The Sleeping Salesman Enquiry

by Ann Purser

  Ivy sensed his reluctance, and said firmly that the fresh air would do him good, and his dog, too. “That Whippy doesn’t get nearly enough exercise for the breed,” she added. “She should be able to go like the wind, instead of strolling on a lead across the Green to the shop every day.”

  “I give her lots of chasing after a ball on the playing fields,” Gus said defensively. “The vet gave her a clean bill of health at her last checkup. But yes,” he added, seeing Roy’s silent signal from behind Ivy, “you’re quite right. I’ll be two ticks, getting my coat. Don’t want you catching cold hanging about.”

  • • •

  “SO YOU ACTUALLY went out for a walk yesterday, like good King Wenceslas, when the snow lay all around, deep and crisp and even? I must say that was a little foolhardy, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, don’t you start, Gus,” said Ivy. “I don’t see what King Thingummy has to do with it. We were quite safe, and until Roy’s wheels began to slither about in the slush, we were perfectly all right. Then we turned back, but not before something really curious happened.”

  “In Barrington? Nothing curious happens down here in Hangman’s Lane.”

  “Must have done once, judging from its name,” said Roy. “They say the gibbet was up beyond the woods, at the crossroads. Deliberate, apparently, so that as many villains as possible got the warning.”

  Whippy was straining at the leash, scenting rabbits in the woods, and they turned off along a flat path leading to a picnic spot. It was colder under the trees, and Ivy said they should turn around and retreat to Gus’s cottage for a cup of tea.

  “Are you going to spin it out, Ivy, in time-honoured fashion, before you tell me what the curious thing was?”

  “Yes,” said Ivy. “My feet are getting wet, and Roy’s nose is blue. Come on, let’s quicken up and get back.”

  Gus’s cottage was warm. He had a small wood-burning stove in the sitting room hearth, and Ivy and Roy settled down in front of it. Ivy had taken off her shoes, and was toasting her feet in front of the stove’s open doors.

  “Nice little place, this,” Roy said.

  “It’s hideous,” said Gus. “If my poor father saw the depths to which I had sunk, he would turn in his grave.” His words were harsh, but he grinned. The cottage was a refuge from his former life, when his private and professional existence had become irretrievably muddled. Now in relative peace, he enjoyed the companionship of people who wished him well, and Enquire Within kept his brain active.

  “Yes, well, enough of that. Isn’t that the kettle boiling? Hot tea is required, and not too strong for me, please,” said Ivy.

  “So, the curious happening?” Gus said.

  “Right,” said Roy. “We escaped for a short while when the snow stopped and everywhere was dripping in the thaw. I had heard that Cemetery Lane was cleared and suggested we went up there, possibly to see the graves of my ancestors, God rest their souls.”

  “Don’t be so silly, Roy,” said Ivy. “You don’t think about your ancestors from one year’s end to the next. Shall I carry on? Yes? Well, you remember our latest client, Alfred Lowe?”

  “Of course I do, Ivy. I am the one who tackled him. He lives up there, doesn’t he.”

  “We were just coming up to his house, when his door opened and a woman came out. Tottered out, would be the best way of describing it. Heels four inches high, in this weather!”

  “So, Alf had a visitor. That’s not particularly curious, Ivy.”

  “Ah, but this visitor was screaming at him, and her parting words were that she would be back. Then I heard him say something like, ‘Stay away, Susan,’ and I reckon from the way they were at it, hammer and tongs, that she was his absent wife.”

  Gus nodded. “Right. That’s his wife’s name, all right. So not so absent. Did he say anything to you?”

  “Oh yes. I introduced myself and Ivy,” answered Roy, “and then he remembered me. Said we should get together sometime to talk about the old days. He was really very pleasant.”

  “Mm, seems he’s a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde character. You should have heard him when we first met! Anyway, now you’ve taken a very important step, and we can arrange to have an official consultation with him. What do you say, Ivy? Happy to take him on now?”

  “I thought we had already,” said Ivy with a sniff. “Now, we must be getting back, Roy. Our jailer will be sending out a search party.”

