The Blackwoods Farm Enquiry (An Ivy Beasley Mystery) (19 page)

ALMOST AS SOON
as Roy and Ivy sat down to tea, Mrs. Spurling advanced on them with a red face. “It’s Mrs. Bloxham,” she said disapprovingly. “She says it is urgent.” She thrust the phone into Ivy’s hand and waited, lips pursed.

“God, Ivy, what an old dragon!” said Deirdre. “Anyway, before she locks you in your bedroom, I am longing to hear what happened on your student walk? Can me and Gus come over this evening, about half six? More convenient for me. Would that be allowed by La Spurling? . . . Okay? Bye.”

Ivy handed the phone back wordlessly to Mrs. Spurling.

“Thank you, my dear,” said Roy, smiling his sweetest. Sometimes he felt quite sorry for their manager. He could see that Ivy’s fierce independence made life very difficult for the poor woman, and he tried to alleviate the tension it created all round.

Mrs. Spurling walked away, thinking for the umpteenth time that she could not for the life of her understand what nice Mr. Goodman saw in the impossible old baggage.

“Gus and Deirdre are coming at half past six,” said Ivy to Roy. “They want to hear what my student walk produced. It will be nice to see them, so perhaps you could exert your charm and order coffee—and one pot of tea—in my room ready for them? Thank you, my dear!”

Roy was not at all sure that Ivy wasn’t mocking him. He could see a glint in her eye, but decided to ignore it. She could outwit him without effort.

• • •

IN THE FALLING
twilight, the old sheep limped over the field towards the henhouse, and stopped a few yards from it. It baa-ed several times, and then settled down to wait.

Usually around this time, a handful of sweet-smelling hay was brought out, but so far it had not appeared. After a while, the sheep gave up, and wandered back to the other side of the field.

Samantha, walking back from college, where she had stayed for a social gathering of students in the bar, shone her torch over the muddiest patches on the path. She did not notice the sheep coming up behind her, and suddenly felt a strong push in her back, and she screamed.

When she turned around and saw what had shoved her forward, she shouted angrily at it, and vowed not to return home this way again. It was a foolish thing to do, anyway, she decided, and quickened her pace. Almost up to the spinney, she stopped. She could see the henhouse through the trees, and was certain the door opened and then quickly shut. Oh Lord, keep me safe, she said to herself. Then the door opened again, and she ran.

“Samantha! It’s Rick! Don’t be afraid. Come back.”

She had only a few yards to go to the other side of the spinney, and reached her garden gate with relief.

“What on earth is the matter with you, Samantha?” said her mother, as she flopped onto the living room sofa without taking off her Wellingtons. “Those muddy boots! You surely didn’t come back over the field path in the dark?”

Samantha nodded. “It is the last time I do,” she said. “It’s not only the mud. There was someone in the henhouse. The light was on, so I came on home as quickly as possible.”

Her father came in and asked what was up. Samantha gave him a brief account. She did not own up that she knew all along that it was her tutor who worked in there at odd times. She rather wished she had stopped when he called. He had such a lovely warm voice . . .

Her father nodded wisely, and agreed that she shouldn’t go that way until the field would be dry, and the evenings lighter. “It is private property, Sam. We are trespassing when we use that path, although it has been a shortcut for years, so the villagers say. But as long as you are not threatened in any way, it is nothing to do with us if the henhouse stores the instruments for the town band.”

“A person, Dad,” said Samantha. “Our tutor, Rickwood Smith, works in there. Not trumpets.”

Her father shrugged. “Same difference,” he said. “You did well to steer clear. Come and watch the telly and calm down.”

• • •

IVY’S ROOM HAD
once more become a meeting place, with extra chairs for Gus and Deirdre, and a tray of coffee and biscuits on a small table in front of them.

“How pleasant!” said Deirdre. “I don’t know why you grumble about Springfields, Ivy. They always seem most accommodating. And where on earth did you get that furry thing? Don’t tell me it’s a nightdress bag?”

Ivy shook her head. “Hot water bottle cover. I found it and brought it back to be company for Tiddles. Sleight of hand, dears, and none of the others noticed. But let’s talk about my expedition this afternoon. The students did well and enjoyed most of it.”

“Never mind the students! We want to know what you learned about the farmyard and the footpath. The spinney, too, if you got that far.”

“Who was with you on the expedition?” Gus asked Ivy. “Anyone we would know?”

“None you would recognise, I doubt,” said Ivy. “Except, of course, Rickwood Smith. He was leader for the afternoon. Nice chap. But then, you’ve met him, Gus.”

