by Ann Purser
“—that you felt like an old dinosaur?” interrupted Ivy with a bland expression.
Oh, lor, thought Roy, trouble ahead.
Three
GUS, AS HE liked to be known, sat in the sagging armchair provided by his landlord, the Hon. Theodore Roussel, and looked through the Guardian obituaries. Nobody of interest to him today. Then his eye was caught by one of the mini-obits at the foot of the page. “George Jones—brewer extraordinaire,” he read. He had heard of him, of course. These days any single owner of a brewery was extraordinary. Most of the small ones had been swallowed up by conglomerates or brewed cult beers for the connoisseur. But as Gus read on, it was apparent that George and his family had maintained a successful brewery in Thornwell, producing beer by old methods and trading on a local reputation for providing a consistently good pint.
“Poor old George,” he said aloud. “What will happen now? Save the brewery!” he said loudly to his dog Whippy, sitting obediently by his side.
Miriam Blake, living next door in Hangman’s Row, was hastily taking in her washing as the skies darkened. Gus had opened a window earlier, before the rain had begun to bucket down, and now Miriam heard his shout. Never needing an excuse to rush to the rescue of her attractive neighbour, she hurried to his back door, clutching her washing basket.
“Gus? Are you all right?”
Oh, sod it. Gus had more or less trained Miriam not to call unless invited, but now here she was, with anxious brown eyes like a worried spaniel. Whippy bounced out to greet her best friend. No amount of training had taught her that Miriam was anything more than a wonderful woman who fondled her velvety ears and threw a ball for her up and down the lane.
“Of course I’m all right,” Gus said, and added belatedly, “Thanks. It’s just that I’ve discovered that George Jones, brewery owner, has just died. It’s a tragedy.”
“Are you thinking of taking over, then, Gus?” Miriam asked fondly, creeping into his porch to get out of the rain.
“What with, Miriam? As you know, my ex-wife takes all my money. I have barely enough to live on.”
Miriam had heard Gus plead poverty before but did not believe him. He seemed to have plenty of money when needed. Trips to London, a new suit for an old friend’s funeral. Sometimes she wondered jealously if he might be supported by his friend Deirdre Bloxham of Tawny Wings. A kept man! Well, he certainly needed rescuing from that woman’s clutches. And this ridiculous agency he’d set up with a lot of old fogies. That cannot have earned him much so far! As far as she knew, the only case they’d solved was the murder of her late and unlamented mother.
Miriam at once invited him to supper, saying that by a strange coincidence she had a couple of bottles of Jones Brothers Best in her larder. She hadn’t, of course, but she knew that the new shopkeeper, James, sometimes had a few bottles, and she had plenty of time to walk up and buy supplies.
Gus thought rapidly. “Sorry, dear,” he said kindly, “already booked for dominos at the pub. Can’t disappoint old Alf. Another time, maybe. You’ll have to excuse me now. Due at Springfields to do my bit for the old dears.” He shut the door and closed the windows, made a mental note to ask at the pub for Jones Brothers Best and set out to visit his partner in detection, Ivy Beasley.
“MORNING, GUS. MORNING, Deirdre, my dear.” Roy Goodman beamed. “Ivy is on her way. Seems our gaoler wanted her to have a chat with our new resident, Alwen something-or-other Jones. Apparently the poor woman had some complaints about this and that at Springfields, and Mrs. Spurling thought Ivy could help.”
“Shall we start the meeting, then, Gus?” Deirdre had a hair appointment at one o’clock in Thornwell, and was anxious not to miss it. Theo Roussel was having a drinks party this evening and she wanted to look her best.
“Not if you know what’s good for you,” Gus said firmly. “If we start without our Ivy, there’ll be hell to pay.”
Roy nodded in agreement, and the conversation revolved around Mrs. Alwen Jones and whether she was related to the brewery Joneses in Thornwell.
“There’s dozens of Joneses in town,” Roy said. “I remember my dad telling me about the Welsh drovers who used to travel on foot with their cattle to market. The drovers’ roads had inns along the route where they could stop on the way and leave their cattle in keep overnight. So there’s loads of Joneses and Owens and Davieses around here. Good beer, though,” he added thoughtfully. “I hope it don’t get taken over by one of them giants.”