  Twelve

  HILL TOP, HOME of the Wrights, high up above the town of Thornwell, had had another flurry of snow, and Steven, already in a bad mood and feeling rotten from his disastrous meal last evening, was swearing bitter oaths at having to clear away a pathway for his car in order to visit his old uncle in Barrington.

  “Why didn’t you get me up earlier to deal with this?” he said crossly to his long-suffering wife.

  “You’ve made a good job of it now,” she said consolingly. But to herself she thought that one of these days she would booby-trap the garage door so that it would come down on top of him and silence his complaining voice forever.

  “I shall probably be late back,” he said. “This morning in the office, and then over to Barrington to see the blushing bridegroom. Boring old Roy. The whole thing is a complete embarrassment, and I shall do what I can to get him out of it. Probably in the clutches of a scheming old woman.”

  “Sometimes these late romances are very lovely. Old people can be very lonely, and if they have someone belonging to them to keep them company, it is a great blessing.”

  “Sentimental nonsense, Wendy. And don’t stand outside here in the cold. You’ll be going down with flu or something, and you know I have to steer clear of infections.”

  He drove off without saying good-bye or offering a backward wave.

  She returned to the house and decided to have another coffee and start the book she had ordered from Amazon, and which she intended to keep from Steve’s prying eyes. She settled down in front of the electric fire in the sitting room and opened the package. “Murder, She Said,” Wendy read aloud. She chuckled and turned to the first page.

  • • •

  STEVEN’S SO-CALLED BORING old uncle, Roy Goodman, was in fine fettle this morning. He had woken to see snow clouds passing overhead, but up to now it had been fine in Barrington. A good day to plan the next move for Enquire Within, he decided. He picked up the room phone and dialled Ivy’s number. “Good morning, light of my life!” he said.

  Ivy was scarcely awake, and muttered that as far as she could see her room was in complete darkness, and could she ring him back.

  “It’s Roy, sleepyhead,” he said. “Just wanted to wish you a nice day, as the Americans say. I have some ideas we might talk about. But first wash an’ brush up and breakfast. It is quite late, actually. I do hope Katya will have kept something hot for us.”

  “Do you always wake up so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, Roy, my dear?” said Ivy.

  “Always,” he replied. “I do hope that is not going to put you off marrying me? I am afraid it comes from a lifetime of getting up early to do the milking.”

  “Nothing is going to put me off, Roy. I wouldn’t have you spending all that money on a ring only to duck out on you. By the way, one of the things I shall be enquiring about this morning is what that jeweller meant by ‘plenty of candidates’ to be a farmer’s wife, and the purchase of an engagement ring? You being the farmer in question?”

  “Ah, thereby hangs a tale. All shall be revealed to you over the eggs and bacon. See you in a few minutes, my lovely.”

  Ivy put down the phone and smiled. She had had so many doubts about the wisdom of getting married at her age, but now she was sure. Roy was like a rock, always so calm and sensible, and she knew she could trust him absolutely. And whatever he had got up to in his youth was nothing to do with her. He was a good-looking old dear now, and must have been wickedly handsome in his youth. Bound to have had romances galore. Well, she had netted him now, and meant to keep him.

  • • �
�

  GUS HAD NOT seen Miriam for the whole of yesterday, and now he wondered whether lately he had put her off too sternly when she offered lunch, tea, or supper. She was a good soul, if pushy, and he thought perhaps he would take her an olive branch in the form of a box of chocolates. It was a little elderly, but never mind. He could always scribble over the sell-by date. They were expensive Belgian ones given to him by his ex-wife on her last visit sometime ago. He looked at his watch. Just time for a quick walk with Whippy and then, with luck, a decent lunch.

  Miriam was arranging a bunch of chrysanthemums she had brought home from the village shop, when she saw Gus pass by her window, and she opened the back door.

  “Peace offering,” he said, thrusting the chocolates towards her.

  “Sell-by date?” she said. “They look suspiciously like that box sitting on your kitchen window in the sun for months, if not years.”