“Mm, I’m reserving judgement until I have seen more of him. He’s been very uncooperative about the dark chamber. I’m certain he could open the door, and probably does when there’s nobody about. He’s acting as if he owns the farm already. Very proprietorial, he is.

“You’ve probably seen most of the students in the pub. There’s one who always has a lot to say for himself. And then there’s another knows all about farming. And, of course, young Samantha, who is my special friend.”

“Smiley-faced girl?” said Gus. “Lives in the village? I think she’s been down to the pub with some other girls. That could be Samantha. I think she’s usually called Sam by her friends.”

“Very pretty,” said Ivy. “If I’m not mistaken, the poor child has developed a crush on our tutor, Rickwood Smith. Not a good idea, I think, but it is none of my business. On the other hand, I would not like to see her come to harm.”

Gus nodded sagely, but in fact was deep in thought about how he could get his hands on the Ferguson tractor. He said he was sure Samantha’s parents would be on the lookout for her, but who was keeping an eye on the Fergie?

“Somebody has locked the barn, but I can see it’s still there. That peephole in the door is useful. Smith is very cagey about it. He says he has plans for the place when everything is finalised. He seems pretty sure now that he will be the new owner. Could be his mother, I suppose, but since she is very disabled it might well be him in all but name.”

“Ye gods,” said farmer Roy. “And we know he is thinking of selling up. If he stays, anything could happen. There’ll be donkey rides and rare breeds on show. School parties, and reptile houses!”

“Tour buses and car parks!” said Ivy. “Tree walks and ice creams. At a price! I know all about diversification, but these hobby farms are a waste of time, using up good pasture land that could support proper farm animals. And,” she added, “he’ll be too busy to continue with the writing course, I suppose. Always supposing he stays in the village.”

“And if he moves into the farmhouse, I shall call with my collecting tin,” said Deirdre. “A very good way of snooping! What say you, Ivy?”

“You snoop with your tin, I shall proceed more stealthily. First, I shall ask at college if anyone knows about the new owner of Blackwoods Farm. I still think it is too soon for Rickwood or his mother to have been legally approved as Eleanor’s sole beneficiary.”

Roy groaned. “I do hope you spend a little time on your memoirs, dearest. I suspect your class is becoming a useful offshoot of Enquire Within!”

“Of course!” answered Ivy. “Why else do you think I applied for the course?”

Roy laughed, and then smothered a yawn.

“We must go,” said Deirdre. “It’s been a great evening, both. See you in church on Sunday, maybe? Meanwhile, I’m off in the morning to see a client in Spinney Close. Social services have asked me to visit.”

“Who’s that, then?” said Ivy.

“Mrs. Winchen, of course. Who else?”

“SO WHAT ARE
you two dear things up to today?” Miss Pinkney smiled fondly at Roy, as he and Ivy sat reading the newspapers after breakfast.

“Oh, a quiet day, I think, Pinkers,” he said. “This and that, you know.”

“And a spot of the other?” said his friend Fred, propping himself up on the back of a chair. “You two must be close to being spliced.”

Ivy nodded. “Not long to go now,” she said. “But we’ve sort of decided not to talk about it too much, in case it should have to be cancelled again!”

“Possibly for good,” said Roy, uncharacteristically gloomy.

“Cheer up, friend!” said Fred. “And hey, have you heard the latest?”

“Tell us,” said Ivy.

“Blackwoods Farm, the old Blatch place. People are saying the new owner is moving in himself and turning the place into a safari park. How d’you fancy lions next door to you, Ivy?”

“Not at all, Fred. It’s not so much the lions I object to. It’s all the charabancs and hordes of so-called wildlife enthusiasts. I think I preferred the hobby farm rumour. In any case, you’ll be able to say good-bye to peace and quiet in Barrington.”

“Is that what’s bothering you, too, Roy?” said Fred. “Not like you to have a miserable face. Mind you, I can see you, being a farmer, you’d not like that kind of thing where there should be native sheep and cattle, and the odd sheepdog running round the fields with his shepherd. Nor me, chum! Nor me. Let’s hope the planning application gets turned down.”

“Who is the rightful owner, then, Fred?” said Ivy, hoping this precious piece of information would drop into her lap.

Fred shook his head. “It was Eleanor Blatch’s, of course. But folk say she didn’t leave no will. Next in line would be that Rickwood chap’s mother. She what was Eleanor’s sister. So I suppose it’s hers. He’s been swanning around like he owns the place, so I expect he’s running it for his mum.”

