The Measby Murder Enquiry

by Ann Purser

  “Ivy!” he said in a stage whisper.

  She looked at him with an innocent expression and smiled. Then the first hymn was announced and the service was under way.

  As usual in these circumstances, Mrs. Spurling had asked the vicar to announce that there would be a cup of tea and light refreshments at Springfields after the service. Ivy had counted twelve mourners, and she watched with a sour look as the little group who had never met Mrs. Worth joined the others on their way back.

  “Now then, Katya, back to work,” Mrs. Spurling said briskly. “I am very anxious that there shall be no miserable faces in the lounge to depress our other residents. Bring in the refreshments and do your best to lighten the atmosphere.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Spurling,” she replied. “Perhaps we could have a sing-song?”

  Mrs. Spurling raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t mean a knees-up, girl!” she said. “Off you go, now.”

  “Morning, Ivy,” said a voice, and Ivy turned around to see Gus standing there with a cup of tea in his hand.

  “Where did you spring from?” she said in surprise. “I didn’t see you in church?”

  “I was there in spirit,” he said.

  “And so was Mrs. Worth,” muttered Roy. He offered a plate of tiny sausage rolls to Gus, who took a handful and conveyed them swiftly to his mouth. “Palming cards comes in useful sometimes,” he said, bending down and whispering in Ivy’s ear.

  “So who’s the mystery figure over there?” he continued, indicating the woman who had sat in the front pew.

  “Why don’t we find out?” said Ivy, and marched across the room, closely followed by Roy and Gus.

  “How d’ye do,” said Roy with his best smile. “A stranger round here, are you? It can be a sad time if you’re on your own. Have a sausage roll, my dear.”

  The woman returned his smile gratefully, and said it was difficult holding a cup and saucer in one hand and a sausage roll in the other, and eat or drink at the same time. They all laughed, and the ice was broken. After introductions, Ivy discovered that the woman’s name was Martha, and she had known the Worths when they were all young kids at the Junior School in Thornwell.

  “We lost touch, as you do,” she said apologetically. “Otherwise, of course, I’d have been over here to see Daisy while she was still alive. I happened to see the death notice in the local paper, and that’s why I’m here. Poor old Daisy, she didn’t have much luck. Looks as if I am chief mourner! No family members here, are there?”

  “How d’you mean, she didn’t have much luck?” asked Ivy casually.

  “Well, I know she had a child who looked exactly like William Jones! Maybe I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but everybody expected it, the way she carried on. Joe Worth was a bit simple, as they say, and not lively enough for Daisy.

  “I’m lost,” said Gus.

  Roy laughed. “Tell him, Martha. Or shall I? The fact is, William Jones was a frequent visitor to the Worths, and always when Joe was out gardening.”

  “And it was William Jones’s baby,” stated Ivy clearly. “I had it from the horse’s mouth.”

  There was a shocked silence, and then Martha nodded. “Did she tell you that? Daft old thing. Still, I suppose it doesn’t matter now. William Jones went missing, presumed dead, and that poor little kid got run over. See what I mean about not much luck?”

  “Have another sausage roll, Gus,” Roy said.

  “Don’t mind if I do, squire,” said Gus, putting on a funny voice. He was out of his depth, he decided. Couldn’t keep up with Ivy. Better leave it all to her.

  “How interesting, Martha,” Ivy persisted. “And you said that William was presumed dead? Only presumed?”

  Martha was enjoying herself, surprised that there was so much interest in her erstwhile school friend. She searched her memory, and said that after a while, some people swore they saw him skulking around dark corners in town. “But that died down, and the only reference I have heard since was when his wife, Mrs. Alwen Jones, put her house on the market and went to live in a home.”

  “This home, Martha.” They all turned around to see who had spoken. It was Alwen Jones, and she was looking far from pleased.

