by Ann Purser
“Please knock before you open the door!” Ivy said sternly. “And I am not ready for you to come in, anyway. Come back later.” The girl swore under her breath, but shut the door quietly, as instructed.
Back in her reminiscences, Ivy remembered that it was those leaflets of Springfields that Deirdre had sent her that had softened her up. “Comfortable rooms and all residents’ privacy requirements respected,” she had repeated to the vicar of Round Ringford. He was one of a campaign to get rid of her, she reckoned. But she had finally reluctantly given in, with the thought that perhaps a new start would be a challenge. With the best of her old friends in Ringford graveyard, Ivy decided she had little to lose.
Now her room was beginning to be a familiar and pleasant retreat. She looked out of her window, and could see down the drive and as far as the road. Wasn’t that the lanky figure of Augustus Halfhide approaching? He must be coming to see her, of course. There was nobody else in this dump worth speaking to. She got up from her chair and swiftly closed the romantic novel she had been reading. There had been only one romance in Ivy’s life, and that had gone horribly wrong. It had been a long time before she could even think about it, but now she could look back and despise herself for being so stupid. Much better to rely on novels. If the romance went sour, you could get another from the library and hope it would be different.
Half an hour went by, and Ivy frowned. Where had he got to? Probably that wretched woman had intercepted him and kept him talking. Well, she still had the use of her legs, and she would go and rescue him. She left her room and went purposefully down to the hallway. As she thought, there he was, trapped by Mrs. Spurling. He saw her coming, and smiled broadly.
“Ah! There you are, Miss Beasley. I do hope you have time to talk to me for a while? I have been offering my services as a volunteer to Mrs. Spurling, and would like to become a friend to all at Springfields.” Is this really me? he thought to himself. Gus Halfhide, man about town, gambler extraordinary—friend of Springfields Home for the Elderly? Yes it is, he told himself firmly.
“You’ll soon get fed up with that,” Ivy said, with a prim smile. “Why don’t you come and have a cup of tea with me, and I can set you straight.”
“Wonderful!” said Gus. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Spurling. Now don’t forget, I am at your service. Lead on, Miss Beasley.”
Ivy gave her orders to Mrs. Spurling for a good pot of tea and two pieces of window cake.
“Window cake?” Gus said. Ivy laughed. “Dear me,” she said, “you’re still wet behind the ears, Mr. Halfhide.”
He followed meekly as the old woman stumped back to her room. She ushered him in and shut the door firmly. “All eyes and ears, the residents of Springfields,” she said. “And that includes me. Sit you down, and you can tell me what you’ve really come for.”
Gus hesitated. Should he enlist Miss Ivy Beasley straightaway? Tell her that at the moment he was a one-man detective agency, but could use a partner? She would laugh in his face. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
“My line of business, Miss Beasley,” he began, “before I came to this village of Barrington, was investigation. I am not at liberty to tell you the nature of this investigation, but I have now retired. However, as I have been unfortunate enough to move next door to a house where there has been a violent death that looks like murder, I can hardly forbear to use my skills to help Miss Blake and obtain justice for her poor old mother.”
Ivy looked at him, her head on one side, weighing up what he had just said. “Now, Mr. Halfhide,” she replied, “let’s put it like this. You were in some dodgy line of business that probably meant poking your nose into other people’s affairs. Now you’ve given it up, or it has given you up, and you’re here in Barrington, in the middle of nowhere, to keep your head down and hope that whatever it is you’re escaping from will go away and be forgotten. Am I right?”
The old devil! Gus dearly wished he could tell her how near the truth she had guessed. But it wouldn’t do. He had to be consistent, and he laughed rather too loudly and said she couldn’t be more wrong.
“The only part of it that is correct is that I was in the investigating business,” he said, looking at her seriously now. “And I am sure you will appreciate that I have sworn an oath of secrecy.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ivy said. “That may wash with Miriam Blake, but not with me. Anyway,” she continued, “I don’t care a fig what you were in the past. It is what you do here that is important. As for the Blake affair, if you ask me,” she added, “you don’t have to look no further than the daughter. I can’t say I care for her much, but she did have a time of it with that old mother giving her the runaround. And I’ll tell you this for nothing. From what I’ve heard, that Miriam Blake is no better than she should be. Don’t let her give you all that innocent spinster stuff. Ah,” she added, “here’s tea.”
