The Sleeping Salesman Enquiry

by Ann Purser

  For years Alf had kept quiet about the child he was fairly sure was his. At the time it was a disaster, and he knew his father would kill him. Deeply religious, the old man had strong Catholic views on sin and disobedience. Then he heard it had been adopted. He had quickly spread a rumour that the father had been Roy Goodman, who had definitely had an affair with Ethel around that time. Ethel had spread her favours, and Alf and Roy had taken turns. The rumour had spread, but Roy had denied it hotly and brushed him off like a bothersome fly. Ethel’s parents had had plenty of money to arrange for the adoption, and the whole thing had died down. Only recently had Alf begun to think about old Roy’s current engagement, known all round the village, and the possible financial ramifications once he was married to Miss Ivy Beasley.

  Alf had always thought that when the time came, if he outlived Roy Goodman, he would revive the story of Roy’s own son, and his rightful inheritance. The fact that Ethel was a Goodman would count for something, but not necessarily enough. Now, with Ivy Beasley on the scene, it had been necessary to make a plan to sabotage the wedding.

  In the way of villages, it had some years ago become known that old Ethel’s baby had been adopted by a couple named Maleham, in Thornwell. Alf had tracked down the family, and discovered that the baby was now a middle-aged man named Frank, and he had listened to Alf’s plan. Delighted with the idea of a large inheritance, he had agreed to help, and also to keep it under his hat.

  Alf turned over restlessly in his bed, and resumed his worries about the previous night. As Ethel had started to struggle in the bed, muttering that she must get dressed for her wedding, Alf had freed himself from her arms and pushed her onto her pillows, where she relaxed and was quiet. “All a long time ago,” he had whispered in her ear. “Remember Roy? Roy Goodman? You had a good time with him, didn’t you? Don’t forget he was your baby’s father, Ethel. Looked just like him, didn’t it! If anybody comes asking, don’t you forget that, there’s a good gel. Bye, bye, then, Eth dear.” That should do it, he said to himself, and straightened up.

  He left as he came in, shutting doors and avoiding the security alarm. By the time he had got back home, he had been shaking from head to foot with sheer exhaustion. And now, after getting rid of the meter man, he crawled back into bed. Perhaps he should have a sandwich? Hunger could stop you sleeping, couldn’t it? But the last thing he wanted was food.

  Forty-one

  “MORNING, GUS!”

  It was Miriam, chirpy even at the ungodly hour of six thirty, when Gus had got up to let Whippy out into the garden for a pee.

  “Morning, Miriam,” he said. “Very cold again. Must dash. I can hear the phone.”

  “I can’t hear anything,” she replied. “You’ve just got ringing in your ears. I get it sometimes. I go to the surgery to have them syringed.”

  “No, no. Really, it is my phone. See you later.”

  He dashed back into the house, leaving the door open for Whippy to return. The sky was leaden, though the forecast had promised sunshine in East Anglia. He looked at the clock, and decided it was not worth going back to bed. He had a tricky task to do today, and then this evening he planned to invite himself to supper with Deirdre. Provided Miriam didn’t get in first! He was weak, he told himself. Too weak to say no. But then, Miriam was a brilliant cook, and if he played his cards right, he need only fend for himself two or three times a week. He had no experience of cooking and had no intention of trying to improve.

  So, this morning, the tricky task. He would leave Whippy in the kitchen, and walk up to Alf Lowe’s cottage to see if he could talk his way inside for a chat. It was no good taking Whippy. Alf was anti-dog, so he’d not stand a chance.

  He wondered if Alf was an early riser. Probably not. Well, after breakfast he would set off to the shop for a few things, have a gossip with James, and then walk up Cemetery Lane to Alf’s cottage.

  • • •

  “SO WHAT HAPPENED to the sunny day?” said Ivy, as Mrs. Spurling passed their breakfast table.

  “Give it time,” she said shortly. She was in no mood for Miss Beasley this morning. Tiddles, Ivy’s black cat, had found its way into the kitchen and eaten a large chunk from a whole salmon cooling on the slab. “Perhaps you would allow me to have a word with you after breakfast,” she added.

