by Ann Purser
“Oh yes it is,” Keith said. “Snoopers all, aren’t you? Amateurs, of course. I could teach you a thing or two. Especially you, Halfhide. You had no idea I was in your house, waiting to put you out of action. You were first on the list, and lucky for you, I was out of practice.”
“By what list and why?” Gus said. “Couldn’t we cut the life story and get to the point?”
Again the gun was waved in his direction. “Shut up and listen!” he said, and his twin frowned. “Keith,” she said gently, “would you like a drink? Don’t get too upset, my dear.”
Ivy took a deep breath. So the man was unhinged, she thought, and even Beattie was frightened of him. That was why he needed to tell us all this stuff, to show how clever he is. She crossed her fingers and hoped he was not as clever as he thought he was. Gus’s calmness was reassuring, but she dreaded there would not be enough time before Keith went completely off his head and pulled the trigger. She found herself looking at her watch every two minutes.
He shook his head, and then rubbed his eyes with his free hand. He seemed to sway a little, and Beattie said, “Perhaps I could take over from here. Give you a bit of a rest?”
He frowned, but reluctantly agreed, and Beattie began. Then, before she had said more than a couple of sentences the door in the corner burst open, and Theo Roussel stood there. Keith snapped to attention and aimed the gun. Unfortunately for him, he took his eye off the others, and Gus, well trained, was on him in seconds, knocking the gun out of his hand and overpowering him. Beattie screamed and ran from the room.
“Well done, Halfhide,” Theo said, rubbing his wrists. “The buggers had me tied up in that cubbyhole. Took longer than I thought to get out.”
THEO TOLD THEM all to sit down and take deep breaths, while he fetched the brandy. “Better than sherry,” he said. “Depressing stuff, sherry.” Deirdre noticed admiringly that he was at once in charge. And all because of me, she thought romantically. Gus was still holding her hand and gave it a squeeze, reminding her he was there. He had not missed the soft look on her face as Theo came back with brandy and glasses.
“Shouldn’t we get on to the police at once?” Ivy said. She was feeling a little shaky, and noticed that Roy’s usually rosy cheeks were very pale.
“Of course, Miss Beasley,” Theo said. “But don’t worry. Beattie won’t get far. First let’s give ourselves a chance to collect our thoughts. And,” he added, glancing venomously at Keith, now well secured, “there are one or two questions I’d like to ask this appalling villain here.”
All except the now shivering twin relaxed a little. As Ivy listened to Theo asking angry questions and receiving grudging answers from Keith, she was shocked by the long years that had elapsed since this whole business began. How sad that Caroline’s unwanted pregnancy had caused so much sorrow and so many unhappy lives. And murder? As Theo squirreled the truth out of Keith, she began to see what might have happened. The answer really did depend on who had fathered the twins. It was about money, she realised sadly. The root of all evil, right enough.
Theo had paused. Then he said in a low voice, “It was my father, the wicked squire, who took advantage of your poor mother. And she was not the only one, if village rumours were correct.”
“Why didn’t he marry her?” said an indignant Deirdre.
“Because he was married already to his lady mother,” Keith spat out, pointing at Theo. “And the cruellest blow of all for my mother was that after producing Beattie and me and having us taken from her, only three weeks later Theo here, the legitimate son and heir, was produced to the rejoicing Roussel family.”
“And the others you mentioned?” Gus said to Theo, remembering the photograph on Miriam’s mantelpiece. Theo’s father, of course.
“I have no idea,” said Theo, but Gus knew he was lying.
“Oh surely, Mr. Roussel,” he said politely, “I think you knew that old Mrs. Blake was another of your father’s conquests, and poor Miriam was the result? He was a bit of a bastard, wasn’t he?”
Theo shook his head in embarrassment and did not answer. Then Keith butted in.
“We were the bastards!” he shouted, glaring at Theo. “Me and Beattie. And yes, in due course your father made arrangements for Beattie to work here at the Hall, where he could keep an eye on her. He shoved my mother out of sight when she was finally found dying in despair, with my other sister looking after her. They might just as well have been entombed in that grim old house, too scared to go out or talk to anybody.”
