The Measby Murder Enquiry

by Ann Purser

  “What do you mean, Miss Beasley? No what?”

  “No, refuse the offer. Don’t even consider it, Katya.”

  Katya looked crestfallen. In her daydreams she saw herself smartly dressed, acting as hostess for Mr. Theo at parties, perhaps stewarding in the drawing room when they opened up the Hall to visitors, supervising the stable units let out to craftspeople. She had been chatting to David Budd’s wife Rose, and the two of them had agreed that it would be an excellent way of making extra money for the estate.

  The whole village knew that Roussel was strapped for cash, and they had begun to fear that he might sell up, and then anything could happen. Over Oakbridge way there was a similar estate, and it was now a luxury hotel and golf course, and the heart and traditions of its nearby village had vanished.

  “Oh dear,” Katya said. “Would you please tell me why you say that, Miss Beasley? You are my best friend and perhaps my second mother in this country, and I need good advice on this matter.”

  “You have it,” said Ivy, a little shaken at the idea of being anyone’s mother. “Don’t touch it with a barge pole. If you want me to spell it out, my dear, Mr. Theo is a confirmed bachelor, and because of his position in society is used to having his own way. With any luck, he’s the last of a dying breed, but there he is, selfish, aging and loves pretty women, especially young ones. You are a pretty girl, and his intentions won’t be honourable! Do I need to say more?”

  Katya was silent for a few moments. Then she said softly that perhaps Miss Beasley did not realise that she could be very tough, and knew how to look after herself.

  “I doubt it,” Ivy said. “But if you ask me, it’s your decision and, as my mother used to say, in this life you make your bed and then you have to lie on it.”

  Katya frowned. She was not sure what Miss Beasley meant, but she had made very plain her advice on the problem of Katya’s temptation.

  “Best thing you can do,” Ivy said, smothering a yawn, “is tell him you are thinking about it. Think some more, ring your mother and see what she thinks,” she added with a sudden inspiration.

  Katya’s expression cleared. “Yes, of course. That is the best thing. Thank you very much. You are a dear person,” she said, getting up and blowing Ivy a kiss as she quietly left the room.

  “I may be a dear person,” Ivy muttered, turning to look along the street as far as the church, “but I ain’t a sleepy one no more. Might as well read until it’s time to meet Roy. If this is what it’s like being a mother, I’m heartily glad I’m not one.”

  AT DEIRDRE’S INVITATION, Gus had stayed on at Tawny Wings for lunch. Deirdre had produced a fluffy mushroom omelette, and they had tucked in, Deirdre watching Gus wolfing down his large helping. The man didn’t look after himself properly, that was for sure. She began enthusiastically telling him her plans for her lunch with her friends Colin and Dorothy, but after a while she stopped talking and looked closely at Gus.

  “What’s the matter? You’re very quiet. Aren’t you feeling well? Whippy’s looking worried.”

  “I’m fine,” Gus said. “It’s just that you others are beavering away uncovering clues and coming to possible conclusions, and I’m not doing anything.”

  “But aren’t you going to contact your friend about the circumstances surrounding that old man’s death?”

  “He’s not really my friend. Not one I’ve kept in touch with. More an acquaintance from the past. I’m not at all sure, now I’ve thought about it, that I want to get involved with him again. In some ways, Deirdre, our little gang is playing at detectives. Anything to do with Martin is the real thing, and almost certainly dangerous. I don’t mind so much for myself. I’m used to it. But with the others, well, for God’s sake, two nice old people and one lovely rich lady who doesn’t need danger in her life.”

  “I wouldn’t call our last case playing at it!” Deirdre protested, ignoring his description of her. “After all, there was murder, intrigue and blackmail. Doesn’t that count as the real thing?”

  Gus sighed. “I suppose so,” he said. “Well, I should try again to contact Martin and ask for more details. Do we still suspect Alwen Jones’s mystery voice is connected in any way?”

  “Seems very possible,” said Deirdre. “But until we know more from your Martin—Martin what, by the way?—it’s not easy to guess. So at it, lad! Gird your loins and get busy on the phone. Now, do you want some of this ice cream? It’s rich and bad for you, but delicious and irresistible.”

