The Blackwoods Farm Enquiry (An Ivy Beasley Mystery) (8 page)

She seems very chirpy for someone who may have been cruelly attacked in the middle of the night by an unknown villain, thought Ivy. It must have been the charm and charisma of Gus and Deirdre that did the trick, she thought sourly.

But Roy was at his most gentlemanly, and suggested they all sit down and have a little chat. He would not want to exhaust Mrs. Blatch, but perhaps one or two questions would help them in their enquiries.

Ivy looked around the room. It was the one in which she had waved for help through the dirty window, she realised. “Someone’s done a good job cleaning up in here,” she said. “I came to make sure your house was suitable for your return, but got shut in and had to attract Roy’s attention through the window there. I expect you were out?” she said.

“Probably,” said Mrs. Blatch. “I’m afraid I am not too clever on the sequence of past events of the last few days. And yes, I am so grateful to all those people who set to and cleaned up this place. I had let it all go to pot, I’m ashamed to say.”

“Perhaps you should get another lodger?” suggested Ivy.

“Oh no, once bitten, twice shy, Miss Beasley! No, no more lodgers for me.”

“It’s quite a long time since your last one, isn’t it?” Ivy asked politely.

Mrs. Blatch nodded. “Haven’t seen him for years now. I doubt if I’d recognise the sneaky little so-and-so. Ratted on me, that one, you know.”

“He’s probably changed a lot since that time,” persisted Ivy. “Let’s hope you may not need to identify him in the future.”

“What are you saying, Miss Beasley? Are you suggesting my attacker might be my long-gone lodger? I can assure you that it was not him. If I didn’t know his face, I’d certainly recognise his voice. Age doesn’t change that, all that much. If there was a real intruder, then he wasn’t an intruder, if you know what I mean. The face I saw, and the voice I heard, was my late husband, Ted. There, over there on the bureau, you can see a picture of Ted. Good-looking man, he was.”

“Handsome is as handsome does,” said Ivy.

Eleanor Blatch nodded, leaned back in her armchair and closed her eyes.

Roy signalled to Ivy that it was time to go, and she picked up her handbag from the floor. “We’ll be off now, Mrs. Blatch,” she said, and saw that she was drifting off into sleep already. “I’ll put another log on the fire, then you can get some rest in here. My old mother always used to say you feel better sitting in a chair than propped up in bed. I am sure your nephew will be looking in to see if you need anything.”

Mrs. Blatch did not move a muscle, but Ivy heard a sharp intake of breath. So she had heard. Selecting a large log and placing it firmly on the fire, she set up the guard and turned to Roy. “It is a long time since my mother said things in my head, after she had died,” she said quietly.” Must be because I love you, Roy, and you fill my thoughts.”

Eleanor Blatch opened one eye, and shut it again quickly. Silly old bat, she thought, but did not say a word.

“NEXT TIME WE
go to see her, I am going to ask straight out about that locked room at the end of the passage. We know it leads to the fire escape on the end wall of the house, and we also know the escape was not locked when Gus went in. But a locked door would be very difficult to negotiate in the event of a fire.”

Deirdre had been thinking about their visit yesterday, and had come to the conclusion that Mrs. Winchen Blatch was a courageous woman who had, in the past, and without any support, finally given up, become confused and lonely and allowed her home to deteriorate.

The only really well cared-for thing in the whole property was the small hen ark. Deirdre had peeped inside, and seen clean wood shavings for bedding, with feeder and water trough close by. Everything was spotless, which was unusual for chickens. With their scratching and churning, their quarters were usually reduced to a mud bath. But these all looked well fed and had an attractive sheen on their black feathers.

In the distant past, Deirdre had kept chickens. They were bantams, and in her idle moments she had amused herself watching the antics of a feisty cockerel and his reluctant hens. In the end, a deputation of neighbours had turned up at her door, demanding that the cockerel must go. His strident crowing in the early morning had driven them to despair, and they threatened action if she did not get rid of him. She had given the whole lot to a nearby farmer, and peace reigned once more. But she missed them.

Now, pouring more coffee for Gus, who had turned up unannounced with the morning paper, she said, “I’ve got it. Poultry is what we have in common, and I shall go up there and talk to her about them. I shall say I’m thinking of getting some more. I know enough about chickens to keep us going for at least an hour.”

“I suppose you don’t want me to come?” Gus said hopefully. He could happily leave chickens to Deirdre. “But don’t forget the real purpose of your visit, Dee-Dee. We do need to know about the cigar-smoking visitor, and why his door is sometimes locked.”

“Did you notice yesterday that from outside you can look up the fire escape to the window? I did, and the curtains were drawn across, so you couldn’t see anyone moving inside. I suppose you could if the light was on. It looked creepy and dark.”

“Perhaps you’d better leave the dark chamber to me, Deirdre,” said Gus, taking her hand. “Can’t have you captured and held hostage by a cigar-smoking villain.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she answered. “Perhaps him with the cigar was having a sleep. Dark chamber, indeed! Sounds very medieval.”

