The Hangman's Row Enquiry (2 page)

It looked as if his hopes of having a period of peace and quiet were under threat.

Recently, after his wife had finally left him, he had taken a hard look at himself and decided to begin again. After a life so far filled with action-packed missions in foreign lands, nothing, he had decided, would be better than a remote village, in a community that would not regard him as one of their own for at least twenty-five years. He could spin them a good story, and they would leave him alone to adjust to a different way of life.

Augustus Halfhide, Gus to his friends, could not have been more mistaken.

GUS MET IVY Beasley in church. It was an unlikely place for him to be, but he had felt a sudden urge to observe some of his fellow villagers without necessarily being accosted. He planned to slip into the back pew in the darkened interior and indulge himself by inventing identities for the people in front. Although he wouldn’t admit it, even to himself, he was missing congenial company.

There were very few in church for the service, and among the mostly elderly parishioners his eye was taken by a woman in a solid black coat covering her broad shoulders, and topped with an extraordinary black felt hat like an upturned pudding basin, reminiscent of photographs of his grandmother in a distant past.

When the service finished, he hung back until nearly all had gone, and saw with alarm that he was being approached by the vicar, who held out a welcoming hand.

“New to the village?”

Gus nodded, and said he had moved in a few weeks ago, and was beginning to find his way around. The vicar said how good it was to see him in church, and began a lengthy history of the ancient building. “We have our very own martyr, you know,” he said with a keen smile. “Taken away by the Roundheads in the civil war. The village never saw him again.”

“And you’ll never see our visitor again, if you don’t let him get home to his lunch,” said a sharp voice behind the vicar.

Gus peered gratefully at the figure emerging, and saw that it was the woman with the black hat. She was not smiling, and had a stern and disapproving expression. Now, here was a challenge! Gus prided himself on his way with women, and judged this one was much too old to be predatory. He could safely practise his charm, sadly unused for too long.

“Good day, madam,” he said and bowed his head in greeting.

“Not good. It’s raining,” Ivy Beasley said flatly. “And I’ve forgotten my umbrella.”

“Allow me,” Gus said, stepping forward and offering his arm. In the church porch he put up his city umbrella, picked up from habit at the last minute before leaving home. “Now, which way? And do tell me your name, Mrs. . . . um . . .”

“Beasley. And it’s Miss. I go up that way, past the shop.”

As they stepped out briskly, Gus discovered that Ivy had come from the village where his old school friend Richard Standing lived.

“Fancy that,” Ivy said caustically. “They were above me, of course. Lived up at the big house. We’d see them driving about in one of them limousines.”

Anxious not to seem patronising, Gus hastened to assure her that he had known the Standings only casually—a lie—and he himself had been in very much lowlier circumstances. By the time they reached Springfields, Ivy had warmed up a little, and Gus was intrigued by her past life in Round Ringford. He asked if he could visit her at some time convenient to her. “You could tell me things about Richard that I’m sure I don’t know,” he said jovially. “And anyway, it must be dull in there for you, missing all your old friends,” he added.

“All dead,” Ivy replied bluntly. “Anyway, please yourself. I’m always at home—if you can call it home. Thanks for keeping me dry.” With that, she disappeared, and Gus returned home, feeling unaccountably cheered.

THEO ROUSSEL LOOKED out of the window. He was still a handsome man, neatly put together and with a good head of pepper-and-salt grey hair. But he had a gloomy air, as if his life had become a sad disappointment, as in some ways it had. Rain fell steadily across the park, and his prize Manx brown sheep were huddled under one of the big chestnut trees planted by his ancestors. Roussels had lived in Barrington for generations, going back, so they said, to the Norman conquest. Others said half the village had Roussel blood in them as a result of Theo’s grandfather merrymaking his way around the girls of the village, some willing and others obedient, but most in time producing offspring with a remarkable resemblance to the squire.

“There must be some way,” he muttered to himself. He had been examining his accounts, and was depressed. The Hall and its estate cost far more to maintain than ever the farm could support. He had to find some way of increasing his income, and whichever way he took would, he knew, have to meet with approval from Beatrice Beatty. She had been with him for years now. When she first came, she had acted as housekeeper and kept her place. Now, he realised too late, she had taken over. Was he frightened of her? Only in small matters, he comforted himself, turning away from the window. At this moment, Beattie came into the room with coffee and a handful of letters for Theo.

“All junk,” she said. “I’ve been down to the post office to collect them. I’ve opened all except for the one from the bank. I’ve left the bad news for you. And,” she continued, “we really must get round to doing something about the Blakes. I have a plan, but you’d better know about it before I take action.”

“Better get your breath back first. Did you hurry? Anyway, fire away when you’re ready, Beattie,” Theo said, reflecting that it wouldn’t make the slightest difference what he said, she would go ahead with her master plan anyway. The only thing he had been able to resist was her often hinted at desire to become his wife. He knew that she could probably hold out longer than he could, but so far he had managed to deflect all her attempts.