  “Just like you, then,” said Gus, cheering up rapidly. He reached out to grab her as she went by, but with practised ease she avoided him and went off to the freezer, laughing happily.

  WHEN HE RETURNED home, Gus unlocked a small tin box he kept at the back of a cupboard and extracted a dog-eared address book. He turned the pages until he came to M, and then ran his finger down the list of names, not sure that Martin would be in it. “Ah, here we are,” he said, and repeated the number over several times, committing it to memory. Then he replaced the book, locked the box and put it back behind a pile of files in the cupboard. He was about to dial the same number as before, hoping it would now be working, when a call came in. It was Martin, and Gus said, “You must be telepathetic, old chap! I had my thumb ready to dial your number.”

  “Ah, what odds would you take that that could happen twice?”

  “None of that, Martin,” Gus said. He added that a meeting was a good idea. They could catch up on the past, as well as discuss the Measby mystery. Then Martin gave him instructions where to meet, and the call ended. Gus reached for the Thornwell train timetable. Opening it at connections to London, he noted down a morning train and, feeling a gentle nudge on his leg, he said apologetically to Whippy that he would take her for a nice long walk now. “I shall be out all day tomorrow, so we’ll make up for it this afternoon,” he said, and clipped on her lead.

  For once, the walk was longer than a quick trot round the playing fields, and Gus headed over the stile into the parkland surrounding the Hall. Although not an officially designated footpath, it had been used for as long as people could remember as a quick route for itinerant farmworkers from Barrington to the next village. Most of its winding way was over Roussel land, and Gus reckoned that as a tenant of the estate he would have a special right to roam at will.

  Whippy was delighted. She lagged behind, investigating interesting sniffs, and then shot past him like a little grey shadow as she spotted rabbits in the distance. Wild cherry leaves landed on them in a scarlet shower as the fresh wind stirred the trees, and as the path took them into an ancient wood, a grey squirrel darted up an oak tree and sat on a branch staring down at them, chattering threateningly.

  Gus noticed none of these rural delights, lost in thought and anticipation of his trip to London. Without Deirdre’s confident presence beside him, his own reservations returned.

  “We could get in too deep,” he told Whippy, who was now sticking to her master’s heels, unaccustomed to the sounds of invisible dangers in the dense undergrowth. “Do I really want to go through all that again?” He scarcely remembered Martin, and had not recognised his voice at first. Well, they were both a good many years older now. He wasn’t sure what Martin’s present connections were with the old firm. Perhaps he was on a retainer, too. Anyway, if his own was to continue, and he certainly needed it, he must expect to make an effort now and then.

  “Sod it, Whippy!” he said, kicking at a pile of leaves like a small boy. “They’ve got me by the short and curlies, and they know it!”

  “I beg your pardon?” said a voice behind him. He turned rapidly, and was relieved to see it was only Theo Roussel approaching him, a smile on his face. “I do hope you won’t think I was eavesdropping,” he said. “Perhaps I might join you for a short while? I’m on my way to find David Budd. Wonderful chap, David. Have you met him?”

  Gus replied that they had exchanged greetings over the garden fence, and that he had once or twice helped Rose with the eldest child. “He’s
an escaper,” he said. “And at the moment, though not for much longer, I’m faster than he is! Lovely family, anyway.”

  “Absolutely,” said Theo. “And I’m so lucky to have such a good worker. Are you still a working man, Mr. Halfhide? Not that I imagine agriculture was your trade?”

  “Not exactly,” Gus replied. “I was mostly abroad. Spying was my trade, Mr. Roussel, but I’m retired now.”

  It always worked. Nobody ever believed him. “Oh, very good, Mr. Halfhide, very good!” chortled Theo. “We must find some jolly mysteries for you to solve with your chums in the village.”

  “Keeps my hand in, and we didn’t do too badly with our last case,” Gus reminded him. “I’m sure you’ve not forgotten old Mrs. Blake and the Beattys?”

  “Quite so,” Theo said dismissively, unwilling to be reminded. “Ah, there’s David! Have a good walk, Mr. Halfhide. Lovely dog. Runs like the wind.”

