by Ann Purser
But now here were Gus and Ivy, playing pontoon with him and listening with interest to his reminiscences. He had reached the point where he had told his father he had no wish to continue at school, but wanted to be a full-time farmer and keep the family tradition going. He had been fifteen, and his father was delighted.
“Were you an only child?” asked Ivy. Gus’s eyelids were drooping, but at Ivy’s intervention he snapped awake.
Roy laughed. “The only boy!” he said. “I had three sisters, much to Dad’s disgust. Girls are no use to man nor beast, he used to say. Then mother would list all the things she did around the farm, and he would disappear fast to the pub.”
“Three girls, eh?” said Ivy. “I expect the village boys approved, even if your father didn’t.” Gus saw where this was leading, and looked on admiringly as Ivy steered Roy to the subject of the Roussels up at the Hall.
“Oh, lord, yes!” he said, as she asked if there was a wicked squire in those days. She had made a joke of it, but Roy revealed that one of his sisters had had to go off to stay with a distant aunt for a few months. She finally returned in a depressed state, and had been seen often walking round the village peering longingly into friends’ prams.
“So the Roussels had a reputation, did they?” Ivy suggested.
“They certainly did,” Roy said, “and made sure they kept it going. I remember when Mr. Theo was a lad—” He broke off and smiled, wagging his head at the memories.
Gus and Ivy held their breath.
“He was worst of all, I reckon. Mind you,” he added, “he was also the most handsome and charming. All the village lads wanted to be like Mr. Theo. We all tried!”
“But he never married?” Gus asked. He began to think this investigation was getting a bit one-sided and he should at least put in a question or two.
Roy turned to him. “D’you know, Gus, that puzzled us all. He could have had any of the girls in the county. Rich, beautiful, clever—they were all after him. But none succeeded. I still wonder about it.”
“So Beatrice Beatty came to look after him,” Ivy prompted.
Roy was silent. He looked at his watch. “My goodness!” he said. “It is long past my bedtime! Such an enjoyable evening. Thank you both for keeping me company.”
Katya appeared and took the old man’s arm. “Come along, Mr. Goodman,” she said. “Lots of time tomorrow for more games. You say good night to your friends?”
Roy thought of protesting that he was not in his second childhood yet, but he knew the girl meant well. She tried very hard with her English, and in any case, she was charming and pretty and they needed girls like her in dreary old Springfields. He obediently allowed her to escort him out of the lounge and up the stairs to bed.
“Bugger,” said Gus softly.
“Pardon?” said Ivy.
“Bugger,” repeated Gus.
“Indeed,” said Ivy.
READY FOR BED, Ivy drew back her curtains and looked out along the main street of Barrington. It was a beautiful moonlit night, and an owl hooted to his mate in the wood outside the village. She could see the lights outside the pub, and a shadowy couple, closely entwined, walked along the path in the distance. She thought of love, and the damage it could do.
“Beatrice Beatty, what bad thing did you do?” she said aloud.
As if in answer, there was a tap at her door. Who on earth . . . ?
“Who is it?” she said.
“Me,” said a hoarse voice, and the door opened a crack. Roy’s white face peered round and he said, “Can I come in for a minute? Something on my mind, and I shan’t sleep until I’ve told you.”
For one moment Ivy was tempted to ring her bell and have him forcibly removed. Then she remembered he was eighty-six and feeble.
“Just for a moment, then, Mr. Goodman,” she said. “It’s probably strictly against the stupid rules, so you’d better come in.”
Twenty-eight
“I THINK I’LL give the market a miss tomorrow,” said Beattie. She was standing by the window in the kitchen, looking out over the stable yard. Theo had come down in order to tell her that for once he would not have Friday sausages for lunch. He had intended to say he would be going to the pub in the village for a change, but she had interrupted him with her announcement.
