by Ann Purser
“Never you mind,” Alwen said. “I must have some secrets to keep to myself. Most of my privacy has been taken from me in this place.”
“Right, time to go. Come on, you terrors,” Bethan said, and after the usual affectionate pecks on cheeks, she manoeuvred the two boys out of Grandma’s room and down the stairs. Alwen waved to them from the top stair, and then returned to her room.
“Phew!” she said to Katya, who had appeared to see if she was all right. “What those two need is a firm hand. Bethan is much too soft with them. I’m sure if my other daughter, Bronwen, had had children, they would be quite different. She is much more like me.”
“And does Bethan take after your husband?” asked Katya, straightening the covers on the bed where the boys had bounced.
“To look at, maybe, but I sincerely hope not in any other way.” She seemed to be talking almost to herself, and Katya nodded quietly, thinking Mrs. Jones would probably rather not have said that aloud.
Bethan, on her way out, had been intercepted by Mrs. Spurling. “A little word, my dear, if you have a minute?”
Ushered into the office, Bethan held on to the boys’ hands and asked how she could help. Mrs. Spurling said she wondered if Mrs. Jones had had any complaints, and did Bethan feel that her mother had settled in happily.
“Oh certainly,” said Bethan, anxious to get home. She had no intention of embarking on a long assessment of her mother’s feelings so far. “She seems very well looked after and not at all unhappy. She’s even made friends, so she said. A very nice gentleman called Roy? Apparently he is very much on the ball and they have good conversations. They’re playing cards this evening, Mother said, and she was looking forward to it.”
“She has a very active brain still,” Mrs. Spurling said. “I do hope she finds enough to keep her interested in daily life here. Miss Beasley and Mr. Goodman are a very lively pair, and should be good companions. I hope your late father wouldn’t have objected to a game of pontoon for matches!”
Bethan shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Of course, he wasn’t around by the time I was old enough to notice. Mother doesn’t talk about him much, and we don’t push her. She brought us up, really, and held down a responsible job at the same time. A great character, my mother!” she added, and made for the door. “I must get these wreckers out of here. Say good-bye to Mrs. Spurling,” she instructed, and they departed quickly down the path and out to her car.
ONCE MORE THE interview room had been opened up for a use not envisaged by the owner of Springfields Residential Home. The evening was chilly, and Miss Pinkney had found an electric convector heater which Ivy had insisted on switching on an hour before they were due to play.
Now all were settled round the card table, Ivy and Roy, Gus and Alwen Jones, the latter immaculately dressed, powdered and scented with lavender toilet water. Ivy wrinkled her nose. The smell reminded her of her mother, and she would rather not be reminded. Perhaps they could give the old thing a bottle of the stuff Deirdre used. Ivy had to admit that smelled very nice, and not too strong. She made a mental note to mention it.
It was soon apparent that Alwen was no stranger to the game. Gus briefly set out the rules, but he need not have bothered. A respectable pile of matches grew in front of Alwen, and Ivy scowled. She was used to winning herself, remembering well the lessons her father had taught her.
The door opened a crack, and Miss Pinkney’s head appeared. “Ready for halftime snack?” she said. This had not been authorised by Mrs. Spurling, but she was now off duty.
“We’re not playing football,” Ivy said acidly. “Still, if you ask me, a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits would be a good idea. What do you think, Alwen? Not slimming, are we?”
“Good gracious me, no,” Alwen replied. “I don’t know about you, Ivy, but I’ve long given up worrying about an inch or two extra around the waist!”
“You’re both of you perfect as you are,” said Roy soothingly.
Gus looked from one to the other, and suddenly thought of his ex-wife. She was tall, slim and elegant, apparently without trying. But the bills from hairdressers, beauty salons and health farms told a different story. He smiled to himself. If she could see him now! His companions were two old bats and a little gnomish man in his eighties. Ah, but more often than not there was also Deirdre up at Tawny Wings! She could give his wife a run for her money.
