The Sleeping Salesman Enquiry (29 page)

F
ifty-seven

“MY GOODNESS, YOU
two have finished breakfast in record time!” said Miss Pinkney, smiling broadly. “Off out already? Anything I can do for you before you go? And will you be back for lunch? It’s lovely to see you both so active these days. And are we on again for May five?”

Ivy stopped. “Yes, no, yes, yes. In that order. And thank you very much for asking, Miss Pinkney. If only a certain other person shared your enthusiasm! We saw La Spurling earlier, and were given a warning about wrapping up warm, watching out for slippery pavements, keeping an eye on the clock to make sure we were back in good time for lunch, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Never mind,” Miss Pinkney replied. “She is responsible for you, after all.”

“Well, we’ll be off now and see you later, dear. Roy is just climbing aboard his trundle and then we’re on our way to Tawny Wings.”

“Enquire Within business meeting?”

“That’s right. The most important so far, probably.”

Roy’s trundle hooter was heard calling for Ivy, and she hurried out, only to turn back and retrieve her umbrella from the stand by the office. “I promised Her Who Must Be Obeyed!” she said to Miss Pinkney, who waved them off cheerfully.

Deirdre ushered them into the meeting room, where Ivy was pleased to see a bright fire giving off a good heat. “Morning, Deirdre; morning, Gus,” she said. “All well, I hope.” She then made for the chairman’s chair, and settled herself in a way that meant business.

“Now,” she said, “I formally declare this meeting open. We have a great deal to get through this morning, and as Deirdre is going a-godmothering at lunchtime, we’ll make a start straight away. Perhaps you’d like to sum up where you have got to so far with your enquiries, Deirdre?”

“Nothing much further forward, really, Ivy. As we now know, Ethel Goodman had an illegitimate baby quite late, in her thirties. She was still living with her parents on the farm, and was absent, ostensibly doing a household management course. Came back very unhappy and nobody spoke to her. That’s something Bella remembered overhearing. Apparently Bella used to sit under the table at her grandmother’s house, hiding under the chenille tablecloth with bobbles round the edge, listening to grown-up conversation. Anyway, Ethel was treated as a pariah, and cut out of her parents’ will. Eighty-one when she died, leaving virtually nothing, except a sad little reference to ‘my child’ in her will. There is apparently some unresolved puzzle about her death, but I’ve heard nothing more.”

“Thanks, Deirdre. Now, Roy, would you like to sum up what we discussed last evening?” Ivy blew him an awkward kiss, and he smiled fondly.

“Of course, dearest. Well, folks, Ivy has been busy, and has now decided there will be no more messages. Our priority is still to find out who was giving the orders to Frank Maleham. Person or persons unknown, so far. We also decided that poor Steven’s death was a poisoning accident involving salmonella, which can be a killer if the victim has a weak immune system. Between his being ill after a dinner party, and, two or three days later, having a violent attack in Maleham’s, crawling into a bed, and dying, there was an interval which almost fits in with the description of an attack of salmonella poisoning.”

“Why almost?” said Deirdre.

“Almost,” replied Roy, “because the delay was rather longer than would be expected. And one small thing needs to be verified,” he said professionally. “We need to establish whether he did indeed have a weak immunity to infection.”

“Thank you, Roy. So that leaves you, Gus, to tell us all you know about Alf Lowe.”

At this point, much to Ivy’s irritation, there was a sharp knock at the front door, and Deirdre went to investigate. After an altercation of female voices, she reappeared, looking red and cross, and behind her came Miriam Blake, striding into the room purposefully.

“Miss Blake!” said Ivy. “We are having a private meeting! If you wish to discuss anything with us, please get in touch this afternoon.”

Miriam stood her ground. “What I’ve got to say concerns what I think you might be talking about this morning,” she said. “And when I’ve said it, I’ll go, but not before. I got this feeling when I got up that Gus and you lot might be on the wrong track.”

A surprised silence greeted this, and then Ivy cleared her throat and said, “In that case, you’d better have a seat and say what you have to say. But make it quick. We’ve a lot to get through.”

Miriam sat bolt upright in a hard chair, and began. “From what I’ve heard, or overheard, you would probably say, I reckon you need to know something about Frank Maleham. I saw him outside Gus’s cottage, actually delivering one of them messages for Miss Beasley. Now, you may not know this, but Frank Maleham was a mate of mine at one time, and up to now I’ve not been willing to shop him. We used to go to folk dancing in Thornwell Town Hall once a week, and he was kind and thoughtful. He was always my partner. But then we drifted apart.”

“Miss Blake,” said Ivy sternly. “First of all, we are not gunning for anyone at present. And secondly, we haven’t time to listen to details of your past love life.”

“Just
listen
, Miss Beasley!” Miriam said. “It’s very important. One fact you won’t know, because he never liked it talked about, is that Frank Maleham was adopted. His so-called mum and dad couldn’t have kids, so they adopted him when he was a new baby.”

More silence, while Miriam blew her nose hard.

“Did he know who his real parents were?” Deirdre asked.

