The Hangman's Row Enquiry (16 page)

Her voice trailed off. Ivy frowned. What was the woman up to? With all that they now knew of her and her mother, she was deeply suspicious.

“And what’s all this about being ill? Sounds like it’s a doctor you need, Miss Blake. On no account do I intend to make my way down to your cottage. I suggest you—” She broke off, clearing her throat where a piece of cookie had lodged, and in that small pause she realised that information of any kind, and especially coming from the daughter of the murder victim, could well be important for Enquire Within.

“I suggest you first of all get better,” she continued, “and then come up to Springfields. My room is completely private and we shall not be disturbed. When do you think that might be?” Her suspicion that the illness was faked was instantly confirmed when Miriam said she could be with Ivy by about three o’clock in the afternoon.

Ivy looked at her watch. It was nearly lunchtime, and Gus and Deirdre would be back home by now. She dialled Gus’s number. Just when she was about to give up, thinking he must have called in to the pub, the receiver was lifted and she heard a voice.

“Augustus?” she said.

“Um, no,” answered the voice. It was clearly a man, and Ivy felt a momentary stab of alarm.

“Who are you, then?” she asked bluntly.

“Um, just a friend. He will be back shortly.”

Before Ivy could continue, there was a click and the dialling tone. She put down the receiver, and felt a shiver down her back. Why? It could have been anybody—some old friend of Gus’s come to stay. Or a . . . a what? How had he got into the cottage? Gus hadn’t mentioned having a guest, or even a caller. In fact, as he and Deirdre left, Ivy had heard him say he had to go up by Tawny Wings and would walk Deirdre home.

Two strange calls in one morning. Ivy shook herself. Just a coincidence, she was sure. She left her room and walked downstairs to the dining room. Remembering her new instructions, she smiled kindly at the shy old man who always sat in the corner. “Lovely day,” she said, and took a seat next to him. He looked up, and she attempted a gentle tone of voice. “Do you play cards, Mr. Goodman?” His reply startled her.

“Rather!” he said. “Cribbage, Miss Beasley? I have a board in my room. Would you care for a game this afternoon?”

Ivy bristled. This was a bit sudden, wasn’t it? Still, in for a penny. “Yes indeed,” she said. “My father taught me long ago, but Mother disapproved of any form of gambling so we had to play when she was out.”

To her horror, the supposedly shy old man reached out and patted her hand. “In this place, we have all the time in the world, my dear,” he said. “Shall we say four o’clock?”

Ivy blinked. “Well,” she said, “I have someone coming to see me at three. But she’ll be gone by then,” she added, quickly adjusting herself to this new situation. Goodness, how was she to have known that Mr. Goodman had a roving eye!?

Katya hovered, announcing lunch, and, smiling at the two elderly residents, offered to take them into the dining room.

Mr. Goodman stood up without help, offered his arm to Ivy, and refused Katya’s offer of help, but in the nicest possible way.

Swept off my feet! thought Ivy in surprise, and positively glided in to lunch.

 

WHEN GUS RETURNED home, he opened the door and knew immediately that someone else was in the house. His long experience of undercover work had given him a sixth sense. He could feel the presence of an intruder in his private space in seconds. This had served him well in tricky situations, and now he moved forward as silently as a ghost. There was not much daylight in the cottage at the best of times, owing to tall, overhanging yew trees on the opposite side of the lane. But now it seemed extra dark. He saw then that the curtains had been drawn across the small front window. His heart began to pound.

Nobody in the sitting room. He breathed more easily. Perhaps the intruder had beat a hasty retreat. Gus silently tiptoed up the stairs and as he put a hand out to open his bedroom door he heard the tiniest footfall behind him. He swung round, but too late. A crack on the head felled Gus to the ground. Satisfying himself that his target was unconscious, the intruder stepped over him and fled.