They stopped playing to have their halftime snack, and conversation continued about this and that, until suddenly, without warning, Alwen Jones announced portentously that she had something to say. The others stared at her, noticing that her hands were trembling as she set down her cup.
She seemed to have trouble beginning, and so Gus asked pleasantly how they could help. Anything at all, however small, he said, could be dealt with by Enquire Within.
“Well, it’s like this,” she said. “This morning I received a telephone call which upset me considerably, and I had difficulty concealing it from Mrs. Spurling. The fact is, I am being harassed by some character who refuses to give his name or number, and when I try to identify him, the operator says, “The caller did not leave his number.” Each time, he addresses me by my Christian name, and asks the same question, saying that if I give the right answer I shall avoid an unpleasant encounter.”
“What could he mean by that?” Gus was intrigued, and Ivy adjusted her glasses in order to hear more clearly.
“Just a stupid threat, I hope,” Alwen said, more confidently now.
“So what’s the question?” Ivy said, leaning forward in her chair.
“He says,” she began, and hesitated. “It sounds awfully silly. But it’s the same every time. He says, ‘Eeny meeny miney moe, where did all the money go?’ Then he cuts off.”
There was complete silence. Roy and Ivy stared at each other, and Gus was looking stunned.
“Sounds like a practical joke,” said Ivy finally, and forgetting that Gus liked his private life to be very private, and his past life a mystery, she continued, “Augustus, couldn’t you find out a bit more from your old colleague, Martin? And time to open up with us, Alwen, before Enquire Within takes on what I suppose you want us to do.”
“Which is?” said Gus. He was beginning to have worrying thoughts. He supposed there could be no harm in Ivy’s ill-considered remark. Until that recent call, it had been a very long time since he had seen Martin, let alone worked closely with him. It had been a bit odd. Perhaps this was his old colleague’s idea of checking up on him? There had certainly been disagreements in the past, but nothing serious. Maybe it was time to arrange a face-to-face meeting, always supposing he could get through on that telephone line.
“Why, we have to discover who poor Alwen’s tormentor is and get rid of him, of course,” Roy said, taking Alwen’s hand. “It could be the extortion racket having another go at getting money out of you. Don’t you worry, my dear, we’ll sort him out.”
“And in the meantime,” said Ivy, “if he rings again, you’ll know his voice by now, and just put the phone down straightaway. Now drink up your tea, and let’s get on with the game.”
Fifteen
DAVID BUDD PUT his finger on the bell at the kitchen door of the Hall, and kept it there for some time. Noreen had gone home, and he knew Theo would probably be in his study, half a mile away from the kitchen. But there was nothing wrong with the boss’s hearing, and so he prepared to wait.
In due course, he heard footsteps crossing the tiled kitchen floor, and the door opened.
To his surprise, the pretty Polish girl from Springfields stood there, smiling broadly at him.
“Ah, Mr. Budd. I was asked by the Honourable Mr. Roussel to see who was ringing the bell. He said he was expecting you, and you are to go into the drawing room, where he is awaiting you.”
Her stilted English had certainly improved since they’d last had a conversation, but she still managed to make everything sound like a formal announcement. “Thanks, Katya,” he said. “Are you
still enjoying working at Springfields? It takes a special kind of person to get on with most of those old fogies, doesn’t it? Still, there’s always Ivy Beasley! Something of a legend in her own lifetime, that one!”
“I am very much attached to Miss Beasley,” Katya said, marching ahead of him, “and most of the others are very nice people. It is not always much fun for them there, Mr. Budd.”
Duly rebuked, David followed her to the drawing room, and was startled when she slid in ahead of him and almost shut the door in his face. He heard her voice saying that Mr. Budd was here and was the Honourable Mr. Roussel ready to receive him? Then the door opened again, and Katya beckoned him in.
“Mr. Budd, sir,” she said, and left the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.
