by Ann Purser
After they had gone, and the door was firmly shut, Alwen picked up the phone gingerly, as if it would explode when she touched it. She put it to her ear and listened, saying nothing, but clearing her throat to indicate she was there. A few seconds passed, and she still said nothing. Then, quite suddenly, she banged the receiver down, cutting off the call. She stood up, and realised she was shaking, so sat down again.
“Mrs. Spurling!” she called in a croaky voice. “Help! Please come back!”
In seconds, both the manager and her assistant rushed back into the office. They took one look at Alwen’s face and went to comfort her.
“He said it was good news for you, my dear,” Mrs. Spurling said. “I am so sorry. Did I get it wrong? Was it something bad that has upset you?”
Alwen made a big effort and pulled herself together, brushing off their helping hands. “It was nothing,” she said. “Just a wrong number.”
Mrs. Spurling said nothing more, but she was sure the man had used Alwen’s name. It could hardly have been a wrong number, could it? Anyway, it was none of her business, so long as the poor woman had recovered herself and no harm had been done.
“I wanted to see you, anyway,” Alwen continued, “on a matter concerning seating arrangements in the dining room.”
“OH, LOR,” SAID Roy. “She’s got a table to herself, Ivy. I think we’ve frightened her off! We shall be unpopular with the others. Not so easy to ask her questions now.”
Ivy shrugged. “Too bad,” she said. “And anyway, we’ll not be doing anything more for her, will we? Assignment cancelled. And if Gus doesn’t like it, he can lump it.”
Roy looked doubtful, and lowered his voice as he replied. “But there’s this other case, Gus’s rumours of blackmail, et cetera. Might be a connection there? After all, whatever you call it, conning an old lady out of twenty thousand pounds is extortion. Could be the same dodgy operator, like Gus’s friend said. After all, Measby’s not that far from Barrington.”
“I don’t think our Alwen’s been straight with us about that. I’m not saying there’s no connection with the Measby business, mind. We shall just have to wait and see what comes up. No, if you ask me, either she panicked or she’s playing some game or other. O’course, it could just have been a delay with confirmation. Something like that. It’s always happening these days. I blame computers,” she added. “The work of the devil, if you ask me.”
Roy smiled at her indulgently. “Like mobile phones?” he said teasingly. He knew that Ivy was very attached to hers, which had been a Christmas present from Gus and Deirdre. Ever since Katya had given Ivy lessons on her own mobile, and this had helped in the last case they’d been on, Ivy had never been without her gift. She had mastered text messaging, and dropped jargon words into the conversation with ease. Roy felt nothing but affection for this unlikely side to Ivy’s nature. It was a tiny chink in her armour, and he knew there were others for him to work on if his slowly growing plan came to fruition.
Ivy’s eyes met Alwen’s across the room, and Alwen was the first to smile. She raised her hand and gave a small wave, just to say there were no hard feelings. Ivy managed to smile back, and on their way out of the dining room she and Roy stopped and asked Alwen if she’d be playing pontoon with them this evening. “For matches, of course,” Ivy added.
“Gus is coming along,” Roy said. “Deirdre’s got a meeting, and you’d be most welcome. It’s quite a fun game.”
“I’m well aware of the rules of pontoon,” Alwen said, and frowned. “And I swore I would never play it again. But if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,” she instructed herself, and continued. “Very well, as long as it’s matches.”
After they had left her sitting in solitary state eating her lunch, she had felt miserable on her own and couldn’t eat much. Irritated as she was with Ivy and Roy, she missed them. Especially Roy. He was such a jolly little man, and she failed to see what on earth attracted him to Ivy Beasley. And no harm could come from a game of cards played for matches, surely?
Thirteen
THEO ROUSSEL LOOKED across his parkland and saw heavy rain driven by a strong wind until it was almost horizontal. His horned sheep were huddled in one corner by a thick hedge, sheltering from the storm, and his thoughts were gloomy as he thought of his continual struggle to keep at bay the ravages of weather on the Hall.
