by Ann Purser
“Don’t tell me she’s another distant relation!”
Deirdre laughed. “No, but she is engaged to Roy Goodman, so not far off.”
Thirty-six
TEA AT SPRINGFIELDS was always special on a Sunday. Anya in the kitchen had baked several different cakes, so that residents had a good choice, and Miss Pinkney took a great deal of trouble organising relatively easy quizzes that the old persons could answer or not, as they felt able or willing.
Ivy usually shone on these occasions, having spent a lifetime listening to BBC Radio Four, where she gleaned all kinds of general knowledge information, ranging from the current vice president of the United States to the word for a young female cow. But today she was still simmering with fury at the absence of the banns being read.
“It seems to me,” she said now to Roy, who was hoping Ivy had given up protesting, “that we are just giving way to blackmail. It’s just the same as if a ransom was demanded and we paid up.”
“Well, dearest, we must be thankful that you haven’t gone missing, and so that problem does not arise. Why don’t we just forget about banns for the moment? By next Sunday I am sure everything will be cleared up, and we can go ahead and look forward to our wedding day.” Roy had accepted the story about the friend turned up unexpectedly in town this morning, and no more had been said.
“Next question,” said Miss Pinkney, in a loud voice. “Who wrote The Wind in the Willows?”
“William Shakespeare,” answered Ivy crossly. “Some people say it was Kenneth Grahame, but he got the idea from the Bard of Stratford. If you ask me, it would have been better left alone. All that stupid stuff about rats and badgers and toads and rabbits. Vermin, I call them. Every single one of them.”
This was too much for Roy, who burst out into loud laughter. “Oh, Ivy Beasley,” he said. “What would we do without you?”
The residents having tea joined him, some not knowing quite why they were laughing, and Miss Pinkney said she would give Ivy a point for originality.
It was at this moment that Deirdre walked into the lounge.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bloxham,” said Miss Pinkney, now glad of the interruption. “Will you have a cup of tea with us?”
“Thank you,” said Deirdre, and she walked across to join Roy and Ivy. “Hi, you two. Have I got news for you!”
“Good afternoon, Deirdre,” said Ivy, still cross. “And where on earth did you get that ridiculous greeting from?”
“Never mind that,” answered Deirdre. “Just settle down and listen for a bit. I had a most interesting morning, and I’m bursting to tell you about it. I’ll have a cuppa with you, and then I’m off to tell Gus. I expect you’ll want to call a special meeting tomorrow, Ivy.”
When Deirdre had finished a detailed account of her morning with the Josslands and the visit to Aunt Ethel Goodman, neither Ivy nor Roy said anything at first. Then Roy said, “A really good morning’s work, Deirdre. As a matter of fact, I do remember Ethel, a second cousin twice removed, or some such, but after the split in our family, I heard no more about her. Now it seems she had a connection with Alf Lowe, here in Barrington?”
“And what connection?” said Ivy. “This is really something to get our teeth into, Deirdre. Well-done, gel.”
“What we really need to do is find out more about Alf’s early life. I don’t have much hope that Aunt Ethel will come up with anything more, though she is probably sitting on the answer to our investigations! Still, there will be other ways.”
“We need Gus. You said you were off to winkle him out, Deirdre? Why don’t we meet tomorrow morning at Tawny Wings and have a brainstorming session?”
“A what?” said Ivy.
“Oh, just a phrase I picked up from a newspaper. I rather liked it,” added Roy lamely. “But, dearest, if you object, it shall never pass my lips again.”
“Good,” said Ivy. “Now, Deirdre, off you go and find Gus, and confirm tomorrow. Meanwhile, no doubt you can tell us who is the current vice president of the United States?”
“Abraham Lincoln,” said Deirdre. “Somebody like that, anyway. So, cheerio, you two. See you tomorrow.”
• • •
I REALLY MUST walk through the village more often, thought Deirdre, as she crossed the Green and watched a group of children having a snowball fight in the fading light. How charming! It reminded her of her childhood in Thornwell, when groups of children in the back streets had only dirty, slushy snow to play with. Now it looked so crisp and white. Good enough to eat. However, when one tough-looking character sent a large snowball in her direction, perfectly aimed at her fur hat, so that snow cascaded down the back of her neck, she faced the chilly reality.