Theo approached and held out his hand. “Come and sit down, David. Sorry about that, but I’m giving her a confidential tryout. Between you and me, Noreen is not a huge success, and I’m hopeful that I can tempt Katya away from Springfields, to come and work for me.
“Is she interested?” said David bluntly. He could not think of a more boring job for a young woman than housekeeping for an old lecher like Theo Roussel. She’d have to spend half her time running up and down stairs and round corners to escape him!
“But surely she will be going back home shortly? She’s been at Springfields for some while.”
“I’m sure something could be arranged,” Theo said expansively. “Now, shall we talk about setting up a children’s farm? Several of my old friends in the county have done this sort of thing. Now, under my present circumstances, I think we should make use of the estate in every profitable way we can.”
“It’s a good idea,” David said reluctantly. “You could combine it with other things, my Rose says. Maybe open the house to the public, say at weekends, with escorted tours. Then the coffee shop in the old dairy building? My Rose is a trained caterer, and she could do drinks and snacks. Perhaps have a couple of craftspeople working in the stables to draw in the public?”
“Oh, my dear chap! All of that would be a last resort! I may have to, one day, but please God not yet.”
David shrugged. “Well, we could start with the children’s farm. You could talk to one or two of your friends, and get some advice on how to avoid pitfalls an’ that.”
“There should be no pitfalls, David,” Theo answered. “If I put my mind to a project, I am quite capable of carrying it through with maximum efficiency.”
“Well, as you know, I’m no schoolteacher,” said David, who was going off the idea of anything that would mean more work for him. Theo’s track record for hiring extra help had so far been pretty useless. David’s good-humoured intention of going along with the boss was evaporating rapidly. “So the first thing,” he continued, “might be to advertise for someone, maybe a retired biology teacher, to introduce the animals to the children. I could just about manage to do the farming side of it.”
Theo’s tone was chilly. “I will certainly bear in mind the teacher idea. But I am sure you could cope. After all, it would just be a fun thing to do at weekends, not an extension of school. Anyway, thank you for coming along, David. You know the way out. Oh, and by the way,” he added, as David reached the door. “The business of employing young Katya is strictly confidential at the moment. Please keep it to yourself. Best if no one knows, not even dear Rose. Thank you.”
Huh! David wanted to answer that he kept nothing from dear Rose, but in any case could not think why anyone should be remotely interested in Theo’s little schemes. He kept silent, and since Katya did not reappear, he let himself out of the kitchen door and strode off down the drive to be home in time for the television news.
DEIRDRE’S MEETING HAD gone on much later than she expected, and when it finished one of her old friends asked if she fancied a drink before she went home. He was actually an old friend of Bert but had kept in touch with Deirdre, making sure she was managing everything by herself after the death of her husband. Now, when it was perfectly clear that Deirdre was more than capable of running her life, he still called her occasionally, and on one or two occasions she had gone to his house where he and his wife entertained the great and good of Thornwell. There was always a spare man, and Deirdre suspected they might be attempting matchmaking. But she was proof against that and always enjoyed a jolly evening and a meal she did not have to cook herself.
The pub was a smart hostelry in the market square in town, and they pushed their way through crowds to a small back room where there were free seats. Colin went off to fetch drinks, and Deirdre looked around, deciding that she knew nobody and was really out of touch with Thornwell society.
But, ah, there was somebody she knew. That tall, sniffy-looking dame standing at the bar was surely Bronwen Evans, nee Jones, elder daughter of Springfields’ latest resident, Alwen? As she watched, Colin, carrying two glasses, stopped to have a word with Bronwen and the man who was probably her husband. Then he came on to their table and sat down, putting Deirdre’s gin and tonic carefully in front of her.
“There we are! I think we’ve earned a couple of gins! It was quite a sparky meeting tonight, wasn’t it?”