“I really should spend some money on the old place,” he said aloud to his faithful Labrador curled up under his desk. “If only I had some money to spend,” he added wryly. The Hall was cold and draughty, and most of the rooms smelled of damp. Rising damp, damp rot, every possible kind of damp had attacked the neglected fabric of the building. He could poke his finger through the window frames in places where the wood had become a crumbling sponge.
“But how can we top up the kitty enough to finance it all? No good going to the bank. I am their most unreliable client already. So no loans. Grants from some well-disposed heritage organisation? What do you think, Wullie?”
The dog opened one eye and looked at him. Theo sensed that he was bored with his useless life, and would much rather be out hunting rabbits. A short stroll around the park was about as much as he had to look forward to, and he was out of condition and much too fat.
All this went through Theo’s head as he gazed out of the window. He remembered his good intentions after that dreary old mother of Miriam had been murdered in her cottage. He was going to hire another worker to help young David on the farm, and generally take things in hand. But he had drifted without doing anything much to improve the estate.
What did other friends in his situation do? Conduct tours round the house and grounds, with entertaining stories of the adventures of their ancestors? Maybe a coffee shop in the stables? Perhaps David would have some ideas. A children’s farm, with small animals to see and touch?
As if reading his thoughts, Wullie lumbered to his feet and wagged his tail enthusiastically. There were always rabbits on children’s farms. Theo straightened his back, rubbed his hands together, made his way down the wide staircase, found a waterproof and green wellies and, with Wullie at his side, set off to find David, his farm manager.
As he trudged through the rain, he thought of Deirdre Bloxham. Grand girl, that one. And her head screwed on very firmly. She and that garagiste husband of hers had amassed a fortune, so people said. Maybe she could give him some tips next time they met. He could even consider asking her to . . . But no, he had decided to remain a confirmed bachelor. Women were marvellous, but let them get too close, and anything could happen! Remember Beatrice Beatty, he cautioned himself, and opened the gate of the cottage where David and his young family lived.
DAVID BUDD AND his wife Rose lived in the same row of cottages as Miriam Blake and Gus, and, because theirs was at the end, they had a much bigger garden, where they grew fresh vegetables and fruit for the family and had installed a swing and sandpit for their two little ones.
When Theo knocked at the door, he could hear the children’s television channel accompanied by Rose’s cheerful voice yelling at her offspring to switch it off. Then she was opening the door, wiping her wet hands on her apron and smiling apologetically.
“Hello, Mr. Theo,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a mess in here. Do you want to come in and risk a broken ankle?”
He laughed. She was such a lovely girl. He hoped David knew how lucky he was. “No, it was David I wanted to speak to,” he said. “I just thought he might have popped home out of the rain.” He knew perfectly well it was most unlikely, but Rose always cheered him up.
“Um, no, he’s out on the tractor, down the fields by the lake. He’s fed up with the constant rain making the job heavy, but he said it’s got to be done and went out quite early with sandwiches in his pocket. He’ll have eaten them in his cab and carried on. Shall I tell him to come up to the Hall when he gets back later?”
“No thanks, Rose. It’ll do me good to walk down and find him. Wullie here is desperate for a go
od run. Do you think he’s getting fat?”
“Well, maybe a little,” she said tactfully, and reflected that Wullie’s master was also getting a bit thick around the middle.
By the time Theo found David doggedly ploughing through the rain, he was himself soaked to the skin. So much for the waterproof! Then he remembered he’d had it since he was in his twenties and thought it hadn’t done too badly.
“I’ve been thinking,” he shouted up to David, who dutifully switched off the tractor engine. “How about setting up a children’s farm here on the estate? It would bring in some much-needed resources, and might be great fun for us all. A coffee shop, maybe, with Rose in charge?”
And another job for me? David knew that he had more than enough to do, but he nodded, and said maybe they could discuss it in more detail in the dry somewhere. How about if he came up to the Hall after tea?