After she had told him what she intended to do about the Blakes, and he had recovered from shock at her hardheartedness, he sat at his desk and found the rent books of the three cottages in Hangman’s Row. It was true that the new tenant with the ridiculous name had been quite willing to pay the increased rent, and so the Blake cottage with new tenants could in theory produce the same. He should probably have moved out Miriam Blake and her appalling old mother long ago.

The late John Blake had been one of the estate workers, and a pretty idle one, too, but Theo had a vague notion that the law might step in if they summarily ejected his widow and daughter. But what would happen when the old woman died? It shouldn’t be long now. They would surely not be morally obliged to allow Miriam to remain there at such a peanut rent?

Young David Budd, his farmworker, lived in the remaining cottage in the Row. He and his wife and small child were a breath of fresh air on the farm. He was a good worker, and vital to the running of the estate, so nothing to be done there, except perhaps creep the rent up bit by bit.

The telephone on his desk rang, and Theo swore. Somebody wanting to be paid, no doubt. He would leave it to ring, and Beattie would answer it.

Sure enough, Beattie was by the telephone in the kitchen in seconds. “Mr. Roussel’s residence,” she said. “Who is it speaking?”

It was a policeman who announced himself as Detective Inspector Frobisher, and his voice was solemn. “I would like to speak to Mr. Roussel, please,” he said.

“I’m afraid that is not possible at the moment. I am his assistant, and shall be happy to give him a message.”

“I must insist, Miss, er . . .” Frobisher had heard of Miss Beatty, and was not to be fobbed off that easily.

Beattie sniffed, and said if the inspector would hold on, she would see if Mr. Roussel was receiving calls. She walked through to the study, and saw that Theo was pretending to be asleep.

“No good, Mr. Theo,” she said flatly. “It’s the police. You’d better speak to them.” She picked up the receiver and handed it to him, then retreated hastily to take up her listening post on the extension in the kitchen.

Theo sighed. “Good morning, Inspector,” he said. “What can I do for you? Miss Beatty handles everything, you know. You’d be better speaking to her.”

Now the policeman’s voice was irritated. “We have a job to do, and try to do it as tactfully as possible, Mr. Roussel, but you are the owner of the estate, and it is a matter for your ears only. I have to tell you that one of your tenants has been found dead on her cottage floor. Hangman’s Row. Mrs. Winifred Blake. Her daughter is being cared for by us at the moment, but she asked that you be informed. She is naturally distraught. She had been to the shop and returned home to find her mother lying there.”

Theo heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh, that old woman,” he said. “She’s been on the blink for some time, Inspector. Natural causes, you’ll find. Nothing to worry about except funeral arrangements. Miss Beatty will of course be helping Miss Blake. Meanwhile, please let me know if there is anything I can do.”

“Not as simple as that, I’m afraid, sir,” Frobisher said. “A bread knife stuck in the heart does not normally come under the category of natural causes. Questions to be asked. We shall be in touch very soon. Oh, and please tell Miss Beatty that we shall be along to talk to her as well.”

Theo put down the telephone with a shaky hand. For God’s sake, did the man think he was capable of creeping in with a bread knife and helping Nature to send her on her way? He got up, and shouting “Beattie!” made his way into the echoing corridors of the Hall. He had to keep up the fiction that she wouldn’t already know the contents of the call, and so descended to the kitchen to tell her.

 

IN HER COTTAGE, Miriam sat in a chair by the window, dry-eyed. From habit she peered round the edge of the curtain and saw Gus Halfhide walking down his garden path and out into the road.

“He’s coming here!” she exclaimed in alarm, and ran out of the room to hide in the kitchen. What could he possibly want? Surely he wouldn’t be so insensitive as to call on her at this moment. But there was a sudden firm knock at the door, and although she was still genuinely shocked, she could not help her heart beating a little faster. She opened the door a couple of inches and said, “Yes? Can I help you? I have had a bereavement and can’t ask you in. At the moment,” she added hastily.

“Just came to pay my respects,” said Gus. “I saw the police and the ambulance and realised that you must have had a serious illness or loss. Please forgive me for intruding. I will leave you in peace.” He turned to go, but Miriam said quickly that it was her mother who had died. He turned, his interest caught.

“And in suspicious circumstances,” she added, with some pride at having found the right phrase. “Thanks for coming along.” She shut the door apologetically as he was about to say something more.

SOME DAYS LATER, Gus thought seriously of doing a runner. But then he reconsidered. Was it merely bad luck that right next door to him, in a deserted lane leading to a tiny village in darkest Suffolk, chosen by him because he was sure absolutely nothing would ever happen there, an old woman had breathed her last with a bread knife stuck through her heart? He could not deny that all the old instincts had immediately reappeared, just when he had renounced them forever.