“I knew of one once. In a friend’s house. A small room that had had its window bricked up when there was a window tax. It was used as a junk room, and when they finally opened it up, all kinds of treasures were found.”

“Mm, I think I’ve heard tell of that before. But I’m not put off. I shall go up to the farmhouse a bit later on, to make sure she’s having a good lunch. Then I’ll stay for a chat. No need for you to come.”

“You have my permission to ask about the dark chamber and the cigar smoke,” Gus added, and received from Deirdre a sharp reply about being a pompous idiot.

“I was going to suggest you eat supper with me this evening,” said Deirdre. “But I can’t be doing with any more of your nonsense. I’ll see you tomorrow some time and report back.”

Gus sighed. “I might turn up, anyway,” he said. “Cap in hand at your back door, asking for a crust.”

“You’ll get the boot if you do. So drink your coffee, and I’ll go up and get ready to go up to Blackwoods.”

• • •

ELEANOR BLATCH HAD
arisen from sleep quite early, and had gone out into a sunlit yard to open up her chickens. It was chilly, and she drew her cardigan closer round her bony chest. She watched as the cockerel came out first, and then stationed himself by the door as his girls came out one by one. Shivering now, she went into the house and washed her hands under the kitchen tap. The clean stone sink now shone, and there was a pleasant smell of disinfectant everywhere. How had she allowed her home to get into such a dreadful mess? She supposed it was years of depression, living alone and becoming more and more a recluse.

Miss Beasley’s mention of her nephew had taken her aback for a moment. She scarcely ever remembered her sister living in Spinney Close. Apart from paying her rent and giving her a small allowance, that is. As far as she was concerned, she had no sister nor nephew. They were dead to her, and she had no wish to be reminded of them.

She supposed the nephew had come to see his mother, as Mary had lived alone and was now too crippled to go out. She could not even remember the nephew’s name, and he would no doubt be gone again quite soon. She put them firmly out of her mind. That had been all finished years and years ago. If people in the village remembered it, they had the sensitivity not to speak of it.

She would be up and about, and start on redecorating and buying new things for the house. She might join a club in the village. The Women’s Institute would not do. She remembered very sharp things said by them about her lodger!

A book group had been newly set up. Details were in the post office. She liked reading, and decided to find out more. As she began to clear away her breakfast things, she heard a voice. “Mrs. Blatch? It’s Deirdre Bloxham. May I come in?”

“You are in, aren’t you,” Eleanor replied. “I’ve just got up, done the chickens, and had some breakfast. I could make you a cup of tea if you like?”

Deirdre appeared in the kitchen, put down her handbag and began to dry up Eleanor’s breakfast dishes as they were washed. “Have you thought of a dishwasher?” she said.

“I can honestly say that I have never thought of a dishwasher,” Eleanor said with a straight face. Then she burst out laughing, and Deirdre joined in, and then apologised for asking silly questions. “What
have
you been thinking of since you were brought back to life?” she said, hanging the wet cloth over the Rayburn rail.

Eleanor sobered up. “I have done some thinking,” she said. “I see that I have been given a second chance, and I mean to make the most of it. How old do you think I am, Mrs. Bloxham?”

“That’s a facer! I really have no idea,” said Deirdre, taking the easy way out.

“I am sixty next birthday. And I am well aware that when I was found unconscious on my bedroom floor, I looked at least ninety.”

Deirdre smiled, but did not comment. Instead she looked around the big farm kitchen and asked if Mrs. Blatch had ever considered adoption.

“What? At my age? Dear me, no, Mrs. Bloxham. I know this seems a big house, but I manage to fill it with my various hobbies. I love tapestry work, and as you’ve probably seen, I read a lot. House is full of books!”

“No, I don’t mean adopting a small child. It was just a thought, but there are many young people needing a good home, if only for a short time. Some have never known what a real home is. How many bedrooms have you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Um, let me see. There’s mine. That’s the main one, and then there are three good singles, and a small box room that’s almost never used. So that’s five. But I really don’t want anyone else in the house, Mrs. Bloxham.”

“Does that include the little room at the end of the passage? When we found you so cruelly injured, we looked around at once to see if anyone was hiding. That one, which my colleague calls the dark chamber, bless him, was where access to the fire escape would be. Please excuse me if you think I’m being nosy, but this is an old house and would go up like a tinder box if a fire did start. It would be wise to have free access to the escape, just in case.”

Oh lor, Deirdre thought to herself. I’ve gone too far. Her face has closed up, and the room temperature has dropped several degrees.

“The dark chamber, eh?” said Miss Blatch. “Well, it’s a good name for it. I’ll take a look, Mrs. Bloxham, and see if it can be fixed. And I see your point about the fire escape. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. And thank you for your help,” she added. She put out her hand, and Deirdre held it for a few seconds.