But then she cheered up again, as she turned into Hangman’s Lane, where the Budd family in the first cottage in the Row were building a snowman under the outside light in their garden. Two small boys, mother and father, were hard at it, collecting up fistfuls of snow and producing a quite remarkable likeness to Gus Halfhide, who lived at the end of the Row.
“Afternoon, all,” she said, as she passed.
“Hi, Mrs. Bloxham,” called Rose Budd. “Who do you think this is?”
“Mr. Augustus Halfhide,” said Deirdre, laughing. “I’ll tell him to come and have a look. He might lend you one of his hats.”
She reached the end of the row, and knocked at Gus’s front door. No answer. Then Miriam’s light came on, and there was the sound of her door opening, and out Gus came, followed by a curious Miriam Blake.
“Hello, Deirdre! I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”
“So I see,” said Deirdre icily, her warm feeling of goodwill to all men evaporating fast. “Can you spare a couple of minutes? I have something rather important to tell you.”
“Of course.” He turned to Miriam and thanked her politely for a pleasant afternoon, and then came out to open up his cottage. “Come on in, Dee-Dee. Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thank you. And if you dare to offer me a glass of Miriam’s disgusting primrose wine, I shall throw it at you.”
“Now, now. You know there’s nothing between Miriam and me. Just neighbourliness, that’s all. Come and sit down and tell me what’s to do.”
Deirdre, making a revenge decision to renew her warm relationship with Theo Roussel, sat down on an upright chair and cleared her throat. “Well, I have had a busy day, gathering information for Enquire Within,” she began sternly. Then she gave him the same detailed account as had impressed Ivy and Roy, and said they must meet tomorrow to decide how to proceed further in researching the early life and times of Alfred Lowe. “Not only will this be useful in finding out about his relationship with Aunt Ethel Goodman, but could well uncover more about his wife, and why she is wanting a divorce now,” she added.
“So we meet tomorrow morning to discuss it? Sounds most interesting. Tell me more about Aunt Ethel and her young relations. A farming family of Josslands, did you say? And the wife, Bella, formerly a Goodman?”
“Yes, well, we can talk about it tomorrow. I just need to confirm to Roy and Ivy, and then I’ll be off home. I’m having my postponed drinks engagement with Theo later this evening, so don’t try to get hold of me. Anything else can wait until tomorrow.”
“Just hold on a minute,” said Gus. “There was one thing. Apparently a thuggish-looking man, bald and heavy, and with a stubbly face, came looking for me when I was out. Could be just one of those Jehovah’s Witnesses. I did have a copy of The Watchtower shoved through my letterbox. On the other hand, it might have been Ivy’s mysterious well-wisher.”
“Jehovah’s Witnesses are usually very presentable,” Deirdre said. “Grey suits and good haircuts. Always polite. Sounds more like the man Elvis saw coming out of Maleham’s store unloading bay. Ask someone else round here who might have seen him. Oh, and make sure you go and look at Budd’s snowman. A remarkable likeness.”
“Of whom?”
“You’ll see. Good-bye, Gus. Be there at Tawny Win
gs at ten thirty tomorrow.”
Thirty-seven
IVY WAS UP with the lark, and by the time Roy came down to breakfast, she was buttering her second piece of toast and looking obviously at her watch.
“Morning, dearest,” said Roy, hooking his stick on the back of his chair. “Did you sleep well?”
“Not really,” said Ivy. “My conscience was troubling me.”
“Ivy? How on earth could you have a bad conscience? The most honest and straightforward person I know is Miss Ivy Beasley.”
“Ah, well. I owe you an apology. I was a real crabby old spinster yesterday, when you said we would have a brainstorming session, and I mocked you for using that expression. Everything you say sounds wonderful to me, and I’m sorry, and I promise not to be such a miserable old stick again.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.
