The Blackwoods Farm Enquiry (An Ivy Beasley Mystery) (15 page)

“YOU HAVEN’T TOLD
me how you got on in the library with Gus.” Ivy was tired of answering questions from fellow elderly residents about becoming a student at her great age, and had escaped with Roy to her room straight after supper.

Roy smiled. “Thought you’d never ask!” he said. “Well, as a matter of fact, we turned up some very interesting stuff about the Winchen side of Eleanor’s family. And this would be the Spinney Close Mrs. Winchen, also. They came from Lincolnshire, up on the east coast. Pork butchers in Boston, a port on the Witham, in the fens of Lincolnshire. They were quite wealthy folk, having been in business there for generations. Pork is a great specialty of the fens, apparently. Pork pies are especially delicious, so we discovered.”

“Roy! I can’t see how pork pies are going to get us any further forward with our investigations.”

“Maybe so,” said Roy. “But I haven’t finished. We discovered that a local hostelry, now no longer there, had served its best pork to royalty.”

“Roy!”

“Patience, beloved. We know Eleanor was a Winchen, and had added her name to Ted’s when they got married. There were two sisters, and the other one, Mary, was the younger of the two. That’s as far as the library records go.”

“Good gracious, Roy. That puts my first day as a college student well into the shade. Really good work by you and Gus! You must remember the Winchen sisters when you were young? Maybe visiting Ted at his parents’ farm?”

Roy shook his head. “Not that I can remember. There was only ever Mr. and Mrs. Blatch, and son Ted. I remember him bringing home his bride, but we moved in different circles. They didn’t encourage guests. The old Blatches retired to the south coast, Eastbourne I think it was. Then Ted and Eleanor farmed, until he was killed when a tractor he was driving toppled into a ditch, and he died, and Eleanor was left a young widow. The rest we know.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Ivy.

THE TEAM HAD
not been idle over the weekend. Gus had grilled Miriam Blake for her knowledge of the Winchens, whilst consuming with gusto her roast lamb Sunday lunch. Deirdre had agreed to go for a drink with the squire, to see if he remembered any particular references to the Winchen family, and Roy and Ivy went to church as usual, staying after the service to have coffee and cake, and talk casually to the older churchgoers about Mrs. Blatch’s own family in Lincolnshire. Here they had drawn a blank, though one or two thought they remembered Mrs. Winchen, now up in Spinney Close, visiting her sister, Eleanor, at the farm when they were young. Although Monday was no longer wash-day, Ivy had spent much of yesterday sorting out her clothes into those she would need for the honeymoon, and others which could be packed away for next spring.

Now it was Monday morning, and all were assembled in the office at Tawny Wings. Ivy took the chair as usual, and said that each should in turn report on new developments.

“Shall I start, Chairman?” said Gus respectfully. Ivy nodded. “Off you go,” she said.

“Miriam was very interested when I mentioned the Winchens. I asked innocently if she knew anything about that part of Eleanor’s name, and she laughed. Said it was her maiden name, which she had tacked on to Blatch when she married Ted. She said everyone in the village laughed. Wasn’t Blatch good enough for her, they had said. Poor Eleanor had had a tough time after Ted died, and had ended up more or less a recluse. Until her lover arrived. Miriam was very knowledgeable about that! Seems he came out of nowhere, asking for accommodation, and Eleanor took him in. Miriam seemed to think he was years younger, and said half the women in the village would have gladly taken him in!”

“Meaning herself,” said Ivy acidly.

“Probably,” agreed Gus. “Then, of course, when he left suddenly, everyone claimed they had always known what a bad hat he had been, and blamed Eleanor for being a silly old woman.”

“Good heavens,” said Deirdre. “You and Miriam must have had a fun lunch! What else did she say?”

“Not a lot, really. And she certainly didn’t mention Eleanor’s sister Mary, except that she had turned up as a mature lady living in Spinney Close, and severely disabled.”

“And Deirdre, how did you get on with Roussel?” Ivy did not approve of Deirdre’s assignations with the squire, but had to admit that the connection was useful.

“He was very superior, I’m afraid,” said Deirdre. “Said how could he be expected to know the family trees of half the inhabitants of Barrington? But apparently when Ted had gone, and Eleanor had more or less given up, she had approached the Roussel estate, offering Blackwoods Farm for sale.”

“But they didn’t buy it?” This was news to Roy, who owned several farms in the district, and was not, as far as he could remember, approached by Eleanor.

“No. No money. The usual thing with landed gents. They live in genteel poverty, mostly. And Theo’s lot were no different. Anyway, that’s all he could remember, and we moved on to other things.”

“Mm,” said Ivy. “Now, since we all have the matter of Mary to follow up, I suggest we close the meeting now. I have a special dispensation to be at the college straight after lunch on a Monday. I told them that Enquire Within must come first, and they agreed. So, I’ll be off now, and suggest we meet for tea tomorrow to see what has emerged. I mean to ask Samantha to introduce me to her mother, and then I shall bring up the subject of Mary Winchen. There will surely be a lot to discuss, including what plans Rickwood has for the farm. It has occurred to me and Roy that he probably inherits. Though with the feud between his mother and Eleanor, it is not at all certain.”

