The Measby Murder Enquiry (31 page)

“You’re looking smart, anyway,” Ivy said grudgingly. How could Roy say they were worried, when they had been relieved she hadn’t joined them at supper time? Had mother been right about men? Traitors all, she had said, more than once. “Are you off out with your daughter again today?” she said, trying to make it sound a casual question, though she had been brooding overnight and had come to the conclusion that something serious was definitely going on between the two of them, and not just a loving mother and daughter relationship.

Alwen wished she had had breakfast in her room, but she did her best to answer the questions pleasantly. “No, not today,” she said. “Bronwen insisted yesterday on taking me shopping for new shoes. She says my old ones look too scruffy even for the garden.” Why did I mention the wretched garden? she asked herself. She had a mental flashback—all too frequent these days—of Joe Worth bent over his spade and slowly digging deep, preparing the soil for winter vegetables.

On an impulse, Ivy said that she and Roy were going over to Thornwell and would be having a coffee with Martha. Would Alwen like to come? Maybe she needed to get out and see people other than family?

Ivy and Roy were both stunned by Alwen’s response.

“Why can’t you leave me alone!” she said, pushing back her chair and standing up with difficulty. “All I need is a bit of peace,” she added, and began to cry, sobbing bitterly and subsiding once more on to her chair.

Ivy, nonplussed, signalled for help to Roy. If anyone could handle this, it was him, dear, kind, gentlemanly Roy. As she had known he would, he rose to the challenge. Pulling a large handkerchief from the breast pocket of his tweed jacket, he handed it over to Alwen, and then, after she had blown her nose with a wonderful trumpet blast, he took her hand in both of his and gently stroked it until she had composed herself.

“I am so sorry,” she croaked, sniffing loudly. “I don’t deserve to have friends.”

“A nice hot cup of tea is what you need,” said Ivy briskly. She had no time for self-pity, and had to admit she was relieved when Roy relinquished Alwen’s hand. As far as Ivy could judge, Alwen Jones had everything she could want. Wealth, daughters, as much good health as she could expect at her age, and several residents of Springfields perfectly willing to be her friends.

“So will you come with us to Thornwell?” Ivy continued. “After we’ve been to Martha’s, we plan to try a new café that’s just opened in the crypt of that big church in the middle of town.”

Alwen was about to refuse again but thought suddenly that maybe she would go. It might do her good, and would certainly be better than sitting in her room worrying about Bronwen.

“Well, if you’re sure, Ivy, that would be very nice. I don’t want to play gooseberry, you know,” she added with a wan smile. “But if you don’t mind, while you are visiting Martha, I will stroll up the road to the cemetery and have a look at George’s grave. I suppose the headstone won’t be up yet, but there’s bound to be lots of flowers still. It’ll be balm to the spirit, maybe.”

“My goodness!” said Ivy. “It’s not where I’d choose to go to be cheered up! But if that’s what you want, of course it’s all right. Then we can all go and have lunch in town.” She looked at her watch. “Better get some porridge into you, then, Alwen. The taxi’s coming at half past ten.”

As Ivy reached for her large handbag, there was tiny mewing sound.

“Ivy?” said Roy.

“Yes, Roy?”

“Is that a miaow I heard?”

“Yes, Roy.”

“Tiddles?”

“Yes, Roy.”

“Then we had better leave Alwen to her porridge and get out of here before La Spurling comes bearing down on us like a wolf on the fold.”

“Yes, Roy,” said Ivy, and walked out of the dining room with a seraphic expression on her face.

 

 

“COME ON IN! Coffee’s all ready, and Stanley is looking forward to meeting you.”

Martha Sparrow beamed at Ivy and Roy, and ushered them into a comfortable sitting room where an elderly man was standing, smiling a welcome.

Roy had failed to persuade Alwen to come in with them, and had said they would pick her up at the cemetery gates in an hour. When he had seemed worried, Ivy said that Alwen Jones was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and would he kindly forget her and concentrate on the task in hand, which was ferreting for any information likely to emerge in the conversation and be useful to Enquire Within.