“If you need any help, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ring me. Here’s my card. It’s been nice talking to you again.”

As she turned to leave the kitchen, she sniffed. Not fumes from the Rayburn, nor smoke from the fire newly lit in the sitting room. Bert had loved a small cigar, and the smell was like a shove in the stomach. Dear old Bert, how she missed him. Pulling herself together, she smiled at Mrs. Blatch and said she would see her again soon, and left.

AS SOON AS
she was home, Deirdre rang Gus. “Hi, are you still speaking to me?” she began, and without waiting for his answer, continued, “Guess what? It was there again.”

“What was? A hawk stealing the chickens? A stray social worker hiding behind the arras?”

“Oh, ha ha. No, there was a distinct whiff of cigar smoke. Without my even thinking about it, I suddenly remembered Bert, and Sunday afternoons, when we used to sit after lunch and read the papers and he would smoke a small cigar. It was unmistakable, Gus. Somebody in that house either was or had been smoking.”

“Right, well, that is a small clue when we’re looking for a possible lodger. Except that if it was him, surely she would not allow him to carry on living in her house? Might be an idea to ask James at the shop if he remembers selling cigars to a person in the village during the time the original lodger was here.”

“I doubt if James had arrived by then, but we could ask around. As to kicking him out, if he has returned, it might not be that easy for her. Maybe he’s blackmailing her, or threatening her with more physical violence if she tries to get rid of him. If you think about it, it would be very difficult for a rather frail woman to turn out a fully grown, strong-armed man.”

“It could be the reason why she has asked Enquire Within to investigate her case. She might be hoping we will find him, without her actually ratting him out, and then we’d arrange for the police to storm the building without warning, and then send him packing for good. It’s possible, Gus, isn’t it?”

“It is certainly possible. But she categorically denied that her intruder was her lodger. She is sure it is her husband’s ghost. I think we need to have a meeting with the others, and chew over this new development. It’s not much to go on, but worth a mention. Ivy’s a shrewd old thing, and I’d value her advice.”

“Me, too,” said Deirdre. “Shall we see if they can come up to Tawny Wings tomorrow afternoon? I have an appointment in town in the morning, but should be back around two. I’ll give Ivy a ring.”

• • •

YESTERDAY, AS SOON
as they left Blackwoods Farm, Roy had wanted to know what on earth Ivy had meant by asking Eleanor Blatch about a nephew. “What nephew?” he had said, and Ivy had told him in detail what she had heard from Rickwood Smith, the new tutor at the Manor House College, adding that she was sure Eleanor blinked at the mention. They had tried to remember where Spinney Close was, but neither had been that way recently. “We’ll ask Katya when she comes in,” Ivy had said. “She’s probably planning to take the baby for walks all round the village, dear little thing.”

Now she and Roy were seated in front of a new laptop computer he had given Ivy for her birthday. She was already well accustomed to the simple tasks, and had suggested they look up Rickwood Smith on the Internet.

“I think I’m improving,” she said to Roy, as she selected Internet Explorer and brought up Google on her screen. “I really love the different designs they have each day,” she said. “Now, here we go.”

Disappointed that nothing had come up connected with his name, she switched to Rubens. “Should have more luck here,” she said.

“I think you’re wonderful, my dear, even to attempt to switch the thing on. But I should know better than to doubt my Ivy’s determination!”

Ivy and Roy peered once more at the screen. “There it is, up there under the College heading. ‘Peter Paul Rubens, MA Dip Ed.’ I knew the name sounded familiar.”

Ivy looked at him. “Are you joking, my dear?” she said.

Roy shook his head, and Ivy sighed. “Peter Paul Rubens,” she said with exaggerated patience, “was a famous painter four hundred years ago. Did portraits of buxom women. Among other things.”

“Oh my goodness, Ivy. Of course he was! Well done, my clever Ivy. Shall we put Beasley in, and see what comes up?” Roy was beginning to enjoy playing with Ivy’s new toy. But she closed it down firmly and said that was quite enough of that. They had work to do, and that meant a trip up Manor Road.

“To see Mrs. Blatch?” said Roy.

“No, to see Mr. Peter Paul Rubens, whose parents must have had a good sense of humour,” said Ivy, with a smile. “I’ve gone through that creative writing stuff we collected, and there are already several suggestions I’d like to make to improve it.”

“Why don’t we wait until twilight,” said Roy, “and see if we can make out lights coming from upstairs at Blackwoods Farm?”

“Especially from the small room over the fire escape in the end wall of the house?”

“You read my mind, dearest. Bodes well for our marriage. Now, try these spicy biscuits of Anya’s. They’re almost as delicious as you.”

At that point, Katya came to refill the teapot and was alarmed and then embarrassed to see Miss Beasley perched on the bony knees of Mr. Goodman, giving him what was clearly a loving kiss. Amidst all the confusion, they forgot to ask Katya where they would find Spinney Close.