  His face fell, and he walked over to her wheelie bin and threw them in with exaggerated force. By this time she had come out into the yard and took him by the arm. “Nice try, Gus,” she said. “But you were horrid to me yesterday. Still, forgive and forget. I’m cooking fish cakes for lunch. Enough for two?”

  Gus accepted at once. He had had an idea that since Miriam had lived in the village all her life, she might well know something interesting about Alf Lowe and his family. And anyway, her fish cakes were always light and tasty, with plenty of delicious salmon in them. His mouth watered at the thought.

  He returned to his cottage and Whippy stood shivering at the door. A virtual balloon hung above her head saying “walkies!” and he laughed. “All right, we’ll go. Perhaps we’ll follow on Ivy’s Sunday walkies with Roy up to the cemetery. I do like a good cemetery, as you know.”

  Whippy barked joyfully. If she had understood nothing else, the word “walkies” was enough.

  The village was busy with customers making their way over the Green, its lush grass restored by the melted snow, towards the shop. James, the owner, thought ruefully that it was an ill wind etcetera. He sold twice as much food at the first fall of snow, when people panicked at the idea of not being able to get out of the village.

  “Morning, Gus,” he said now. “How does Whippy like the snow?”

  “Not much. Her coat is thin and she’s even more shivery than usual. We’re just going up to the cemetery and back.”

  James turned to the shelves behind him, and brought out a neat pack. “Here’s your answer,” he said. “Cosy Doggie Waterproof for Winter. Folds up small enough to go into your pocket.”

  “James, you’re a wonder. Is it Whippy’s size? Great, I’ll take it out and put it on her straight away. She’s on your dog hook out there.”

  “You make it sound as if she’s rotating on a spit over hot coals. Allow me, Gus,” he added. “I’d like to make sure it fits.” There were no other customers at the moment, and he followed Gus out of the shop.

  • • •

  LUNCH WITH MIRIAM was, as usual, protracted and excellent. After a suitable interval, Gus had brought up the subject of the Lowe family, and Alf in particular.

  “Turned into a horrible old man in old age!” she said. “Why on earth are you asking about him?”

  “Just curious,” he replied. “I met him at the bus stop, and we got into conversation. I sat next to him, and he was really interesting. You can’t always tell from people’s looks, can you, Miriam?”

  “Not just his looks!” she said fiercely, “and I know you went off with him to Thornwell last Saturday. Left Whippy behind, didn’t you. I was working in the shop and James told me.”

  “Yes, you’re absolutely right. Memory going, you know. Old age creeping on.”

  “Nonsense! If you’d let me look after you properly, you’d be a new man in no time.”

  Time to change the subject, Gus thought, and hastily asked whether the Lowes had lived in the village for a long time.

  “Always. At least, as far back as I can remember,” she said. “Some of his family farmed over at Settlefield, I’m sure. But Alf’s father ended up being this village’s blacksmith and farrier. The old forge is still there behind the cottage. Full of junk, I expect.”

  “Is his wife still alive? He looked rather uncared-for, I thought.” Miriam did not need to know that he already had the answer to that one. Best to start from scratch.

  “Susan? Oh yes, she’s very much alive. Much younger than him. Left old Alf in the lurch, and went off to live with a bloke from Thornwell. She’s probably dumped him by now! One of those who milk a man dry, and then swan off to find another sucker. Poor Alf didn’t turn nasty until she left. Took the heart out of him, she did. He went around swearing revenge for ages.”

  “You sound very bitter, Miriam. Did you not like his wife?”

  “Loathed her,” she said. “He was quite keen on me at one time, and though he’s quite a bit older, I really liked him. Made me laugh, old Alf. Then Susan came along and in no time he was taking her up to the altar in Thornwell. Mind you, they say he would never divorce her. Roman Catholic an’ all that. Out for all she could get, that was Susan Green. Her family are solicitors. It was said at the time that she was marrying beneath her, but I reckon she was already secondhand goods. No better than she should be, that Susan. Left him bitter and twisted, as they say. Now, Gus,” she added, “there’s an apple turnover hotting up in the oven, and I’ve got double cream to go with it. Fancy it?”

