The Blackwoods Farm Enquiry (An Ivy Beasley Mystery) (14 page)

AFTER A QUIET
Sunday spent reading and watching television, this Monday morning there was a general air of something about to happen in Springfields. Ivy and Roy had been up earlier than usual, and Ivy had eaten a hearty breakfast before going up to her room.

“To titivate, so she told me,” said Roy, still sitting over his toast and marmalade, and answering Katya’s question as to her whereabouts.

She smiled, and picked up his empty coffee cup. “Ah, she is having a wash and brush-up, as my mother-in-law says. Before going off to college?”

“More or less,” said Roy.

“And you are down in the dumps? Would you like more coffee?”

“I’ve been deserted, Katya. That’s what. So close to having a wife to keep in order, I am now merely the fiancé of a college student studying creative writing. Fate has dealt me an unexpected blow.” He looked at her shocked face, and laughed. “I’m joking, my dear,” he said.

“But surely you will support her? And be very interested in her memoirs? I believe she told me that is what she intends to work on? All kinds of things you could learn about your intended bride!”

“That’s the trouble. I may learn all kinds of things I’d rather not know!”

“Rubbish,” said a brisk voice from behind him. Ivy had put on her coat and hat, and looked exactly as usual, except for a brighter look in her eye and a bundle of books in a capacious bag held in her hand.

“Are you going to walk me up to the Manor House, Roy?” she said. “I’d like to go early and take a look at that stable where Whippy was found. Leapt over a half door as high as a five-barred gate, Katya! Gus is ecstatic, of course.”

“And now I shall help you with the trundle, Mr. Goodman. Mrs. Spurling asked particularly to let her know when you leave. I think she is worried you might go off and never return!”

“Oh, Roy will be back quite soon, but I shall be home around half past three this afternoon. Ready for tea, I expect!”

One or two of the younger residents had gathered to see them off, half jealous of Ivy’s break for freedom, half critical of a reckless plan that was bound to fail.

“If anybody asked me,” she said, as she followed Roy in his trundle out of the gate, “I would say it’s all a lot of fuss about nothing. I shall start with the best of intentions, but if I fail, or don’t enjoy it, I shall stop. Simple as that. Careful, Roy, there’s a dead hedgehog on the path. Poor thing. Still, they’re covered in fleas, you know. Best not to touch it,” she added, kicking it accurately into the ditch, where it unrolled and glared at her.

• • •

THE FIRST SESSION
of the creative writing course began with a dozen or so chairs positioned casually around a pleasant room smelling of new paint. A real fire blazed in the hearth, with a large basket of logs ready for replenishing.

Ivy took one of the seats directly facing a large desk, behind which sat Rickwood Smith, who smiled familiarly at her, and said how pleased he was to see her again. He jumped up to help her, and she brushed him away like an annoying fly.

“I am perfectly capable of finding my seat, Mister, er . . .” she said sharply.

“Rickwood,” he reminded her. “We met when you came for interview.”

“And your surname again?” said Ivy, not smiling.

“Smith,” he said. “Easy to confuse me with other Smiths, so Rick would be better. May I call you Ivy?” he asked.

“No,” said Ivy, and began rooting about in her bag to find the first Creative Writing unit.

Fortunately for Rickwood Smith, other students began to arrive and were jolly and friendly, and did not mind in the least being called by their Christian names. One pretty girl of about seventeen sat down next to Ivy. She said nothing, and Ivy could see she was a little uneasy.

“Morning, my dear,” Ivy said quietly. “Are you as new to all this as me? I am sure we’re going to enjoy ourselves.”

The girl visibly relaxed, and said confidingly to Ivy that she had been encouraged by her parents to sign on, as she had written some interesting stuff in English lessons at school. “And I’ve been together with the students who are resident here, though I am local. We’ve had great evenings in the pub, and our tutor”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“is a lovely man. Really kind and supportive.”

And sophisticated and handsome, thought Ivy. But she smiled and said that she was intending to write her memoirs. “As I am very old, I have a great deal to remember, and I’d like to put it all in order and in print for those who come after me.”

The girl nodded. “Great idea,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Miss Beasley. What’s yours?”

“Samantha Earnshaw,” said the girl. “My friends call me Sam, mostly.”

“I shall call you Samantha,” Ivy said. “Very pretty name. Our prime minister’s wife’s name.”

“Um, now, if we’re all ready?” Rickwood smiled round at the assembled ten students. All but Ivy were late teens or early twenties, and Rickwood asked them all to say their names and tell the group a little about themselves.

“What’s the point of that?” said Ivy. “Surely we’ll get to know each other even better over time?”

Rickwood sighed. He had been warned by Mr. Rubens, but had not anticipated trouble quite so early in the day.