The large black iron knocker on Tawny Wings’ front door banged loudly three times, and Deirdre went to admit Ivy. Her stiff, dark blue raincoat had been bought from a Round Ringford jumble sale with the waterproof guarantee that it once belonged to the village policeman, and she had pulled her black felt hat well down over her ears. She removed the coat, shook off the raindrops onto the parquet floor and lifted her black hat carefully, flattening down any wayward strands of hair. She said not a word.
“Why didn’t you ring me?” Deirdre scolded. “I could have popped down to pick you up.”
“Or I could have collected you both on the way,” Gus said.
“Well, you didn’t, did you?” snapped Ivy. “Anyway, I was delayed by that ridiculous Spurling woman. She seemed to think I would reassure the new prisoner. Tell her what a wonderful place Springfields is. Huh! I didn’t take to this Mrs. Jones from the start, but I did my best.” She smirked at the apprehensive faces watching her.
“That’s that, then,” said Roy, chuckling. “Come and cheer us up, Ivy. We wouldn’t start without you. Couldn’t, actually, could we, gang?”
My goodness, thought Gus. He knows how to handle the old thing. Maybe I should take a few lessons.
“Well, then, over to you, Gus,” Deirdre said. “We’re all ears.”
Gus settled himself more comfortably in Deirdre’s leather library chair. “We have a real commission this time,” he said, reminding them that their first case had been successful but not lucrative. There had been no paying client, and they had kept going to satisfy their own curiosity and interest.
“I’ve had a call from an old colleague, Martin,” Gus continued. “He asked me if I had heard anything about the death of an old man over the other side of the county. Apparently there were rumours of blackmail alongside local suspicions about the actual cause of death. Graffiti found in the old man’s house. That kind of thing. Martin knows my background, of course, and asked me to keep my ears and eyes open for other cases of extortion or fraud.” Gus had been intrigued, and, more importantly, was sure the old firm would still pay for information. He had decided it would be a good investigation for Enquire Within to pursue.
At the mention of Gus’s background the others exchanged glances. Although now they knew each other pretty well, none of them had been able to find out anything substantial about Gus. They knew he was married and possibly divorced, possibly retired from MI5 or something similar, or possibly none of these things. Ivy said occasionally that she suspected he made the whole thing up and had never done anything more risky than keeping his total earnings from the tax inspector.
“So how are we supposed to help?” asked Deirdre. She, like the others, felt let down. After all, what was a vaguely suspicious death the other side of the county when they had tackled a much nastier case close at hand?
“There is another factor,” Gus said, sensing their lack of enthusiasm, and paused dramatically. The others looked at him expectantly.
“Well?” said Ivy.
“There was a slogan painted in blood on the kitchen door.”
“Ah, that’s more like it,” Roy said, his old face alight with interest. “What did it say?”
“ ‘YOU WERE WARNED!’ Or something like that.”
“Ugh! How horrible!” Deirdre said. “I’ll go and make coffee. That is, if anyone fancies any.”
“Where was this dreadful crime?” Ivy said. “I haven’t seen anything in the papers.”
“No, it was hushed up. I told you it was a very conf
idential matter. Ramifications, you know,” Gus said, and tapped the side of his nose.
“So where was this village? Surely we must know, if we’re to help?” Ivy was beginning to wonder if Gus was wasting their time.
“A village outside Oakbridge. The other side of the county,” Gus said.
“Name of the village?” Roy said. He and his family had lived in the county for generations and local knowledge was his department.
“Measby. About three miles outside Oakbridge. Know it?”
Roy nodded. “Oh, yes, I know it, all right.”
“Why do you say it like that?” Gus asked, frowning. What did the old boy know about Measby?
“Ah ha,” said Roy. “Confidential, you know. Ramifications . . .” And he tapped the side of his nose.
Four
IVY AND ROY sat at the lunch table, waiting for their first course. “Here she comes,” Roy whispered. “Don’t look up, then maybe she’ll sit somewhere else.” But he spoke in vain.
“May I join you?” Alwen Jones said.
