The Hangman's Row Enquiry (9 page)

Deirdre stood up and leaned over to kiss Ivy on her warm cheek. “You’re quite a comfort to me, you know, Ivy,” she said. “Good night, God bless.”

After she had gone, Ivy touched her cheek and smiled. Luxury accommodation, indeed!

 

AS IT GREW dark, Theo Roussel decided to ring the police. His door was locked and he had shouted himself hoarse. But what would Beattie say to that? He slumped down in the chair by his desk and tried to think clearly. She was a clever, devious woman, and would certainly have a good story ready to explain his imprisonment.

He closed his eyes for a few minutes, concentrating on the best course of action, and until he woke with a start did not realise he had fallen into a doze. How long he had been asleep, he did not know. He had been awoken by heavy footsteps and a knock at his door.

“Mr. Theo,
please
open the door,” Beattie shouted. “It is getting dark, and I am worried about you!”

Theo shook his head, as if his ears were deceiving him. He had been trying to open the door for hours, or rather, persuading her to open it. He walked across angrily and prepared to give her a very stern warning. Then he noticed the key. It was in the lock, his side of the door. He felt quite dizzy, and held on to the door handle.

“Mr. Theo, open up at once! Please don’t alarm me like this!”

He turned the key and opened the door, staring at her with pure hatred. “You locked me in, you wicked woman,” he said.

“Now, now,” she said. “You’ve been dreaming. Look, here’s the key, on your side of the door. You must have locked it without thinking, and then fallen asleep. Now, come along, let’s get you some supper and a nice hot cup of tea.”

“I don’t want your bloody tea!” Theo said. “Leave me alone. We’ll talk about this in the morning.” He shut the door in her face, and so did not see her retreating quietly down the passage, smiling.

He walked across the room and looked out at the twilit park. Deirdre! What had happened to her? She would have come and gone, with Beattie making some excuse. He must telephone her straightaway and explain. He lifted the receiver, but there was no dialling tone. He groaned. He would call her tomorrow then, after he had summoned the strength to give Beattie her marching orders.

THE NEXT MORNING, Will was up early, checking stock in the back room and making sure that everything on display was still in date. He frequently cursed the “best by” rule imposed on all shopkeepers. Half the stuff in the shop would be perfectly wholesome a couple of weeks after its sell-by date. After all, he ate most of it himself when it was supposedly past its best, and he was still alive and kicking.

It was his day for going to the wholesaler for new stock, and as usual his neighbour, a retired businesswoman, would come in and look after the shop until lunchtime. Sadie Broomfield had run a small office service in town for many years, and was still an extremely efficient substitute when Will had to be away from the village. He knew how lucky he was, and had grown fond of her. He looked at the clock bequeathed him by the previous owners, and realised that Sadie should have been in by now.

The telephone rang, and he heard her voice, choked with what was clearly a heavy cold. “So sorry, Will. I woke up with it, and can scarcely breathe! Can you manage? Is there anybody else?”

“O lor, you poor thing,” he said, thinking frantically around possible helpers.

“What about Miriam Blake?” Sadie said. “She’s fancy free at the moment. Might be glad of something to do. I know she used to do quite tricky jobs, and is fairly bright. Could you try her?”

No, not if she was the last person left on earth, Will said to himself. But then he realised he had no idea who else could help out.

“I could give her a ring, I suppose,” he said reluctantly. “But don’t you worry, Sadie. Curl up in bed with a hot whisky and water, and a spoonful of honey, and I’ll be round this evening to see how you are.”

“Don’t come anywhere near me!” Sadie croaked. “Can’t have our shopkeeper going off sick. You don’t sound too sure about Miriam Blake. Might not want her as a permanent fixture? Bye now. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Bye.”

Will frowned. Was he really stuck with Miriam Blake? But then, what did he have against her? She had been a dutiful daughter and a good customer, and had once before filled in for him in the shop. And her mother had been found lifeless with a bread knife sticking into her chest. . . .