“Springfields?” said Ivy defensively. “It is in no way grim. The atmosphere in a house depends on who lives there. . . .”
She was about to elaborate when she heard a scuffling noise and the main door into the drawing room opened. At last! She breathed a huge sigh of relief. First into the room came Katya, the light of battle in her eye. She rushed across to Ivy, embraced her and uttered dramatic thanks to God that the old lady was safe. “You are so clever!” she said, kissing Ivy’s cheek, “to send me text message! Our lessons not wasted!” she added, and kissed the other cheek.
She was followed by Beattie, mutinous and subdued, her hands cuffed to a policeman, and a neat, serious-faced man Theo recognised as the inspector who had asked so many questions after Mrs. Blake’s murder. Frobisher, that was his name.
“Good God, man,” he said sternly, “you don’t need those things on poor Beattie. This is the man you want. Please release her at once.”
Inspector Frobisher said frostily that they had met Miss Beatty running down the drive, and Mr. Roussel must leave him to know his own job. He added that he wished this gentleman and Miss Beatty to accompany him back to the police station.
“So no more explanations, then?” Gus said, thinking that Agatha would have spun it out for another hour or two. He was well aware that the full story had not yet been told. On the other hand, he did not wish to draw police attention to himself, and he nodded when the inspector said he would be in touch with all of them later. Then Frobisher led the policeman and the twins out, cautioning those left behind not to gossip around the village. “As if I would!” said Ivy.
Roy suggested they have more brandy, and Theo refilled the glasses. He had brightened up considerably, and twinkled at bright-eyed Katya. “Did you say Miss Beasley sent you a text message, my dear?” he asked.
“Oh yes, Sir Roussel,” she said, and for one awful moment Ivy thought she was going to curtsey. “I have been teaching Miss Beasley the wonders of the mobile phone. She is willing student, I must stress.”
“Huh!” grunted Ivy. “Wretched things. Still, I suppose they have their uses, my dear,” she added gratefully, and patted Katya’s small hand.
Fifty-two
IT WAS A sober foursome that left the Hall and made their way out to Deirdre’s car. Ivy and Roy settled in the back, and Gus said he would walk the few hundred yards back to Hangman’s Row. Deirdre sat still for a moment, not switching on the engine. “Don’t you want a coffee or something with me?” she said tentatively to Gus.
He shook his head and smiled at her. “I’ll ring you,” he said, “but first I have to call in at Hangman’s Row. Take care, all of you,” he added. “As soon as I know more, we’ll get together and wrap this whole thing up. Well done, you two,” he added, feeling a sudden lump in his throat as he looked at Ivy, still so straight and severe, and little old Roy once more holding her hand.
The car purred off down the lane, and he walked slowly after it. He made a mental note of the answers they still needed, and by the time he reached Miriam’s gate, he was ready for her.
“Gus?” she said, answering the door at once. “What on earth’s been going on at the Hall? Was that a police car? And Beattie in it? And who was the strange man? Come in, do, and tell me all.”
Gus realised that she was excited, pleased at the prospect of upheavals at the Hall. “I could do with a glass of your mother’s primrose wine,” he said, looking at his watch. He followed her into the neat sitting room. The firs
t thing he looked for was the photograph of John Roussel, and there it was. He could have sworn the old sod winked at him.
He decided to come to the point. “Miriam, did you know your mother was one of John Roussel’s favourites?” Couldn’t put it more tactfully than that, he had decided.
She grinned. “Of course,” she said. “And like father, like son. Me and Theo, well, we were good pals, too!” Then her face fell. “Until Mum put a stop to it, o’course. Still, I could see it wouldn’t do. He’s my half brother, you know!” She giggled. “Sort of incest, I suppose you’d call it. Still, nobody else knew, Mum said, and made me swear not to tell. I didn’t mind after a bit. It was just nice to know I had a brother.”
“Did Theo know?”