Ivy’s mobile rang, and she rummaged in her big handbag for it. After she finally located it, her face broke into a smile when she heard Samantha’s voice on the phone.

“Hello, dear,” she said. “How can I help you?”

“You know that dead cat that turned out to be a furry hot water bottle cover? Well, as you probably know because you keep your eyes open, it disappeared before we walked back to college. We reckon someone picked it up when we weren’t looking.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I have a confession to make. It was me. I picked it up, brought it back to Springfields, gave it a bath, and now it is curled up with Tiddles on my bed.”

There was a small silence, and then Samantha began to laugh. “You are full of surprises, Miss Beasley!” she said. “I am sure it could not have a better home. So what are you planning for the weekend?”

“Well, I had a dream last night, and it was like a rerun of something that happened to me when I was a nipper. I thought I would spend this afternoon writing it down. I am planning to ask Roy to edit it for me.”

“Best of luck, Miss Beasley. I hope we shall be allowed to read it?”

“We shall see. And what are you up to?”

“I thought I would go with my mop, broom and duster over to the henhouse to see if Rick needs a cleaner. You know how men are! It’ll be my good deed for today.”

“You will be careful, my dear, won’t you? Good-bye.”

• • •

“ME EDIT YOUR
notes? Not me, Ivy, not likely!” said Roy. “Your memoir should have the voice of Ivy Beasley in all of it. And as for editing, you’d best ask our Gus to do that for you. He’s a properly educated chap.”

“No, I want you to read it and approve it, whatever its mistakes. Please, Roy.”

“Very well, dearest. You get busy this afternoon, and perhaps I will do the same and write down some of my memories, too?”

“No need, we’ll have plenty of time to sit by the fire and reminisce when we’re old.”

Mrs. Spurling, passing by, heard Ivy’s last few words, and raised her eyes to heaven.

• • •

FOR THE REST
of the morning, Ivy and Roy decided to take a walk across the Green and down Hangman’s Row to call on Gus and Whippy. Roy climbed into his trundle and they set off into the sunlit Springfields garden. As they went through the gate into the road, a loud voice hailed them.

“Good morning! Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” Peter Rubens approached and asked them where they were going. “May I accompany you as far as the pub?” he asked. “We have been so busy with our first year of courses and students, and I have neglected my contacts with neighbours. How are you both keeping?”

“Pretty well, thank you,” said Roy. “And yourself?”

“Oh, splendid, thank you, Mr. Goodman. Miss Beasley will have told you about our successful expedition, teaching us to keep our eyes and ears open.”

“Yes, indeed. She told me they found a hot water bottle cover that resembled a dead cat and a lame sheep. All very useful for potential writers, I am sure.”

“Ah, yes, the lame sheep,” said Peter. “You aren’t feeding it, are you? Not a good idea with sheep.”

“Changing the subject,” said Ivy, “have you been told about the safari park at Blackwoods Farm?” Ivy’s face was all innocence, but Roy knew exactly what she was up to.

“Rumours, Mr. Rubens,” he said. “But there’s no smoke without fire, as my old mother used to say. There’s another memory for you, Ivy,” he added with a smile.

“I heard a family called Winchen were taking it over. Does that name mean anything to you?” Ivy replied, still smiling encouragingly at Rubens.

“Only one of the names of that poor woman who was murdered. I suppose they’ll make the most of that in the safari park publicity. ‘Visit the haunted house that even the tigers won’t go near!’ I can hear it now.”

“We heard that it hasn’t actually changed hands, as old Mrs. Winchen, Eleanor’s sister, is still alive. But her son, Rickwood, could be involved. Doesn’t he work for you, Mr. Rubens?” said Roy. “I shouldn’t think he will want that sort of thing.”

“He’s a good fellow and tutor, so I hope he won’t be leaving us. Very popular with the girls, too. Can’t see him tangling with tigers, though!”

They were at the corner of the Green, and Peter Rubens left them, heading for the pub.

“So there we are,” said Roy. “Not a lot further forward.”

“Hardly anywhere,” said Ivy. They continued down Hangman’s Lane, waving to Miriam Blake as they went.

“Now,” said Roy, “are you going to knock on Gus’s door? No point in my detrundling if he’s not there.”

Gus had seen them coming, and appeared at his door, smiling broadly.

“Hi, you two, come on in? I wasn’t expecting you this morning. Deirdre’s coming in later. Let me help you, Roy.”

