The Measby Murder Enquiry

by Ann Purser

  The vicarage was a large, turreted house, built at a time when the vicar was one of the most important men in the village. They knocked gently on the smart front door, and Deirdre noticed that the paint was fresh. In fact, considering vicars were so poorly paid, the whole place had a surprising air of prosperity about it. Neat garden, closely mown lawns, weed-free gravel drive. It was certainly a more impressive place than the new utility model vicarage in Barrington.

  The door opened. “Yes?” A tall, bearded figure with a dog collar peeping out looked at them suspiciously.

  “Good morning,” said Gus. “So sorry to trouble you, but we were wondering whether you could help us. We are trying to trace a relative of my wife here.”

  Deirdre dug him fiercely in the back with her handbag. Wife, indeed!

  The vicar sighed. “Oh, dear,” he said. “We get so many people. . . . You’d better come in, but I can’t give you much time. I have a meeting I must attend.”

  They followed him into a very pleasant study. He had obviously been working on his sermon, thought Deirdre, seeing papers and books spread out on his desk.

  “Now, who are you looking for? Name?”

  “Well, that’s the problem,” said Gus. “We don’t exactly know. Could be Smith or Jones. Two sides of the family, you know. All we do know is that he lived in an old cottage in this village. He died relatively recently, and we are anxious that he should have a decent memorial. It is possible that he had no close relations. Never married, apparently.”

  “Are you sure you are looking for Smith? We had a Bernard Smithson, died quite recently,” the vicar said. When Gus said that yes, of course it was Smithson he had meant to say, the vicar continued.

  “Easily found. His cottage, now tumbling down, is in the High Street, and he is buried in the churchyard. No headstone as yet. In fact, we were hoping a relative would come forward to take care of that. Why don’t you go along and have a look? The new cemetery is just up the Oakbridge road, and his is the newest grave. Marked with a wooden cross at the moment, as are all graves until the ground settles. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must dash.”

  He began to gather his papers together, and stacked the books into a neat pile. Deirdre watched him, thinking he certainly seemed a very busy man, and well organised, for a vicar. Maybe a bit too smooth? Then he picked up a paperback book that had been open facedown on the end of the desk. He closed it and slipped it underneath the pile, but not before Deirdre had noticed the name of the author. Weasel Murphy. Weasel Murphy? She couldn’t wait to tell Gus.

  Forty-five

  GUS’S REACTION WAS disappointing. “Well,” he said, “I don’t suppose he’d be the first man of the cloth to have a flutter on the gees.”

  “But Weasel Murphy is not about having a few bob on the Tote. It’s big stuff, isn’t it? Ivy’s got it now. Maybe we should take another look.”

  As they walked slowly up the road towards the cemetery, Gus once more took Deirdre’s arm. “On reflection, Dee-Dee,” he said, “you may be right, and the sad truth is that I really don’t want to know.”

  She looked into his face, and was shocked at his despairing expression.

  “On the face of it,” he continued, “there’s nothing wrong with an old man and a reverend gentleman having an interest in gambling. Lots of people enjoy the excitement, and don’t get fleeced. But there is another side to it, as I know only too well.”

  He stopped and turned to face Deirdre. “Sod it!” he said loudly. “I really thought I’d left all that behind!”

  They stood without speaking for a moment, and then Deirdre took his arm. “Poor old thing,” she said. “So do you want us to duck out of this case?”

  Gus laughed. “Not likely,” he said. “Never fear, Gus is here!”

  “Even if it turns out to have nothing to do with your Martin’s investigation?”

  “Even so.”

  “Right, well, let’s find Bernard Smithson’s grave and see if we can pick up any clues.”

  They stepped out again purposefully, and Gus squeezed Deirdre’s hand. “And don’t worry about Weasel Murphy,” he said. “I know him off by heart.”