Miriam made a face. “Mum said not, but I reckon he did, at some stage. She probably planned to tell him at some point to get a hold over him. When he stopped coming to see me, she said it was his doing, not hers, so maybe he’d found out somehow else. Not a nice woman, my mother. Shame really. You’re supposed to love your mother, but I can’t say I did.”
“But you didn’t kill her, did you?” he asked gently.
“O’course not! I wasn’t there. I’d gone into the village, to the shop. Came back and found her dead, lying there with a knife stuck in her chest. One thing I’m really sure of, Gus. Theo Roussel didn’t kill her. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“So why do you think the police have taken Beattie in?” Gus knocked back his primrose wine in preparation for the worst.
“Goodness knows. Got it wrong, I expect. I’m just waiting for them to find out about me.”
“What about you?”
“About me and Theo, of course. And that Mum had—oh lor, I suppose I have to say it—procured me for him, offering her one and only daughter for the amusement of the young squire. Why? Because of the money. I could be due part of the estate, Mum thought. That’s what drove her on, I reckon, after Theo inherited, trying to get something out of him. She’d have been satisfied with a lump sum, she said once. She was not the sort to go to court.”
Gus let out a heavy sigh. “Just as well,” he said. “You weren’t the only one, Miriam. The old man was the father of Beattie and her twin brother Keith. It was Keith in the police car. He’s turned up only recently, mad as a hatter, but I reckon they were up to much the same as your mother. Choosing their moment to trap Theo, and get money out of him. Enough for their pensions, I expect. No doubt they, too, thought they were entitled to it.”
“I kept telling Mum what I’d guessed about Beattie!” Miriam said hotly. “But she said she didn’t care, and just went on her own sweet way, as always. Blimey, you only have to look at Beattie standing next to me! Sisters, no doubt of it.”
“So your mother finally got in the way?” Gus helped himself to more wine.
“She got greedy, I suppose. Maybe threatened to tell all she knew about Beattie’s background if she carried on?” She frowned, finally serious. “But I don’t think Beattie would’ve done the murder, either. She’s been quite nice to me lately,” she added, as if that clinched it.
“So it could have been the brother, or maybe the two of them together?”
“Search me,” Miriam said. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe we’ll never know. D’you want to stay for supper? I’ve got chicken pie in the oven.”
GUS STAYED FOR supper. He learned nothing more, but not needing to listen to her inconsequential chatter, he turned over in his mind all she had said in answer to his questions. He did not agree that neither Theo nor Beattie would have murdered the old lady. Either of them could have done it, and Keith, too. If they had planned it carefully, watching until Miriam set off for the shop and, knowing her propensity for endless gossiping, they would have had time enough to get in, stab the nasty old woman, and get out again, vanishing back up to the Hall, or into the countryside around.
Motive was another matter. It was more than probable that, as Miriam said, Mrs. Blake had regarded Beattie as a competitor for the estate and was blackmailing her, trying to frighten her off. This would have put Keith in jeopardy also, and the madman would have had no compunction about knifing his enemy.
Gus reluctantly came to the conclusion that Theo had no real reason to want the old woman dead. After all, many moons had gone by since his affair with Miriam. He had probably forgotten the whole thing, and carried on his merry way with other girls, other adventures.
Well, now the police had the whole thing in their hands, and there was no need for Enquire Within to do anything more. Had the agency been a good idea? They had never received the commission from Theo Roussel to pursue the enquiry for him. Things had just developed piecemeal, with no fat fee for them at the end of it. “Cheer up, Gus! The worst may never happen,” Miriam said gaily.
“It already has,” Gus said seriously. “Your mother has been murdered, Miss Beasley and Mr. Goodman have had the fright of their lives, and sad details of wasted lives have come to the surface.”
“Ah, yes,” Miriam said, “but let’s look to the future, Gus. You and me? That’s possible, isn’t it?” She looked at him lovingly, and got up to put her hand on his shoulder.
Anything’s possible, thought Gus, except that! He patted her hand, and stood up. “Must be getting back,” he said. “I’m dog tired, Miriam.”