 

IN MIRIAM’S COTTAGE next door, she had left her sickbed and was watching television, at the same time eating a hearty brunch from a tray on her lap. She had hatched her plan, and now looked forward to putting it into operation. Miss Beasley was a cousin of that woman at Tawny Wings, she knew, and Miriam had decided she’d have more luck with the lonely old woman at Springfields than the rich, well-established widow.

The noise of Gus’s garden gate clicking shut reached her, and she turned down the television sound. By the time she had put down her tray and got to the window, there was nobody to be seen. But wait a minute, by craning her head round the lace curtain she spotted a figure moving very fast along the footpath that edged the wood a hundred yards up the lane. Man or woman? Too far away to tell, she decided, and went back to the television. It was not Gus, she was sure of that. Ah, well, her neighbour was still a bit of a puzzle, but he reckoned without Miriam’s cunning! All those years living with her mother had sharpened her wits, and she grinned to herself. Miss Beasley was the one. Sitting up at Springfields like an old spider, she would be the one.

GUS STIRRED, AND shrieked with pain. His head felt the size of a beach ball, and even a tiny movement stabbed him with sharp knives. Waves of nausea overcame him, and he blacked out. When he briefly became aware again, it was dark, and he had no idea where he was, nor did he much care. He drifted back into a blessed state of unknowing.

When he surfaced again, he was aware of a distant knocking sound. With huge difficulty he struggled to his feet, felt overwhelmingly faint and put out a hand to save himself from falling. The banister at the top of the stairs supported him, and he felt his way slowly along the landing, and stopped. Now he had his bearings, and knew that his next step would send him hurtling downwards. He tried out his voice, and that seemed to be working.

“Who is it?” He tried desperately to control his nausea, and sat down on the top stair.

“Me! Deirdre! Gus, are you there? Are you all right?”

He shook his head, and then wished he hadn’t. Another step. Very carefully, he made his way down and managed to reach the front door before collapsing on the
Welcome
doormat.

Deirdre pushed the door open until she could just squeeze inside. At the sight of Gus, prostrate in front of her, she gasped, but being first and foremost a practical woman, she pulled her mobile from her pocket and dialled 999. “Gus! Speak to me,” she begged.

He opened one eye and said hoarsely, “Has he gone?” Then he passed out again, and Deirdre cradled his poor head in her arms, praying for the ambulance to turn up.

 

IVY HAD HAD a busy day, but was still up and about, not feeling at all like sleep. First the Blake woman, who had called as promised and sat, looking the picture of health, in Ivy’s best chair, nattering on about nothing very much, until Ivy had pointedly asked what exactly
was
the advice she needed. Miriam Blake had then said people were being horrible to her, not exactly accusing her of killing her mother, but dropping such heavy hints that she had begun to avoid conversations in the village. What should she do? It was making her so miserable. Ivy had said she was sure that once the real murderer had been found, all would be well. Miriam would just have to put up with it. Then the questions began. Why had Ivy come to Barrington? Was she close to her cousin at Tawny Wings? Had they grown up together, and been teenaged friends? And on and on, until Ivy became thoroughly annoyed and had more or less shown her the door.

Then on to her game of crib with Mr. Goodman, and while waiting for him to decide which card to play, she had pondered on Miriam Blake’s motives. It was Deirdre, of course, who had been the subject of most of the questions. Deirdre Bloxham, attractive and rich, a merry widow and old flame of Theo Roussel.

“Penny for them?” Mr. Goodman had said, playfully wagging his finger at her. She had gritted her teeth and concentrated on the game. She had won, of course, and left his room promising to have the return match with him very soon. He had said a few interesting things already, and she needed to follow them up.

Finally, settling between her cool sheets, she had said her prayers and reported to the Almighty that life at Springfields was looking up.

 

IT SEEMED ONLY a couple of hours later that she was awoken by her telephone ringing. She looked at her bedside clock and saw that it was already eight o’clock.