“But you love going to market,” he said, suddenly anxious that Deirdre might well keep her promise to see him again soon. Tomorrow was soon, too soon perhaps. She might well leave it a week or two. But it could be tomorrow, and he had no intention of letting Beattie spoil it all.
“It was terrible last week,” she said. “Too many people, not enough stalls. Not like it used to be in the old days, when you’d meet people you knew. And then everything much cheaper than in the shops. Not so nowadays. More and more difficult to find a bargain.”
“Well, that is a nuisance,” Theo said, thinking rapidly. “I wanted you to get some special aftershave balm from the chemist. My face has been a little sore lately, and I read about this stuff in the Oldie magazine. Works wonders, so it said.”
Beattie’s head was throbbing. She had woken with a headache, and in spite of taking painkillers, it was still there. She had planned a quiet day at home tomorrow to give herself a chance to recover. Her mother—God rot her soul—had been a migraine sufferer, and she had inherited it from her, along with a number of other tendencies.
But Mr. Theo had been different again these last few days, quite sharp with her on occasion. His good mood seemed to have evaporated. Perhaps it would be best not to irritate him further.
“Of course I’ll go to market, then,” she said. “Can’t have you with a sore face! What will Mrs. Budd think?”
Theo realised with horror that she was implying that Rosebud might think that Beattie and he had been having a close encounter, and he shivered.
“Right, I expect they’ll have it at Boots,” he said. “Oh, and I shan’t be in for lunch,” he added. “I have arranged to meet a friend in the village.”
Beattie could not remember when he had last met a friend in the village. Her head thumped even harder, and she swayed on her feet. But Theo turned around and went out through the kitchen door into the stable yard, saying over his shoulder that he needed a word with David Budd. Beattie sat down quickly and waited for the giddy spell to pass. He had not needed a word with David Budd for at least five years, and she suddenly had a strong urge to burst into tears.
DEIRDRE WAS IN the shower, when she heard the telephone. “Damn!” she said, and hoped that it would soon stop. Whoever it was could ring later. Her answerphone came on, and the ringing stopped. Then it started again. “Damn, damn!” she said, and stepped out of the shower, pulling on her towelling robe.
“Hello!” she said crossly.
“It’s Ivy. Where were you? I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”
“I realise that,” said Deirdre. “I was in the shower. Anyway, I’m here now, so what can I do for you?”
“You can be here at eleven o’clock for coffee with me and Augustus,” she said. “Something’s come up, and we need to discuss it. And make sure you’re on time.”
“I’m always on time!” said Deirdre. But Ivy had rung off.
At eleven o’clock sharp, Gus knocked at Ivy’s door. Deirdre had already arrived, and was sitting with Ivy, showing her the latest photographs of her daughter’s children.
Coffee and biscuits were on the little table by Ivy’s armchair, and Gus sat down. “Morning, colleagues,” he said cheerfully. Deirdre gave him an answering smile and said she hoped he was feeling much better. She knew perfectly well that he was taking advantage of Ivy, but judged that it was none of her business, and if the old thing was feeling charitable then Gus was in luck.
“This is a business meeting,” said Ivy sternly. “Last night, after our game of pontoon, I was getting ready for bed when Mr. Goodman knocked at my door.”
“Who?” said Deirdre, who had forgotten Ivy’s intended research with the oldest inhabitan
t.
Gus explained that Ivy had an admirer, and the three of them had sat up all night gambling in the lounge.
“That’s quite enough of that, Augustus,” Ivy said. She told Deirdre the correct version of events, and Deirdre said, “You didn’t let him in, I hope?”
Ivy glared at the pair of them. “The poor man could not sleep, and said he had something to tell me. Couldn’t rest until he’d got it off his chest.”
Gus smothered his desire to laugh. He dare not look at Deirdre, who was snuffling into her handkerchief. “Ah, yes,” he said taking a deep breath. “Now I remember. We had just asked the old boy about the time Beattie arrived in the village, and he clammed up and went to bed. Was it about that?”