  The cemetery was shaded and chilled by a row of tall, aged yew trees, gnarled and twisted, their gloomy graveyard green turned into black by the heavy rain clouds now gathering over Measby. The iron gate stuck fast, and Gus put his weight behind it to force it open. A rusty watering can stood under a tap, and the rubbish bin was overflowing with dead flowers and discarded cellophane wrappings. Beside the bin, lying where its killer had thrown it, was a dead fox, its fiery coat soiled with smears of liquid mud.

  “God, what a place to be laid to rest!” said Gus. “Let’s find the old man’s grave and get out of here as soon as poss.”

  Deirdre was surprisingly unmoved. “Foxes are vermin, so we’re told,” she said. “Theo has a lot of trouble with the anti-hunt lot, but he says local farmers lose lambs and chickens to the fox every year. They have to be culled, he says.”

  Gus had no interest in what Theo had to say about anything except a little matter of increasing the rent on his cottage. He ignored Deirdre’s remark, and stepped forward to a clearly recent grave. A wooden cross had only the name Bernard Smithson and his dates of birth and death. Two wreaths of long-dead flowers remained.

  “Not much to go on here,” he said.

  “Wait a minute,” Deirdre said, leaning forward and picking up one of the wreaths. A label still clung to the wire frame, and she peered at it closely. “Have you got your glasses, Gus?” she said. “Didn’t think to bring mine.” She handed the wreath to him, and he began to read. “ ‘With fond remembrances. Bill and Jean next door.’ Neighbours, obviously.”

  “What about this one?”

  “ ‘Bernie—Gone but not forgotten. D.M.O.’ Any good?”

  Deirdre frowned. “D.M.O.? Oh my God, Gus. Doris May Osborne. That’s who it is. Not the usual loving message, is it?” She shivered. “Come on, let’s go. I reckon that’s enough for one day.”

  “Not really, Deirdre,” he said, replacing the wreath carefully. “What about the second item on our plan? Investigate the Reading Room. Remember? We noticed it on our first visit. The notice in the window about an archive that could be seen on applying to the caretaker for the key?”

  “I need a drink,” Deirdre said, without much hope.

  “Stiffen the sinews, wife,” Gus said. She took a deep breath, but he did not allow her to reply. “Now, do you remember where the Reading Room is? I think it’s up that side road near the church.”

  THE CARETAKER LIVED conveniently close to the Reading Room and answered the door at once. Deirdre had the feeling that behind every cottage window was a pair of watchful eyes, following their progress round the village.

  “Just a minute,” the woman said. “I’ll get the key. My name’s Betty, by the way. And yours?”

  “Brian and Maureen,” said Deirdre quickly. “Nice to meet you, Betty.”

  They were ushered into the Reading Room, a pretty nineteenth-century building restored by public subscription five years ago. The roof gables were edged with carved wooden boards, and the windows decorated with a latticed frieze of coloured glass.

  “Nice and dry in here,” Deirdre said. “Good for your archive material. Damp is death to old documents, isn’t it.”

  Betty nodded proudly. “Was it something particular you was looking for?” she said.

  “Yes, we’re trying to trace some information on the Smithson family,” Gus answered. “We’ve seen old Bernard’s grave. So sad. I’m a distant relation, and never met him. But I’m interested in researching the family. Lots of people do it these days. Maybe we’re living in an insecure age where we need to find our roots!”

  Betty looked at him blankly. “I suppose so,” she said. “Research, did you say?” She was clearly impressed. “Well, help yourself. It’s all in that filing cabinet over there. It’s this small key. I’ve got work to do, so I’ll leave you to it. Bring th
e key back to me, please, and then I’ll come and lock up.”

  “You’re very busy, I’m sure,” said Deirdre. “Do you work in the village?”

  “Oh, yes, I clean at the school, and I do some cooking for Mrs. Osborne at the Manor, when she’s got dinner parties, an’ that. I’ve got a steak and kidney pie in the oven right now! She’ll not be pleased if the pastry’s burnt!”

  After she had gone, Deirdre and Gus got to work. They looked up Osborne first of all, and found a fat file full of details of the local squires, resident at the Manor since the conquest. They had lived in some style, it seemed, and a couple of generations back, one Geoffrey Osborne had used the family money, plenty of money coming from coal mines in Derbyshire, to install main drainage and water supply for the entire village.