Stanley Sparrow was a big, burly man with plenty of iron grey hair brushed back and grey eyes to match. He wore steel-framed half spectacles, which gave him a scholarly air, and with his grey cablestitch jersey and good grey cords, he blended in nicely with the largely muted tones of Martha’s sitting room.

Roy took to him at once. “Sparrow?” he said. “That’s a good old Thornwell name, I know. I’m sure my father had a friend called Sparrow. Sid Sparrow, that was it. Bred horses over Oakbridge way.”

After that, with reminiscences lasting more than a half an hour, Ivy began to think they’d never get around to talking about Daisy and Joe Worth. Finally there was a lull in the conversation, and Ivy commented that it had been a good funeral yesterday. Had Stanley ever met the Worths? She was immediately alert when she saw Martha and husband exchange wary looks.

“Yes, I knew Joe vaguely,” he said. “I seem to remember he came to us once or twice to do a bit of gardening, isn’t that right?” he asked Martha.

She nodded and repeated what she had told Ivy and Roy already, that she had been at school with Daisy but had lost touch. “There was such a lot of unpleasantness around at the time of William Jones’s disappearance. Quite frankly, Ivy, we felt that the less we had to do with them the better.”

“Especially as rumours flew about that Joe Worth had blown the whistle on William’s gambling debts, just before he disappeared,” Stanley added.

“Seems Joe loved a flutter on the horses himself, and had watched William for years,” Martha continued. “Oh dear, it does seem such a long time ago now. I was quite taken aback when Alwen Jones walked in yesterday. I think she was, too! She certainly didn’t want a chat.”

“But she recognised you,” Roy said. He felt guilty. All those reminiscences with Stanley had been so enjoyable, but now he remembered what Ivy had said about why they were here.

“Oh, yes,” Martha replied. “I expect she’d have seen me at brewery Christmas parties, and things like that over the years.”

“I worked at the brewery,” Stanley explained. “Half of Thornwell did at that time. They were good employers, too. Sad what happened with those brothers. The brewery suffered, I reckon. Never was the same place after the gambling scandal. And now the Joneses have all gone. I expect they’ll turn the place over to nasty fizzy lager.”

“There’s still a Bronwen Jones at the brewery, I believe?” said Ivy innocently. “She works in Public Relations, whatever that is.”

Again that wary look between the Sparrows.

“Not anymore, she doesn’t,” said Martha. “Now, more coffee, anyone? I can easily make some fresh.” There were no takers, and Roy looked at his watch.

“We should be going, Ivy,” he said. “We have to pick up Alwen in a couple of minutes.”

“Alwen?” said Martha. “Alwen Jones?”

“Yes, she’s up at the cemetery, paying her respects to her brother-in-law,” Ivy said. “Now he’s gone, I suppose Bronwen is, or was, the last link to the brewery?”

Martha did not answer straightaway, but as they said their farewells at the door, she looked up the road towards the cemetery and said, “Just keep your eye on Alwen, Ivy. And on her smart daughter Bronwen. Don’t let them fool you. Mother is devious, and the daughter is the spitting image of her father. They’ll run rings round you. Known for it! Don’t get involved,” she added, and Stanley nodded his agreement.

“WELL, I DON’T know, I’m sure,” said Ivy as she and Roy settled into the back of the taxi. “But it sounds like we were right to feel that we should keep our investigations secret from Alwen.”

“What about Gus’s abduction? Alwen knew all about that. Rescued him, if the little we know about that is true.”

“We
must
get some more information from Gus. He can’t expect us to carry on if he doesn’t explain more about
why
he was kidnapped, and then released with a warning. It doesn’t really make sense. He must know, Roy.”

“Perhaps Deirdre can get it out of him. They’re off to Measby again tomorrow, aren’t they?”

“Oh, look, there’s Alwen, waiting outside the gates. She looks twice as miserable as she did before she went in. You’ve got your work cut out cheering her up this time, my dear,” said Ivy.