She looked at the tray brought in by a young girl, and said slowly and loudly,”You forgot the window cake!” The girl looked frightened, said she was sorry and vanished to fetch it.
“Foreign,” Ivy said in explanation. “Polish. They’re everywhere these days. I don’t know I’m sure, what is this country coming to, Mr. Halfhide?”
“We can fix it,” Gus said with a smile. “Shall I pour, or will you?”
Gus and Ivy sat talking amiably in her room for a few minutes when there was a tap at the door. Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Spurling bounced in.
“Just popped in to see if you two dear things would like a small sherry? Such a gloomy day . . .”
Ivy stared at her. “What are you talking about?” She looked at her old clock brought from Ringford and put safely on the chest of drawers where she could see it, even if she was in bed. “Drinking at this hour?” she said bluntly.
Gus said quickly, “A small sherry is very acceptable at any hour. Most kind of you, Mrs. Spurling.” He gave her the full blast of his charming smile. She giggled. Not a pretty sight, he thought. Then she said, “Would you like me to join you, possibly?”
“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” said Ivy firmly. “And if Mr. Halfhide would like a sherry at such a daft time of day, then please send that girl up with one. Nothing for me, of course. What an idea! Mother would turn in her grave.”
When Mrs. Spurling had retired scarlet-faced with annoyance, Gus attempted to calm the atmosphere. “Tell me about your mother, Miss Beasley,” he said. “She sounds a most interesting woman.” An evil old bag, more likely, he thought, but settled back in his chair prepared to listen.
Ivy looked at him, frowning. “You don’t want to hear about my mother,” she said. “You want to know some more about the Blakes, don’t you. D’you know what I really think about you, Mr. Halfhide?”
Oh Lord, now what, thought Gus, but he nodded bravely.
“I’m sure you’re up to more than you’ve said, young man,” she said. Gus was quite happy about the adjective, until Ivy added that most people looked young to an old lady like herself. “No doubt you have a good reason for living on your own, and you don’t seem one of those.”
“One of whats?” Gus said, knowing perfectly well what she meant.
“Fancy men,” Ivy said flatly. “I’ve always liked to call a spade a spade, and Mother always said she’d have no truck with fancy men.”
“Ah,” pounced Gus. “Your mother. Now do tell me more about her. She must have been a great character . . . like mother, like daughter, would you say, Ivy?”
Ivy wondered whether to point out that she never allowed people she hardly knew to call her by her Christian name, but decided to ignore it. Actually, she quite liked it from Augustus.
“Yes, she was a character. Very forceful. Boss of our house, no doubt about that. My father was a good man, but not as strong as she was. Came from farming stock, and had been brought up to work on the farm from an early age. I was an only child, Mr. Halfhide, but that didn’t mean I was spoilt. Oh no. ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child.’ Tha
t was my mother’s favourite saying.”
“You mean she hit you?” Gus said in a shocked voice. No wonder the old thing was so sharp-edged.
“On occasion,” Ivy said. “But not with a stick. Flat of her hand on the back of bare legs. That was her way. My father used to go out of the room. He couldn’t stay. Didn’t hold with smacking girls, I heard him say once to my mother. But she just laughed.”
“Now, that’s quite enough about Mother,” she went on, conscious that Gus Halfhide was looking a bit green about the gills. “Let’s talk about the reason you’re here. It’s finding out who killed old Mrs. Blake. And my guess is that you’re nothing to do with the police. Right?”
Gus nodded firmly.
“And you want me to help you. Right?”
Gus nodded.
“Very well,” Ivy said. “I like the idea of something to occupy the brain. It can go to mush, you know, if it’s not exercised. But Deirdre has to be in on it, too. She’s a pain in the neck, but not stupid. And she has money. We might need that. Add to that the fact that she’s fit and well and has nothing to do, I reckon she’d be useful.”