After Theo had tramped off, his leaky boots squelching in the mud, David clambered back into his tractor cab and thought about the suggestion. It wasn’t a bad idea, but he couldn’t possibly manage it all, on top of everything else he had to do around the farm. Theo’s promise to get him an assistant had come to nothing, and this idea would probably go the same way. Still, he had to indulge the boss. Jobs weren’t all that plentiful at the moment. He had a friend over near Oakbridge who had set up a similar idea, and would be able to help with advice on how to start and pitfalls to avoid.
MEANWHILE, THE FOUR investigators were sitting in warmth and comfort at Tawny Wings, sipping hot coffee and waiting for Gus to take a lead.
He had given some thought as to how they would proceed, and now he smiled at Ivy and said, “Perhaps you’d like to tell us just what Alwen Jones said, and maybe give us an inkling into what upset her?”
Before Ivy could reply, Roy jumped in. “It was reverting to type, I reckon,” he said firmly. Although he knew it had almost certainly been Ivy’s remark about bungee jumping that had scared Alwen off, he also thought it had been quite useful. The very fact that she had been disturbed enough to shun their company in the dining room showed that bungee jumping was still a very worrying memory in her mind. If it was true, then any woman whose husband had been killed in such circumstances would bear the scars. But he shared Ivy’s scepticism. He just could not picture a sober, responsible accountant in his middle years bouncing up and down on the end of an elastic rope, all by himself in Australia.
“How do you mean, Roy?” Gus said. He looked at Ivy’s beetroot coloured cheeks and knew that Roy was covering for her. “Was it something somebody said?”
“Of course it was,” Ivy said. “It was me, and I reckon there’s no harm done. She’ll be back. Sat there at lunchtime like Lady Muck, looking as miserable as sin and picking at her food. You wait, she’ll be back with us by tomorrow. In any case, she’s joining the pontoon school tonight.”
“Oh, Ivy,” sighed Deirdre, “what exactly did you say?”
“Asked if her daughters had ever gone bungee jumping in their student days. There was no mistaking her reaction, was there, Roy? She wasn’t going to talk about bungee jumping or her husband. No, I reckon we’ll have to get out the thumb screws before we get Alwen Jones to tell us the truth. That is, of course, if she knows it.”
“So what next?” Deirdre said. “Are we still looking for the truth about Alwen Jones and her possibly still missing twenty thousand pounds, or are we off to Measby to sniff around the case of the old man?”
“Anyway, let’s take a vote,” Gus said. “Those in favour of ditching Alwen and getting on with the suspiciously dead old man?” No hands were raised.
“Well, those in favour of ditching the old man whose death sparked rumours of blackmail, but carrying on with Alwen’s twenty thousand pounds, though she has already said she’s got it back?” No hands.
“Well, what do we do?” he asked irritably.
“Both,” said Ivy firmly. “I don’t believe a word Alwen Jones says, and if the two cases are linked by an extortion racket, we might do more good by investigating both. Deirdre has told me about the Enquire Within expenses kitty, and when we get paid by Gus’s friend, we can top it up.” She actually had little faith in being paid by any of Gus’s friends, but that could wait for the moment.
Fourteen
BETHAN JONES WAS the exact opposite of her sister Bronwen, and although there was only a three-year gap between them, they had never been close. When they were children, Bronwen had been the undisputed boss. She decided what games they would play, what stories were read at bedtime, and, because their mother was a teacher, Bronwen was quick to grasp letters and numbers and was deputed to teach Bethan.
The younger sister was not stupid, but she was slumberous where Bronwen was quicksilver. When they were in their teens, it was Bethan who drew the boys. Her older sister frightened them off with her razor-sharp tongue and mocking jibes. Also, most importantly, Bethan had curves in all the right places, and although Bronwen was not unattractive, she was angular and sharp-elbowed. According to legend, Uncle George had been heard to say of his clever niece that he felt sorry for her husband. It would be like going to bed with a bicycle, he had said.