“Ivy? It’s Deirdre. Can you be ready by half past nine? We have to go into the General Hospital in Tresham. Gus has had an accident. I found him, and the ambulance men were brilliant. We need to see him. I’ll pick you up half nine. Bye.”

Ivy had not moved so fast for a long time, and by nine fifteen she had washed, dressed, breakfasted and was waiting in the reception hall for Deirdre to collect her.

The grand car cruised to a halt, and Deirdre came swiftly up the path. “Ivy?” she shouted as she opened the door.

“I’m ready,” said Ivy. She called to Mrs. Spurling that she did not know when she would be back, but not to worry about lunch, and then the pair were moving off at speed towards Tresham.

Mrs. Spurling frowned. This could not go on. Springfields was supposed to be for the elderly and infirm. Miss Beasley was certainly elderly, but not at all infirm! She treated the place like a hotel, issuing orders right, left and centre, and obeying none of the rules that made the home run like clockwork.

She turned to go back into her office, and saw Katya waiting for her. The girl was not looking happy, and Mrs. Spurling wondered if Miss Beasley had been sharp with her. But on asking her outright if this was so, Katya had said, “No, of course not! Miss Beasley is very kind to me and makes me feel homely. She is an interesting person, do you not think, Mrs. Spurling?”

“Then is something else bothering you?”

Katya hesitated. “Nice Mr. Goodman. He asks for Lands’ End catalogue? Is this clothes? I did not understand all he say, but he points to his coat and says it is ‘boring.’ Is this right? I am not sure. . . .”

“Nor am I, Katya! Still, some of our residents do make odd requests from time to time. Just tell him you have ordered a catalogue, but don’t do it. He’ll have forgotten about it by tomorrow. We really cannot add to the mountain of junk mail we receive every morning. A genuine, handwritten letter for a resident is quite a rarity, unfortunately.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Spurling. Was that Mrs. Bloxham collecting Miss Beasley? It is great
compliment
—is that right?—to Springfields that Miss Beasley is so happy and, er, busy, is it not?”

Mrs. Spurling suggested that Katya might have some work to get on with, and sat down again at her desk. A compliment, was it? Something she might add to the Springfields prospectus? “All our residents are happy, busy people, etc., etc.” Yes, it sounded very positive. Perhaps Miss Ivy Beasley might be regarded as an asset after all. She picked up the pile of charity demands and catalogues delivered this morning, and without looking at any of them, tipped them straight into the wastepaper basket.

 

THE CAR PARK spaces were not really wide enough for the Rolls, so Deirdre parked across two, saying they were lucky to find any spaces at all. They had hardly exchanged a word on the journey, too shocked and concerned with their own thoughts. Finally Deirdre said, “Usually the whole wretched car park is full, with weeping drivers going round and round knowing they are missing their appointments.”

“And then you have to pay if you do find a space,” said Ivy, noticing the machine for tickets. “Daylight robbery,” she said. “If you ask me, it’s exploiting the sick and disabled.”

Deirdre locked the car and they headed for the main entrance. There were queues everywhere: for the reception desk, the public telephones, the snack bar with its coffee machine and sad array of buns and biscuits, and, when Deirdre and Ivy finally found out where they should go, there was a long impatient queue for the lifts.

“He is sleeping at the moment,” said the nurse, as they found Burton ward. “You can sit by him for a bit, but don’t try to wake him. He needs rest and quiet.”

As Ivy looked around and heard the cacophony of sounds that exists in most hospital wards, she doubted if Gus would be very peaceful in here. As soon as he was able, she would arrange for him to have a week or so in Springfields. He would mend quickly then, she was sure.

Both women were shaken as they looked at Gus, his face twitching as he mumbled in his sleep.

“My God,” said Deirdre quietly, “he made a proper job of it, silly fool.”

Ivy shook her head. “Did you call the police?” Deirdre said no, she had just got the ambulance as quickly as possible.