“Can she keep her mouth shut?” Gus said meekly.
“Like a clam,” Ivy said. “She’s had plenty of practise, spending her husband’s money without the rest of his family knowing,” she added, smiling grimly.
Gus stood up and extended his hand. “A deal, then, Ivy?” he said.
“A deal, Augustus,” she said, shaking his hand vigorously.
Seven
DEIRDRE BLOXHAM HAD married money, but not class. But then, she hadn’t been exactly classy herself, not upper class nor even upper middle, but good solid working class, eminently respectable. She was a bright schoolgirl, and went on to improve herself in adulthood with all kinds of further education courses. It was on one of these, a basic introduction to motor maintenance, that she met her future husband.
Bert Bloxham had planned out his future as a successful garage owner. Included in his plans was an attractive, capable wife, who could rise with him up the social ladder.
In Deirdre, he saw the perfect partner. She was lively, ambitious, and capable, and, what is more, he fancied her. Luckily, she fancied him, too, and after a decent interval of courtship, they were married, had two small girls, and settled in a small terraced house in the suburbs of Thornwell, a large town near to Barrington.
By retirement age Bert and Deirdre had amassed a considerable fortune, selling the now large chain of garages for a handsome sum and moving into a large house in Barrington. Unfortunately, Bert was not suited to retirement, and within two years had died of inactivity and boredom.
Deirdre, apart from loneliness after Bert had died, did not pine. Once grief had been dealt with, she set about making a different, but satisfactory, life. She was good at spending money and bossing people around. Ivy had not been her only project. Her proudest moment had been the presentation to her of an MBE for dedicated services to the local community.
Now she sat in her elegant drawing room, as she had learnt to call it, enjoying a large gin and tonic, and wondering if it would be a good idea to invite Ivy to tea to meet some of her club’s members. She weighed up the pros and cons and decided that on balance it was a bad idea. The old thing could be very tricky, and deliberately tactless, and it would probably be best to have Ivy for a cup of tea along with Deirdre’s next-door neighbour, who was ninety-three and deaf as a post.
GUS, MEANWHILE, HAD returned home a happy man. With Ivy on his side, he reckoned he could have a great deal of fun playing detective and sorting out Miriam Blake, who was rapidly becoming an object of considerable interest. No better than she should be, did Ivy say? Ah ha! Just the kind of thing he loved to investigate.
Then he remembered one thing Ivy had stipulated. Her cousin Deirdre must be involved. Deirdre had money, said Ivy, and they might need some. Gus could second that heartily. He always needed money, and if this was a way of making some, all to the good. So, an approach to Deirdre Bloxham was the next thing on his agenda, and Ivy had made it plain that it was up to him to persuade her to cooperate.
He looked out of his dusty window and saw a fine sunlit evening. Right, no time like the present. He washed his hands, combed his hair over the patch where a small niece had told him his head was showing through, and set off in his car to find Mrs. Deirdre Bloxham, MBE.
TAWNY WINGS WAS a strange house, built by a patriotic builder for his own family in Barrington. He had made his millions putting up cheap little dwellings miles away on the outskirts of Thornwell, but for Tawny Wings he had chosen a picture village and had designed and built the house in the shape of a V sign. Deirdre often wondered whether he had been inspired by Churchill’s famous gesture. Odd as the exterior appeared, it was a comfortable house. Even the bath in the master bathroom was extra large. The builder had meant to have nothing but the best, and Deirdre felt thoroughly at home.
As she gazed out of her drawing room window her eye was caught by a battered-looking car approaching slowly up her driveway. Who on earth could that be? She looked at her watch. Seven o’clock, and her supper browning nicely in the oven. Ah well, she would soon send him packing, whoever he was.
She answered the doorbell, and saw to her surprise that her visitor was Augustus Halfhide, friend of Ivy and something of an enigma.
