The Sleeping Salesman Enquiry (20 page)

T
hirty-nine

ROY AND IVY
arrived back at Springfields with long faces. “Ah, there you are,” said Mrs. Spurling. “Not a morning to be out and about. Wet feet and wet heads, I expect. Perhaps you’d like to go to your rooms before lunch and dry out?”

“I am perfectly dry, thank you,” said Ivy. “Roy must answer for himself.”

Oh dear, thought Mrs. Spurling. The course of true love not running smooth this morning? “The forecast is good,” she said, “so perhaps the sun will tempt you out tomorrow, when an outing will be more favourable.”

“Perhaps,” said Ivy, and walked straight up the stairs to her room. She spent five minutes changing her stockings, which were in fact soaked, and then heard a small, tentative tap on her door.

“Come in, Roy,” she said.

He opened the door and hovered insecurely. “May I have a little talk with you, Ivy dear?” he said.

“Of course. Come in properly and shut the door behind you. You never know when Big Ears is about.”

He came in and sat on the edge of a chair. “I know you’re cross with me, Ivy,” he said, “but I had a very strong feeling in that house that something was really wrong. Perhaps dangerously wrong. I can’t explain it, but that’s why I insisted on us leaving straight away.”

“You were right,” said Ivy placidly. “There
was
something wrong, though whether dangerously so, I’m not sure.”

“Ivy! What did you see?”

“It was more what I heard,” she said. “There was somebody at the top of Mrs. Maleham’s stairs, fidgeting and breathing heavily. In other words, there was an eavesdropper, and I think I know who it was.”

“Well, so do I, I think. Her husband? The bedbound one? I don’t see that he could do us much harm? But did we do the right thing to get out of there as soon as possible?”

“Probably,” said Ivy. “If Beryl’s husband was bedbound, he wouldn’t be sitting at the top of the stairs, would he? But for now, why don’t we go down to lunch, and I’ll tell you who I reckon was the eavesdropper. Can’t be sure, of course, but we’ll see.”

• • •

THE CONTINUING THAW
had frustrated Deirdre, who had spent the morning checking for burst pipes and leaks all over the house. Then, when she went to get her car, it would not start. Too damp! She was due to be at her hairdresser’s at four, and had planned to call once more at the young Josslands’ on the way. She meant to follow up Ethel Goodman’s outburst with another visit, and wished to clear it first with the young ones. She knew she would probably need their permission or approval, in order to get past the nursing home’s visiting rules.

She had called the service department of her motor business in town, and they had said they would be out immediately. “It’s probably the plugs,” she had said, and they had answered respectfully that they would soon have her on the road.

Now they had been and gone, and the engine was purring along once more. She took the road to Settlefield, and soon approached the farm. William was crossing the yard carrying a couple of buckets, and stopped to meet her with a smile. “I’m afraid Bella and Faith are out,” he said. “Mums and Babies Club in the village hall. Can I help?”

Deirdre explained that she would really like to visit Aunt Ethel Goodman again, to see whether she could stimulate her with some local talk. But she would not do so, of course, without their permission.

“You could certainly have had that,” said William. “But I’m afraid the old girl finally pegged out last night. They phoned us this morning. She was eighty-something, you know, so she’d had a good innings! Mind you, they said it was a bit of a surprise, as she really had nothing physically wrong with her. I’ll tell Bella you called. Come back when you like. Always welcome!” He set off again with his buckets, and there was not much Deirdre could do except turn the car around and head for the hairdresser’s.

“Not your usual cheery self, Mrs. Bloxham?” said her stylist. “Nothing seriously wrong, I hope?”

“No, not really. Just something very annoying, but I’ll get over it. And don’t cut me too short. Doesn’t suit me.”

“My, my, we are in a bad mood! How about a nice cup of coffee?”

“Oh, go to hell,” said Deirdre, and subsided behind the pages of a fashion magazine.

• • •

THE AFTERNOON SUN
hastened the thaw, and by the time Ivy and Roy had rested after lunch, most of the snow had gone, and the roads and pavements were quite clear. “Shall we take a stroll up to Tawny Wings and call on Deirdre?” Roy suggested. “If she’s not in, we can come straight back. We can tell her about our visit to Mrs. Maleham, and your suspicions about the man lurking at the top of her stairs.”

