The Measby Murder Enquiry

by Ann Purser

  “Good morning, Mrs. Evans,” the receptionist said. “Can I help you?”

  “I doubt it,” Bronwen said, “unless you can tell me who is enquiring about my father?”

  The receptionist offered to recall Gus and Deirdre, but Bronwen said very firmly that it would not be necessary. Then she said that after all she would not take up the receptionist’s time and walked off. As she left the building, she glanced back, but could see nothing now but a group of people standing in reception. Never mind, she said to herself, I can ask mother. She would want to know, anyway.

  Unaware that their conversation had been overheard, Gus and Deirdre settled down with their coffee. “How’s the romance going?” he said, making it sound like a joke, though he was quite serious.

  “You mean Theo? Oh, he’s fine, thanks. Great fun to be with. Still a roving bachelor at heart.”

  “Not intending to settle down, then?”

  “Who knows?” Deirdre shrugged. She hadn’t thought that far, and certainly had not imagined herself as mistress of Barrington Hall. She was much too comfortable in Tawny Wings to consider life in a draughty old mansion with few mod cons and a five-mile trek from the kitchen to the dining room.

  “I hear he’s approached little Katya to take on the housekeeper job,” Gus said casually.

  “What? Ridiculous idea. The girl would have no idea how to run an English stately home!” Deirdre’s voice grew louder as she considered the news.

  “Hardly stately,” said Gus quietly. “Not compared with some. Anyway, I think Katya is a very intelligent little thing. And her English has improved no end. She’d probably be a great asset to the Hon. Theo with his posh friends.”

  “Huh!” said Deirdre, and relapsed into a sulky silence.

  Neither said anything more until the receptionist called them back. “Miss Upson will be down shortly,” she said. “I think she’s found something for you.”

  ALWEN WILSON JONES had elected to stay in bed. “I’m sure I have a cold coming,” she said. “It may even be flu. I was shivering all night,” she complained to Katya.

  “Oh, you poor thing! I will find a nice soft blanket to put over your bed.”

  “You are so kind. Do you like working here? Why don’t you sit and talk to me for a while? I am still feeling a little lonely after leaving my own home and neighbours, and the grandchildren popping in . . .”

  Katya was used to seeing old people in tears. This place must seem like their last stop before the grave, she thought. No wonder the poor old thing is sad. “Is your daughter coming in to see you this week?” she said, hoping to cheer her up.

  “Bethan phoned yesterday,” Alwen said. “She’s got to see to all the beginning of term things this week. But she promised to come in next week, and bring the children after school.”

  “Oh good! That’s something to look forward to, then,” Katya said soothingly. She perched on the edge of a chair. “Mrs. Spurling doesn’t like us to waste time gossiping,” she said, “but she’s gone to the wholesale food place, so I can stay for a chat. Why don’t you tell me about your early days. You were a teacher, I believe?”

  Alwen nodded, and dabbed at her face with a tissue. “Yes, for many years,” she said.

  “And your husband, too?”

  “No, he was an accountant. Tell me about your family in Poland,” she added, making it sound like an order. Katya duly obliged. She loved to talk about her family, and by the time ten minutes had passed, Alwen was much cheered. In fact, she said she felt so much better she thought she would get up.

  “Ivy and Roy will miss me at lunchtime otherwise,” she said. “They’re an odd pair, but quite friendly. At least, Roy is friendly. Not so sure about Ivy Beasley.”

  “Oh, don’t be deceived by Miss Beasley’s stern face,” Katya replied with a smile. “Her heart is made of gold, I am sure.”

  Alwen did not comment, being far from sure, but asked Katya to fetch her clean laundry. “I shall have a bath, and be quite restored,” she said.

  Katya left her then, and went back to the kitchen, where she told her friend that she thought Mrs. Wilson Jones would settle in well, once she and Miss Beasley had become firm friends.

  DEIRDRE AND GUS decided to have lunch in town so that they could discuss what they had discovered at the newspaper offices.