“Good evening, Mrs. Bloxham!” Gus at his best could be very persuasive. “I apologise for calling at such an hour without making an appointment first, but I wondered whether you would have ten spare minutes to talk to me?”
“What are you selling?” said Deirdre bluntly. She had not spent years in her husband’s motor car business without knowing all the tricks of the salesman’s trade.
Gus lifted his eyebrows, and gave her a quizzical smile. “Goodness me, Mrs. Bloxham! I am not a commercial traveller, you know. No, I have been talking to Miss Beasley—a cousin of yours, I believe?—about a rather interesting project, and she encouraged me to think you might be willing to participate. She has been telling me about all your numerous good works, and the MBE, of course, and I cannot help but think you would be enormously helpful to our little scheme.”
“Cut the cackle,” said Deirdre, standing back and opening the door wider. “You’d better come in and explain in plain words what you’re on about. I can’t spare many minutes.”
This was not going to be easy. Gus was thinking rapidly. There could be no disguising the fact that he wanted financial backing for a very small detective agency with a decidedly unconvincing combination of partners. One elderly spinster, one retired investigator of dubious reputation, and, if Deirdre agreed, a rather less elderly widow with time on her hands and a good deal of common sense regarding money in the bank.
“You may not have heard,” he began, “that Barrington has witnessed a very unpleasant murder. Very unpleasant for me, since she was my next-door neighbour, an old lady looked after by her unmarried daughter. The old dear was found dead on the floor with a bread knife point down in her chest.”
Deirdre shrugged. “Of course I’ve heard. Very nasty. But I can’t see what that has to do with me?”
“Nor, in the beginning, could I see that I would be involved in any way. I suppose,” he added, as if he had just thought of it, “I could be a suspect! But I think not, and anyway, the general feeling is that the daughter had every reason for wanting her pest of an old mother out of her way.”
Deirdre looked once more at her watch. “Could you get to the point, Mr. Halfhide?” she said wearily.
Gus drew himself up to his full height and said firmly and rapidly, “Miss Beasley and myself intend to investigate privately this murder case. And since both of us have a taste for research, perhaps better described as a lively curiosity, we intend to set up a small, at first amateur, agency. All Problems Solved—that sort of thing.”
“I see. Or, more simply, you and Ivy are soul mate nosey parkers, have no money, and think I might be useful in setting up a business? Office
space in my house, perhaps? Advertising in the local paper my dear old Bert bought many years ago? That sort of thing? Oh, and by the way, All Problems Solved is a terrible name. How about Enquire Within?”
Gus looked at her with a tentative smile. “Um, does that mean . . . ?”
“When do we start?” said Deirdre.
“IS MISS BEASLEY available?” Gus said. “It is rather late to visit her, I know. But if she is still up and about, I just need a few minutes’ chat.”
“Mrs. Spurling doesn’t like her ladies and gentlemen to be upset too close to bedtime,” said the stout little woman who acted as her deputy.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of upsetting her!” Gus said quickly.
“Upsetting who?” It was Ivy, coming into the hall clutching a hot water bottle. “If you mean upsetting me, I don’t upset easy. You can safely leave him to me, Miss Pinkney. In there, Gus,” she added, pointing to the sitting room. “We can find a corner away from the telly. None of them can hear, and one or two can’t understand what they do hear, so we’ll be fine.”
Miss Pinkney looked annoyed, but stamped her way back into the office. Gus and Ivy found a quiet corner, and he filled her in with what had happened at Tawny Wings. “So it looks as if we’re in business, Ivy!” he said excitedly.
“Calm down, young man,” she said. But her eyes were bright, her back straight, and the old Ivy was back. “Be here at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, with your car,” she said. “I’ll warn Deirdre we’re coming. Sooner we get down to it the better.”
Eight
TUESDAY MORNING, TEN o’clock sharp, Deirdre had said, and on the dot Gus and Ivy rang the bell on the heavy, mock-Tudor front door of Tawny Wings. The three investigators of the Enquire Within detective agency, feeling rather nervous but determined not to show it, climbed the broad stairway to a large room overlooking the back garden.