“It is a nice way of getting together, Miss Beasley. Always done, these days.”

“Not in my day,” said Ivy, shaking her head. “But carry on, Mr. Smith. I am all ears.”

After all had had their say, Rickwood turned to Ivy. “And are you going to tell us a little about yourself? I am sure the others would be most interested to know . . .” He tailed off, aware that whatever he said would probably annoy her. Sure enough, she snapped back at him that if he was implying that because she was old she’d want to talk about the past, he was wrong. And could they get on with creative writing, especially memoirs, which was why she was present?

Round one to Miss Beasley, thought Rickwood, and said he would begin with outlining the different kinds of creative writing the students might be planning. “Becoming a journalist is very popular,” he said. “Also travel writers, novelists, magazine contributors, poets, biographers and so on. All are using words to express what they wish to say. And, as Miss Beasley has told me, there are those of us interested in writing our memoirs. And that is not a bad place to start.”

Ivy nodded in approval. She felt she was making headway, and managed a small smile of encouragement for Rickwood Smith.

• • •

ROY, BACK AT
Springfields, was feeling very odd. He had become so used to having Ivy as his daily companion, and now he was lost for something to do with himself. He was about to suggest a game of chess with old Fred, when his mobile rang.

“Roy? Gus here. Has our novice writer gone off to college?”

“’Fraid so,” said Roy. “And she’s been there a good hour and a half, so I must assume she’s not giving up before she starts. That is what I suspected might happen, but no. Not my Ivy. Anyway, how are you, my boy?”

“I’m fine. I’m ringing to find out if you fancy a trip out this morning? I was planning to go into Oakbridge library, to see if we could broaden out our background knowledge of Mrs. Winchen Blatch. They are very helpful there, and I can easily take you plus a folding wheelchair in my vehicle.”

“Oh, how kind! Are you sure you’re not doing this to cheer me up?”

“Of course not! I have been thinking we still know very little about Eleanor Blatch, or her family and early life, and we could do with a new lead. We know her estranged sister is disabled and lives in the village. And that her nephew is a creative writing tutor. But who, for instance, were the Winchens, Eleanor’s second name? You’ve lived around here all your life. Have you ever heard of them?”

“Come to think of it, no, I haven’t. As you say, could well be worth a hunt. When would you be picking me up?”

“Now,” said Gus. “At least, I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. I’m going to leave Whippy with Miriam next door. I shall never again be happy to leave her alone. See you very shortly.”

Good lad, thought Roy. And he was right. They knew next to nothing about Eleanor Blatch’s background. He limped out of the lounge and into reception, to tell Miss Pinkney he would not be in for lunch. He was going on an important mission with Mr. Halfhide.

Miss Pinkney smiled broadly. “How lovely!” she said. “Exactly what the doctor ordered. I do hope you’ll have some success with your mission. Will you be back in time to meet Miss Beasley out of college?”

“Heavens, yes! It wouldn’t do for me to be late for that! And with luck, I shall have something interesting to tell her, as well as listening to an account of her day. Which, you know, is bound to be amusing and informative. My Ivy, Miss Pinkney, misses nothing.”

THE FIRST SESSION
of Rickwood’s creative writing course had, after a halting start, gone reasonably well. Several articulate students had spoken up, and one in particular, Alexander, had dominated the conversations. A lad to watch, Rickwood had thought. And then there was Miss Beasley, who had said at one point that in her school days, she remembered that the best learning was done by pupils who only spoke when spoken to.

All the others, including Alexander, had laughed, and Rickwood had begun to think that, if handled properly, Miss Ivy Beasley could be a real asset in the class.

Ivy, for her part, had listened carefully to everything he said, and made a few notes in a fat notebook she had bought from the village shop. The introduction Rickwood had made to the subject of memoir writing had been very interesting, especially his emphasis on being brutally frank with oneself! Who is going to be interested in reading your memoir? Have you a talent for humorous writing? Does your long life contain historical or dramatic episodes that are likely to move the story on?

The word “story” stuck with Ivy. She realised that she would indeed be telling a story, and she would need to sift and reject subjects that might be of great interest to her alone. She had a question or two to ask Rickwood, but decided early on that she would note them down and ask him at the next session, when she would have had time to think about them.

Lunchtime was held in a converted barn at the back of the house. It had been sympathetically turned into a kind of canteen, where the tables were small, six places at most, and the serving counter was colourful with fresh flowers.

Samantha, who had gained courage quite quickly, and made several sensible contributions in class, now asked Miss Beasley if they could share a table, and Ivy gratefully sat down next to her. Two more students joined them, including Alexander the pest, and talking was animated and easy. Then Rickwood Smith appeared, and took the last chair at their table. The conversation immediately stalled, until Ivy said that if she had known the teacher was going to join them, she would have brought him an apple. Alexander chuckled. “An apple for the teacher,” he said. “Very good, Miss Beasley.”