He opened the telephone directory and looked up her number, hoping not to find it. Perhaps with luck she would not have a phone, or be ex-directory, and then he would
have
to find somebody else. He could go to the wholesaler tomorrow. But Sadie wouldn’t be better tomorrow, that was sure. And anyway, there she was: Blake—Barrington 870493. He dialled the number and heard the familiar voice answer in a bright, professional way. Oh yes, now he remembered she’d been a telephonist. Right, here goes, he muttered, and asked her. There was a pause, and then she said that she would be really pleased, and what time should she come? Straightaway? Yes, that would be fine. “See you,” she said, now friendly and confiding.

Half an hour later, Will had explained again most of the necessary details to Miriam, and she seemed to grasp it all with ease. “Now, if you are at all worried or have a problem, ring me on my mobile,” he said. “Anything at all, just ring me.”

She nodded. “Of course,” she said, “but I’m really sure I shall manage perfectly well. I feel quite at home already,” she added, slipping into a flowery overall. Oh God, Will said to himself, please let Sadie get better quickly. Please.

 

IT WAS QUITE a shock for Gus when he walked into the shop around eleven o’clock and saw Miriam behind the counter. He had been meaning to thank Will for organising such a good evening for him, and suggest they might do it again some time. Not that he intended to force a friendship on the pleasant shopkeeper, but there was never any harm in saying thank you.

“Morning, Gus!” Miriam said brightly. “You didn’t expect to see me here, did you? I’m the new assistant. Will has had to go out, and Mrs. Broomfield has a rotten cold. So here I am, launched on a new career!”

Gus gulped, and said he was sure she would be ideal for the job.

“What can I get you, then?”

“Just a
Daily Telegraph
, please,” he said. “I like to come and get it from the shop. Gives me a bit of exercise walking up from the cottage.”

Miriam nodded. “Very true,” she said. “And anything else? Some nice biscuits to have with your morning coffee? I’ve been thinking,” she added. “Maybe Will might like to think about a coffee machine and a table and chairs outside the shop. Encourages customers to stay a bit longer and buy a few more things they forgot on their list!”

Poor Will, thought Gus. Little does he know how unwise he is to employ this unstoppable woman. Still, it might get her off his own tail a little. But no. Now she was asking him if he would care to watch a good film with her on the telly this evening.

“Sorry, Miriam,” he replied. “No can do. Got some urgent papers to sort out. Now, here’s the money. Good luck!” And he escaped before she could think of a reason why the papers could be sorted out later. He remembered just in time to unhook Whippy from where she had been patiently waiting outside.

On his way home, he wondered how Deirdre had got on with Theo Roussel. She had hinted that there had been something between them in the past. That could be very useful. He could encourage her to confide in him. Or maybe not. He had once learnt a very hard lesson, and it was now number one on his list of don’ts. Never become emotionally involved on a case. Apart from one exception, this hadn’t been too difficult, as a good ninety percent of his “clients” had never met him, nor were likely to, and his assignments were completed in silence and nobody the wiser.

Now nearly home, he saw Whippy’s ears flatten and she stiffened. The next thing he saw was an enormous shaggy dog coming towards them. He had no idea of the breed, but sympathised with Whippy. It looked horribly dangerous, baring its teeth and growling. As far as he could see, it had no owner, no lead, and was clearly capable of eating both Whippy and himself for lunch.

It approached the now stationary Gus and his dog in that measured way that animals have when they are about to spring, and Gus stepped forward. Some distant play-ground instinct surfaced, and he faced the bully, shouting at it to bugger off.

To his surprise, it immediately turned and slunk away, its tail between its long, powerful legs. Then he heard a sound which was more like the cackle of a startled hen than laughter. The woman he now knew to be Miss Beatty came round the corner of the lane, still sniggering.