  “What about?” said Ivy. She knew perfectly well what had happened. When Tiddles had come into her room earlier, Ivy had identified a strong smell of fish coming from the cat’s smiling jaws.

  Roy saved Mrs. Spurling from replying. He came into the dining room, wished her a polite good morning and settled down opposite Ivy. “And how is my lovely lady this morning? Fresh from her beauty sleep?”

  “Dear God, give me strength!” muttered Mrs. Spurling, as she walked swiftly away to her office. Roy Goodman was such a nice old boy. Could he not see that Ivy Beasley was a stringy old spinster, with thin grey hair and evil black eyes that bored into her latest victim? She sighed. Of course he couldn’t. Love is blind, isn’t it? And anyway, she added to herself, trying to be honest, old Ivy can look quite smart when she’s dressed up. And when she smiles at Roy, it transforms her face.

  The phone was ringing when she got to her office, and when she answered it she did not recognise the voice. “Hello, who is this?” she said.

  “Never mind who I am. I want to speak to Miss Beasley.” The man speaking was clearly trying to disguise his voice, and Mrs. Spurling said, “If you want to talk to Miss Beasley, I must have your name.”

  “Tell her an old friend wants to give her a message.”

  “Certainly not,” said Mrs. Spurling. “I can give her a message, but I need to have your name; otherwise I cannot help you.” There was silence then, and she put the phone down with a bang.

  “Who was that?” said Ivy, coming into the office, as requested.

  “A wrong number. Now, Miss Beasley, it is a small matter of a fresh salmon half-eaten by your cat.”

  “His name is Tiddles. And yes, I know he ate some of it and I’m very sorry. Just add the cost of replacing it to my account. And if Anya hasn’t thrown the rest away, could you make sure it is saved for Tiddles’s supper? Is that all? I must go upstairs and get ready to go out. We plan to get some exercise this morning, and walk up to see some Goodman graves. I love graveyards; don’t you, Mrs. Spurling?”

  Mrs. Spurling was speechless.

  “It’s the gravestones,” said Ivy happily. “Very interesting, some of them. I had a book once, full of odd sayings on gravestones. One I remember very well. You should have read it, Mrs. Spurling. ‘Here lies the body of Elizabeth, wife of Major General Hamilton, who was married forty-seven years and never did one thing to disoblige her husband.’”

  “It was my husband who did the disobliging, Miss Beasley. Now, if we could get back to Tiddles?”

  “Certainly. I’ll have a word with him.” So saying, Ivy walked off to join Roy and plan their walk up Cemetery Lane.

  • • •

  GUS SET OFF soon after breakfast and took Whippy for a quick walk up to the woods and back. He met no one, and was able to rehearse what he would say to Alf in order to gain entry to his cottage. There was no real reason to suppose that even if he got in and they had a chat, Alf would be more forthcoming. Having made the rash accusation that Roy had got a girl in the family way and then dumped her, he seemed unwilling to say anything more about it. Perhaps it wasn’t relevant to their current investigation, but perhaps it was. Gus had a feeling about it, and in the field of investigation his feelings were usually worth pursuing.

  First the shop. He was happy to find it empty, except for James, who was stacking shelves.

  “Morning, Gus! How are you and Whippy? Where is she, by the way?”

  “Back at home. I’m hoping to call on Alf Lowe, and I know he’s not a dog lover.”

  “Alf? Is he poorly? He hasn’t been in for his paper this morning.”

  Perfect, thought Gus. The perfect excuse to knock on his door. “I’ll ta
ke it up to him if you like. Maybe he’s overslept.”

  “Thanks. Then perhaps you could let me know if he’s all right. I’m an unofficial message taker here. If there’s an old person needing help, I usually hear about it before anyone else. Now, what can I get you? Dog biscuits?”

  Gus collected up a bagful of such essentials, and continued on his way. At Alf’s front door, he knocked softly at first; then, getting no answer, he knocked again, loudly this time.

  “Wait a minute, y’bugger!” came a voice from inside. Then the door opened a crack and Alf, looking almost unrecognisable with a stubbly face and hair all anyhow, peered out. “What do you want?” he grunted.