“We could do,” said Ivy. “But perhaps a walk up to the cemetery would be better. It’s not so far, for one thing, and it gets dark so early.”

“The cemetery?” said Roy. “Why there? It’s a gloomy old place. Do you have an ulterior motive, beloved?”

Ivy shook her head. “Not really. Just thought it would be interesting to look at a few graves. Maybe some of your forebears?”

“And maybe encounter Alf Lowe at the door of his cottage?”

“Ah. Well, maybe that, too. But perhaps we should wait until tomorrow and set off earlier?”

They were no sooner settled in the lounge with a whist foursome than Deirdre arrived, looking immaculate but very cross.

“Sit down, gel,” said Ivy. “You look as if bears had eaten your porridge. We’ll finish this hand, and then somebody else can take our place.” Ivy scooped up her winnings, and they moved to a quieter corner of the lounge.

“Now, then, what’s happened to put you out of sorts?”

“It’s Ethel Goodman. She’s gone and snuffed it! Just when I was sure I would get more useful information out of her. I called at the farm, just to get the okay from them, and William Jossland told me. It was unexpected, apparently. Nothing wrong with her, except old age and senility.”

“Then her death could not have been all that surprising?” said Roy. “None of us can last forever.”

“Oh, cheer up, do!” said Ivy. “If that old girl hadn’t retired to her bed and made no effort whatsoever, she’d probably be still alive and doing a bit of baby-sitting. No, Deirdre, it’s no use getting upset. Just listen to what happened to us.”

Ivy recounted the visit to Mrs. Maleham, and said that she and Roy had come to an important conclusion.

“Which is?” said Deirdre, surreptitiously taking a biscuit off a passing tea plate.

“The eavesdropper upstairs was probably her son, Frank. He keeps turning up like a bad penny, and although we didn’t see him, we reckon he’s our bovver-boy with the earring. The same one who delivered Ivy’s first threatening message, and the same one who Elvis saw coming out of the back of Maleham’s store on the day we were shut in the lift.”

“And the same one who called on Gus while he was out, and . . . ?” said Deirdre, becoming animated and much more cheerful.

“And who stood up and challenged our banns,” said Ivy. “And who left in the church a handkerchief with an ‘F’ embroidered in the corner. Beryl told me herself that time in the store, when I first met her, that her son was big and ugly. Frankenstein, she said. Don’t you remember, Roy?”

“Of course,” he replied. “And I think you may be right, though we do need more proof before passing all this on to Inspector Frobisher.”

“I agree with you, Ivy; it looks very suspicious,” said Deirdre. “And if it is her son, Frank, do we think he’s acting on his own, or being hired by somebody to prevent you marrying Roy? And I hate to bring it up again, but do you think there’s any possibility that Ethel Goodman was hastened on her way by person or persons unknown, to stop her coming out with anything too revealing?”

“Such as what?” said Ivy.

“Such as why someone is so anxious to stop you marrying Roy, of course!”

“I think we know why, Deirdre,” said Roy, with a sigh. “It is to prevent Ivy from inheriting my estate.”

“Yes, but put yourself in the mysterious stranger’s shoes. If you were a stranger trying to stop Ivy inheriting, wouldn’t the simplest way be to make sure that Ivy was out of the way? And then you, Roy, would be next on the hit list, so that a person so far unknown would be next in line to inherit.”

“I cannot bear to think of my Ivy being in danger,” he said, once more avoiding the need to reveal exactly what he had done in his last will and testament.

“Then why don’t you change your will right now?” said Deirdre baldly. “And let it be known that you’ve done so. I’m sorry, Roy, but I can’t see the need for all this pussy-footing around.”

“And I can’t see why you can’t mind your own business, Deirdre Bloxham!” said Ivy fiercely. “Roy’s private financial situation is his own affair, and I for one am quite happy that it shall remain so. Now please change the subject.”

“Don’t be cross, dearest,” Roy said. “I quite understand Deirdre’s point of view, but things are more complicated than that. I assure you that when you are my wife, Ivy, you will want for nothing. More than that I cannot say, just at the moment.”

