The Hangman's Row Enquiry

by Ann Purser

  “Are you as good as that with dominoes?” said Fred, scratching his nose. “We’ve got the county champion here, if you want a try?”

  Gus nodded, and sat down. Alfred Jones was bent with age, but a wily old bugger, whose watery blue eyes were everywhere, missing nothing. He played his usual game, guaranteed to win. Gus was aware that a silence had fallen in the pub, and thought quickly. He could win, he saw that well ahead, but it would not do him any good at all. So he deliberately made wrong moves, and lost.

  “Too clever for me,” he said. “Another pint, Alfred?” he offered, and walked to the bar. “Well done, Gus,” the landlord said. “It wouldn’t have done to beat the county champion first go.”

  After that, Alfred opened up, and to Gus’s delight said that he had known old mother Blake when they were kids. “Went to school with her, didn’t I,” he said. “She was a moody kid. Sneaky, too. Not popular with the other gels. Don’t know how she snared old Blake, but then, she were twice as bright as him. That Miriam were born six weeks early, and a bonny baby in spite of that. I reckon John Blake had orders from above.” He winked at Gus. “Know what I mean?” he said.

  Gus thought he did, but was more interested in Miriam’s relationship with her mother. “Didn’t Miriam stand up to her mother at all? She seems quite a strong character, from what little I have seen of her.”

  “Not strong enough!” The old man chuckled, looking up at Gus from under bushy eyebrows. “Mind you, she’s had her moments. Ask her about those, next time you go to tea.”

  Gus was sure that he had never mentioned the tea party. Nothing secret in Barrington, that was clear. But he was very much a newcomer, and the difficulty would be in winkling out old scandals from the locals, Alfred and his like. By the time he and Will emerged into the clear, starry night, he felt pleasantly mellow and almost one of the boys.

  Thirteen

  THE PEARLY ROLLS cruised slowly up the long drive to the Hall, and came to a halt outside the front steps leading to an imposing baronial style front door. Deirdre adjusted her tight skirt—not too tight, she hoped—and walked carefully up the steps. She knew the old dragon would open it and give her a frosty reception, but Deirdre was ready for her.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Bloxham, please come in. A lovely evening, isn’t it?”

  Deirdre could not believe her ears. All she had heard and witnessed of Miss Beatty! And now this charming welcome. What was the woman up to? Deirdre was no fool, and was already on her guard.

  “Come this way, please,” said Beattie, stepping out across the tiled hallway and into the large drawing room. The sun shone through the long windows, and every surface gleamed from regular polishing. She must remember to look at Theo’s shoes. Probably see your face in them. But where was he?

  “Mr. Theo will be down in a few minutes, madam,” Beattie said. “Won’t you take a seat? I’ll tell him you are here.”

  “Thank you,” Deirdre said, and perched on the edge of a flimsy gilt chair by the large marble fireplace. She looked at her watch, and saw that she was exactly on time. Theo must have changed. She remembered clearly from her youth that of all the lads around town, he was always punctual, if not early. Good manners, her grandmother had said approvingly.

  After what seemed like hours, the door opened and Beattie appeared once more. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bloxham,” she said sadly. “Mr. Theo sends his warmest regards, but regrets that he is not feeling up to coming downstairs this evening. He wants me to assure you that he will be in touch to arrange another date. He is really sorry.”

  STARTING UP HER car, Deirdre rammed it into gear and stalled the engine. “Damn and blast!” she said. As she went more circumspectly forward, she glanced up at the window where she imagined Theo’s room would be. “Dear God, there he is!” She drove slowly away, sure that he had been waving, but not smiling. In fact, he had looked very angry indeed.

  She did not want to go home to an empty house, and felt that she must talk to somebody about what had happened. She would call on Ivy, a perfectly natural friendly visit. Ivy, for all her faults, was a good listener, and though she tried hard to seem invincible, Deirdre was sure she was lonely, and would be glad to see her.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Bloxham,” Miss Pinkney said, coming into the hall to greet her. At least this old spin was reasonably normal, Deirdre thought gratefully, and explained that Ivy was not expecting her but she would like to have a few words with her if that was all right.