  Nineteen

  GUS HAD WORKED out that if the train to London took about an hour, he would need to leave Barrington after an early breakfast and a quick dog walk round the playing field. He had met Miriam talking to Alwen Jones in the shop yesterday, and had asked if she would mind saying hello to Whippy over the garden fence a couple of times, just to stop his little companion pining. He was off to his dentist, he improvised.

  Miriam had agreed with enthusiasm, and true to form, asked for all the details of his trip. Which train was he catching from Oakbridge? He could drop Whippy in on his way to the station. Was he taking a bus to the station? So how long would the journey take? Perhaps he and she could have a day in London one day? He could show her the sights? Oh, and could she take Whippy for a walk, and would he remember to give her Whippy’s red lead? Eventually, the shop had been empty except for the three of them. Alwen had said it was Miriam’s turn next, and Gus smiled at her gratefully.

  Now, Whippy duly dropped off with Miriam, he saw that the bus had got him into Oakbridge in good time, and the station platform was crowded with commuters. He pushed his way with the others into an already packed carriage. He saw a single seat and quickly sat down, abandoning all gentlemanly politeness in offering anyone else first choice. He had bought a newspaper from the kiosk, and now held it open in front of his face. He had no desire to talk to strangers, and was already regretting his decision to arrange a meeting with Martin. Deirdre was to blame. If she hadn’t fired him up with her mushroom omelette and several glasses of good white wine, not forgetting her warm smile and low-cut blouse, he would have returned home and concentrated on finding the perpetrator of nuisance telephone calls to Alwen Jones.

  “Is that Augustus?” A hand appeared at the top of Gus’s newspaper and lowered it. Across from him, a middle-aged woman in city clothes stared at him in surprise. “It is, isn’t it? Augustus Halfhide, to the life!”

  He stared back. He had absolutely no idea who the woman was, and as far as he could remember, he had never seen her before.

  “You don’t remember me, do you? Well, that’s no great surprise,” she said. “I suppose it must be twenty years since we played in a mixed doubles tennis tournament in that hideaway in the Pyrenees?” She stuck out her hand invitingly. “Margaret Fortescue I was then. How nice to run into you again!”

  Gus’s heart was in his boots. This was all he needed. He managed a small smile, and said of course he remembered that place. He was sorry he couldn’t recall her name, he said, but it was a long time ago, wasn’t it? He glanced at her hand but saw no wedding ring. So Fortescue had not been a maiden name, but one of her several names, just as Augustus Halfhide was one of his.

  “Where are you living now, Augustus?” she asked. “I saw you getting on at Thornwell and thought you looked familiar.”

  “Oh, I’m between houses at the moment,” he said, his antennae waving madly to pick up any signs of danger. “And you?”

  “Oh, I’m a confirmed Londoner,” she said. “Been visiting an old friend, and now going back home. Are you up for the day?”

  “The other way round for me,” he said. “I’m visiting an old friend in London, and as for whether it will be for one day or several, I am not yet sure.” He laughed. “My old friend is also my dentist,” he said, sticking to his story. “If he can’t fix my tooth straightaway, I’ll have to stay on for a few nights.”

  “Still the same dentist, in Wimpole Street?” she asked. “My flat is just north of that, so perhaps we can share a taxi? Oh look, there’s a buzzard! Isn’t it beautiful? They’re very widespread now, I believe.”

  She rattled on about birds of prey and new legislation, and Gus examined what she had just said about his dentist. How did she know about Wimpole Street? He had had a dentist there for many years, but was it likely the woman would have remembered a chance reference to a once only tennis partner’s dentist, even if he had made such a reference? No it was not. The sooner he got away from her the better. He nodded his head in reply to a question about ospreys, and raised his newspaper once more.

  As the train drew into Liverpool Street station, most passengers were on their feet and ready to run for taxis and tube trains. Gus stayed in his seat, and was dismayed to see the woman who claimed to know him was also still sitting.

  “Not in a hurry, I hope?” she said, reaching for her handbag and sliding over ready to stand up. “I have a taxi booked, so stay with me and you’ll be fine. Wimpole Street in no time, Augustus!”

