free himself from all unwanted questions, and to escape the temptations of the casino and the race course. He would settle down and write a lively fictionalized account of some of his more lurid adventures.
It had begun to rain, a very light misty rain, and Gus put a small waterproof jacket on Whippy to keep her dry. She was in fact quite tough, but he felt that with so little flesh on her bones and such a thin smooth coat, he should cosset her. Anyway, he loved having the small creature dependent on him, and reflected that he would probably have made a very fussy father.
“Not too late, Gus,” he said to himself as they walked down Hangman’s Row and out into the main street of Barrington. All he needed was a tall, willowy blonde in her broken-down car languishing by the roadside, when he would leap forward, fiddle about under her bonnet—ahem!—and fall headlong in love. She would, of course, reciprocate.
A figure approached him, walking slowly with a stick, and he was sadly sure that this was not the girl of his dreams. An old woman, with a black coat, a hat like an upturned flowerpot and steel-rimmed glasses, bore down on him. His new friend, Miss Ivy Beasley. He had given the Standings a call, and asked them about her. “Guaranteed to find out all about you, Gus,” Richard had chortled. “You’d be safer in the middle of London!” But Richard’s warning had only sharpened his curiosity. Could an old woman in a retirement home still be a fearsome tyrant?
Ivy fixed him with her beady eyes. “Good afternoon,” she said firmly. “Getting to know the area? That’s a funny little old creature you got there, I must say. Is it a greyhound? Must have been the runt of the litter.”
Gus bridled. “She’s meant to be that size. Whippets are small. And she’s not old, you know. Quite young, in fact. She’ll be two in August. She’s a dear little thing, aren’t you, Whippy?” he said, and patted her light-bulb head. “It is nice to see you out for a walk, Miss Beasley,” he continued. “But aren’t you going to get wet again? Do let me see you back to Springfields. The weather forecast was not at all good.”
Ivy stared at him. In all her long life, nobody had ever before offered to see her home, and now it had happened twice. She was about to assert her independence and refuse, but her curiosity got the better of her and she accepted.
“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” she said, and took the arm that he proffered.
“You’ve heard the news, I expect. Living next door, that is,” Ivy said, as they walked on towards Springfields. “If you ask me, that daughter of hers should be asked some hard questions.”
“My neighbour?” Gus asked innocently. “Do you know the Blakes?”
Ivy cupped her hand to her ear. She was a little deaf now, but refused to have her hearing tested, claiming that there was nothing wrong with her ears that a good syringe wouldn’t put right.
“The Blakes,” Gus repeated. “I heard that the old lady next door had died. I called to pay my respects, but her poor daughter was obviously very distressed. Do you know more than that?”
“Huh!” said Ivy. “Distressed! I can’t think why. Miriam Blake has been wanting her old mother to kick the bucket for years. So you haven’t heard about the knife? The bread knife, sticking straight into the old woman’s heart?” Ivy’s voice was full of disgust and disapproval, and Gus felt her hand tighten on his arm. My goodness, Richard Standing was right! He must be very careful with this one.
“How on earth do you know that?”
Ivy glanced sideways at him. “I have my sources, Mr. er . . . er Halfhide, isn’t it? My memory is not as good as it used to be, I’m afraid.”
Gus doubted this. He could recognize a put-down when he saw one. They were nearing Springfields, and Miss Beasley left him at the gate, shutting it firmly against him. “Thank you,” she said. “I expect we’ll meet again. It is a very small village, you know. Very difficult to keep anything private here, I have found.” Gus judged it was not the time to remind her of his intention to visit her, and started off back home.
Whippy chose this moment to squat on the verge and Gus dutifully found a poo bag. He pondered on Miss Beasley’s last remark. Was it a warning? And what secrets had she found it difficult to protect? “We must find out more,” he said to Whippy as they set off again at a brisk pace. “And who knows, we may meet the
blonde on the way back.”
Five
GUS WAS OUT of luck. So far no blondes. But he was curious to see a muddy four-by-four slowing down as it came towards him. It stopped, and the nearside window was slowly lowered.