  “I never guessed anything like this,” Deirdre said. “I’d thought maybe William Jones had an affair with his secretary and Alwen divorced him, something like that.”

  “No, this is much more interesting,” Gus said. “Especially when you remember that the poor old thing has possibly been defrauded of twenty thousand pounds. Who was this mysterious financial adviser who persuaded her to part with it? And what is the real reason she won’t go to the police? I mean, Deirdre, if you think about it, a possible spat with your daughter wouldn’t stop you bringing in the cops, would it? I know you’re loaded, bless you, but twenty thousand pounds!”

  Deirdre nodded, not denying that she was loaded. In fact, it had occurred to her once or twice that Theo might be after an injection of cash into his impoverished estate, but as she had no intention of letting him get his hands on her money, she had pushed the idea aside. Now she said that however much more she had in the kitty, twenty thousand was a lot by anybody’s standards. “Have you got that photocopy the woman gave you? We’ll get Ivy and Roy together this afternoon and tell them what we’ve discovered.”

  “And meantime, I’ll give my old colleague a ring and see if I can find out more about that strange case in the village near Oakbridge. You remember, the one where the man was found dead at the foot of his stairs. Extortion was mentioned, and it might be connected with a racket working the territory in East Anglia. That kind of thing can lead to violence, as my former colleague was suggesting.”

  Deirdre made a face. “Very nasty!” she said. “Wouldn’t want that happening to our Alwen, would we?”

  “La Spurling and Miss Pinkney would be a match for any midnight intruder,” Gus said, laughing.

  Deirdre did not laugh. “They’re not there at night, Gus. And I reckon it would be child’s play to get into Springfields under the cover of darkness.”

  “But it’s all alarmed from top to toe!” Gus protested.

  “Alarms were made to be foiled,” Deirdre said. “I lost half my jewellery when a couple of evil professionals got into Tawny Wings when I was away. Nowhere is a hundred percent safe, if you ask me. . . .”

  “As Ivy says. So we will ask her. Come on, give her a bell and tell her we’re on our way.”

  Eleven

  ONCE MORE THE interview room had been commandeered by Enquire Within, and Ivy had imperiously ordered tea for four to be brought in immediately.

  “You’d think she owned the place!” Mrs. Spurling had complained to Miss Pinkney, who, although always obedient, privately loved the idea of this extraordinary variation on the dull routine of Springfields. It made a welcome change from well-meaning volunteers organising sing-songs of old tunes, and wary-eyed children performing carols at Christmas. Even the whist and bingo faltered at times. But who in their right minds would want to play whist and bingo every day? And more residents were in their right minds than Mrs. Spurling cared to acknowledge.

  “So what is this important new revelation?” Ivy said when they were settled.

  “You tell,” said Deirdre to Gus. “With all your experience in the field of undercover enquiries, you’ll do it better than me.”

  Gus looked at her closely. Was there sarcasm in her tone? No, surely not. Just a little green-eyed envy, he told himself, and began.

  “They were very helpful at the newspaper archive,” he said, “although there was not that much about William Jones. Not at first, anyway. Much more about George and his achievements. George took care of that, apparently, being a brilliant self-publicist. No, over the years there was a mention of William’s coming-of-age party; his success at university, listed alongside others; and then the notice of his engagement.
” He paused for dramatic effect.

  “Who to?” Roy said, thinking it was time to get to the point.

  “One Alwen Rosemary Wilson, of the parish of Oakbridge in the county of Suffolk.”

  Gus leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and looked triumphantly at Ivy.

  “Yes, well, we guessed that much,” she said, refusing to be impressed. “But what about the rest? The marriage, for a start. Were they actually married? Lots of engagements get broken off. And if they were, what after that?”

  “Hold your horses, Ivy,” Deirdre interrupted. “There’s more, but at least we know for a start that Alwen was Mrs. William Jones, of the highly regarded Jones family. Go on, Gus.”