Ivy said Roy was perfectly capable of managing by himself, and walked in, followed by Whippy. Ivy was not particularly partial to dogs, but she stroked the smooth head dutifully, and sat down on one of the least rickety of Gus’s chairs.

“How about lunch here?” said Gus. “We can phone La Spurling and I can invite Miriam. She always cooks enough for an army. There’s a great deal to talk about, and Miriam may well have something to contribute. Look outside! There’s heavy drops falling already. I’ll push the trundle under cover, and have a word with Miriam.”

• • •

AN HOUR LATER,
they welcomed Miriam bearing plates of steaming curry, and all managed to sit round an unsteady folding table. Pronouncing it to be the best curry he had ever tasted, Gus poured glasses of primrose wine all round and suggested they tell Miriam what they knew.

“Not all of it,” said Ivy. “It will take too long. But I wonder if first, Miriam, I could ask you if you have had any contact with Mrs. Winchen, who lives in the old persons’ bungalows, or her son, Rickwood Smith?”

Ivy said that it was Mrs. Winchen who they were really interested in. Mary Winchen, who was now disabled, and had her son staying with her at present. “We know quite a lot about them currently,” she said. “I have met the son at college. He’s a tutor. And Mrs. Bloxham, who does voluntary work for social services, as I expect you know, she is visiting Mrs. Winchen to see if she is okay and happy an’ all that, or needs help.”

Miriam shook her head. “The only Winchen I really remember was poor Mrs. Eleanor. Her second name was Winchen. She was older than me, of course, but us kids used to go round the farm after school and Mr. Ted would give us sweets. I think he liked kids, and they didn’t have none of their own. Mind you,” she added, moving her chair closer, “there was talk of a miscarriage, and my mum said the poor woman wouldn’t try again. Know what I mean?”

She paused, deep in thought. The others waited, and then Gus said, “Go on, Miriam, tell us more.”

“O’ course, it would be before any of you lot came to live in Barrington,” she said. “But, believe it or not, after Mr. Ted died, Mrs. Eleanor took a lover. Well, to be honest, he came as her lodger, but ended up, everyone said, as her lover. You could tell, y’know. Then, poor woman, he did a runner, taking all her savings an’ that. Never came back, the rotten sod, if you’ll pardon my French.”

“Granted,” said Ivy. “We have heard about the lodger. But didn’t Eleanor have a sister Mary? A younger sister?”

“Yes, there was one. Prettier than Eleanor. Would that be the one living in Spinney Close now?”

“Yes, we think so. Deirdre will tell us more.” Ivy shifted in her seat to give her a better view of the lane outside.

“If you don’t mind my asking, Miss Beasley,” Miriam said slowly, “why do you want to know all this? A case you’re working on, is it?”

“And my memoirs,” said Ivy quickly. “I am writing my memoirs, and have become fascinated by village history here in Barrington. You have such a good memory, Miriam, and it’s all so interesting.”

Roy coughed, and said he was sure Miriam would remember a poor young mother expecting, and then no baby to show for it. “It happened with cows sometimes,” he said, “when I was a working farmer.”

“I didn’t hear much about it as a child,” Miriam said. “Though I used to get under the table and listen to grown-ups talking. I used to like that. I did hear them talk about a ‘miss,’ as they used to call it. Didn’t understand it, quite, but I knew we never saw no baby. Oh yes, it’s coming back to me now. That’s when the sister came to stay for a while. Very pretty, she was. She was nice to us kids, too, but she got sent back to Lincolnshire, my mum said. Too pretty, she said, and all her friends sitting round the table laughed like drains. There’s a memory for you, Miss Beasley!”

“Wonderful, Miriam. You should be the one writing your memoirs. Wonderful recall of times past. It’s valuable stuff, you know. Oral history they call it at the college. There’s a course on it. Perhaps you should have a go?”

“I have quite enough to do with looking after my cottage, and keeping an eye on Gus here, and his Whippy. I’ll leave the studying to you, Miss Beasley, thanks very much. I shall look forward to reading your book, when you’ve finished it.”

Deirdre arrived outside, and came in with a long face. “Sorry, friends,” she said. “No Miss Winchen, I’m afraid. There was a note addressed to me, pinned to her front door saying she had gone to a doctor’s appointment at the surgery in Oakbridge.”

“I hope you weren’t late,” said Ivy in a disgruntled tone of voice. “We were hoping you’d have great revelations for us. Miriam here has been wonderful remembering things.”

“Good-o for Miriam,” Deirdre said nastily, and Gus’s well-meaning neighbour got to her feet and departed in a huff.