  “I’ve brought your newspaper, Mr. Lowe. James at the shop was a bit worried because you hadn’t been in at your usual time to collect it.” Gus handed it over, and Alf grabbed it and began to shut the door. From long practice, Gus put his foot in the opening.

  “Are you all right? Can I get anything for you?”

  “Clear off. That’s what you can do,” said Alf. But he stopped pushing the door against Gus’s foot. “I’m not up to much at the moment,” he said. “Nothing wrong. Just old age, I reckon.”

  “Can I come in and we could have a chat?” Gus said, without much hope.

  To his surprise, Alf pulled the door open and stood to one side. “Come on, then. A bit of a talk might buck me up. But I’m not answering any of your stupid questions.”

  “I’d be pleased to help, Mr. Lowe. You can choose the subject, and I’ll listen.”

  “Huh! That’s a new one! But I’m up to your tricks. What’s yer name, anyway? I’ve seen you round the village, but don’t know who the hell you are.”

  “Augustus Halfhide, but my friends call me Gus. You can call me Gus.”

  “So we’re friends, are we? You’d better sit down, then. I might need a friend or two.” Alf was looking considerably more cheerful, and Gus sat in the most comfortable chair, trying hard to look relaxed. He smiled at Alf, and waited.

  “How’s that old Beasley bird at Springfields? Is she still planning to marry old Roy Goodman for his millions? Got an eye for the main chance, that one.”

  Gus held his breath. An odd subject for Alf to raise, surely?

  “Ivy Beasley? Oh, she’s fine. A good friend of mine, actually, though I expect you know that. Keep your ear to the ground, don’t you, Alf? I bet not a lot goes on in this village without your knowing. Am I right?”

  Alf nodded. “That’s village life for you. You’re a townie, if I’m not much mistaken. No, in villages nothing goes on in secret for long. There’s always someone who finds out, and then it spreads like wildfire.”

  “But this isn’t really your village, is it? I understood you grew up near Settlefield. Farming family, was it?”

  Alf’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t come here to talk about farming, did you,” he said.

  “Farming’s as good a subject as any other.”

  “Oh, all right. Yes, Lowes were farmers for generations. It goes like that round here. And we all married each other. Result, a few loonies. But mostly we all got on and helped each other out. I ended up in Barrington after my wife left me. And, by the way, you can stop worrying about that. Case closed, as they say. She’s emigrated to Australia with another bloke. Never coming back, she said. Good riddance, I said, and those will likely be my last words to ’er.”

  “Is that why you’ve been a little upset?”

  “Upset? I been celebrating—that’s why I’m a bit middlin’, if you want to know. Now, before you get on to the subject of Roy Goodman and his floosies, I reckon it’s time for you to go. I s’pose that unlikely wedding is going ahead? Someone should tell Miss Beasley what she’s in for. Though he’s prob’ly past it by now. Cheerio, boy. And thanks for the paper.”

  Forty-two

  “HEY, LOOK, ROY, isn’t that Gus? Coming out of Alf Lowe’s cottage?”

  Roy manoeuvered his trundle onto the pavement, and agreed that it certainly looked like Gus being waved off by Alf Lowe. He sped up, with Ivy doing her best to follow at a quick pace, but by the time they reached Gus, the door had been closed and there was no sign of Alf.

  “Hello, you two!” said Gus. “Where are you off to?”

  “The cemetery,” said Ivy. “We thought we’d cheer ourselves up. Winter seems to be going on forever.”

  “Can I join you?” said Gus.

  “We’re not coming apart,” said Roy, and chuckled.

  “The old ones are the best,” said Ivy. “And of course we’d love you to come with us. Anything useful to tell?”

  “Not sure,” said Gus. “But maybe.”

  They set off again, Roy leading the way in his trundle, and Ivy and Gus following closely. Barrington graveyard was not the most entertaining place Gus would have chosen, but he knew Ivy loved graveyards, and there was a seat, probably very wet, where they could rest before returning to Springfields. He did the gentlemanly thing, took off his rainproof jacket and spread it over the bench.

  “Your seat, madam!” he said.

  “You’re in a good mood, Augustus,” said Ivy. “Sit by me, and tell us all about Alf.”

  “Well, for a start,” began Gus, “our case concerning his wife is closed. She’s gone off to Australia and is not coming back.”