  After that, Ivy and Roy sat quietly whilst Gus told them what else had been found. The marriage was a quiet one, and Bronwen had been born “prematurely” six and a half months later. They discovered this from marriage and birth notices.

  “Then we found the real treasure,” Gus continued. “It was quite a big splash. William Richard Jones, brother of Mayor George, had disappeared. Although no confirmed reason emerged, it was strongly believed that William, then company secretary of the brewery, and responsible for all financial matters, had got into debt and absconded with a sizable sum.”

  “But surely George would have suppressed such a story?”

  “Oh, he tried,” said Deirdre. “Categoric denials, threats to sue the paper, assurances that he was in touch with William, who was merely taking a sabbatical, all of that. And then suddenly it all went quiet, and in time the whole thing was forgotten.”

  “And William came back?” said Roy, hoping for a happy ending.

  Gus shook his head. “Oh no,” he said. “He never came back, and the last mention of him in the local paper was a report of his death in Australia. He’d been bungee jumping, according to report, and the springy rope had severed. Killed instantly, said the official report issued by the public relations office of the brewery.”

  “So that was that? And Alwen was left a widow, but no doubt supported by the ever-generous George?” Ivy said, her eyes wide and incredulous. “Well,” she continued, “if you believe that load of cobblers, you’ll believe anything. Bungee jumping indeed! What rubbish!”

  There was a stunned silence, and then Roy cleared his throat and said perhaps they could all do with another cup of tea. “I’ll ring the bell,” he said.

  ALWEN JONES WAS intrigued. She was now, as usual, sitting at the supper table with Roy and Ivy, and they both seemed oddly abstracted. She regaled them with stories of infants and their useless parents, and in the end tried on them her best school story. It was when the children had written daily news books, she said, and described one entry that had made all the staff chuckle. “One little boy,” she said with a grin, “had written, ‘Dad killed the dog last night and buried it in the garden.’ ” This anecdote, a favourite one amongst teachers, had always gone down well, but Roy and Ivy had scarcely smiled.

  “Poor dog,” Roy had said, and Ivy had merely nodded.

  “Oh well,” Alwen shrugged. “I think I’ll watch some television. Are you coming, you two?”

  “Um, what? What did you say?” Roy seemed to have difficulty concentrating. Was it something to do with her? Then a cold shiver struck her. Surely they couldn’t have been enquiring within too deeply?

  “Oh, by the way,” she said, on a sudden impulse. “Um, there’s no need for you to worry anymore on my behalf about the money. All a mistake, and it’s back safely once more in my bank. But thanks for listening, anyway,” she added with a grateful smile.

  Ivy stared at her. “Well, that’s all right then,” she said. “Let us know if you need any help in the future. Oh, and by the way,” she added, with not very convincing nonchalance. “Did your daughters ever go bungee jumping? I’ve just been reading that it’s all the rage for students on their gap year, whatever that is. If you ask me,” she added, “they’d be far better off finding a proper job and earning their living.”

  Alwen’s face drained of all colour. “I think I’ll catch that wildlife programme on the box,” she said, and got up quickly from the table. Ivy and Roy watched her limp rather more unsteadily than usual out of the dining room.

  “That hit home,” said Roy. “More coffee, Ivy?”

  Twelve

  “SO WE NO longer have a paying client?” Gus said. How had Ivy managed to scare off Alwen Jones so early in their investigation? Well, he told himself, that’ll teach you to work with old ladies who should be doing nothing more arduous than knitting for charity.

  He had been surprised by Deirdre appearing at his door soon after he had showered and dressed, and now they sat with cups of instant coffee in Gus’s cheerless sitting room discussing the latest development. Ivy had telephoned Deirdre first thing and told her about Alwen’s sudden freeze up. “It wasn’t anything me or Roy said,” Ivy had assured her. “Maybe we were a bit quiet, still thinking about what you and Gus found out, but we didn’t say anything about that to Alwen.”

  Now Deirdre looked at Gus and asked whether he thought they should give up, or continue without any hope of financial gain.