“Um, yes,” Deirdre replied, still staring at Bronwen Evans. “Hey, Colin, do you know that woman? The one you were talking to?” She had a sudden flash of memory. Hadn’t she been standing in the queue at the newspaper office? Deirdre had watched her walking out, but it hadn’t registered then. But now she was sure. Bronwen Evans. She must have heard something of what she and Gus were asking about. Yes, well, worth mentioning to the others.
“Well, I don’t usually talk to women I don’t know, my dear,” Colin said. “Yes, my goodness, I’ve known Bronwen since she was a small child. Bronwen Jones? You must have met her. Daughter of one of the brewery brothers. That’s her husband, the estate agent in the marketplace, Evans & Jones.
“Of course,” said Deirdre. “And which Jones brother was her father? I should know, shouldn’t I, but we didn’t exactly move in the same circles!”
“You didn’t miss much. In spite of George’s success, the family was somehow unlucky. Things didn’t go right on a personal level, even though the brewery flourished. Oh, and Bronwen’s father was the younger brother, William. And don’t ask me questions about him. The less said about that nasty piece of work the better! Mind you, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but . . .”
“It’s no good telling me that, Colin! Now of course I want to know about him. Go on, do tell.”
“It’s a long time ago,” he said. “But I still remember wondering how George managed the scandal so efficiently. His brother William had always been trouble. He was bright enough but couldn’t be bothered to work. If there was an easy way of making money, William would take it.”
“But what was the scandal?” Deirdre persisted. She guessed what was coming but hoped for a small snippet of extra information that might help in their investigations.
“He gambled away everything he earned,” Colin said, and sighed. “Shame, really, as he was a clever bloke. George gave him a job in the brewery, and why it had to be in charge of finances I’ll never know. Needless to say the books were cooked. There were unpaid bills all round town by the time George got to know about it. My folks’ business was one of the victims.”
“But what happened? The brewery survived, after all.”
“Fortunately,” Colin said, “it was a very profitable year for them, and George made sure all bills were settled. Then things went quiet, and the next thing we knew, William had gone. Kicked out, everyone said.”
“And his wife?”
“Wife and daughters,” Colin said. “Well, Alwen Jones was a wonderful woman. Just buckled to and remade her life. Brought up the daughters and ended up head teacher in Thornwell Primary. Wonderful woman,” he repeated.
Deirdre drained her glass. “Gosh, that was just what the doctor ordered!” she said. “Well, it sounds like it was good riddance to bad rubbish. What happened to William?”
“But his daughters? They must have wanted to know about their father?”
“Maybe,” said Colin, rising to his feet. “But if they did, and Bronwen Evans had set about finding him, you can be sure she succeeded. Chip off the old block, that one. And, of course, later on she worked in the brewery. Brilliant publicist, apparently. She’d know exactly how to find William Jones, but I doubt if any of the family wanted to. You could put money on it.”
“Perhaps not, under the circumstances! Anyway, thanks for the drink, Colin. Would you and Dorothy like to come over for dinner sometime soon? I’d like you to meet some new friends of mine.”
“Love to,” said Colin. “We’ll be in touch.”
Sixteen
“DID YOU HAVE a good weekend, Ivy?”
“Weekends are much like any other days in this place,” Ivy said, looking round her room. “Except for the excitement of going to church, of course. How about you?”
Deirdre put her hand over the phone and mouthed to Gus that Ivy was in a bad mood.
They were in the kitchen at Tawny Wings, where the dishwasher toiled in the utility room next door. Gus pulled the door shut, and motioned Deirdre to continue.
“Oh, my weekend was about as boring as yours,” she said. “Gardening, writing letters to my distant daughters, that sort of thing.”
“You should be grateful you’ve got daughters, Deirdre Bloxham,” the sharp voice replied. “Anyway, have you rung up just to pass the time of day, or do you want something?”
“I want something. I would like you and Roy and Gus to come to lunch next Sunday to meet some old friends of mine from Thornwell. Are you free?”