“You should keep that brute on a lead, preferably muzzled!” Gus said, his voice loud with fear.

“Why?” Miss Beatty said. “Look at him. Butter wouldn’t melt. You did the right thing, Mr. Halfhide. Face up to him and he’s the biggest coward in Barrington. Sorry about your little dog, though. She’s a whippet, isn’t she?”

Her obvious efforts to be nice mollified Gus, and thinking on his feet he realised it would be much better to be Miss Beatty’s friend than her sworn enemy.

“Yes, she’s called Whippy. Not very original, I’m afraid, but thinking up names is not my forte! I should introduce myself,” he added, but she interrupted him.

“I know who you are. You’ve got the end cottage. Settled in now? Oh, and I’m Miss Beatty, housekeeper and general dogsbody.”

More like minder, from what I hear, thought Gus, but he said only that he was pleased to meet her, and yes, he was settling in now, though the dreadful accident next door had been rather upsetting.

“Accident? It was murder, Mr. Halfhide. You don’t get a bread knife stuck in your heart by accident. We’ve heard nothing from the police. Have you?”

Gus shook his head. “Only that they are questioning just about everyone in the village. Miss Blake is very anxious for the matter to be cleared up, as she is unable to mourn properly until the culprit is found. In a sort of limbo, I suppose, not being able to lay her mother to rest.”

“Huh! Is that what she told you? Well, here’s a piece of advice, Mr. Halfhide. Take everything that our Miriam says with a large pinch of salt. That’s all I’m saying. Now, I must be on my way. Lucifer here needs a good run in the woods. Good morning,” she said, and with what passed for a smile on her plain face, she disappeared through a gap in the hedge.

“So that’s the dreaded Miss Beatty,” he said aloud to Whippy, who whimpered, still recovering from shock. “Quite a person,” he said. “Someone with a large estate to manage and quite confident in her ability to do it. What do you think?”

“Talking to yourself, Mr. Halfhide?” a new voice said, coming from the garden of the first cottage. It was a young woman, naturally blond and rosy-cheeked, with a toddling infant holding on to her jeans to keep its balance.

This was more like it, thought Gus, and stopped, smiling broadly. “Good morning!” he said. “Yes, a bad habit, I’m afraid. But I wasn’t actually talking to myself, rather to Whippy here. Best thing about talking to a dog is that they never answer back. Hello,” he added gently to the child. He prided himself on being good with small children, and picked up Whippy to show to him. At least, he thought it was a boy, though you couldn’t always tell these days. This one was dressed in blue dungarees, so it was a safe bet it was a boy.

“What a sweet doggie,” the blonde said. “This is my son, Simon,” she added, “and I’m Rose Budd. Now we’re introduced, and if you need any help or information about the village, you must come and knock at our door. My husband works on the estate, and he’s always around.”

“How kind,” he said. “It seems a very friendly village. I’ve just met Miss Beatty and her . . . um . . . dog. She was pleasant, though I’m not so sure about the dog!”

Rose laughed. “I can assure you that Miss Beatty is much more dangerous than Lucifer,” she said. “Stay well clear. She runs the place, you know, and nothing is secret from her.”

“Seems to be the general opinion,” he said. “I shall take the advice. Oh, and by the way, what is her Christian name?”

“Beattie,” Rose said, smiling.

“No, her Christian name,” Gus said.

“Beattie. She’s Beatrice Beatty, but always known as Beattie,” Rose assured him.

“My God, no wonder she looks like she’s swallowed a fish bone!” he said. “Fancy being saddled with that!”

To Gus’s embarrassment, she answered that her own name was odd, wasn’t it. “But at least Rose Budd sounds pretty, and anyway I acquired it by marriage. Apparently Beattie likes hers. Likes being different, she says. Old bag! Oops, there’s the phone—must go.” She scooped up the child and disappeared with a cheery wave. “See you later!” she called as she went.

“Hope so,” said Gus, and proceeded on his way.