• • •

AFTER IVY HAD
gone, with Roy faithfully following in his trundle, back to Springfields for lunch, Deirdre took pity on Gus.

“I can’t run to a roast lunch, I’m afraid,” she said, as they arrived in the kitchen. “But there’s cold pheasant and redcurrant jelly. And I can rustle up a salad of some sort. We’ll open a bottle and think some more about Mary. I like the idea of Mary, the mysterious sister. I’ve said good morning to her once or twice, when she has been sitting in her garden in the sun. And her son, Rickwood, is always very polite. So come on, Gus, here’s the corkscrew.”

• • •

AFTER LUNCH, IVY
walked briskly up the road from Springfields to the Manor House, with Roy in his trundle keeping up with her, urging her from time to time to take it more slowly. “It isn’t a race, Ivy,” he said. “They won’t start without you.”

Ivy said she had been sitting down all morning and needed some exercise before doing the same all afternoon. At the top of the drive to the Manor House, she kissed Roy on his cheek and disappeared through the front door.

Turning around and trundling back down the drive and into the main road, he approached Blackwoods Farm and slowed down. Perhaps he would take another look around, now the windows were boarded up and the whole place looked deserted and sad.

He shook himself. He mustn’t fall into fanciful imaginings. That could be left to lovely Deirdre! No, he would mosey round the farmyard and see if anything odd caught his eye.

• • •

THE MONDAY MORNING
session at the college had been taken up with a lecture on careful planning of material. Assuming that each one of the students did have something to write about, Rickwood the tutor summed up for Ivy what had been said, and stressed once more that serious planning was vital.

“And so, Miss Beasley, since I know you are intending to write your memoirs, you will, I am sure, have given some thought to organising your memories already. So shall we start with questions on this branch of creative writing, and see what thoughts we have?”

Teacher’s pet, the know-all student Alexander, put up his hand immediately. “I’d like to ask Miss Beasley first why she thinks anyone will be interested in reading her memoirs?”

Ivy bristled, and Rickwood said quickly that he was sure Alexander would want to rephrase that more politely.

Grudgingly, the student said he supposed Miss Beasley had had a long and fascinating life, and all his fellows would be curious to know how she would arrange her material. Would it be chronological or sequenced?

“Easy,” said Ivy. “I shall sit down, begin at the beginning, and write, honestly and interestingly, until I get to the end. Which will not be too soon, I hope.” Ivy folded her arms and stared at Alexander, who subsided in his seat.

Her friend from last week smiled, and said could she ask Miss Beasley about the honesty bit. “Do you think we do tell the real truth when we are remembering things from a long time ago?”

“Good point,” said Rickwood. “This is a really good starting point, because in creative writing, of whatever kind, the matter of honesty is bound to crop up. Honest memoirs? Not necessarily. Many august memoirs have been spiced up or judiciously edited to make them more palatable to the reader. But it is a dangerous practice, vulnerable to being exposed.”

“So watch it, Miss Beasley,” said Alexander. “No bending the truth.”

Rickwood ignored him. “In plotting a murder mystery, or a romantic fiction, you can lie as creatively as you like! But your characters must be convincingly drawn. Behave with some consistency. Rounded figures. They must be likely to have reasons for committing the crime, or for falling in love with unlikely people.”

“But isn’t that the fun of reading?” said another student. “We like to guess all these things, work them out for ourselves? Surely each reader forms his own picture of what the characters are like?”

And so the discussion caught fire, and lasted until Ivy said it would be time for Roy to escort her home, and Rickwood drew the session to a close. She gathered her papers together, and went quickly out to where Roy would be waiting. But he wasn’t there to greet her with his lovely smile, and she walked all round the college and ended up by the front door with a sinking heart. What could have happened to him? She fumbled in her bag for her seldom used mobile phone and dialled his number. The message taker came on, and she said in a squeaky voice that she hoped he was all right and she was waiting for him.

The students left one by one, with Alexander offering her a lift in his vintage Morgan. But she turned him down and said to everyone that Roy would be there any minute. He must have been held up.

Finally, the high master, Mr. Rubens, appeared, and looked alarmed. “I will phone Springfields for you,” he said. “They will surely know what has happened.” He returned with a serious frown. “They thought he was up here with you,” he said, adding that Rickwood would take her home in his car, and they would keep a lookout for Roy on the way.

ROY SAT ON
an upturned pail in a barn in Blackwoods farmyard, cursing himself for being an overconfident idiot. It had started to rain, but it promised to be a light shower only, and he had looked for a place to shelter for a few minutes. He had gone round to the back of crumbling cowsheds, out of sight of the road, and found a large barn, housing a vintage, if not antique, Ferguson tractor. He had been delighted, and parked his trundle outside with an electrically operated waterproof cover drawn over the seat.

Walking over to the tractor, he had stared at it, not noticing that the heavy barn door had swung shut behind him. Then he realised the light had gone dim, and was coming only from a dusty skylight in the roof. Never mind, he had told himself, the rain will soon pass over, and I shall open the door. It had been open when he came to it, so all would be well.