Ivy nodded. “He came in, sat down, and it all came tumbling out. He said Beattie had come from nowhere. Nobody knew anything about her. She just turned up one day at the Hall.”
“Somebody must have known about her,” Deirdre said. “They wouldn’t have employed a girl without knowing at least where she came from. And they’d have wanted references, surely?”
“How old is she?” Gus said. “You girls would know better than I. I am easily deceived!”
Ivy ignored this. “I would put her at about fifty. What d’you say, Deirdre?”
Deirdre nodded. “Yeah, fifty to fifty-five, I’d say.”
“Mr. Goodman said she was in her late teens when she came,” Ivy continued. He remembered, because his nephew in the village was always on the lookout for new girls. But he didn’t fancy Beattie, apparently.”
Ivy said she supposed Theo Roussel was about the same age as Deirdre. “He was older than me,” Deirdre said, “but not much. It seemed a lot at the time, but it was probably no more than five years’ difference.”
“What else did he say, Ivy?” Gus was sure there was something more important than this.
“Now, this is where it gets interesting,” Ivy answered, enjoying spinning it out. “Mr. Goodman was a committee member of the local farmers’ union, and used to get about quite a lot. Around that time, he was over the other side of the county attending a meeting, and a young farmer came up to him and asked if he lived in Barrington. Then he asked about a girl called Beattie. Had she come to work in the village? And did Mr. Goodman know where she was working?”
“So did he tell?” said Deirdre, now eagerly listening.
Ivy shook her head. “He said he had this funny feeling that it would cause trouble if he told. He said he didn’t know anyone of that name, but asked the young farmer why he wanted to know, and the lad had just laughed. It wasn’t just him who’d like to find her, he’d said. Several others would be glad to have the information.”
“And what else?” Gus asked.
“A while later, quite by chance,” Ivy replied, “Mr. Goodman’s cleaning lady at the farm was turning out old newspapers from the attic, and the one on top of the pile, dated way back, had a big photo. This and the story beneath it had been ringed with a red pen, faded, but still clearly there. Underneath was the news story of a woman who had disappeared, leaving two children alone in a tenement flat. It was several days before a neighbour heard them crying, and managed to get in to release them. They had been taken into care, and the police were hunting for the missing woman.”
“And the photo? Oh, come on Ivy, don’t keep us in suspense.” Deirdre was sitting on the edge of her chair now.
“He said it was the image of Beatrice Beatty as she is now. The missing woman was in her forties, the paper said.”
“And her name?” said Gus impatiently.
“He couldn’t remember exactly. Something like Katherine, or Caroline Bentall, he said.” Ivy helped herself to another biscuit.
“Did it give the children’s names and ages?” Deirdre asked.
“No, it didn’t. They usually don’t,” Ivy said.
“And he said somebody had ringed it round with a red pen?”
“That’s right. So Roy’s family were interested, maybe even involved, with this mystery disappearance?”
“Looks like it,” said Ivy. “But he couldn’t remember anything else. I said it was good that he remembered so much, an’ he said we oldies can remember the past but not what happened yesterday. Can’t say that applies to me . . . yet.”
“Over to you, Deirdre,” Gus said. “We need to know urgently now what Theo remembers of Beattie’s arrival at the Hall. Tomorrow will be a busy day for you. I’d like to help, but I am a little feeble still.” He was actually feeling fine, but determined to make the most of this unexpected break.
“Oh, we can manage without you,” Ivy said. “I can ring Deirdre and give her the all clear when I see Beatty safely on the bus tomorrow. So,” she added, “off you go Deirdre, and Gus, you can go and chat up Mr. Goodman. See what else he’s remembered. I need to do some thinking.”
Twenty-nine
THE NEXT AFTERNOON was after all sunny and bright. Ivy sat on the seat beside the bus stop and this second time felt more confident. She chatted to people going in and out of the shop, and kept her eye on Hangman’s Row, waiting for the dumpy figure of Beatty to appear.