Miriam shook her head. “He reckoned his mum must have been somebody local, but he didn’t really want to find out. Mind you, he probably knows now. Him and Beryl Maleham was always very close. Still are, and she wanted everybody to think he was her proper son. Sad, isn’t it?”

“Never mind whether it is sad or not. Have you anything else to tell us? We are very grateful to you for coming and helping us along. What you have told us about Frank is valuable information. Now, we must get on.” Ivy stood up and walked to the door. “Good morning, Miss Blake, and thank you for coming.”

Miriam dawdled, reluctant to leave the spotlight. But in a minute or two she was gone and Ivy came back into the room.

“Well, that was a turnup, wasn’t it?” said Gus.

“Yes and no,” said Ivy. “I had a suspicion from my conversations with Beryl in the store that he was not her own son. Not many mothers would refer to their only sons as Frankenstein. But useful to have it confirmed. And, of course, he must be about fifty and that would fit in with what we know about Ethel Goodman’s mysterious baby.”

“So who was Frank’s father?” said Deirdre, glancing anxiously at her watch.

“Plenty of time yet, Deirdre,” Ivy said. “As to the real father of Frank Maleham, I think Gus can make a good guess. Tell me if I’m wrong, Gus.”

Gus sighed. “I don’t like the place this is leading us,” he said, “but yes, I think I may have the answer. Frank Maleham’s birth mother was possibly Ethel Goodman, and his father, well, I’m not absolutely sure. . . .”

He paused, and Ivy said, “Get on with it, man, do!”

“It could be, and I repeat, I am not truly sure, but from a number of things he’s said in our conversations, Frank Maleham’s father could be the old reprobate Alf Lowe.”

F
ifty-eight

“SO,” SAID DEIRDRE,
going over to Gus and giving him a quick kiss on the top of his head, “if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go and cancel my lunch date. There’ll be other times when I can see my goddaughter, and now we have some very serious thinking to do. Okay, Ivy?”

Ivy nodded. “Good girl,” she said. “We’ll wait ’til you’ve made the call; then we’ll start again.”

Deirdre disappeared, and the others talked about the weather, the news and what was on the box that evening. They waited until she returned, and then Ivy began.

“Right. If—and it is quite a big if—Alf Lowe is Frank Maleham’s father, then it is very likely that he is also the one who gives Frank his orders. In other words, Alf Lowe has an urgent reason for preventing Roy and me from getting married. And if so, what is it? And if you say ‘donkeys,’ Roy, I shall divorce you even before we’re married.”

“Pretty obvious, I would have thought,” said Deirdre. “Frank, if he
was
Ethel’s son, is half Goodman, and therefore stands in direct line to inherit Roy’s money, so long as Ivy doesn’t get there first.”

“And always supposing Roy hasn’t sewn it up tight, and he has told us that he has. But Alf doesn’t know about that, and still means to have a share of it if he can prevent the wedding,” said Gus. “I wouldn’t put it past him to be behind the whole thing, Steven’s death and all. But then again, I’ve got quite fond of the old devil, and can’t quite see him in the role of murderer. Wicked schemes such as clumsy blackmail, yes, but not actually killing someone.”

“Well, I am still not sure that Steven’s death was accidental poisoning,” said Ivy, “but with luck we should have that sorted out soon. Then there have been threats to my life, and Roy’s, but they were empty threats, I am sure. So who else is there left to rouse suspicions of a really serious crime?”

“Ethel,” chorused Roy and Deirdre. “Did she fall or was she pushed, in a manner of speaking,” Deirdre continued. “Although she was old and confused, doctors have agreed that her heart was good, and she showed no signs of having had a stroke. Nothing much to go wrong. So why did she die that night? She’d apparently had a good supper, and had quarrelled vigorously with the night nurse who came in to settle her down for sleep. This was apparently par for the course, according to Bella.”

“Did your Jossland friends tell you if the police are still investigating?”

“Oh yes, Ivy. They’ve not found anything useful, and with someone of that age, even though no cause was immediately apparent, a natural death could quite well be the case. But they’re still looking.”

The phone rang in the hall. “Oh, not another interruption!” Ivy said. “Go and answer it, Deirdre, and don’t be long.”

After about five minutes, Deirdre returned, looking solemn. “It was Inspector Frobisher,” she said. “About Aunt Ethel, coincidentally. While the cleaners were giving her room a good turnout, they found a small framed photograph in a drawer, tucked behind some woollies. O’ course, she was bedridden, so nobody had looked in there for a long while. He wants to come and see us, and show us the photograph to identify it, if we can.”

“When?” said Gus, sitting forward, suddenly alert.

“Now. I said he could come straight away, while we are all together. It was nice of him to ask, really. He could have just turned up.”

“Perhaps he’s nervous of being left alone with you, Deirdre dear,” said Ivy acidly. “Oh well, I suppose we’d better wait. This might well get us several steps forward.”