  Forty-one

  “THAT WAS A sticky moment,” Ivy said, as she sat at the supper table with Roy and Gus. Mrs. Spurling had invited Gus to stay, thinking it would cheer up Ivy and Roy, who, she mistakenly thought, were depressed by the day’s events. Since Gus had sat with Mrs. Worth for only a couple of hours on two occasions and had spent the time reading the racing pages of the Daily Mail, the invitation was hardly justified. However, since steak and kidney pie and lemon sponge pudding were on the menu, he accepted gratefully.

  “You mean when Alwen appeared? Where is she, by the way? Haven’t seen her since then,” Roy said.

  “And she wasn’t at the funeral, was she?” Gus had noted the mourners as they emerged from the church but had not seen Alwen Jones. “You’d have thought she would have wanted to be there to say farewell to her old gardener’s wife?”

  “You’re joking, of course!”

  “Yes, I suppose I am,” said Gus. “But even so, all that was a very long time ago, and poor old Daisy did lose her only son under a brewery lorry.”

  Roy cleared his throat. “Um, we’re not suggesting here that it could have been something more sinister than an accident, are we?”

  There was a silence, as the horrifying possibility was considered.

  “Did anyone get Martha’s surname or address?” Ivy asked. “I reckon that could be the next step in our investigation. She would certainly have some more to tell us about those early days.”

  At this point, Alwen Jones could be seen entering the hall with her daughter Bronwen.

  “Uh-oh, look out, folks,” said Gus.

  But Alwen did not even glance into the dining room. She received a peck on the cheek from her daughter and then went straight upstairs and out of sight.

  “All clear,” said Roy. “And yes, since you ask, Ivy, I always make a point of obtaining details of attractive women, as you know.”

  Ivy bridled. “Don’t be ridiculous, Roy,” she said. “Just remember what I said about trust. But did you ask her? Don’t keep us in suspense.”

  “Her name is Martha Sparrow, she is a married lady with grandchildren, and she lives in a new housing development for elderly people on the outskirts of Thornwell. I heard her telling Mrs. Spurling that her number is in the phone book, should she be needed. I think maybe she was offering to be a volunteer visitor to Springfields.”

  “You’re a marvel, Roy!” Gus said tactlessly. “Now, I suggest we look her up in the book, and ask if a couple of us can go over to have a chat.”

  “Me and Roy, then,” said Ivy. “It’d make a nice little outing. You and Deirdre get out and about far more easily than us, so you can do something else. Maybe find out a bit more about those two who kept you prisoner, Gus?”

  “If I may make a suggestion?” said Roy. “I have been wondering about that mysterious connection of yours, Gus. Martin, was it? He was the start of all this, and although I know you can’t reveal your, um, secrets, don’t you think you should check with him again to see if he’s still wanting us to ferret out other cases of extortion and so on? I am really not too clear myself.”

  Ivy nodded. She had been thinking on much the same lines herself. Earlier on, Gus had led them to believe that the Measby old man’s death was the most important, that it was a suspicious death, which meant murder, didn’t it?

  Then it had seemed that Alwen’s panicked request for help concerning money taken from her under false pretences could in some way be connected to possible blackmail in the case of the death of the old man. But then Alwen had withdrawn her request in a false kind of way, saying she had retrieved the money.

  “Do you think we’ve been a bit sidetracked by all the brewery goings-on?” she suggested now. But nobody seemed willing to answer that. Instead, Gus said that he would have another attempt at con
tacting Martin.

  “The trouble is,” he said, “he is quite difficult to get hold of. I am not sure I have his correct phone number. But I’ll keep trying. As far as I am aware, we are still heading in the right direction. And so I suggest that Deirdre and I should make our way over to Measby again, and ask some more questions about the old man who died in his cottage, and why he should have had a well-thumbed book about serious gambling. My province, you know, and I have a hunch it may point us in the right direction.”

  “Who wrote that book, again, Gus?” Ivy asked. She had it safely inside her handbag but had a reason for asking.

  “Weasel Murphy,” he replied. “And he’s an American, so no joy there, if that’s what you were thinking, Ivy.”