“And how is your mother, Mr. Smith?” said Ivy, in with both feet as usual. “I understand she has difficulty in getting about?”

“She has been disabled for many years, Miss Beasley. A riding accident, back in Australia, I’m afraid. The horse threw her, and she landed on her back on a large rock. But we are very lucky with caring help, so that she is able to stay in her own home.”

“My mum calls to see her often,” said Samantha. “She likes chatting to her. I expect she’s very pleased to have you home for a while. Is it true that Mrs. Blatch, the one who died recently, was her sister?”

Rickwood nodded. “But we had no communication with Mrs. Blatch, unfortunately. Years and years ago there was an almighty row, and the serious feud was a result. I was forbidden by my mother to visit my aunt Blatch.”

“Good gracious, Mr. Smith,” said Ivy. “But a sister is a sister. Your mother must have been at least a little sad?”

Before Rickwood could answer her, Peter Rubens appeared, looking flustered. “Rickwood, old chap, could you spare me a minute? Unhappy parent on the phone. You’d think we were a nursery school sometimes!”

When they had gone, the students closed ranks and began to talk about the morning’s work. “And how about you, Miss Beasley,” said a nineteen-year-old, handsome and expensively turned out. “Did you enjoy your first morning?”

“Yes. Quite unexpectedly, I enjoyed it very much. And you? What is your name again?”

“Alexander,” he said. “This is my second attempt at creative writing, and I must say Rickwood seems an excellent tutor. Unlike my previous one, who was a batty old duck who seemed to think Barbara Cartland was the goal towards which we should all strive.”

“Ah,” said Ivy, with a bland smile. “My favourite author. Wonderful storyteller, Alexander. When you have written as many books as she has, and had them published, you can call yourself a writer!”

By the time they had all assembled back in class, Ivy was feeling quite at home and looking forward to Rickwood’s next session.

“Welcome back,” he began, “I hope you have all charged your batteries with a good lunch? Good. This afternoon I plan to have a question and answer session. This will be the programme for all our day sessions, so it might be quite useful if you think of questions in advance. Who is going to start us off?”

The pest put up his hand. “I’d like to know,” he said, “what are my fellow students’ opinions of the writing of James Joyce?”

Silence. None of them have ever read any James Joyce, thought Rickwood. He looked around, and Ivy caught his eye. “If anyone asked me,” she said, “he ought to have been hanged. In fact, I’m not so sure that he wasn’t. I never read anything he wrote, but I used to hear him on the wireless, trying to spread bad rumours over here during the war. Yes, I’m pretty sure he was hanged. Lord Haw-Haw, that was his nickname. What did he write, then?”

“Um, not sure if we’ve got the right man here,” said Rickwood.

Samantha put up her hand. “I’d rather hear about Lord Haw-Haw than that Irish git who never knew when to stop. Go on, Miss Beasley.”

Ivy was only too happy to talk about the traitor’s broadcasts, and answer questions from the others about wartime, and how traitors were dealt with.

Rickwood sat back and listened. When he looked at his watch, he saw they had only ten minutes before they broke up for the afternoon.

“Time to shut up shop,” he said. “I must say our first day has moved forward much more than I anticipated. You all showed great promise, and I look forward to seeing you again on Monday. Now, Miss Beasley, do you have a lift back to Springfields?”

“Nothing wrong with my legs, young man,” she said. “And I see my fiancé is here, waiting in the yard to escort me back to base.”

She waved through the window, and was relieved to see a happy smiling face. Roy had obviously had a good day, too.

• • •

MOST OF THE
students were staying in accommodation at the college, but Samantha appeared on the drive as Ivy and Roy set off back to Springfields.

“Where are you staying?” asked Ivy. “Um, this is Samantha, and this is my fiancé, Roy Goodman.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Samantha said, offering a hand to Roy.

“Delighted,” said Roy, giving her his kindest smile.

“I’m living with my parents. They live in one of the houses in Spinney Close. It’s a new development, between the farm spinney and the big house. Tawny Wings, that is. Lovely name, isn’t it, Miss Beasley?”

“And a lovely person who lives there,” said Roy loyally. “Mrs. Deirdre Bloxham. Her husband sadly died some years ago, but she works very hard for people who need help.”

“Also works with us,” said Ivy. “We have an enquiry agency, operating from Springfields, the old folks’ home down the road.”

“Goodness! You certainly are busy, Miss Beasley! I must tell my mother. She will be very interested to hear about you. Wasn’t it interesting what Rickwood had to say about his mother and his aunt?” She smiled, and said she had discovered a shortcut through the farmyard and across the field. “The whole place is deserted and falling to pieces. Such a shame. I should think it was a really nice house a while back?”