  “Of course,” Miss Pinkney said. “I’ll ring through and tell her you are on your way. Lovely evening, isn’t it?” she added, and Deirdre answered grimly that she supposed it was.

  “Well,” said Ivy, “this is a surprise visit. Something urgent to report? Or were you feeling lonely?”

  Deirdre sighed. “Yes to both of those,” she said. “Am I in the way? Would you like me to go?”

  “Don’t be silly, Deirdre. I can see you’ve got something to say, so get on and say it. For goodness sake sit down. You make the place untidy.”

  The old phrase calmed Deirdre, and she sat down thankfully. Starting with her extraordinary welcome at the Hall from Miss Beatty, she gave Ivy a detailed account of what had happened. “And I saw him at the window, fully dressed, and waving frantically as I left.”

  “Why didn’t you go back? That Beatty woman couldn’t stop you going up to his room, could she?”

  I wouldn’t put it past her to bar the way with a Kalashnikov,” Deirdre answered glumly. “No, I hadn’t time to think it all out, but I shall certainly go back and insist on seeing him another day. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Take Gus with you,” Ivy said. “He’d stand no nonsense from Miss Beatty. I reckon he can be pretty nasty when needed. Not that you’d know it from the way he has been so far. But mark my words, he can be a hard man when necessary.”

  Deirdre stifled a giggle. Ivy claimed not to watch television. All rubbish, she insisted. But “a hard man”? Where else would she have picked up that?

  “You’re right, Ivy,” she said. “I’ll ask him next Monday at our meeting. Probably best not to go back to the Hall straightaway. Miss Beatty will be expecting me to try again, but if I leave it for a few days she’ll have dropped her guard. Poor Theo,” she added. “He was a really nice man, you know. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Not on our list of suspects, then,” Ivy said caustically. “Don’t let your emotions get in the way of investigation, Deirdre. We’ve a long way to go yet.”

  “Do you reckon? I sort of thought we might clear it all up in a couple of weeks.”

  “Oh no, we’re up against a wily bird. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s my bath night and if I don’t have it early the water’s stone-cold. Luxury accommodation, you told me! I’d not have agreed to come here if I’d known the bathwater would be cold.”

  Deirdre stood up and leaned over to kiss Ivy on her warm cheek. “You’re quite a comfort to me, you know, Ivy,” she said. “Good night, God bless.”

  After she had gone, Ivy touched her cheek and smiled. Luxury accommodation, indeed!

  AS IT GREW dark, Theo Roussel decided to ring the police. His door was locked and he had shouted himself hoarse. But what would Beattie say to that? He slumped down in the chair by his desk and tried to think clearly. She was a clever, devious woman, and would certainly have a good story ready to explain his imprisonment.

  He closed his eyes for a few minutes, concentrating on the best course of action, and until he woke with a start did not realise he had fallen into a doze. How long he had been asleep, he did not know. He had been awoken by heavy footsteps and a knock at his door.

  “Mr. Theo, please open the door,” Beattie shouted. “It is getting dark, and I am worried about you!”

  Theo shook his head, as if his ears were deceiving him. He had been trying to open the door for hours, or rather, persuading her to open it. He walked across angrily and prepared to give her a very stern warning. Then he noticed the key. It was in the lock, his side of the door
. He felt quite dizzy, and held on to the door handle.

  “Mr. Theo, open up at once! Please don’t alarm me like this!”

  He turned the key and opened the door, staring at her with pure hatred. “You locked me in, you wicked woman,” he said.

  “Now, now,” she said. “You’ve been dreaming. Look, here’s the key, on your side of the door. You must have locked it without thinking, and then fallen asleep. Now, come along, let’s get you some supper and a nice hot cup of tea.”

  “I don’t want your bloody tea!” Theo said. “Leave me alone. We’ll talk about this in the morning.” He shut the door in her face, and so did not see her retreating quietly down the passage, smiling.

  He walked across the room and looked out at the twilit park. Deirdre! What had happened to her? She would have come and gone, with Beattie making some excuse. He must telephone her straightaway and explain. He lifted the receiver, but there was no dialling tone. He groaned. He would call her tomorrow then, after he had summoned the strength to give Beattie her marching orders.