  “So Doris May married into the right family.” Deirdre remembered that for all her airs and graces, Doris had seemed not quite top drawer. “Mind you, she struck me as a very determined lady. Perhaps the late Mr. Osborne didn’t stand a chance!”

  Gus didn’t answer, and she saw that he had crouched down and was absorbed in an old photograph in the bottom drawer. She looked over his shoulder, and saw a wedding group. She peered closely at the bride. “Hey, that’s our Doris May, isn’t it?” she said.

  Gus nodded. “And read the caption,” he said.

  Deidre read through the names and details of the wedding party. “Ah, here it is,” she said. “This is Doris May’s maiden name. Oh my God, it says ‘nee Wilson’! Ringing bells, Gus?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Loud and clear. How about you?”

  “Alwen Wilson Jones,” they chorused.

  Forty-six

  “I’LL GO AND sit in the car, Gus,” Deirdre said, “and you can go to the shop and get something for us to eat. A couple of cans of something alcoholic wouldn’t come amiss.”

  “Sure you don’t want to come?”

  “No, the old man will recognise me and that’s probably not a good thing at the moment.”

  “Right-o. See you in a couple of minutes.”

  Gus strode off down the road to the shop, and Deirdre retraced her steps to the car. She sat in the driving seat and switched on the radio. Measby was giving her the creeps, and so she put on some loud jazz to cheer herself up. She did not hear the approach of footsteps, and was startled when a face appeared at the window next to her. With great presence of mind, she hit the locking button, and mouthed, “What do you want?” to the woman’s face.

  “Open the window,” the woman shouted.

  Deirdre switched off the radio, and lowered the window, but not very far, leaving enough open for a conversation.

  “Mrs. Bloxham?” the woman said. She smiled, but Deirdre did not return the smile. How did this woman know her name?

  “What do you want?”

  “Just a little chat. It’s an awfully cold wind, isn’t it. Do you think I might sit in the car for a second or two? I’m doing a survey on the recent outbreak of swine flu, and would be most grateful if you could answer one or two questions?”

  “How did you know my name?”

  The woman did not answer but walked round to the passenger door and knocked gently on the window there. Deirdre sighed. She supposed the car was well-known. After all, Bert had been a public figure in the county. The woman seemed genuine enough, and it was important to get as much information as possible on swine flu.

  She had her finger on the unlock button when she heard a great shout from down the road. She could see Gus approaching, and he was waving his arms about in a crazed semaphore. “Don’t open!” she heard as he came closer. She turned to speak to the woman, but she had disappeared.

  “For God’s sake, Deirdre! That was her, the woman who kidnapped me!” Gus was level with the car now, and Deirdre unlocked the doors. Gus jumped in beside her and said in the time honoured phrase, “Follow that car!”

  “What car?” said Deirdre.

  “Oh, yes, sorry. Got carried away. She ran off down that track. But Deirdre, I did recognise her. She calls herself Margaret. What did she say to you?”

  “Said she was doing a swine flu survey, and asked to sit in the car to talk to me for a minute. I was just going to let her in when you shouted. Are you sure that was the Margaret woman? This one seemed genuine to me.”

  “Very convincing, I’m sure. She was very convincing in the train that day. No, I’m quite sure, Deirdre. I had plenty of time to get well acquainted with her. Are you up to following down that track? Might be a bit hard on the Rolls’s paintwork.”

  “I’ll go if you think we must, but if the man is down there, too, and it’s likely to be a dead end, we might be in danger. What do you think?”

  “I think a dead end might be exaggerating, but at the same time we don’t know how many more of them there are. You’re probably right. So why don’t we just note where it goes and leave our visit to them for another day?”

  “I can see a muddy sign over there, pointing down the track. Can you read it?”

  Gus peered through the window. “Hollings Farm, it says. Remember that. Now, let’s eat. There was a young girl in the shop. No sign of your old shopkeeper. Here you are, ham and mustard or cheese and pickle?”