Once more, all went well. Beattie saw Ivy sitting there, and asked if she was coming on the bus. “We could go to market together,” she said, in spite of a reluctance to have anything to do with Miss Beasley. She realised a bus journey would be the ideal opportunity to pump the old woman for more details of Deirdre Bloxham and her easy come, easy go ways with the opposite sex. She was sure this exgirlfriend of Theo had something to do with the strange way he had been behaving lately. But how? She had kept a close ear to telephone calls, and a close eye on correspondence and visitors. There had been no opportunity for a return visit from Deirdre Bloxham.
“Perhaps next week,” said Ivy. “Young Katya is taking me for a walk later. But yes, Miss Beatty, next week I might like to come with you.”
Even as Ivy said this, a horrid possibility occurred to Beattie. Today! And last Saturday! While she was at market, had Theo somehow managed to get in touch with the Bloxham woman? And was Rose Budd to be trusted?
Ivy could not believe her eyes when Beattie came hurrying down the steps of the bus, just as it was about to depart, exactly as she had last week. But today was different. Beatty reached the bottom step, stopped and shook her head, turned and went back into the bus.
Ivy heard the driver shout, “Make up yer mind, missus!” and the bus departed.
Ivy had been practising with her mobile phone, and in seconds was talking to Deirdre. “She’s gone,” she said. “But it was touch and go again. This time, she didn’t get right off the bus. Just came to the bottom step, then went back in again. Goodness knows what that was about, but she had a face like thunder.”
Deirdre, looking her very best, felt a sudden shiver. She was not cold. It was a beautiful day. It was like someone had walked over her grave, her mother would have said. She gave herself a shake, and said she was on her way.
All the way to market, Beattie boiled with fury. That must be it. While the cat’s away the mice will play. Never a truer saying than that. Perhaps she should have got off the bus and returned to confront Theo and that wretched girl Rose. But it would be too soon. They’d wait until she was well on the way to town. “You can’t trust nobody,” she muttered to herself. She had learnt that at an early age, but years of living in security at the Hall had softened her. Well, now she was hard again. She would get a lift back early with that helpful Broomfield woman next to the shop. She knew she always went into town on a Saturday and came back in the early afternoon. She would find her car in the car park, and wait by it, no matter how long it took. Then they would see how clever they were!
ROSE STOOD BY the kitchen door in the stable yard, grinning from ear to ear as the big car glided to a halt.
“You’re looking very smart,” she said, greeting Deirdre. “Do you know,” she confided, “Mr. Theo has taken his best tweed jacket out of mothballs for your visit! Smells a bit, but it shows how
much he’s looking forward to seeing you again, bless him.”
“You like him, then?” Deirdre said.
“Oh, he’s fine,” Rose said. “It’s you-know-who that’s the real nuisance. She rules the roost. Decides everything on the farm, though David says she knows damn all about farming. Anyway, come on in. He’ll be so pleased to see you.” She winked. “And I’ll keep out of the way,” she said. “Just don’t forget that the old dragon will be back at the same time as last week.”
Theo was waiting for her in the drawing room. This time he advanced on nimble feet and embraced her warmly. “Mmmm!” he said. “Same lovely scent as last week!”
He did not immediately let go of her, and Deirdre’s blood quickened. “Same old Theo,” she said. “You haven’t forgotten how to get a girl going!”
They walked over to the sofa, and sat down, still holding hands. “Would you like coffee?” he said, “Or shall we go straight to bed?”
Deirdre laughed. Did he really mean it? She decided to call his bluff, and said straight to bed would be great. But he hadn’t been bluffing, and still holding her hand, he led her up the wide staircase and along to his room, where a large bed with clean sheets put on that morning by an unsuspecting Beatty, awaited them.
He put his arms around her, and she did not mind the whiff of mothballs. “It’s been too long, Deirdre Bloxham,” he said. “But we’ve all afternoon to make up for lost time.”