  GUS HAD RETURNED home, and in his chilly, cheerless cottage he suddenly felt lonely. Funerals were like that. Not that he had attended, but at Springfields it was the topic for the day. The wake had been upbeat and full of noisy chatter, a kind of relief from the gloom, and then his supper with Ivy and Roy had been positive and useful. It was only on return to Hangman’s Row that his thoughts turned to mortality and his spirits sank. Maybe he would telephone Deirdre and update her on developments.

  “Hello, Gus? What’s new?”

  “Where were you today, Deirdre? The rest of us have been mourning the late Daisy Worth, and doing a bit of investigating on the side.”

  “Good,” Deirdre said icily. “Are you going to tell me you’ve solved everything?”

  “No, silly, I was only joking. But actually, we did get some things confirmed.” He filled her in on the Martha Sparrow meeting, and their plans for the next steps. “So looks like you and me trudging around Measby again. Shall we meet and work out something more productive than calling on Doris May or going to the pub?”

  “Sounds fine by me,” Deirdre said. And then Gus heard a man’s voice in the background, calling her. He could tell she covered the phone with her hand and answered the call in muffled tones that he could not decipher. “But not now, Gus.” She returned with a clear voice. “I plan an early night. How about tomorrow morning? Coffee time?”

  “I’ll be there,” Gus said. “And just watch it, Deirdre. You know you can’t trust the aristocracy, don’t you?”

  She cut off the call without so much as a good-bye.

  MRS. SPURLING WAS happy to pass on Martha Sparrow’s address and telephone number. She had liked the woman and intended to cultivate her. She had a nice cheerful manner and would be just the kind of person to visit one or two of her residents who had no family visitors and tended to settle into a distressed limbo, waiting for the final exit.

  “We shall be calling on her, as invited,” Ivy said. “I might give her a ring now and see if she’s free tomorrow. We can order ourselves a taxi. I’ll let you know if we’re in for lunch.”

  How good of you! Mrs. Spurling wondered if she would ever get used to being treated like a paid subordinate by Miss Beasley, and she decided she would not. Still, between them they seemed to have declared an unspoken truce, and things were going reasonably well. When she attended meetings of staff from other retirement developments in the Oliver Luxury Retirement Homes chain, none of the other managers had residents even remotely like Ivy Beasley, and were quite envious when she described what a lively place Springfields had become with Ivy’s arrival.

  “A cold wind is forecast for tomorrow,” she said now. “Do make sure you and Mr. Goodman are well wrapped up if you venture forth,” she advised, and left them to make their way upstairs to Ivy’s room.

  Ivy went straight to her telephone and dialled Martha Sparrow’s number. “Hello? Is that Mrs. Sparrow? Oh, good. Yes, it’s Miss Beasley here. Yes, we met today at Springfields. I do hope you meant it when you said you’d be pleased to see us at any time? You did? Well, we, that is Mr. Goodman and me, will be in Thornwell tomorrow morning, and wondered if we could call. Oh, that’s no problem. We have a taxi man who ferries us about. What time suits you? Oh, how kind. Yes, we’d love to have a cup of coffee with you and your husband. Right, well, we’ll see you tomorrow! Good-bye until then.”

  “No sooner said than done, Ivy,” Roy said admiringly.

  Ivy put her hand on his cheek and daringly darted a kiss onto his smiling lips. Then she reached for her handbag. “Now, I think it’s time we had a look to see what Mr. Weasel Murphy has to say about cheating at cards. I have a feeling this is the way we should be going. Draw up your chair, Roy, and we can read it together. But remember,” she warned, “this is for research purposes only.”

  Forty-two

  ALWEN JONES HAD had an uncomfortable night. She had spent yesterday afternoon with her daughter Bronwen, visiting places she would never have chosen on her own. Bronwen had been in a strange mood, very tense and snappy, and it had not been a happy outing. And then there had been that awful moment when the Sparrow woman had appeared in Springfields’ lounge, gabbling away to Ivy and Roy, and, for heaven’s sake, to Gus Halfhide, though what he was doing at a wake for Daisy Worth was beyond her.