Roy was tempted to say they weren’t coming apart, but he had used that old joke of his father’s several times to Ivy, and she’d probably think up some crushing remark. Not worth risking.
“Now, then,” Alwen continued, as if addressing an attentive class of five-year-olds, “what have we been doing with our morning?”
“Getting wet,” said Ivy. “How about you? Did you sort out the pillow problem?”
In reply to Alwen’s request for at least four pillows, Mrs. Spurling had mentioned a shortage and an order not yet received.
“Well, I made sure the woman has ordered some really good feather pillows as of this morning.” Alwen beamed. “Start as you mean to go on, I always say.”
“I’m allergic to feathers,” Ivy said. “I hope they don’t find their way into my room.”
Allergic to feathers? Roy frowned at her. He was sure she had a special cushion for her back, brought all the way from Round Ringford, and stuffed full of the finest goose down. Then their plates of pork and beans were brought steaming to the table, and conversation was interrupted for a while.
When the rich sauce had been commented on as being too indigestible for old stomachs, Roy asked politely if Mrs. Jones had any connection with the well-known Thornwell brewery, Jones Brothers?
Ivy watched her face closely, and was intrigued to see a shadow fall, wiping out Alwen’s distinctly smug expression left over from licking her lips and thanking God for a good strong stomach.
“Distant connection of mine,” she said. “Jones is a very common name. That’s why we always use Wilson, my maiden name,” she added pointedly, looking at Ivy.
“No other Joneses in Springfields, so no need for Wilson here,” Ivy assured her.
“And your husband, Alwen? Was he a teacher, too?” Roy asked in his kindest tones. Ivy was certainly giving the poor woman a hard time.
“If you’ll excuse me,” said Alwen Jones, “I think perhaps the sauce was a little too rich, after all. I’ll just stretch out for half an hour. See you later? Perhaps a hand or two of bridge?” She pushed back her chair and stood up. A fine figure of a woman, thought Roy, and then caught Ivy’s eye and lowered his gaze.
“It’s pontoon this afternoon,” Ivy said. “Our friend Augustus Halfhide is coming along to play. A real gambler, that one. You have to keep a close eye on him, else he’ll have the shirt off your back.”
Roy couldn’t help thinking that this might be a sight worth seeing, and watched Alwen Jones walk with a slight limp that was somehow appealing, out of the dining room and up the stairs to her room.
GUS HAD ARRIVED on time, as always. He was at once trapped by Mrs. Spurling, who, he suspected, lay in wait for him. She had a clear view of the front gate from her office window, and there was no way for visitors to sneak in without her knowing.
“Ah, Mr. Halfhide!” she said. “So nice of you to come and cheer up our dear guests,” she said. Although he had announced his intention of becoming a Friend of Springfields, she was well aware that the only people he talked to were the dreaded Miss Beasley and dear old Roy Goodman, who was becoming rapidly corrupted by Ivy and her henchman, Mr. Halfhide. Springfields was a part of a chain of old folks’ homes, and if her superiors discovered she was allowing gambling, there would be a severe reprimand. They had been forgiving when husband Spurling had run off with the cook five years ago, leaving her as sole manager. Another transgression might mean dismissal for her, and Springfields had become her life.
Her assistant, Miss Pinkney, had told her this morning that the two Polish girls, Katya and Anya, had asked about the possibility of a rise, hinting that they had been head-hunted by a rival retirement home in Thornwell. It was one of those mornings, she decided, as she fluttered her eyelids at Gus and said that Mrs. Worth, now bedridden, would love to have a talk with him if he could spare the time. No visitors or family, not much longer to go. Could he oblige?
“Of course, Mrs. Spurling,” he said, patting her lightly on her shoulder. He was at least a couple of heads taller, and she felt at once small and feminine. No wonder little Katya had had a serious crush on the man! She had at least saved that from becoming a seriously desperate situation.
“When our card game is finished, I will find my way to her room. Number five, isn’t it?” He couldn’t think of anything more boring than attempting a one-sided conversation with a poor old thing who was aged and probably senile, and reminded him of graveyards. But maybe this was the price he had to pay for a safe passage to the hereafter.