  Fourteen

  THE NEXT MORNING, Will was up early, checking stock in the back room and making sure that everything on display was still in date. He frequently cursed the “best by” rule imposed on all shopkeepers. Half the stuff in the shop would be perfectly wholesome a couple of weeks after its sell-by date. After all, he ate most of it himself when it was supposedly past its best, and he was still alive and kicking.

  It was his day for going to the wholesaler for new stock, and as usual his neighbour, a retired businesswoman, would come in and look after the shop until lunchtime. Sadie Broomfield had run a small office service in town for many years, and was still an extremely efficient substitute when Will had to be away from the village. He knew how lucky he was, and had grown fond of her. He looked at the clock bequeathed him by the previous owners, and realised that Sadie should have been in by now.

  The telephone rang, and he heard her voice, choked with what was clearly a heavy cold. “So sorry, Will. I woke up with it, and can scarcely breathe! Can you manage? Is there anybody else?”

  “O lor, you poor thing,” he said, thinking frantically around possible helpers.

  “What about Miriam Blake?” Sadie said. “She’s fancy free at the moment. Might be glad of something to do. I know she used to do quite tricky jobs, and is fairly bright. Could you try her?”

  No, not if she was the last person left on earth, Will said to himself. But then he realised he had no idea who else could help out.

  “I could give her a ring, I suppose,” he said reluctantly. “But don’t you worry, Sadie. Curl up in bed with a hot whisky and water, and a spoonful of honey, and I’ll be round this evening to see how you are.”

  “Don’t come anywhere near me!” Sadie croaked. “Can’t have our shopkeeper going off sick. You don’t sound too sure about Miriam Blake. Might not want her as a permanent fixture? Bye now. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Bye.”

  Will frowned. Was he really stuck with Miriam Blake? But then, what did he have against her? She had been a dutiful daughter and a good customer, and had once before filled in for him in the shop. And her mother had been found lifeless with a bread knife sticking into her chest. . . .

  He opened the telephone directory and looked up her number, hoping not to find it. Perhaps with luck she would not have a phone, or be ex-directory, and then he would have to find somebody else. He could go to the wholesaler tomorrow. But Sadie wouldn’t be better tomorrow, that was sure. And anyway, there she was: Blake—Barrington 870493. He dialled the number and heard the familiar voice answer in a bright, professional way. Oh yes, now he remembered she’d been a telephonist. Right, here goes, he muttered, and asked her. There was a pause, and then she said that she would be really pleased, and what time should she come? Straightaway? Yes, that would be fine. “See you,” she said, now friendly and confiding.

  Half an hour later, Will had explained again most of the necessary details to Miriam, and she seemed to grasp it all with ease. “Now, if you are at all worried or have a problem, ring me on my mobile,” he said. “Anything at all, just ring me.”

  She nodded. “Of course,” she said, “but I’m really sure I shall manage perfectly well. I feel quite at home already,” she added, slipping into a flowery overall. Oh God, Will said to himself, please let Sadie get better quickly. Please.

  IT WAS QUITE a shock for Gus when he walked into the shop around eleven o’clock and saw Miriam behind the counter. He had been meaning to thank Will for organising such a good evening for him, and suggest they might do it again some time. Not that he intended to force a friendship on the pleasant shopkeeper, but there was never any harm in saying thank you.

  “Morning, Gus!” Miriam said brightly. “You didn’t expect to see me here, did you? I’m the new assistant. Will has had to go out, and Mrs. Broomfield has a rotten cold. So here I am, launched on a new career!”

  Gus gulped, and said he was sure she would be ideal for the job.

  “What can I get you, then?”

  “Just a Daily Telegraph, please,” he said. “I like to come and get it from the shop. Gives me a bit of exercise walking up from the cottage.”

  Miriam nodded. “Very true,” she said. “And anything else? Some nice biscuits to have with your morning coffee? I’ve been thinking,” she added. “Maybe Will might like to think about a coffee machine and a table and chairs outside the shop. Encourages customers to stay a bit longer and buy a few more things they forgot on their list!”

  Poor Will, thought Gus. Little does he know how unwise he is to employ this unstoppable woman. Still, it might get her off his own tail a little. But no. Now she was asking him if he would care to watch a good film with her on the telly this evening.