“Good morning.” The voice was low, and came from a distinguished-looking, grey-haired man sitting in the passenger seat. Next to him, driving the vehicle, was a fortyish woman, with hair scraped back in an old-fashioned bun, and eyes like ripe sloes, blue black and blank in expression. “Mr. Halfhide?” continued the man. “I’m Theodore Roussel. Settling in, I hope? Anything you want, ask Beattie here. She runs everything.” He leaned forward until his head was close to the window. Gus walked forward until he was close. “Including me,” the man said sotto voce.
Gus smiled. It wasn’t the time to mention numerous faults in his little house, including the gap wide enough to post a parcel between the back door and its split frame. Nor would he complain about the old-fashioned flush lavatory that took at least three desperate attempts to make it work. First, he should be on good terms with everyone in the village, and especially with this interesting Roussel landlord. Not so sure about Beattie, he said to himself. Can’t see the old Halfhide charm working on this one. Still, give it time.
“Oh, everything is fine, I’m sure,” he replied. “Charming little cottage. Just what I was looking for.”
“Shut the window, Mr. Roussel,” Beattie said sharply. “You’ll be getting a chill.”
Roussel made a face at Gus, and began to shut the window. Then he stopped and said, “Nuisance about the Blake woman. Beattie’ll get the daughter moved on. Hardly pays any rent, you know. Old John Blake used to work on the estate until he died. Useless when he was alive, and even more useless now he’s dead. Don’t let the daughter bother you, Mr. Halfhide. Beattie’ll get rid of her.” He closed the window, and the car moved off with a jerk.
Gus walked on home and thought hard about what Roussel had said. He had seemed extraordinarily unconcerned about having a murder in his property. Did that mean he had had a hand in it? Or had Beattie? Gus’s experience of murders in villages was much influenced by the crime novels of Agatha Christie, and so he was sure that under the tranquil surface there were secret family feuds and hatreds. A large bagful of twenty pound notes under the mattress might be quite enough to trigger a violent death! Money problems at the Hall? It was common knowledge that members of the aristocracy were poor as church mice.
Gus shook himself. This was pure fantasy! Maybe the old duck was holding the bread knife and conked out, falling on the knife as she went. But no, in his experience, such things seldom happened without a helping hand.
As he approached the terrace, he saw a police car parked outside the Blakes’ cottage. Damn and blast! He hoped they hadn’t arrived to arrest Miriam Blake. His meetings with Ivy Beasley and Theodore Roussel had fed his curiosity, and during his walk home he had again felt that need to know. He had given in, and now had all the excitement of being back in business. After all, there was damn all to do in this place, and Gus had quite decided that a satisfactorily long investigation would fill his time when not writing. Now he had to think quickly how he proposed to make a start.
First, he must have a way of talking to all kinds of village people. He had quickly realized that he had no hope of keeping himself to himself, so he might as well make use of village nosiness.
What would give him easy access into their lives? He could apply for a job as newspaper delivery man, going every day to village houses. Or relief postman? No, neither of those sounded convincing. He would be instantly under suspicion. He looked around his sitting room for inspiration, and saw where a triangle of plaster had already fallen off the corner of the wall by the fireplace. A cheap, bodged job by a local, he thought. But that was it! He would advertise in the local shop as an experienced painter and decorator. The fact that he knew very little about either did not bother him. It surely could not be too difficult to slap a coat of paint on a wall. And he was good with his hands. He could easily manage the fiddly bits, like window frames.
With relief, he watched the police car depart with no Miriam Blake inside. It would be neighbourly, he convinced himself, to pop along and see that she was not too upset by a visit from the law.
Miriam answered the door straightaway. She looked warily at him, and said, “Hello.”
Gus gave her his most charming smile. “Gus Halfhide,” he introduced himself. “Next door. But I am sure you know that. I couldn’t help noticing the police car, and wondered if you would like a restoring cup of tea with me?” He hadn’t meant to say that at all, but she looked so unhappy that he could not suppress his natural kindness. After all, he had many times comforted the bereaved.
She hesitated. “Um, well, I’m not sure,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” Gus reassured her. “I am quite safe in taxis.” She looked puzzled, and he realized the old phrase used by flappers in the twenties meant nothing to her. “I can’t prove it,” he said, holding out his hand, “but I assure you I am a perfectly trustworthy and honest citizen.”