“My dear Ivy,” Roy began, “you were perfectly right, and to me you are neither crabby nor miserable. But thank you, my love. Let’s start the morning again. Good morning, Ivy! You’re looking young and beautiful as ever. And we have an interesting meeting to go to at Tawny Wings, so I won’t take too long over breakfast. What’s on the menu? Oh good, scrambled eggs with bacon. Now, have another piece of toast to keep me company, and then we’ll make tracks up the hill to Deirdre’s.”
• • •
THE PAVEMENTS IN the village were still treacherous, so when Gus called to offer them a lift, they accepted reluctantly. “Not that we don’t love to ride in your car, Gus,” Roy said. “It’s just that once a farmer, always a farmer, and I still miss the early-morning routine, when the air is fresh and you feel you could move mountains. Though it was usually a dung heap that needed moving!”
And so, in good spirits, the three arrived on time at Deirdre’s front door, to find it locked and with no signs of life anywhere about.
Gus, looking grim, said that he understood she had been visiting the Honourable Theo Roussel last evening, and had maybe been encouraged to stay until it was light for her journey back home.
“Don’t be so ridiculous, Gus!” said Ivy. “We all know what happens when those two get together. We shall just have to sit in the car until she appears. And don’t forget we’re here on Enquire Within business, so no quarrelling between the two of you.”
At that moment, the big cream-coloured car purred into the drive, and a blushing Deirdre got out.
“So sorry, chaps,” she said. “Just had to go out on a little errand. It won’t take me two ticks to get the fire going in our office. Gus, can you come and help?”
“You’ve got a nerve,” he said under his breath, as they laid a fire with sticks and coal, and put a match to the screwed-up newspaper.
“No worse than you, with that Miriam,” muttered Deirdre. “We’d better have an electric fire as well. Don’t want the oldies getting a chill. There’s one in the kitchen.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Gus acidly. He went off, deliberately stamping his snowy boots on the highly polished parquet floor.
Once they were all settled with cups of hot coffee, Roy was first to speak.
“We have all been told now about Deirdre’s interesting discovery over at Settlefield, and have come to the same conclusion, I believe, that we must find out more about any early relationship between Alf Lowe and Ethel Goodman. I have a particular interest in this, as you can imagine. Some of these people are relations of mine, and since Alf Lowe has cast aspersions on my behaviour as a young man, we may be able to shed some light on that, too.”
“Well said, Roy,” said Gus. “So, Deirdre, tell us again, would you, exactly what they said about Ethel before you went to see her.”
Deirdre was still feeling embarrassed about not being at home when they arrived, but last night had been something of a reunion with Theo Roussel, and she still felt a residual glow. She reminded herself that her colleagues had come out on a snowy morning and were not in the first flush of youth.
“Of course,” she said, smiling sweetly, “I’m happy to do that. Well, I went on a sudden impulse, really. Then I thought maybe Sunday was not a good day, but they welcomed me very nicely. They said they had to go on a monthly visit to see Aunt Ethel, so couldn’t chat for long, and then Bella suggested I go with them. The old lady is a Goodman, and Bella’s great-aunt. She never married, they said, and was now totally confused. They apologised that she was nearly always asleep, didn’t know who they were and showed no sign of wishing to talk.”
“She must be about the same age as me,” Roy said. “So that would make her either a cousin of my father or—”
“His sister,” said Deirdre. “Funny you never heard of her, though, Roy?”
“Mm,” said Ivy. “I hesitate to suggest this, Roy, but she could have been disgraced in some way. You know, not acknowledged by the family, that kind of thing.”
“You’re right,” said Deirdre. “The usual thing was getting yourself in the club, up the spout, in the family way. Call it what you like.”
“Ah,” said Gus. “Now we’re onto something. And it all points to Alf Lowe, doesn’t it? I must call on him again, and see if I can get him to talk.”
“And maybe if I go again with Bella Jossland to visit Ethel, she might come out with something more. I could drop a few names that might mean something to her, and see if it sparks a memory.” Deirdre put another log on the leaping flames, and asked whether they were ready for another coffee.
“I wouldn’t say no.” Ivy’s feet were still cold, and she felt a little shivery now. Roy looked at her closely.