Ivy and Roy exchanged glances, Ivy almost imperceptibly shaking her head. “Spinney Close, did you say? Aren’t there one or two old persons’ bungalows there?”

“There are,” said Samantha. “They are already occupied. One by the lady who is the mother of our tutor. Mrs. Winchen, she’s named. Hardly ever goes out. My mum calls on her regularly to make sure she is okay, as I told you. Of course, now Rickwood is staying with her, she doesn’t need Mum so much, but they have become quite good friends. Poor Rick escapes to the henhouse in the spinney, when his mother insists on television turned up loud. It’s been cleaned up and quite sweet inside. He finds it peaceful and quiet. I’ve taken him cups of tea occasionally. My house is only a step away.”

“How interesting,” said Ivy evenly. “Now, Samantha, mind how you go, dear. We meet again on Monday afternoon. Enquire Within meets every Monday morning, so I hope I won’t miss anything important! Good-bye for the present.”

“Bye!” said Samantha, walking briskly into the entrance to the farm. Ivy watched until she was out of sight, and then said to Roy that they’d better be getting on. “La Spurling will be watching out for us,” she said.

“And?” said Roy.

“And what, dearest?”

“And when shall we tell the others that we have found out where Mrs. Winchen lives, and have a contact if we wish to visit her?”

Ivy smiled. “You read my thoughts, Roy dear,” she said, and set the pace for him to follow in his trundle.

• • •

“NICE GIRL, THAT
Samantha,” Roy said, as they entered the lounge for tea.

“Seems to be,” said Ivy. “But you can’t always tell from first acquaintance. She was very shy at first, but soon came out of her shell. Seems very attached to our tutor.”

“And what about you, dear Ivy Beasley. How did you get on?”

“Splendidly, Roy,” answered Ivy enthusiastically. “Once I had reorganised one or two things, and let the tutor know exactly how I felt about the course, we got on splendidly. They’re all young enough to be my grandchildren, of course, but I was myself, not trying to join in their youthful excesses.”

“And the memoirs?”

“We made a start. One or two good pointers, such as keeping in mind who your reader is likely to be, and what will interest them.”

“Well, I am your first reader,” said Roy, accepting another piece of cake from a waiting Katya, “and everything about Ivy Beasley interests me. So you can choose what you like. Bad as well as good! Though I suspect there is not much bad in your past life, my love.”

“All power to your elbow, Miss Beasley,” said Katya triumphantly. Everyone laughed, and she protested that she had just learnt the saying from cook in the kitchen.

“And a very good one it is, too,” said Ivy. “Now, no more talking, Roy, until we have finished our tea.”

• • •

SAMANTHA, WALKING ACROSS
the field, felt much more cheerful than when she had crossed to start her first real day at college. And she hadn’t felt much better when they had all assembled. That know-all chap and his James Joyce! But Miss Beasley had put him firmly in his place! She pushed her way through the spinney undergrowth and came out exactly beside her mother’s rear garden.

The houses were very well designed, and although the rooms were small, the windows were large and the sitting room full of light. She went in through the back door, and found her mother, with a familiar person smiling at her.

“Ah, this is my daughter, Mrs. Bloxham. Sam, this is our neighbour from Tawny Wings.”

“Nice to meet you, Sam,” Deirdre said. “I just popped in to welcome your parents to the village, and you, too, of course. She has been telling me that you are studying at the Manor House College? My cousin Miss Beasley has also started today. Creative Writing is her course.”

“Oh, what a coincidence!” said Sam. “She befriended me today when I was feeling very nervous. She is a very kind old lady, and interesting to talk to. I imagine she is well loved locally?”

“Um, well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that, “said Deirdre, smiling. “Interesting, certainly, but Ivy is known for her sharp tongue! Well loved, no; but certainly yes, by her fiancé, Roy Goodman. He is an absolute sweetie, and some people can’t see what he sees in our Ivy.”

“I can,” said Samantha firmly.

Deirdre, highly amused at the girl’s description of Ivy, got up to leave. “I have had a nice chat with your mother, my dear,” she said. “I am sure we shall be seeing more of you, and do call in whenever you like. Good-bye both!”

• • •

TWO NEW FRIENDS
in one day, thought Samantha, as she settled back in a chair. “Any interesting news from you, Mum?” she said.

“Only the visit from Mrs. Bloxham. So kind of her to call. She was telling me about her work for an enquiry agency in the village. Enquire Within, they are called. They do all kinds of work, from finding lost cats to solving murder cases. With the help of the police, of course”

“Murder cases! Surely there are no murders in Barrington? It seems such a quiet little place.”

“You can never tell, Sam. Sometimes the quietest are worst. Anyway, let’s have tea and you can tell me about your day.”