The Hangman's Row Enquiry (33 page)

There was a knock, and Ivy said, “That’ll be Roy. I said I’d be back around now, and he always pops in for a cuppa.”

Does he, indeed! thought Deirdre. Romance among the oldies? It had been known to happen. Marriage even. She remembered reading recently in the local about a couple in their nineties who’d got wed. The picture showed them beaming out at the photographer, and she had thought, well, why not, even if it means only a couple of years’ companionship and happiness.

Another cup was brought up by the ever-willing Katya, and Ivy debated whether to go over Deirdre’s horrible afternoon again. She decided not, not yet, anyway.

The conversation turned to other things. Roy said he had had a visit, the first in three years. A young great-nephew who was driving through on his way to London had called in. “He asked tenderly after my health, when I know he’d rather have been asking tenderly after my bank balance.” Roy chuckled. “But it was nice to see a young face. Our Katya was very attentive, dear little thing,” he added with a smile.

Then he asked if Deirdre had had a nice afternoon up at the Hall, so the story had to be told once more, this time in an edited version. Roy was horrified, and said the sooner this whole business was cleared up the better.

GUS LOOKED OUT of his kitchen window and wondered if Deirdre had arrived safely back at Tawny Wings. He had tried hard to persuade her to stay, but she had insisted that she would be fine, and had to get back home. He had even settled Whippy on her lap, remembering that stroking a dog was supposed to comfort people and might encourage her to stay. But she had put Whippy down on the floor, saying she would be fine, and went off, wobbling slightly, to get into the car and disappear down Hangman’s Lane.

The episode had shaken him considerably. Although he had not said as much to Deirdre, he knew now that they were up against something very nasty. Once more he thought of contacting the police, but after thinking about it for some time, he decided that this could precipitate more than a violent attack of sickness. If Beattie really did intend to get rid of her rival, a visit from the police might prompt her to panic and have another immediate go at Deirdre, and next time making sure of success. But if he did not tell the police, he was certain now that they had to move fast. They were close. He was pretty sure of that. The Bentalls and the Jessops were linked in a way they now understood, and the root of it all was back in another generation. If they could find out who had first made Beattie’s mother pregnant and caused so much unhappiness, then the rest would fall into place.

He remembered suddenly with some excitement that Ivy and Roy had had that invitation to tea with Mrs. Bentall. That was it, he decided, and picked up the phone. He would cheer up Deirdre by telling her this, and then think of a way of discovering the connection between the Roussels and Beattie Beatty. He was sure now that she did not turn up at the Hall all those years ago out of the blue. There must have been a reason which had been kept quiet.

No answer from Tawny Wings. Gus frowned. Deirdre should be home by now, surely? Perhaps she had called at the shop. Yes, that would be it. He would ring again in half an hour or so.

As he watched, Miriam emerged into her garden next door, and walked up the path to her salad bed. She bent down, pulled up a lettuce, and turned. She was too quick for him to back away, so he waved. She returned his wave enthusiastically and mimicked opening the window. “Come in and have supper with me this evening,” she shouted. “I’m having ham and salad. Got some nice rhubarb to make a fool,” she added.

It’s me that’s the fool, he thought, but was so tempted by the idea of a good supper, that he yelled back that he would be delighted. Oh God, he thought, as he watched her skip girlishly back into her house. Why on earth did I ever decide on this village? Because it seemed quiet and remote, people getting on with their own lives and allowing you privacy if you wanted it. Ha! That was a joke.

BEATTIE RETURNED FROM tea with Miriam to a silent Hall. Theo’s car had gone, and she did not need two guesses to decide where it might be. Not too far away, and at a house with a stupid name!

She noticed that the light was fading outside in the stable yard, and thought with a sinking heart of lonely hours spent in the kitchen, when buried memories would return to haunt her.

She picked up the telephone, and dialled a number that she knew by heart. “Hello? Okay to talk? Right, well, here’s the latest.” She then relayed what had happened this afternoon, adding that she thought this was one battle she had won. “What? . . . Oh, some stuff I had lying around. . . . No, probably not. We shall see. . . . When? Oh, in due course. What about you? . . . Well, make it a better job next attempt. Miriam Blake thinks he’s a mystery man, but then, all men are a bit of a mystery to Miriam. Yes, you were right! I have a feeling time is running short. Yes . . . what? . . . Oh, yes, but take care. Bye.”

She replaced the receiver and began to prepare supper. Not that she expected Theo to be home for supper, but on the chance that he might be, she took a pheasant from the marble shelf in the larder and began to wrap it in bacon and herbs. She thought about her telephone call, and wondered if they hadn’t perhaps got themselves in too deep.

Miriam had definitely said there was something mysterious about Halfhide, and had hinted that he was some kind of investigator. It sounded ridiculous, of course, but if she was halfway near the truth it could be an unforeseen and possibly dangerous development. On the other hand, why should anybody want to investigate them? Self-protection was all they were aiming for, and also, she had to admit, an insurance policy for the future.

