The Hangman's Row Enquiry (7 page)

When they reached Ivy’s room, she turned on Gus. “I’ll thank you to show a little more respect,” she said. “Eloped, indeed! Do you know how old I am?”

“Age is of no importance where love is concerned,” Gus said, “but no, Ivy, it was a small joke. Not meant to offend. You can be sure I have great respect for you and will watch my foolish tongue in the future.”

“Right,” said Ivy, sitting down in her chair by the window. “Now, what is next for us to do. I shall see Miss Beatty tomorrow, but we have no time to waste.”

Gus reflected that he had planned to put his feet up and watch the racing with Whippy, who always watched fixedly as the sweating, snorting horses galloped by. Then it would be teatime with Miriam. He would have to be careful that Ivy did not take charge, else all three of them would be slaving eight hours a day following up red herrings. Fortunately, there was a knock at the door and the pretty Polish girl came in with a laden tray.

“Morning, Katya,” Gus said quickly, before Ivy could find anything to criticise. “How are you settling down in England, my dear?” Ivy scowled at him, but he pretended not to notice.

“Very well, thank you, sir,” Katya said, smiling broadly at him. He spoke so beautifully that she could understand every word. “You like something else?”

“Won’t you stay and tell us about Poland for a while?” Gus said hopefully.

Katya raised her eyebrows. “Oh, no, sir. Not allowed! Thank you, sir,” she said, and rushed from the room.

“Fool!” Ivy said. “D’you think old Spurling would let her fraternise with the guests? She allows them two sentences per inmate, and that’s it.”

Gus was quite sure that Ivy was making this up, but consoled himself that he was quite likely to meet Katya in the street some time, and then he could take things further. Poor girl was probably lonely, and would welcome a fatherly friend to take care of her.

“Down to business,” Ivy said, seeing Gus lost in a day-dream. “You can drive, can’t you? Time to get a decent car for you, and then we’ll be safely mobile without asking Deirdre for the loan of her Rolls Royce every time we want to go into town.”

It was beginning to look like Ivy intended Gus and herself to be an investigating twosome, and he was not sure this was a good idea. She could cramp his style more than somewhat, and he said that yes, he could drive, but had no money for new cars at present. Maybe later. Meanwhile, he must drink up his coffee and get going. “Some important research to do,” he said vaguely, and palmed a couple of shortbreads into his pocket for later.

THE SHOP WAS full of people who had just got off the Tresham bus, bags full of purchases from the market. Will was trying hard to restock the shop with more interesting items than had the previous owner, hoping to lure customers who would eventually give up supermarket shopping. A forlorn hope, but worth a try, he thought. The post office was still a useful adjunct, but there was a constant threat to its continuation. Post offices were fast disappearing from rural areas, and elderly people were up in arms at the loss. Where would they get their pensions, their TV licence stamps, post their letters to home and abroad?

At present, the shop was flourishing. Will was popular, and already had been elected to the parish council. He was a bachelor, young and good-looking, and gaggles of teenaged schoolgirls made straight for the shop’s new selection of ice creams the moment they got off the afternoon bus. Will was only human, and appreciated long legs and fluttering eyelashes along with the other youngbloods in the village. But he was very careful not to overstep the mark, and was regarded as trustworthy by all.

“Hi, Will,” said Gus, adopting the jargon, he hoped.

“Good morning again, Gus,” Will said with a smile. “Forgotten something? Milk, some of my delicious new cheeses?”

“No, sorry. Maybe later. No, I came in to see if you could fill me in on activities in the village. Something likely for me to join? I mean to be a useful part of the community, in time.”

“Blimey! Better not say that too loud, else you’ll find yourself dragged into everything, even the WI if you’re not careful. They’re talking about having men’s evenings, if you can believe it! No, you know what they say about a willing horse. Well, it’s certainly true in Barrington. But,” he added, “to be serious, I am sure there’s a couple of things to interest you. First the pub, and then the reading group . . . well, only possibly the reading group.”

Gus laughed. Here was a man after his own heart, even though he was—um—several years younger. “Well done,” he said. “Just what I wanted. Now, I suppose I could go down for a pint tonight, but . . .” He hesitated, and Will said obligingly that he would be glad to meet him there around nine o’clock and introduce him to some of the lads.

“And by lads,” Will added, “I mean lads aged from eighteen to eighty! Some of the old locals are great. And just watch out if they challenge you to dominoes. They’ll have all your loose change off you in no time!”

“Thanks a lot,” Gus said. “Are you also a member of the reading group? What’s that like?”

Will shook his head. “Don’t have time to read the books. Running this place is more than a full-time job. They meet once a month, and I believe they’re a nice lot. You can go just for one evening to try it out—doesn’t even matter if you’ve not read the book, apparently!”

“Are they all highly educated, well read, and all that?”

“Shouldn’t think so. The ones I know are just average readers. Anyway, you could give it a try.”

Gus spotted the shelf of jams and chutneys, and took a selection. “These’ll brighten my meagre diet,” he said, and handed over a surprising amount of money. “Only the best, I assume?”

Will nodded. “Of course,” he said. “Though her up at the Hall, our Miss Beatty, says they’re rubbish, and expensive rubbish at that.”

“Best recommendation you could have, I’ve been told,” said Gus. Then several people came in at once, and he left, pleased with himself for having made an excellent start.

At exactly three thirty in the afternoon, he knocked at Miriam’s door. He had spruced himself up, including cleaning his shoes. In his experience, women were very particular about shoes. His own mother had always said that if your shoes were clean, then the rest wasn’t so important. Wrong, of course. Just like she was wrong about saying that if the corners were clean, the middles would take care of themselves. That was rooms, of course. She had cleaned a good many of them, and should have known better.