He had climbed stiffly into the tractor’s worn seat, and long-forgotten memories had come flooding back. Had he been about four or five when his father first lifted him into such a seat? He had always loved farm machinery, and when others reminisced nostalgically about the days of shire horses pulling the plough, he had defended the excitement of modern machinery.

There were other relics of Ted Blatch’s farming days, and Roy had not noticed the time passing. Finally he had looked closely at his watch, and seen that there was still an hour to wait before Ivy would be ready to join him.

After that, things had not gone so well. When he came to open the door, there seemed to be nothing to hold on to. The latch was on the outside, and he saw a hole which would take a finger thrust through to grasp the big wooden bar. Roy was still strong in the arm, but even so he had failed to move it. The weight of the door as it slammed shut had wedged the bar tightly into place. Time passed, and he had finally decided to ring Ivy on his mobile and explain the delay.

Now he fumbled in his pocket, but it was not there. Then he remembered he had put it for safety in the small locked box that served as a secure place on the trundle. He groaned, thinking of his precious Ivy standing alone on the path from the Manor House, looking in vain for him to appear.

• • •

IVY, MEANWHILE, HAD
accepted a lift to Springfields from Rickwood Smith, and they drove slowly through the rain, staring out of misty windows to catch sight of Roy on his trundle.

“He must have broken down somewhere and gone for help,” Ivy said. “But why doesn’t he ring me? We both always carry our mobiles with us in case we get stuck somewhere. Best thing ever invented for old people, Mr. Smith.”

Rickwood slowed down as they passed Blackwoods Farm. “Do you think he might have gone in there to shelter from the rain?” he said.

“Oh, no. We’ve been there so many times, he wouldn’t have done that. Anyway, Roy was a farmer, and a shower of rain wouldn’t put him off coming straight to the college to meet me. He may be old, but he’s tough as old boots.”

Rickwood said nothing, though he doubted Ivy’s description. He had noticed that Mr. Goodman had a slight tremor in his hands. And he had found it difficult to get out of a deep armchair in the high master’s office at that first interview.

“I think the best thing would be for us to go on to Springfields, get you dry and warm and see if they have heard anything. Then I strongly recommend calling the police.”

“Police!” said Ivy. “Certainly not! He would never forgive me. No, I know exactly what I am going to do. I shall call one of my colleagues, Mr. Augustus Halfhide. He will know exactly where to look. Ah, now, here we are, and there’s our gaoler at the door on the lookout. Thank you very much for the lift, Mr. Smith. I shall be with you on Friday, as planned. Oh, and by the way, I should very much like to call on your mother, if she would like me to. I understand she doesn’t get out much.”

Rickwood assured Miss Beasley that he would certainly ask his mother, but she was sometimes reluctant to have visitors. “A bit reclusive, you know, like her sister, Eleanor. And now, here we are at Springfields. You go in and make yourself comfortable, and I’ll continue to search. And don’t worry! Mr. Goodman seems an eminently sensible gentleman!”

• • •

ROY SAT DISCONSOLATELY
on the tractor seat, thinking of ways he could try to escape. He had walked round the barn carefully, looking for implements he could use to move the wooden bar, but had found nothing. He had even looked up to the skylight to see if he could use one of the old wooden ladders to climb up and open it. But common sense told him that would be foolish, and more than likely end in disaster.

Finally he had given up, and trusted that very soon someone would come looking for him. His thoughts had roamed around Enquire Within’s latest discovery. Mary Victoria Winchen. He had a strange feeling about her, and now that he had nothing else to think about, he tried hard but failed to remember anything about her as a young woman.

He frowned. Stick to facts, he told himself. We need to turn up some hard facts about sister Mary. For a start, unless she married a cousin, or some such, was the “Mrs.” a courtesy title? Shouldn’t it be Smith?

A rustling noise from outside the door startled him, and he climbed down from the tractor with relief.

“Ivy!” he shouted, and then followed it up with a loud yell of “Help! I’m in here.”

“Coming!” said a man’s voice loudly. Then there was a noise as of hammering, and he realised someone was in fact slowly moving the heavy wooden bar.

“I’m still here, Ivy. Or Gus? Give me a shout to say you’re making headway!”

“Nearly there, Mr. Goodman!” shouted the man’s voice. Then the bar suddenly lifted and the door moved. “Ah, there you are, sir. No wonder you were trapped. This bar needs a circus strongman to move it! But here you are, and I shall accompany you back to Springfields.”

“Thank you so much,” said Roy. “It’s Mr. Smith, isn’t it? My Ivy’s tutor? How kind of you. I have my trundle, and I shall be fine to go back to Springfields. I do hope Ivy has not been worrying.”

“A little,” said Rickwood. “But you wouldn’t want it otherwise, would you?”

Roy laughed. “How true, Mr. Smith. How very true!”

• • •

FINALLY REUNITED, THE
happy pair sat in front of a roaring fire at Springfields, drinking hot tea, while Roy went over once more his extraordinary experience.

“Mr. Smith was so kind, my dear,” he said. “Very calm and capable. An excellent fellow.”