Another thought struck her. How much did Miriam know about the past? From her conversation, it seemed her mother had kept her in the dark about a lot of it. She was a bit of an innocent, for all her reputation in the village. So was there more to it than being man mad? It might not mean much more than that she tried to lure every man she met into her bed and some she won, some she lost. She seemed confident that Gus Halfhide had already swallowed the hook. If this was so, would it be a good idea to bring Miriam into their confidence, and use her as information gatherer?

No it would not, Beattie decided. The more conspirators involved, if that is what they were, the more likely it was they would be discovered.

She put the pheasant in a slow oven, sat down in the sagging armchair by the Aga, and began to read the evening paper.

 

MIRIAM SET UP the small table squeezed into a corner of the living room, and spread a cloth embroidered by her mother. She had been good with her needle, and at each corner was a cutout butterfly which seemed to flutter as she smoothed out the creases. Miriam sighed. In some ways she missed her mother, but in others her death had been a huge relief.

She shut her mind to such thoughts, and switched on a dim reading lamp on the corner of the mantelpiece. The overhead light was much too bright. She switched it off. Next, she brought in home-cured bacon from the shop, bread that she had made earlier in the day, farm butter, and a fresh salad. She mixed English mustard from dry powder and vinegar, put it in the centre of the table and stood back to admire her handiwork. Paper serviettes! She opened a drawer in the sideboard and took out two. Gus probably wouldn’t notice the holly and mistletoe theme, left over from a long-past Christmas. If he did, he would make a nice joke about it. He was kind that way.

But there was the matter of Mrs. Bloxham and the shawl. Miriam intended to get that cleared up straightaway, and then they could enjoy the meal. There was a tap at the door, and she opened it to let him in.

“I’m just collecting for the down-and-outs of Barrington,” he said with mock humility. “Can you spare a bit of dried bread, or a bruised apple?”

Miriam collapsed. All her suspicions and anxiety vanished, and she roared with laughter, a real hearty bellow such as she had not produced for years.

“I can do better than that,” she stuttered as guffaws continued to emerge. “Come on in, and have a drink. I’ve found some primrose wine that mother made a while ago, so it should be really mature.”

Oh, goody, said Gus to himself, as his stomach protested in advance. A glass of primrose wine, well matured. He hoped it wouldn’t have the same effect as Beattie’s biscuits.

Miriam had started a tape of Frank Sinatra love songs, turned down low, and by the time they finished they had eaten every crumb and Miriam removed the plates to the kitchen. “Coffee, Gus?” she called. It was all going so well, with her telling him all about her early life—well, nearly all—and describing how her mother had changed from quite a jolly woman into a carping old dragon in her last years.

“How about your mother, Gus?” she said. “Were you an only child like me?”

“Goodness!” said Gus, looking at his watch. “Is that really the time? How it flies when you’re enjoying yourself! D’you know, Miriam, I think I’ll skip coffee and be off next door. It has been a really pleasant evening, and an epic meal. Bless you, my dear,” he added, and waving a grateful hand exited from the front door and shut it gently behind him.

“Bugger it!” Miriam said. She scarcely ever swore, but now felt perfectly justified. In a few seconds she had scuppered all hopes of getting him to open up. Ah well, at least they had parted good friends, and next time she would be more careful.

 

THE HOUSE NEXT door was chilly and damp smelling, as usual. Gus turned on the lights and wondered whether it was worth lighting the fire. Probably best to fill his hot water bottle and go to bed with a whisky and a book. The primrose wine had been unexpectedly good, and he planned to ask Miriam to give him a bottle, if she had plenty. It had a wonderfully flowery aroma, and there was no doubt it packed a punch. All those years in the cupboard under the stairs must have given it real strength.

 

 

BED, HE DECIDED, and with his comforting fluffy hot water bottle he climbed the stairs.

Before he went to sleep, he reviewed the evening’s conversation. Miriam had given him very little useful information that he did not already know. Her nostalgic ramblings had been mostly about working at the telephone exchange, past romances and friends, and how much she had loved her hen-pecked father. Totally under her mother’s thumb, apparently, poor soul. He thought of his ex-wife, and remembered her sharp tongue, and was reminded that he hadn’t heard from her lately. Dare he hope that she had finally given up trying to get blood out of a stone?

As his eyelids drooped, a puzzling image floated by. While Miriam had been in the kitchen dishing up rhubarb fool, he had noticed a small photograph tucked behind the clock on the mantelpiece. The gilded frame caught the light, and he peered closer. Was it
Theo Roussel
? Not quite, he decided. But there were strong similarities. This was a man from another generation, wearing, as far as Gus could see, a tweed jacket and camel hair waistcoat. He was smiling, and he had Theo’s smile. When Miriam returned to the table, Gus had asked her who it was, and she had said it was just a friend of her mother’s and then changed the subject.