“Tomorrow’s another day,” she chirped. “Who knows what might happen tomorrow?”
Fifty-three
THEO ROUSSEL SAT in the now empty drawing room for a long time, thinking about the awful things that had been said and done in his family’s name. When he was a child, his father had been his hero, so lively and dashing. And his pretty mother had been loving, worshipping even, to her handsome husband. Well, the old man had had feet of clay.
But was he, Theo, any better? Money and position, he supposed, had given him licence to behave badly. Poor Miriam Blake. Though, on reflection, she seemed a happy woman. Especially since her old mother died. A thought struck him. But no, he erased it instantly. She wouldn’t have, not in a million years. A very softhearted girl. Always had been.
And now Beattie had been arrested, with that appalling brother of hers. A really nasty piece of work he was, too. He looked up at the portrait of his father, and noted sadly that Keith had quite a look of the Roussels about him. They all had, himself, Beattie and Keith, and Miriam Blake. Ye Gods, what a muddle! He accepted without question that Beattie, with or without her brother, had killed old Mrs. Blake. Some kind of jealousy or envy, he decided, dismissing the whole thing.
“The only good thing that happened today,” he said to nobody, “is meeting that delicious Polish girl from Springfields! What a poppet!” He must find out how long she was staying in England. Then, without a thought for the devoted Beattie, he cheered up at the idea that with the right approach, Katya might well take over the housekeeping job here at the Hall. He would certainly like to get to know her better!
He got up, shook himself, and walked over to the portrait. Maybe he would turn its face to the wall for a bit! But no, the old man wasn’t all bad. Hadn’t he left provision in his will for a memorial seat outside the shop? He’d had a strong sense of duty towards the village, hadn’t he?
But there was something else he would do. He went into the study and lifted the portrait down from the wall. He opened the little safe door with the combination of numbers he had committed to memory. There it was, the lovely diamond ring that in a rush of enthusiasm he’d thought of for Rosebud or Deirdre, but had replaced, biding his time. He held it up to the light, and the fire within sprang to life, all its colours sparkling in his hand. “Yes, it should be worn,” he muttered. “I might need it yet,” he added, and smiled to himself.
He wandered over to the windows and looked out at the dark gardens, silent and reassuring. Continuity, that was the thing, he realised. It was his duty to keep the Roussel family name going here at the Hall. He strode over to the long mirror between the tall windows, and looked sternly at himself. A strict
diet for a week or two would smarten him up. He still had a good head of hair, and his skin was good, in spite of years of incarceration indoors. Beattie had been responsible for that. Well, now she was gone, and he could look forward.
He turned and as he replaced the ring, saw something he had never noticed before. An envelope tucked at the back of the safe. He pulled it out, and was alarmed to see his own name. “Theo Roussel—for his eyes only.” It was discoloured, and the flap of the envelope had come unstuck. He withdrew a small sheet of paper, and recognised his father’s handwriting, large and flamboyant.
After he had read it, he walked unsteadily back to his chair and sat down and reread, anxious to make sure he had it right.
“My dear son Theo,” it began, and continued, “I wish you to read this letter and then destroy it immediately. There is no need for anyone but you to know what it contains.”
Theo shook his head, and his hands trembled. He read on. “You are my legal heir, and no one needs to know that my dearest wife was not your mother. Beloved Hermione was sadly barren. The two of us together, in total and loving agreement, decided that I should father an heir to the estate with a sweet orphan girl who worked in the kitchen here. You were taken away from her immediately after the birth, and she was to be handsomely rewarded. Sadly, she did not survive a difficult and long childbirth, and was laid to rest. You have been the light of our lives, Theo, and we could not have loved you more. Your loving father, John Roussel.” After this, he had added the family motto: “Go forth and multiply.”
Theo put back his head and roared with laughter. “The old devil!” he shouted delightedly. “Well, he certainly lived up to family tradition.”
He found a box of matches, and holding the letter between thumb and forefinger, set fire to it until it was burning brightly, then threw it into the great hearth, where the dry paper quickly reduced to ashes.