  • • •

  AFTER LUNCH AND a couple of glasses of Miriam’s primrose wine, Gus felt so contented and sleepy that he decided he would have a doze in front of his fire before making some notes on Alf. But then he realised he would probably have forgotten half of it after he woke up, and so thought he would take Whippy into the edge of the wood for some fresh air.

  He felt refreshed and alert by the time the east wind had cleared his head, and he was just approaching the wood when a large black car drew up beside him. The window was lowered and a smart-looking man beckoned him over imperiously.

  “Hi. Tell me where Springfields is. I’ve been before, but not for some time, and I’ve taken the wrong road, I think?”

  Gus felt prickles on the back of his neck. It was a long time since men in anonymous black cars had issued orders to him through darkened windows, lowered enough to bark out a question.

  “You have indeed taken the wrong road,” he said lightly. “You’ll have to find somewhere to turn around, and then take a right and a left and it’s on the right-hand side opposite the old telephone exchange.” And if that doesn’t confuse you, nothing will, Gus said to himself.

  “How far is it to a place where I can turn round? This godforsaken lane is getting narrower, and there’s still snow under the trees.”

  “Hangman’s Lane, this is, and you’ll probably have to go up as far as the gibbet crossroads to turn. I’d hate to think of you backing into a ditch.”

  The window was wound up without another word from the stranger, who was, of course, Steven Wright in search of his uncle Roy.

  Thirteen

  IVY HAD CHANGED her dress and shoes after lunch, and combed her hair back into her usual severe bun. She had powdered her nose—her one concession to makeup—and went down to find Roy equally spruced up, sitting in an upright chair and smiling at her approach.

  “Very smart, my beloved,” he said. “Nephew Steven will be impressed. More impressed than you will be by him! A shifty-looking gent, though perhaps I shouldn’t say such things about my own flesh and blood. But my sister married into the Wrights, who were reputed to be gypsy stock. Hence the shifty look.”

  “Now, now, Roy, I have known some very nice Romany gypsies in my time. Not at all shifty. There are bad apples, of course, but then, they pop up everywhere.”

  “Mm, well, I used to allow a regular band of gypsies to stop on the farm on their way to Appleby Fair. Great occasion for them. Then they’d stop on the way back, and always brought me useful things for the farm. But there was one year when
a couple of brothers stopped, and after they’d gone, so had several of my best tools!”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a loud voice asking for Mr. Goodman. Miss Pinkney was on duty, and she very politely asked his name.

  “Wright. Steven Wright. He’s expecting me. And don’t worry; I won’t run off with the silver.”

  “Oh dear,” said Roy.

  “Not a good start,” said Ivy, and turned to look at the tall, heavy man approaching.

  “Uncle Roy!” he said heartily. “You’re looking splendid. And this is—?”

  “Miss Beasley. Ivy Beasley, my fiancée.”

  “How do, Ivy,” Steven said. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind leaving Uncle Roy and myself to have an important chat about your nuptials? Sounds rude, doesn’t it! I’m to be best man, and that’s exactly what I intend to be. Best man, see?” He laughed loudly, but Ivy did not even smile.

  “I wish Ivy to stay with us and have her say, Steven,” said Roy. “She already is the better half of the two of us. Now, shall we begin at the beginning? Have you done the job before?”

  Steven shook his head. “But the whole thing’s bound to be a doddle. I looked up weddings on my computer, and it gives the order of service and all that jazz. I have to look after the ring, give it to the vic at the right time, keep your pecker up in case you’re feeling nervous, and toast the bridesmaids in a jolly speech at the reception. Right?”

  “There will be no bridesmaids,” said Ivy firmly.

  “Then I’ll toast you instead,” Steven said, patting her on the shoulder. She stiffened, and said she believed someone else did that job. But from what he said, she was sure he would be word perfect by the wedding day.

  “Next,” announced Steven, in a loud voice that carried all round the lounge, to the delight of the other residents, who were watching television with the sound turned down, “next we must talk about a little gift for the bridesmaids. Oh no, no bridesmaids. But perhaps a small gift from the bride to the groom? Are you having rings exchanged, Roy?”