The Hangman's Row Enquiry

Table of Contents

 

 

“First-class work in the English-village genre: cleverly plotted, with thoroughly believable characters, rising tension, and a smashing climax.”

—
Kirkus Reviews
(starred review)

 

“Well paced, cleverly plotted, and chock-full of cozy glimpses of life in a small English village.”

 

“Purser’s expertise at portraying village life and Lois’s role as a working-class Miss Marple combine to make this novel—and the entire series—a treat.”

 

“Fans of British ‘cozies’ will enjoy this delightful mystery with its quaint setting and fascinating players.”

 

“A strong plot and believable characters, especially the honest, down-to-earth Lois, are certain to appeal to a wide range of readers.”

 

“The characters are fun. The setting is wonderful . . . Anyone who delights in an English village mystery will have a good time with this book.”

 

“[Lois Meade is] an engaging amateur sleuth.”

Lois Meade Mysteries
MURDER ON MONDAY
TERROR ON TUESDAY
WEEPING ON WEDNESDAY
THEFT ON THURSDAY
FEAR ON FRIDAY
SECRETS ON SATURDAY
SORROW ON SUNDAY
WARNING AT ONE
TRAGEDY AT TWO

THE HANGMAN’S ROW ENQUIRY

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

THE HANGMAN’S ROW ENQUIRY

 

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / May 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Ann Purser.

 

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eISBN : 978-1-101-18722-7

 

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
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“IF YOU ASK me,” said Ivy, lifting the teapot lid and peering inside, “he’s got something to hide. Moved into Hangman’s Row, so they say, and living on his own. A bit smarmy. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”

“That’s not very far, then,” said her cousin Deirdre, with a smile, knowing that Ivy belonged to a generation of country families whose first reaction to a newcomer was suspicion.

Ivy scowled at her. Anybody would think she was having tea with the Queen, she thought acidly, observing Deirdre, well groomed from top to toe.

Former lifelong scourge of the village of Round Ringford, Ivy Beasley had moved, under considerable pressure from Deirdre, to Springfields luxury retirement home in Barrington, in the county of Suffolk.

As Ivy had yet to admit, Barrington was a beautiful village, each house a jewel, with its ornamental plasterwork and ancient timbers, originally built to serve the folk at the Hall. It was an estate village, and had all once belonged to the squire, but recently Theodore, the latest in a long line of Roussels, had raised much-needed money by selling off most of the houses. He told friends he felt a traitor to his ancestors and vowed his descendents would always own and live in the Hall itself. As he was a bachelor with no apparent intentions of marrying, the village was sceptical.

“They say Theodore Roussel has upped the rent for this new man,” Deirdre said. “What’s his name, anyway?”

Ivy shrugged. “Don’t ask me,” she answered. “I’m not one for gossip, as you know.”

Deirdre swallowed a sharp retort, and said, “He won’t have much fun with his neighbours.” She helped herself to another biscuit from Ivy’s tea tray. “You can’t get much drearier than old Mrs. Blake and Miriam. Sometimes you can see Miriam peering out from behind the curtains. I feel sorry for her. She’s not that old, and had a good job once, so they say.”

“I’ve seen her in the shop,” Ivy said. “Only time she gets out.”

“She should take a stand,” said Ivy, pushing back into place a strand of iron grey hair that had had the temerity to stray from under her “invisible” hairnet. Her sharp, beady eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses clouded as she added, “My own mother was similar, and I left it too late. Had me under her thumb until she passed away. And even then she used to come back and haunt me. I don’t think she approves of Barrington, though. Haven’t heard from her since I arrived.”

“That’s one good thing, then,” said Deirdre promptly. She was finding her plans for caring for her elderly cousin more tricky than she had supposed, and her daily visits to Springfields were more of a duty than a pleasure.

HANGMAN’S ROW, A small terrace of three cottages, was still in Roussel hands. In spite of its gruesome name, the lane was leafy and shade dappled. It was half a mile or so from Barrington Green, where the local gibbet had once stood as a warning to transgressors. A young farmworker, his wife and baby, lived at one end of the row, with widow Blake and her spinster daughter in the middle cottage. The new tenant was at the far end of the terrace, and had yet to be seen long enough for the locals to pronounce judgement.

Rumours of Roussel’s rent increase were true. A few new coats of paint had smartened up the cottage, and Theodore had found at the local dump a surprising supply of little-used bathroom and kitchen fittings to bring the place up to standard. Satisfied with this, he had advertised the cottage for what he regarded as a more realistic rent than the other two.

It had taken a while to find a tenant, but then curious eyes had seen a tall, middle-aged man with sparse, sandy hair and a hunted look, appear with his grey whippet and a small amount of furniture in a Thrifty self-drive van.

Augustus Halfhide had so far avoided Miriam Blake, though she had made several approaches to him over the garden fence. Now he watched her return from a visit to the shop. He sighed. She peered into his window and gave a little wave, accompanied by a hopeful smile. “Oh, God,” he said to his little dog Whippy, “it’s just my luck to move in next to a predatory female.”