“Are you all right, Ivy dear?” he said.
“Just a bit cold,” she said, and Gus immediately moved her chair nearer the fire. “Can’t have you out of action, Ivy,” he said. “Let me feel your hands.”
They were stone cold, and he rubbed them between his own.
“Thanks; that’s fine now,” said Ivy. But she was still pale, and Roy began to worry.
“Perhaps a shot of whisky in Ivy’s coffee would be a good thing,” he said, and Deirdre nodded.
“Good thinking,” she said. “And maybe we should cut the meeting short. We’ve actually decided on what we do next.”
“I never touch strong liquor,” said Ivy, “but perhaps in this case . . .”
“There’ll be jobs for you and Roy,” said Gus, aware that they would be primarily interested in clearing up the problem with the banns and anonymous letters to Ivy. “In fact,” he added, “might I suggest you have another go at finding that Maleham woman, to see if she can shed any light on either Steven’s death or this thug who comes and goes with threats in red ink.”
“But first we have hot coffee and whisky, and make sure Ivy is warm and comfortable,” said Roy.
• • •
BY THE TIME Gus had helped Ivy out of his car and into the lounge at Springfields, she was quite her old self, protesting that she was perfectly all right and not to make a fuss.
Mrs. Spurling was on duty, and was full of “I told you so” strictures. “You will have to remember your age, Miss Beasley,” she said. “We don’t want any more hiccups to get in the way of your wedding. Which reminds me,” she continued, “Rev. Dorothy is making her weekly visit here this afternoon, and asked particularly if she could have a word with you and Mr. Goodman. I assured her that you would be here, so I hope you have no plans for going out again in this wintry weather?”
“I wonder if she has some news for us?” Roy said. “I shall not be content until Ivy is my lawful wedded wife. By the way, Ivy, are you happy with ‘love, honour and obey’?”
“Good gracious me, no,” said Ivy briskly. “Nobody has that nowadays. But you know I shall always give due consideration to anything you suggest.”
“Mm,” said Roy.
• • •
WHEN REV. DOROTHY arrived at Springfields, Ivy and Roy were sitting in Ivy’s room, snoozing companionably together.
“Sorry to disturb you!” she said, coming in after knocking softly on the
door.
“Not at all,” said Roy politely. “It’s very nice to see you again, isn’t it, Ivy?”
“Yes, indeed. Have you news for us?” said Ivy, coming straight to the point.
“Well, yes and no. I have cleared the way for calling the banns this coming Sunday, and so that will be the second time of asking. But I am still worried about those threats you received, Miss Beasley. What have the police advised?”
“Caution,” said Ivy stubbornly. “They advised caution. So I don’t see why we can’t have the banns read, and then be extra cautious after that. What do you say, Roy?”
“I suppose you’re right, dearest,” he said slowly. “Though I must say I still feel uneasy. But I know Ivy thinks we should not pander to threatening letters, so perhaps we should go ahead?”
“Very well,” said Rev. Dorothy. “Just so long as you appreciate that extra caution must be taken. I know that you two are often out and about on your own, but perhaps that could be changed. Maybe one of your friends, Deirdre Bloxham or Gus Halfhide, would always be with you when you’re away from Springfields?”
“That might be difficult,” said Ivy. “But we can certainly try it.”
Thirty-eight
NEXT MORNING, THE thaw had once more set in, and everywhere was dripping. Small rivulets coursed down the gutters and overflowed the village drains, most of which had been installed in the nineteenth century, and were ripe for replacement.
Elvis drew up his taxi outside Springfields, and stepped straight into a deep puddle. “Damn and blast!” he said loudly. “What on earth do Ivy and Roy want with going into Thornwell this morning? They should stay warm inside, and watch telly, like all the others.” But he knew that when that happened, his good friends would have lost the freedom that kept them so active and bright in their old age. And they were soon to be married! He was really looking forward to playing his part in the ceremony, ferrying Roy up to the church, and then going back for Ivy and Gus, who was giving her away. He had not yet been told who would replace Steven Wright as Roy’s best man, but he harboured a secret hope that maybe he would be asked.