  MARGARET PUFFED INTO the house, and Max looked up expectantly. “Well?” he said.

  “No good,” she said. “Doris wasn’t quick enough with her call. Bloxham was in the car, and about to let me in, when our mutual friend returned from the shop with supplies. He saw me and went mad, shouting and waving his arms about, so I beat it as quickly as I could.”

  “Ah, well, it was a long shot. Worth a try, though. Nothing like a personal warning to make them realise we mean business. We have to get them off our case, Margaret, just until we finish the job. Then it’s away to the sunshine and a life of Riley.”

  “Who was Riley?”

  “God knows. But he obviously knew how to have a good time.” Max folded up his newspaper and walked over to where Margaret stood, still red-faced and breathing fast.

  “How near are we to the end?” she said as he put his arms around her.

  “Close, I would say,” he replied. “Last time I caught sight of the old woman, she looked very peely-wally, very peely-wally indeed.”

  “I hope that means something bad,” Margaret said sharply. “We can do without Alwen fighting fit!”

  “Take it from me,” he said, giving her a hug, “peely-wally will be much too mild to describe her by the time we take off.”

  GUS AND DEIRDRE sat in the car until the windows steamed up and Deirdre said she supposed they’d better be getting back.

  “One more call to make,” Gus said. “I can do it by myself, or you can come, too. Not too spooked by our day out so far?”

  Deirdre shook her head. “I’m not going to be left alone here, though,” she said. “Wherever you go, I go, too, Augustus Halfhide.”

  “Even to the Manor House?”

  “Oh, no, not Doris May! Do you think it’s wise?”

  “What can she do to us? She’ll probably be expecting us, anyway,” he said. “Come on, sooner we get this one over, sooner we can go home.”

  It was raining gently when they got out of the car. Deirdre took an umbrella from the backseat and then locked up. “Straight there, then,” she said. “What are we going to say? She’ll know me again, I’m sure. I reckon the shopkeeper contacted her the minute he saw me pass by.”

  “And then rang Margaret? Is it a village network we’re looking for? Small beer, in investigating circles, but may be dangerous, nevertheless. Is that umbrella fixed with a sharp point on the end?”

  “Okay, okay. Enough of your sarcasm. I don’t care how small the network is, it could still be lethal. And I am not exaggerating. Depends on how high the stakes are, doesn’t it?”

  “A very appropriate gambling phrase, Deirdre,” Gus said. “Now, here’s the entrance to the Manor. We might as well be consistent, and carry on with our family researches into the late unlamented
Bernard Smithson.”

  They walked briskly up the long drive, Gus determined and Deirdre reluctant, until they were within sight of the house.

  “Come on, Dee-Dee,” Gus said, aware that she was slowing down.

  “But Gus,” she said, “look at the windows. The blinds are down on every single one. There’s nobody there, surely. Why don’t we go back and try again another day? This is just a waste of time.”

  Gus hesitated. “You may be right,” he said. “But then who made the call to Margaret, telling her you were in the village?”

  “The old man in the shop?”

  “But he wasn’t there, either, when I went in. That young girl was serving.”

  “Doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. He could have been lurking in the back of the shop. Or gone to ground with his devious boss. Just because the blinds are down, it doesn’t mean they aren’t in the house. Oh, no, why am I saying this? I know what you’re going to suggest. Keep going and see what’s happening round the back?”

  Gus smiled at her and nodded. “That’s my girl,” he said. “Best foot forward.”

  They walked on, agreeing that they were probably under observation from behind the blinds. “Still, we’re not doing any harm. We have a perfectly good reason for being here. We shall say we understand Bernie was at one time a handyman at the Manor, and hope that Mrs. Osborne might have some information to give us on his wider family.”

  “Glib, that’s what you are, Gus,” Deirdre said. “I can see why your secret department keeps you on a retainer. I bet you were top agent at one time?”

  “Never mind about that,” he replied. “Isn’t that a figure standing in the shadows by the entrance to the stable yard?”

  Deirdre gulped. “Yeah, it is. She’s sure to remember me. So can we turn and run, please?”