Now Bethan, with her two young sons aged five and two, prepared for a visit to Grandma Alwen at Springfields. It was to be a surprise visit. Bethan had noticed that if she fixed a date with her mother, the ground had been prepared by the time she got there. Tea and orange juice for the boys had been ordered, and even the conversation had been skilfully guided by her mother so as to avoid any uncomfortable questions. It had always been the same. Mother was fine, her life was in perfect order, the girls would get the best possible education, and if they had any problems they were to go to her and she would deal with them.
So now, anticipating a more spontaneous reception, they drew up outside Springfields, and Bethan went through the lengthy business of getting the boys out of their car seats and harnesses. It was worse than preparing for an arctic expedition, she thought, and every time she set out she was tempted to dump them straight onto the backseat to enjoy themselves tangling in mock fights and throwing things out of the windows.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ardley!” Mrs. Spurling had spied them coming up the path and was out of her office ready to meet them. “I don’t believe your mother is expecting you? She said she would have a rest and listen to a play on the radio this afternoon.”
“She’ll be awake then,” Bethan said, smiling warmly. “Do give her a call, and we’ll wait in the lounge. Come along boys,” she added, shepherding them along, “and don’t push Freddie like that, William. He’s only little, you know.”
As they gathered in the lounge, Ivy looked over the top of her spectacles at the group. “Oh my goodness,” she whispered to Roy, who was reading the paper. “Bang goes our peaceful afternoon. I wonder who they are? Must have come to see someone.”
“Lovely boys,” said Roy, beaming as the little one approached holding out a sticky hand and offering him a toy tractor. “What are their names, my dear?” he asked Bethan as she came to rescue him.
“This little one is Freddie, and his big brother is William, named after his grandfather. Ah,” she added, turning to the door. “There’s mother. Look, William! Here’s Grandma!”
“Thought so,” said Ivy, and clamped her lips together disapprovingly.
Alwen Jones, perfectly composed, marched in, sat down and lifted her grandsons onto her lap. She smiled at her daughter and received a dutiful kiss on the cheek.
“Every inch the headmistress,” Ivy said. “Poor little chaps.”
AFTER ALWEN’S VISITORS had been escorted out of the lounge and up to Grandma’s room, conversation buzzed around the residents, who had taken a close interest. “That one looks nothing like her mother,” one said. “But those boys have the look of the Joneses, no mistake,” said another. Ivy and Roy pricked up their ears, and pretended to carry on reading.
“Poor girl never knew her father, of course.” This was a comparatively young resid
ent, still in her sixties, but sadly disabled by arthritis. “I remember it well, that business at the brewery.” Her companions urged her on, and she told the story that Ivy and Roy already knew. Then she said something interesting which they had not learned from Deirdre and Gus.
“My sister used to work in the accounts department at the brewery, you know. Said that William Jones was a right moody bloke. You never knew which way he would jump, she said. One day he’d be on top of the world, with praise for everyone and compliments all round, and the next he’d find fault all round the office and insist on people doing jobs again and staying late to finish. Then there was that story about him and his secretary!” They laughed, and she continued, “They all thought his family was well rid of him when he went off. All a great scandal at the time. But it died down, like these things do.”
All agreed that Mrs. Jones had led a very useful life, and now had two adorable grandsons, not to mention the other daughter who was so efficient and helpful to her mother. The residents decided that on the whole, the affair had had a happy ending. They liked happy endings, and returned to their favourite afternoon soap on the television.
UPSTAIRS, ALWEN JONES was trying to look at her watch without her daughter noticing but failed.
“Time we were going, Mother,” Bethan said. She had brought games and drawing books to occupy the boys, but these had been used up in no time. Now they were occupied in fiddling with everything that Grandma had in her room.
“No, William! Not Grandma’s handbag, please!” Alwen automatically went into teacher mode, and her authoritative voice stopped the little boy in his tracks. Bethan looked at her in surprise. “What have you got in there?” she said, amused at the idea of her mother with a private life in her handbag.