He was relieved when she shook his hand limply, and gave him a faint smile. “Well, thank you, Mr. Halfhide,” she said. “Just a small cup, then. I can only spare a few minutes. So much to do after a death in the family.” Her chin wobbled, and he nodded. “Off we go,” he said. “ ‘The cup that cheers but not inebriates.’ ”
“Mother used to say that,” Miriam said, and locked her cottage door behind her.
COMFORTABLY SETTLED, MIRIAM looked over the top of her glasses at Gus Halfhide. “Now then,” she said, putting down her mug of strong tea. “If we’re to be neighbours and friends, I shall have to know a bit about you.”
Oh no you won’t, thought Gus. But he was practised in dissembling, and was relaxed about answering her questions with lies and half lies. “Fire away, Miriam,” he said. “I do hope I may call you Miriam?” Without those dreadful glasses, she would be quite good-looking, he decided. Good skin, thick wavy hair. A little carroty, but nicely done.
Miriam looked doubtful. He was definitely attractive, she considered, and someone a lot worse might have moved in next door. “Well, I suppose it’s all right,” she said.
“And you must call me Gus,” he continued. “Perhaps you’d like a potted biography? Or should it be autobiography?”
Miriam frowned. What on earth was he on about. “Go on, then,” she said, and waited.
Gus gave her a big smile. “Born thirty-five years ago,” he said, having knocked off ten years for luck. “Out in India with parents until aged five, then home to Surrey. Series of unpleasant nannies, and finally boarding school. Harrow, actually.” No need to add the grammar school bit. He could see she was looking mightily impressed, and he continued. “Married twice, divorced twice. Not the marrying kind, I have decided. Still on good terms with both ex-wives. No children, fortunately.” He paused for breath.
“What work do you do?” Miriam asked. This was the most important question as far as she was concerned. They had had enough advertising executives, film producers, aging actors, and so on, buying up all the village properties.
“I’m a best-selling writer,” he said. He put his head on one side and smiled winsomely at her.
Miriam looked at him, then burst out laughing, a surprisingly raucous sound. “Pull the other one,” she said.
“Absolutely true,” he said, joining in the laughter. It always worked, he thought happily.
Six
AFTER MIRIAM HAD gone, Gus cleared away dirty crocks and found himself a glass. All the glasses in the cupboard were straightforward tumblers, thick and not too clean. He rinsed it under the tap and poured himself a whisky. Adding a teaspoonful of water, he took it into the sitting room and settled down with a pad of paper and a pen. Time to make plans.
He noted down his intention to become a painter and decorator. He must make an attractive poster for the shop. His computer would do that for him, with two or three image
s of paintbrushes and efficient looking men up ladders. Then there was Miriam to cultivate. He felt he had made a good start there. And probably the most important of all was to develop a friendship with the all-knowing Miss Ivy Beasley at Springfields. Once he had got a foot in the door there, he reckoned he could tap in on several of the old folks’ memories. But most usefully, he would gain Ivy’s confidence so that she would tell him all her secrets and continue to glean information around the village. He must also get to know her cousin. Quite an attractive woman. Probably a goer in her youth. And moneyed. He laughed. Must be well worth listening to a conversation between Ivy and Deirdre!
Right, no time like the present. He would walk up to Springfields and ask about being a volunteer. All these retirement homes had Friends groups. He could offer to read to them, play cards, push wheelchairs. . . . All good opportunities for gathering information. He reckoned that he would, in record time, find the assassin who had done for old Mrs. Blake. No need for PC Plod! Never fear, Gus is here!
IVY BEASLEY WAS in her room, which she preferred to spending useless hours in the communal lounge, listening to boring reminiscences from old people. She did not consider herself a typical candidate for a residential home for the elderly. And why “elderly”? “Old” was a perfectly good word, wasn’t it? She narrowed her eyes. Labels were ridiculous, anyway. It was all Deirdre’s fault she was here, going on and on and forcing Ivy to agree. Deirdre had mustered all the support she could find in Ringford, including the Standings’, in order to convince Ivy that Springfields was the answer.
Her reminiscences were interrupted by a girl with duster and a basket of cleaning materials peeping round her door.