Miriam opened the door, smiled and beckoned him in. There was a strong smell of air freshener, which Gus loathed. But he smiled in return, and handed her a posy of flowers he had picked from his overgrown garden. She blushed to the roots of her hair, and buried her nose in them. As most of them were dandelions, there was very little scent, but that did not matter.

Settled safely on a well-worn sofa in the front room, Gus looked about him. Brown was the predominating colour. Brown carpet and curtains, cream paint and brown cushions on brown moquette chair covers.

As if reading his thoughts, Miriam apologised for the state of the house. “Mother would never spend any money on it,” she said. “I hope to put that right in due course, but at the moment I can’t think of anything but the poor old lady who was my constant companion for so many years after father died.”

“Perhaps your mother, God rest her soul, hadn’t any money to spare for interior décor,” he suggested.

“For what?—oh, I see, yes, well, that’s what she said, but Dad had never spent much either, so I reckon they must have saved a bit. Mind you,” she added hastily, “what with rent and electricity and coal an’ that, it was probably difficult to make ends meet.”

Gus was used to sifting the wheat from the chaff, and noted in his mind that Miriam had hopes of finding a nest egg somewhere. A motive? He complimented her on her tea, and asked if she had made the gingerbread set out on a plate before him.

“Oh yes, I’m a good cook,” she answered. “Trouble is, there’s only me to cook for now. I expect you find the same? It’s not worth cooking for one, is it? Expensive, too, with all the waste.”

Watch out, Gus. He had seen these signs many times, and was practised at sidestepping them.

“Oh, I can live on a sixpence,” he said. “Food doesn’t interest me much, so long as there’s something to fill up the hollows. Mind you,” he added politely, “I’d love a piece of your excellent gingerbread!”

Miriam beamed, and said he should try her jam and cream sponge. “I’ll make you one for Sunday,” she said. “Maybe you’d like to come in and we could share it?”

Oops! Thinking quickly, Gus said he would probably not be around on Sunday. He had to go to London to settle a few things, he lied. “Maybe some other time, thank you, Miriam,” he said.

The conversation flowed easily, Miriam being quite able to conduct a monologue for hours. Gus cunningly steered her in directions that would be useful to him, and noted several leads to be followed up. He gathered that her mother was not as ill as she made out, that she was bad-tempered and picky over food. She had told a good story to the doctor and the nurse, having been a leading light in the village’s amateur dramatic group. In all, Miriam did not really have a good word to say about her mother, and this did not sit easily with her professed deep grief at the old woman’s demise.

“So what work did you do, Miriam, before you had to stay at home and look after Mother? I am sure you have many talents.”

Miriam blushed again. “Well, first of all I worked on the telephone exchange in a big company in town,” she said. “It was quite difficult work, and they did say I was a natural. The voice was important, you see, and I handled people very well—so they said,” she added modestly. “Now, of course, it’s all automatic. Press this button, press that button. No friendly voices needed!”

“And after that?”

“Funnily enough,” she said slowly, “I worked at the police station, doing typing an’ filing an’ that. That Frobisher man who’s an inspector now, he was just a young sprog at that time. Pushy, he was, even then. Now he’s investigating the murder of my dear mother. . . .” She covered her face with her hands, but Gus noticed that no tears squeezed out from between her fingers.

“How long were you an honorary policewoman?” Gus said, laughing reassuringly.

Miriam shrugged. “Didn’t last,” she said, looking embarrassed. “My face didn’t fit. Happens sometimes, doesn’t it? Anyway, enough about me. What have you done with your life up to now?”

Gus gave her one of the many versions of his career which he had handy for any eventuality. This one, as well as being an author and journalist, included setting up charities for worthy causes, running organisations concerned with animal welfare and wildlife preservation. Never mind that the only animal he cared about was his own beloved Whippy. He judged that Miriam would be suitably impressed and he was right.

“Oh, how good of you!” she gushed. “My dad was a great one for wildlife,” she said. “He was in charge of the pheasants they reared for the shoots up at the Hall.”

Gus swallowed an urge to laugh and looked at his watch. “Goodness,” he said, “is that the time? How the time flies when you’re enjoying yourself! Thank you so much, Miriam, for tea and delicious gingerbread. My turn next.” He had no intention of returning her hospitality, but she saw him to the door with such pleasure on her face that he felt ashamed. Well, almost ashamed.

 

AS HE WALKED along to his own front door, Gus was startled by a shadow which passed the window inside his sitting room. What was that? He knew he had locked up securely before tea with Miriam, but he could have sworn someone was in there. He ran the rest of the way and approached his back door silently. Gus could move very quietly when necessary. The door was still locked, and he eased the key quietly, gently squeezing himself through the opening. Silence. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of his front door opening with a loud squeak.

Damn! He rushed through, hearing footsteps disappearing down the lane towards the woods. The front door had been slammed shut as the intruder ran, and by the time Gus had forced it open—it stuck with damp, as did every other door in the house—the lane was empty and quiet.

“Damn, damn!” Gus said out loud now. No point in trying to catch him—or her. Gus was well aware that he was out of condition, and would soon run out of breath. Better check if anything was missing. He reassured himself that there was nothing worth stealing. Except those papers upstairs . . . but who would know about those, or, for that matter, still be interested in them?

He walked around the house, and could find nothing amiss. The papers were safe in their red folder secured with white tape and labelled “Bills unpaid.” That’s all right, then, he said to himself, and decided a small whisky would be the best thing to stop his hands from shaking in this stupid way.