“Right. Change of subject,” said Deirdre. “Find out if Gus has been to see Alf Lowe, and, if so, whether he has gleaned anything useful from him. I’ve a good mind to call on him myself, and break the news about Ethel Goodman’s demise. His reaction might be worth watching.”

“Well, I think perhaps we should leave that to Gus,” said Roy tactfully. “I do understand you are feeling frustrated on all sides, Deirdre love. But let’s leave Alf to Gus, and then maybe on Thursday at our meeting he will have something to tell us.”

F
orty

THE CURTAINS IN
Alf Lowe’s small bedroom were heavily lined and when he drew them tightly across the window, he sometimes slept on in total darkness until midmorning. Today he had stayed in bed all day, falling in and out of sleep. This evening, however, he had been woken by loud knocking on his door. It had turned out to be a man wishing to read the electric meter. “Don’t think I’m letting you in at this time of night!” he had said finally, and shut the door in the man’s face.

He had returned to his bed, thinking he might as well wait until tomorrow to get going again. Last night had been disastrous. Everything had gone to plan at first. Then the sight of the onetime love of his life, now a shrivelled, balding old woman in a narrow bed, with her mouth open and snoring, had unsettled him much more than he had expected.

He had set off for Settlefield in his battered old Ford, giving himself plenty of time to go slowly in the dark. Then, safely arrived, getting into the nursing home had been easy. He had managed to dodge the security light, find his way in by a garden door, and then luck had been on his side. The first room he had tried was Ethel’s, and there seemed to be no staff in sight. He had crept up to her bed and whispered loudly in her ear, “Eth! Wake up! It’s your Alf!”

Her reaction had been immediate. Her eyes had opened and she sat up in bed and almost strangled him with her arms around his neck. “You’ve come, you old sod!” she had said in a strong voice, and a vivid memory assailed him, of himself as a young man, climbing into Ethel’s window on the farm, and the warm welcome he had received. My God, she had been hot stuff! And so she had remembered him. He knew it was now or never. She was clearly quite capable of telling all about her adopted baby.

For years Alf had kept quiet about the child he was fairly sure was his. At the time it was a disaster, and he knew his father would kill him. Deeply religious, the old man had strong Catholic views on sin and disobedience. Then he heard it had been adopted. He had quickly spread a rumour that the father had been Roy Goodman, who had definitely had an affair with Ethel around that time. Ethel had spread her favours, and Alf and Roy had taken turns. The rumour had spread, but Roy had denied it hotly and brushed him off like a bothersome fly. Ethel’s parents had had plenty of money to arrange for the adoption, and the whole thing had died down. Only recently had Alf begun to think about old Roy’s current engagement, known all round the village, and the possible financial ramifications once he was married to Miss Ivy Beasley.

Alf had always thought that when the time came, if he outlived Roy Goodman, he would revive the story of Roy’s own son, and his rightful inheritance. The fact that Ethel was a Goodman would count for something, but not necessarily enough. Now, with Ivy Beasley on the scene, it had been necessary to make a plan to sabotage the wedding.

In the way of villages, it had some years ago become known that old Ethel’s baby had been adopted by a couple named Maleham, in Thornwell. Alf had tracked down the family, and discovered that the baby was now a middle-aged man named Frank, and he had listened to Alf’s plan. Delighted with the idea of a large inheritance, he had agreed to help, and also to keep it under his hat.

Alf turned over restlessly in his bed, and resumed his worries about the previous night. As Ethel had started to struggle in the bed, muttering that she must get dressed for her wedding, Alf had freed himself from her arms and pushed her onto her pillows, where she relaxed and was quiet. “All a long time ago,” he had whispered in her ear. “Remember Roy? Roy Goodman? You had a good time with him, didn’t you? Don’t forget he was your baby’s father, Ethel. Looked just like him, didn’t it! If anybody comes asking, don’t you forget that, there’s a good gel. Bye, bye, then, Eth dear.” That should do it, he said to himself, and straightened up.

He left as he came in, shutting doors and avoiding the security alarm. By the time he had got back home, he had been shaking from head to foot with sheer exhaustion. And now, after getting rid of the meter man, he crawled back into bed. Perhaps he should have a sandwich? Hunger could stop you sleeping, couldn’t it? But the last thing he wanted was food.