  Oh my God, what am I to do? Gus was thinking rapidly. He hadn’t much time. I could lose her in the crowds, but she didn’t look easy to lose. I could say I’d changed my dentist, but she’d probably invent a reason why she had to go to wherever I said.

  “I had really thought a walk would be the thing,” he said. “It’s awfully good of you, but I have plenty of time. So nice to have met you again,” he added, and got to his feet. She was still struggling with her coat, and he did not offer to help. The carriage was almost empty now, and he walked swiftly to the door, not looking back. Phew! A lucky escape, he hoped, and walked out of the station and along the road towards the café where he had arranged to meet Martin. It was much too early, but he intended to dive into the network of back streets to be sure that Margaret Fortescue had not followed him.

  In a narrow lane, he stopped to tie his dangling shoelace, and in the reflection in a shop window he saw a taxi stop behind him, and the woman got out. Real fear hit him then, justifiably, as his arm was caught in a vicelike grip, and he was marched firmly to the taxi’s open door.

  “Get in!” she said, and he felt something sticking into his back. Oh no. He thought he had left all that behind, he moaned to himself. The taxi took off at speed, and a strange man sitting next to the driver turned around.

  “Hello, Gus,” he said. “I thought that café we chose was a bit public, so we’re going somewhere safer. Much safer, eh, Margaret?” he added, and laughed. Then she joined in and the taxi driver, too. Gus did not laugh. He felt sick, and could see no way out.

  Twenty

  IVY SAT IN her room, dozing before it was time for supper. Roy snored companionably in the extra armchair Mrs. Spurling had supplied on demand from Ivy, who, soon after arrival, had said she would need to entertain her visitors in private. As it happened, Ivy had few visitors apart from Deirdre, and just lately Roy had taken to popping in and staying for the odd half hour.

  Today was the first time he had fallen asleep, and Ivy found herself surprisingly happy about it. It was restful, somehow. She was reminded of happy Sunday afternoons, when her father would doze off after a good lunch. Mother would go up to the cemetery to put flowers on family graves, while she sat by her father, reading her favourite book. It was always the same book, read over and over again: The Pied Piper of Hamelin, by Robert Browning, and illustrated by the great Kate Greenaway. She could recite it off by heart when she was only ten. “At last the townsfolk in a body, to the town hall came flocking, ‘Tis clear,’ cried they, ‘our Mayor’s a noddy; and as for our Corporation—shocking!’ ” she bega
n aloud, and Roy woke with a start.

  “What’s shocking!” he said, rising to his feet in alarm.

  Ivy put out her hand. “Nothing, nothing. I was just saying some poetry out loud. Something I remembered from when I was little. Sorry, Roy, if I startled you.”

  “No need to apologise, Ivy,” he said. “Just so long as you’re not in any trouble. I must confess I closed my eyes for a minute or two, and do you know, I dreamed a terrible dream!”

  “Not much of a dream in that short time,” said Ivy.

  “About you, as a matter of fact,” said Roy tentatively.

  “Sounds more like a nightmare,” Ivy said. “What had happened to me, then?”

  “You’d been taken off by a stranger. He was riding a great white stallion, and scooped you up into the saddle and galloped away.”

  “Oo-er,” Ivy said. “Was I screaming?”

  “No,” said Roy sadly, “you were laughing with delight.”

  “Oh, Roy!” Ivy burst out into deep chuckles, a little cracked from lack of use. “Nobody makes me laugh like you do.”

  He took her hand, and she blushed like a teenager. “Well,” she said. “That’s enough of that nonsense. Come along, time for supper.”

  Roy thought maybe he had gone too far too soon, but then he realised Ivy was still holding his hand. “I’d like to hear the rest of that poem one day,” he said. “You’ve got such a lovely voice.”

  This was patently so untrue that Ivy laughed again, and the two descended the wide staircase side by side.

  Miss Pinkney, standing by Mrs. Spurling at the dining room doorway, watched them. “I say, Mrs. Spurling,” she said, “do you think we might have a romance amongst us soon?”

  “Don’t talk such rubbish,” replied Mrs. Spurling. “I have quite enough trouble with this lot, without romance!”

  Ivy and Roy had settled themselves at their usual table when Ivy’s mobile phone rang. It was Deirdre, and she sounded worried.