  She reflected that had she known that the blackmailing old widow of the simpleton gardener, Joe Worth, was living upstairs in Springfields, she would not have considered moving in herself. Still, as it worked out, there had been no danger of her having to confront Daisy, and as far as she could tell, nobody here knew of the connection. She had gathered from conversations in the lounge that Daisy was totally senile, and so would have been very unlikely to have remembered those distant humiliating days.

  She was dressed and ready to go down to breakfast, but the thought of making conversation with Ivy and Roy, taking care with every sentence she uttered, filled her with gloom. Looking back on her days as a busy head teacher, with Bronwen and Bethan still living at home, and the three of them making such a success of their lives together, she decided that the whole thing had fallen apart when the girls got married. “We could have done without husbands, all three of us,” she said aloud, not noticing that following a gentle tap at the door it had opened to reveal Katya, looking anxiously at her.

  “I am so sorry, Mrs. Wilson Jones,” the girl said. “I did not realise you were talking to somebody. Are you on the telephone?”

  “No, no, come on in. Talking to myself, Katya, and you know what they say. Yourself is the last person you talk to before being taken off to the lunatic asylum.”

  “What is lunatic asylum, please?”

  “Oh, don’t trouble your head with my nonsense,” Alwen said, taking a deep breath and pulling herself up straight. She reached for her stick, and made a big effort to smile. “Off to breakfast, dear,” she said. “Do I smell smoked haddock? Again?”

  Ivy and Roy were already seated at their table, and at the sight of Alwen both waved spontaneously and beckoned her over.

  “Are you feeling better, my dear?” Roy said. “We were quite worried about you yesterday. Apart from whizzing in, grunting at Martha Sparrow, grabbing a sausage roll and whizzing out again, we hardly set eyes on you!”

  “You’re looking smart, anyway,” Ivy said grudgingly. How could Roy say they were worried, when they had been relieved she hadn’t joined them at supper time? Had mother been right about men? Traitors all, she had said, more than once. “Are you off out with your daughter again today?” she said, trying to make it sound a casual question, though she had been brooding overnight and had come to the conclusion that something serious was definitely going on between the two of them, and not just a loving mother and daughter relationship.

  Alwen wished she had had breakfast in her room, but she did her best to answer the questions pleasantly. “No, not today,” she said. “Bronwen insisted yesterday on taking me shopping for new shoes. She says my old ones look too scruffy even for the garden.” Why did I mention the wretched garden? she asked herself. She had a mental flashback—all too frequent these days—of Joe Worth bent over his spade and slowly digging deep, preparing the soil for winter vegetables.

  On an impulse, Ivy said that she and Roy we
re going over to Thornwell and would be having a coffee with Martha. Would Alwen like to come? Maybe she needed to get out and see people other than family?

  Ivy and Roy were both stunned by Alwen’s response.

  “Why can’t you leave me alone!” she said, pushing back her chair and standing up with difficulty. “All I need is a bit of peace,” she added, and began to cry, sobbing bitterly and subsiding once more on to her chair.

  Ivy, nonplussed, signalled for help to Roy. If anyone could handle this, it was him, dear, kind, gentlemanly Roy. As she had known he would, he rose to the challenge. Pulling a large handkerchief from the breast pocket of his tweed jacket, he handed it over to Alwen, and then, after she had blown her nose with a wonderful trumpet blast, he took her hand in both of his and gently stroked it until she had composed herself.

  “I am so sorry,” she croaked, sniffing loudly. “I don’t deserve to have friends.”

  “A nice hot cup of tea is what you need,” said Ivy briskly. She had no time for self-pity, and had to admit she was relieved when Roy relinquished Alwen’s hand. As far as Ivy could judge, Alwen Jones had everything she could want. Wealth, daughters, as much good health as she could expect at her age, and several residents of Springfields perfectly willing to be her friends.

  “So will you come with us to Thornwell?” Ivy continued. “After we’ve been to Martha’s, we plan to try a new café that’s just opened in the crypt of that big church in the middle of town.”

  Alwen was about to refuse again but thought suddenly that maybe she would go. It might do her good, and would certainly be better than sitting in her room worrying about Bronwen.