• • •

TO THE OTHERS’
great surprise, Gus had said he must shoot out and feed Whippy, but he’d be back before the inspector arrived. Ivy had objected, but he had gone before she could argue. Deirdre had made sandwiches and coffee, and the three sat round trying to relax, and failing dismally.

Gus, however, had dashed up Cemetery Lane until he reached Alf Lowe’s cottage. He knocked loudly, and heard the old man shouting in return that there was no need to knock the door off its hinges. “It’s not locked, and I’m coming,” he yelled.

“Ah, Alf. Should you be on your feet?” said Gus.

“Much better, lad. Come on in and sit down. You look out of breath.”

“No, I can’t stay. I just need to ask you a couple of questions. Did you get Ethel Goodman in the family way? And is Frank Maleham your real son? And did you ever give Ethel a photograph of yourself?”

Alf paled before his eyes, and sat down heavily in a chair. “You’ve bin busy, Gus. Yeah, Ethel had Frank adopted, though I said she should keep him, poor little sod. She wasn’t much cop, that Ethel. Selfish woman. Tried to get me to marry her, and said I was the boy’s father. She was getting on, and desperate. She’d been around all the local blokes, though, and I blamed it on Roy Goodman. He just ignored it, and his family was rich. In the end, she got sent away, and the baby was adopted. I’d’ve got nowhere in a court case. But, to be honest, I always thought the baby
was
most likely mine.”

Gus looked at his watch. “I have to get back, Alf,” he said.

“There’s more,” said Alf stubbornly. “When I heard about the marriage, I thought of Frank, an’ how the Beasley woman, as Roy Goodman’s wife, would inherit the entire estate if old Roy snuffed it before her. So I found out where Frank was, and told him that Roy could well have been his father, just as likely as me. He didn’t seem surprised, and joked that when he looked in the mirror he saw me! Anyway, he got the point and did the rest, with my help. Wrote the letters himself and delivered them. Waste of time, really, as it happens. We had no real proof. And Ethel was too far gone in that home to do any good with remembering, though she recognised me!”

“Have you seen her lately?”

“She’s dead, ’ent she?”

Gus could see he was trembling, and decided he’d done enough. One more thing he had to say. “Alf, the police are enquiring about Ethel’s death. If there’s anything to tell, for God’s sake, tell the truth, this time. Must go, but I’ll come and see you later.”

• • •

GUS WAS BACK
inside Tawny Wings just in time.

“There’s Frobisher’s car just turning in,” said Deirdre. She had had no time to ask Gus what he was up to. She did not believe for one minute that he had to feed Whippy.

“Good day, everybody,” Frobisher said, nodding to each. “No, thanks, Deirdre, I won’t have a sandwich. This shouldn’t take long.” He brought out the photograph and handled it gingerly so as not to smudge any lurking prints.

“May I see it?” said Gus. Frobisher held it out in front of him, and watched his face closely.

“Anyone you know, Mr. Halfhide?”

“Not too sure. Try the others. Deirdre particularly, as she has lived in Barrington longer than me.”

Deirdre looked. And caught Gus’s eye. She hesitated, and then said it was so faded it really could be anybody.

“Mm, and how about you, Miss Beasley?”

“Deirdre’s right,” she said. “And my eyes are not what they used to be. Show Roy, Inspector. He’s been around Barrington longer than any of us. Born and bred, as they say.”

Frobisher frowned. “So how are your eyes, Mr. Goodman?”

Roy looked quickly round the others, and said he agreed that it was very faded. “Could be any of us lads around here years ago,” he said. “Looks quite young. Or it could be somebody’s relation from abroad? Very difficult to tell, Inspector. Sorry we can’t be more helpful.”

Frobisher sighed. “Very well,” he said. “Then I must approach the person who is most likely to have given Ethel Goodman a photograph of himself at that time.”

“Can you tell us who that would be?” Gus said.

“Oh, no, Mr. Halfhide. Since you know already, it would be wasting my time. Good day to you.”

In complete silence, the inspector left the Enquire Within office and drove off into the village. Gus dashed out into the road to see what direction he took; then he walked slowly back.

“He went up Cemetary Lane,” he said bleakly. “Well, we did our best to help, didn’t we? As Alf said, there was no proof.”

• • •

FROBISHER STOPPED HIS
car outside Alf’s cottage, and got out. A tall, funereal yew tree cast a shade over the road and the cottage, and the road was once more icy. He slipped and grabbed the car door, cursing. He knew that this was going to be a difficult interview and wished he had brought his assistant with him. But there would be no need for extra help. Alf Lowe was a frail old man, still physically able and mentally sharp, but not up to doing a runner.

He knocked on the door, and there was no reply. Tentatively turning the handle, he pushed the door open. He saw a bright fire in the grate, a rocking chair still moving slowly to and fro, but as far as he could tell, nobody at home. He walked through to the bedroom, and found what he now dreaded finding. On the bed, a battered old suitcase, half-full of clothes, and on the floor, Alf Lowe, spread-eagled out at his feet and no longer breathing.

“Bad luck, Alf. You nearly made it,” he muttered, and took out his mobile to summon assistance.