 

 

“WELL, WHERE IS she?” Bronwen said. She and Trevor were having a drink in the bar of the Kings Arms in Thornwell, and Bronwen had tried several times to get hold of her mother. The phone in her room was not answering, and Miss Pinkney knew only that Mrs. Jones had left with Miss Beasley and Mr. Goodman in a taxi.

“Gone shopping, I expect,” Miss Pinkney said. “I’ll find Mrs. Spurling, and put her on. I am sure she will be able to help.”

“Do that!” snapped Bronwen. But then her mobile lost the signal, and she put it back angrily into her handbag. “Mother’s not paying those astronomical fees to be allowed to drift off out into the unknown with a couple of senile old idiots.”

“From what I hear, Miss Beasley is far from senile.” Trevor had his ear to the ground. It was his business to engage clients in conversation, and he heard more than one wife explaining to her husband, as they came to commission him to sell the now redundant family house, that Mother or Father would be fine in Springfields. Look at that Miss Beasley we heard about, one had said. Full of life and always off out in taxis.

“I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry to talk to her,” Trevor said. “Won’t it wait until you get home?”

“I’m worried about her. She seemed very down when I left her yesterday. I thought a trip out would do her good, but she seemed anxious from the moment we set foot in the place.”

“No wonder,” said Trevor nastily. “Not exactly a picnic for her, was it?”

“No, no. But you needn’t worry. I was sensible.”

“Thank God for that. We don’t want any more trips over to Measby to face the music, do we. Not that it’s my business, really. But contrary to what you may think, I do still have some husbandly feelings when my wife needs protection.”

“There’s no answer to that,” said Bronwen, and she climbed off her bar stool with difficulty. She had not given up power dressing, even though she had no job, and her tight skirt made it a tricky operation. “Come on, we’d better get going.” Trevor followed her out, watching appreciatively as she stalked out on her high heels, head held high and not a strand of her dark, shiny hair out of place. He had found himself thinking often lately that she was a valuable asset, and he would do well to hang on to her. He noticed several men’s eyes following her as they left the pub.

“Well, back to work for me,” he said, giving her a peck on her scented cheek. “But hey, wait a minute, Bron, isn’t that your mother over there, the other side of the square, with a couple of oldies?”

Bronwen looked over the square. It was a busy market day, and she peered through the stalls. “Can’t see her,” she said. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. If she’s with friends, what I have to say to her will keep until we can have a private conversation.”

 

 

THE CRYPT CAFÉ was empty. It was early, and Ivy, Roy and Alwen had a choice of tables.

“Let’s sit in the corner,” said Alwen. “Then we can watch people as they come in. They’ve made it look very nice in here, haven’t they?”

“Were you a churchgoer when you lived in town?” Roy asked. He had decided the best thing to cheer up Alwen was to talk about her good times as head teacher and important citizen in Thornwell.

“Oh, on and off,” she said. “We used to take the children to special services like Easter and Christmas. Two by two, we walked through the town. Plenty of helpers amongst the parents, and we didn’t have any stupid health and safety regulations in those days.”

“Must have been a pretty sight,” Ivy said, catching on to what Roy was up to. “Did the children have a uniform?” She remembered with a pang the children in the village school at Round Ringford. Smart blazers and grey skirts and shorts. She had watched generations of them walk through the school gates.

“Yes, they did. Scarlet and grey. I always loved the babies, as I called them when they first arrived in the school. Jerseys too big, with room for growing, and brand new shoes for the new term. And if they cried for their mothers, we would give them a cuddle on our laps. Can’t do that now, you know.” The colour had returned to Alwen’s cheeks, and she smiled at Roy. “This is a nice idea,” she added, “and lunch is on me.”

“We’ll see about that,” Roy said. “Now then, what shall we have to eat? Let’s go mad, shall we, Alwen? Take our minds off graveyards? How about a smoked salmon omelette, Ivy?”