  “Sorry, Miriam,” he replied. “No can do. Got some urgent papers to sort out. Now, here’s the money. Good luck!” And he escaped before she could think of a reason why the papers could be sorted out later. He remembered just in time to unhook Whippy from where she had been patiently waiting outside.

  On his way home, he wondered how Deirdre had got on with Theo Roussel. She had hinted that there had been something between them in the past. That could be very useful. He could encourage her to confide in him. Or maybe not. He had once learnt a very hard lesson, and it was now number one on his list of don’ts. Never become emotionally involved on a case. Apart from one exception, this hadn’t been too difficult, as a good ninety percent of his “clients” had never met him, nor were likely to, and his assignments were completed in silence and nobody the wiser.

  Now nearly home, he saw Whippy’s ears flatten and she stiffened. The next thing he saw was an enormous shaggy dog coming towards them. He had no idea of the breed, but sympathised with Whippy. It looked horribly dangerous, baring its teeth and growling. As far as he could see, it had no owner, no lead, and was clearly capable of eating both Whippy and himself for lunch.

  It approached the now stationary Gus and his dog in that measured way that animals have when they are about to spring, and Gus stepped forward. Some distant play-ground instinct surfaced, and he faced the bully, shouting at it to bugger off.

  To his surprise, it immediately turned and slunk away, its tail between its long, powerful legs. Then he heard a sound which was more like the cackle of a startled hen than laughter. The woman he now knew to be Miss Beatty came round the corner of the lane, still sniggering.

  “You should keep that brute on a lead, preferably muzzled!” Gus said, his voice loud with fear.

  “Why?” Miss Beatty said. “Look at him. Butter wouldn’t melt. You did the right thing, Mr. Halfhide. Face up to him and he’s the biggest coward in Barrington. Sorry about your little dog, though. She’s a whippet, isn’t she?”

  Her obvious efforts to be nice mollified Gus, and thinking on his feet he realised it would be much better to be Miss Beatty’s friend than her sworn enemy.

  “Yes, she’s called Whippy. Not very original, I’m afraid, but t
hinking up names is not my forte! I should introduce myself,” he added, but she interrupted him.

  “I know who you are. You’ve got the end cottage. Settled in now? Oh, and I’m Miss Beatty, housekeeper and general dogsbody.”

  More like minder, from what I hear, thought Gus, but he said only that he was pleased to meet her, and yes, he was settling in now, though the dreadful accident next door had been rather upsetting.

  “Accident? It was murder, Mr. Halfhide. You don’t get a bread knife stuck in your heart by accident. We’ve heard nothing from the police. Have you?”

  Gus shook his head. “Only that they are questioning just about everyone in the village. Miss Blake is very anxious for the matter to be cleared up, as she is unable to mourn properly until the culprit is found. In a sort of limbo, I suppose, not being able to lay her mother to rest.”

  “Huh! Is that what she told you? Well, here’s a piece of advice, Mr. Halfhide. Take everything that our Miriam says with a large pinch of salt. That’s all I’m saying. Now, I must be on my way. Lucifer here needs a good run in the woods. Good morning,” she said, and with what passed for a smile on her plain face, she disappeared through a gap in the hedge.

  “So that’s the dreaded Miss Beatty,” he said aloud to Whippy, who whimpered, still recovering from shock. “Quite a person,” he said. “Someone with a large estate to manage and quite confident in her ability to do it. What do you think?”

  “Talking to yourself, Mr. Halfhide?” a new voice said, coming from the garden of the first cottage. It was a young woman, naturally blond and rosy-cheeked, with a toddling infant holding on to her jeans to keep its balance.

  This was more like it, thought Gus, and stopped, smiling broadly. “Good morning!” he said. “Yes, a bad habit, I’m afraid. But I wasn’t actually talking to myself, rather to Whippy here. Best thing about talking to a dog is that they never answer back. Hello,” he added gently to the child. He prided himself on being good with small children, and picked up Whippy to show to him. At least, he thought it was a boy, though you couldn’t always tell these days. This one was dressed in blue dungarees, so it was a safe bet it was a boy.