  “Sod it all,” Gus said. “That’s what happened last time! I don’t mind telling you, Deirdre, I need the money.” This was strictly true, but when he had paid off the gambling debt in installments, and so long as he kept away from racetracks and bookmakers, he hoped to be able to manage his present lifestyle. This last was the real sticking point. What lifestyle? he asked himself. Living in a scruffy cottage, out of touch with all his old rakish friends, who were fun, always fun. And then there was his demanding ex-wife . . . and fending off Miriam next door.

  “I do understand about that, Gus,” Deirdre said sympathetically. “If there’s one thing I do understand, it’s money. Bert taught me that, and it was a good lesson. So I’m not offering you loans or anything, but if you’d like to take expenses out of an Enquire Within account I can set up, then we’ll treat it as a kitty for all of us.”

  “And who’s going to fund it?”

  “Me, at the moment, until we get going properly.” This was not philanthropy on Deirdre’s part. She had felt more alive since working with the other three than she had since Bert died. And, she had to admit, she was quite fond of old Gus. He was really quite attractive in his own way.

  “So are you saying we should carry on?” Gus looked at her, and began to suspect that the companionship of this pleasant, affluent blonde was the most compelling reason at the moment for staying with what he hesitated to call a lifestyle—more a way of life.

  “Yep,” she said cheerfully. “There’s still your friend who wanted us to help on the Measby death. If we come up with the goods on that one, he’ll pay us, you said. It’s possible that Alwen Jones’s problem was nothing to do with that, but on the other hand it seems a strange coincidence. Two cases of extortion in a small area? Let’s get together this afternoon with the other two and plan what we do next. And do you mind if I tip this disgusting stuff down the sink? We can go to Tawny Wings and get a decent cup of coffee for a start.”

  “GOOD MORNING, MRS. Jones!” Katya had almost collided with Alwen as she came out of her room, and she put a gentle hand on her arm. “I do hope you are feeling fit and well this morning?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m fine,” Alwen said. “I’m just off to find Mrs. Spurling. I wish to have a word with her about dining arrangements.”

  Katya frowned. “Nothing wrong with the cooking, I hope?” Her friend Anya was now in charge of the kitchen, and in general produced what residents agreed were delicious and interesting meals.

  “No, no. I feel I should perhaps have a table of my own, or join up with other residents. Ivy and Roy seem very good friends, and I’d hate to be playing gooseberry! And anyway, I should get to know other people a bit more. I was rather thrust into the company of Ivy and Roy straightaway.”

  “I am sure they love to have you with them!” said Katya. “After all, they have all the time
in the world to be together privately if they want it. Don’t you think they might be offended?”

  “That’s neither here nor there,” Alwen said more sharply. She had no qualms about offending those two. Unless she was very much mistaken, they had taken altogether too much upon themselves, nosing into her affairs. She wished she had never been persuaded to mention the missing money, and she was having second thoughts about how far their so-called investigations might go. Bronwen had called her to report hearing her father’s name mentioned at the newspaper reception desk. Her description of the couple was vague, but the woman could have been Ivy’s cousin.

  “Ah, there you are, Mrs. Jones!” It was Mrs. Spurling, half running along the corridor. “Isn’t your telephone working? There is a call for you in my office. Your own line is not answering, apparently. Let Katya help you down the stairs, and then you can use mine. I’ll go back and make sure the caller waits for you.”

  By the time Katya and Alwen had reached the office, Mrs. Spurling had assured the caller several times that Mrs. Jones was on her way. The voice, a man’s voice, had assured her he would wait. “Tell her it’s Max,” he said. He had some good news for Alwen, and was looking forward to talking to her.

  At last Alwen, walking much more slowly than usual, arrived in the office, and Mrs. Spurling settled her in her own chair. “Come along, Miss Pinkney,” she said, “let’s leave Mrs. Jones to have her call in private. We shall be next door in the store cupboard if you need any help, dear,” she added.