  “Can’t say I’m sorry,” said Ivy. “Never come between man and wife, my mother always used to say.”

  “He was obviously feeling rotten when I arrived, but claimed he’d done too much celebrating his victory over his wife, and he did seem to improve as I sat chatting.”

  “Chatting? What did you chat about?” said Ivy sharply.

  “Farming,” said Gus. “Farming families in and around Settlefield in the old days. His family had a farm, but he didn’t stay in it. Perhaps I should have asked why, but he was clearly getting fed up with me. But the interesting thing was, he brought up the subject of you, Roy, and your floosies. I quote. He seemed interested in you, too, Ivy, and asked me if you were still intending to be married, the two of you. Now, why should that concern him? He did actually ask me twice.”

  Ivy got to her feet. “I can feel the wet coming through the buttonholes on your jacket, Gus. I think we should be getting back, and then we can check with Deirdre that tomorrow’s meeting is okay. We can discuss Alf Lowe then. I think you’ve stumbled onto something, but we need more information about Roy’s floosies. And don’t say you’ve told us all you know, Roy, because there may be something you haven’t known or have forgotten.”

  “I suppose it’s no good my denying it, Ivy?” Roy said pathetically. “Come along, then, let’s go back to Springfields.” He turned his trundle and headed for the cemetery gate. “Why don’t you come in with us, Gus? I am sure La Spurling will find you some lunch. You can work your magic with her, I know.”

  “Good idea,” said Gus. That will take care of lunch, he reflected, and then I can look forward to supper with lovely Deirdre, if she will have me.

  • • •

  UNFORTUNATELY FOR GUS, Deirdre had a prior engagement. When Gus popped into her kitchen on his way home, she was delighted to see him, but when he mentioned supper, her face fell. “Sorry, Gussy, no can do. Himself up at the Hall has promised to take me out to that new and expensive restaurant in Oakbridge.”

  “Cancel him,” said Gus confidently. “I promise to bring fresh fish and chips from the shop in Thornwell. Piping hot, and wrapped in several layers of newspaper.”

  Deirdre laughed. “Not much of a choice, is it? No, Gus, I haven’t seen much of dear old Theo lately, so I really must go with him this evening. Shall I see you tomorrow at our usual meeting?”

  Disappointed, Gus said that yes, he would be at the meeting. “As it happens,” he added, “I had an interesting talk with Alf Lowe this morning, and if you had chosen fish and chips, I was planning to fill you in with the details. However, I must be brave, and the whole story will be on the table tomorrow.”

  He left Tawny Wings, and wand
ered slowly back home, thinking about Alf. He had looked really grim when he first opened the door. Was it just his usual morning face? Or had there been something bad worrying him? Perhaps, after all, he had realised he still felt some affection for his wife, and the thought of never seeing her again had troubled him unexpectedly.

  But why had he been so interested in Ivy and Roy? What was it to him whether they were married or not? He continued down Hangman’s Row, and turned into his front garden. Poor Whippy must have been lonely without him. Perhaps Alf should get a dog to stop him brooding. As he put a hand out to open his front door, he saw a piece of white paper stuck halfway through the letter box. He walked in and withdrew the paper. There was no envelope, and when he unfolded it, he saw familiar red ink. And one very big exclamation mark.

  It was dark in the hallway, so he took it through to his kitchen, where light streamed in, even in dull weather.

  SOMETHING BAD WILL HAPPEN TO THE BEASLEY WOMAN IF THEM BANNS ARE RED ON SUNDAY. STOP THEM, OR ELSE!

  Gus’s heart sank. But why deliver it to me? Ivy’s not my woman. This must have been brought by him with the earring. I suppose he thinks I have more authority than two old codgers in an old folks’ home. He sighed, and at that point a figure crossed by his kitchen window, knocking lightly as she passed.

  “Hello, Miriam,” he said dully. “Is Whippy in the garden?”

  “No, she’s right in front of you. What’s that you’re reading? You look quite pale.”

  Gus did not answer, and she continued, “What you need is a nice fish pie with peas and chips. Homemade, of course. Come round about seven? What do you fancy for pudding?”

  “Poison pie,” he answered. “And can I bring a friend?”