“I hope this card game—pontoon again, is it?—won’t be too tiring for Mr. Goodman. He is not too strong, you know.”
Gus knew that Roy was a wiry old devil who was as fit and well as his great age would permit, and who, in any case, was determined not to die of boredom at Springfields. “Oh, the game is pure enjoyment, Mrs. Spurling. You can rely on me to prevent over-excitement!”
At this moment, Ivy appeared and rescued him. “Come along, Augustus,” she said. “We are waiting for you. Oh, and by the way, Mrs. Spurling, did you sort out the dripping tap in Mrs. Jones’s room? Nothing worse than a dripping tap. We used to call it Japanese torture when I was a girl.”
Mrs. Spurling took a deep breath as she watched them disappear into the small room reserved for private interviews with prospective guests. They had not asked her permission to use it for a gaming den. Just taken it over! And Miss Beasley and Mr. Goodman seemed to get younger and fitter every day. Ah, well, she supposed it was a feather in her cap that her guests thrived so well in her care.
DEIRDRE BLOXHAM, MEANWHILE, was sitting in the smartest hairdresser’s in town, watching as the young man with magic fingers tweaked and snipped and smoothed her shining hair.
“A new shampoo, Deirdre,” he had said. “Do you want to give it a try? Lovely perfume—here have a sniff.”
It was a pleasant lemony smell, and Deirdre reckoned it was just the thing to help things on their way with Theo. They had had regular assignations in his bedroom for some time now. Sometimes in her bedroom, too, but he seemed to prefer his own territory. He probably wouldn’t want the county set who were his friends to see his car parked outside Tawny Wings too often.
Lately, he had made an excuse or two, cancelling dates they had made and saying he would be in touch. She hated that phrase. People used it when they had no intention of being “in touch.” Perhaps she had begun to take him for granted.
“Mmm,” she said, “that’s lovely, Terry. Yes, I’ll have some of that.”
“Guaranteed to bowl over the hardest heart,” he said, gaily mixing his metaphors. Deirdre was a longtime client, and there was very little she hadn’t told him about herself. A listening ear was as important as a good training in hairdressing, he always said.
“How is your cousin at Springfields?” he asked, as he massaged her scalp with exactly the right pressure.
“Oh, she’s fine. They’ve got a new inmate there. A Mrs. Jones, re
tired teacher and getting beyond it. Not that far beyond, apparently, and looks like being a match for our Ivy!”
“Jones?” said Terry. “I looked after a Mrs. Wilson Jones for many years. She actually taught me! Could be the same one. She talked about it being difficult to get into the salon in the future. Big woman, walks with a limp?”
“Sounds like her. I have yet to meet her, but Ivy is definitely on the defensive.”
“She’s well-heeled. Came from a moneyed family, I believe.” Terry heard most things, and was a mine of information. Though he declared secrets were safe with him, he had no compunction about revealing them to the next client to arrive in his chair.
“There we are, then, Deirdre,” he continued, standing back to admire his handiwork and holding up a mirror for Deirdre to confirm. “Really lovely, though I do say it as shouldn’t.” He smiled and handed her over to pay an unbelievably large sum to the girl behind the desk.
Five
THEODORE ROUSSEL WAS not happy. After the disastrous end to his long association with former housekeeper Beatrice Beatty, he had engaged a woman from the village to take her place. Although Noreen Price kept herself to herself, and this was a welcome change from the domineering Beatrice, she did not run his household with the same sense of what was right, or, come to that, the same efficiency.
“I have people coming for drinks next Tuesday,” he had said to her at least a week ago, and as far as he could tell she had made no preparations. And now it was Tuesday. He looked at his watch. It was three o’clock already. Perhaps he should find her and check.
“Noreen? Are you there?” He peered into the kitchen and saw the big larder door was open. “Noreen?”
She emerged, looking flushed. “Bit of a failure, I’m afraid,” she said. “I made some bits and pieces this morning and they’re disgusting. That’s what comes of cooking something from a recipe you’ve never used before. Now what are we going to do?” She looked helplessly at him, and he was tempted to say he was going to do nothing, but she had better find a way of dealing with it or else take herself off and not return.