The Sleeping Salesman Enquiry (30 page)

F
ifty-nine

AFTER AN AMPLE
breakfast to stand them in good stead for what the day would bring, Ivy and Roy made their way up to an urgent meeting at Tawny Wings, and although spring was in the air, and the early-morning frost had vanished in bright sunshine, their moods were sombre. Frobisher had returned yesterday to tell them that Alf had died from an apparent stroke. The open suitcase, half-full of summer shirts, was a clear indication that he had hoped to be off to sunny climes before the police got to him.

“He had tickets ready in his wallet,” Frobisher explained. “It seems he was expecting a visit from us, and was making hasty preparations.”

“So my swift visit to him was too late?” said Gus. “I do apologise, Inspector, and I hope you won’t consider it impeding the course of justice, but I did have a quick word with the old fellow. Nothing more than a hint, of course.”

Deirdre, sitting behind Gus in the rather crowded office, saw his crossed fingers behind his back. What an old softie he was! No wonder he was no good as a spy.

Frobisher nodded. “You were seen, Mr. Halfhide. My chaps were already there, waiting in a plain car until I arrived. They peeped in after you had left, and saw the old boy frantically packing. So I do not intend to take you in on suspicion of murder.”

Deirdre interrupted sharply. “For heaven’s sake! Gus was his only friend. Poor old sod had been really ill, and could have popped off at any time.”

“Relax, De—er, Mrs. Bloxham,” said Frobisher. “There is no question of murder in this case. But now we come to Ethel Goodman, and I am afraid that here there was a strong suspicion of intention to kill.”

“What? Alf intended to kill her? When?”

“We have found traces of Alfred Lowe’s footprints outside Miss Goodman’s nursing home. He entered through a garden door, and had her curious family not raised the question of her previously robust health at the time she died, Alf would probably have got away with it.”

“You mean Bella and William raised the alarm?” said Deirdre.

Frobisher sighed. “That is so. The young couple did not particularly like the cantankerous old woman, but expected her to go on for several more years. Once they had raised the matter, we were obliged to investigate.”

“But you don’t think he killed her?” Gus asked. He could not imagine old Alf, bad-tempered and rude as he was, actually committing murder. But he was cunning enough to have broken into the home to see her, and perhaps attempt to persuade her to keep her mouth shut.

“Difficult to say. There was no evidence of violence, but fear could have finished her off. And now, if you have no more questions, I must be getting back to the station. I am sorry, Mr. Halfhide, that your friend died. But I must warn you that I shall be unable to feel compassion in any similar cases in the future. And by the way, that photograph I showed you was a particularly good likeness of the young Alfred Lowe. Good morning, all. Are you going to see me out, Deirdre?”

When she returned, she was blushing. “What did he say to you out there?” said Ivy, who missed nothing.

“He said to thank you all for the usual helpful spadework we put in. Said he would be able to wrap up the case more quickly as a result.”

Ivy pursed her lips. “Huh! Well, we have a few loose ends to sort out. So why don’t you make coffee, Deirdre, and we’ll have a discussion. And cheer up, Gus! At least old Alf had found a friend for the last few weeks of his life. And you took a risk, you know, running up there to warn him the police were onto him.”

“Yes, well, less said about that, the better,” Deirdre said. “I like to think I was able to encourage Barry Frobisher to be lenient.”

Ivy’s attention had been caught by an expression of sadness on Roy’s face.

“What’s up, Roy dearest?” she asked.

“It has occurred to me over the last day or so that
I
am the sole reason for Ethel getting killed, or dying from fright, and, indirectly, Alf Lowe hastening his own death. And also for Ivy being viciously threatened, as well as myself, the Reverend Dorothy and possibly Gus.”

“Rubbish!” said Ivy briskly. “How on earth do you make all that out?”

“I have never boasted about having money; nor have I lived extravagantly or betted on horses or dogs, nor done anything to indicate that I was in possession of what to some people would seem a fortune.” Roy passed a hand wearily over his eyes.

“But even so,” he continued, “the word clearly got around to some that it would be worth trying to get hold of it. My fault, entirely, and I’m sad it should end in this way, souring the lovely feelings Ivy and I have developed for each other in Springfields.”

“Roy! That was a long speech,” said Gus. Ivy was sniffing into her handkerchief, and Deirdre openly dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

“And absolute rubbish!” repeated Ivy. “But there is just one thing, Roy, and I have pondered long and hard as to whether I should mention it. But here goes. Don’t you think that if you had said loud and often that your will had completely tied up all moneys to named beneficiaries, that information might have saved some trouble?”

“Possibly, my love. But I reckoned that if the blackmailer was not absolutely sure that my money would all come to you, Ivy dear, he would be less likely to arrange for your removal from the wedding plans. He, or she, would have to look further.”

“Not a bad plan,” said Gus, consolingly.

“Thanks, but now I see it was a forlorn hope.” Roy hunched back into his chair, looking beaten.

“As my mother used to say,” said Ivy, taking Roy’s hand, “it’s easy to be wise after the event. We’ll give Alf a good send-off in the cemetery, and then get on with planning for our wedding.”

The phone rang, and Deirdre picked it up. “Who did you say? Oh, Wendy Wright. Can I help you? Miss Beasley called you, you say. Hang on a minute. She’s right here.”

Ivy took the phone. “Hello, Wendy,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind my using your Christian name? We shall soon be distantly related! Good. Well, it’s just one question about your husband, Steven. Did he suffer as a child from catching every bug that was going? He did? Right. Was there any treatment for it? You’re not sure. Now, how are you getting on? We must meet. Perhaps you would like to come to tea tomorrow? Good. We’ll see you then. Good-bye, Wendy.”

“Ivy, what have you been up to?” said Roy.

“Not sure yet,” said Ivy. “I hope you don’t mind my inviting her here to Springfields tomorrow?”

“Of course not. It was a very nice thought, beloved.”

Or was it? Gus looked at Ivy and wondered.

S
ixty

IVY AND ROY
sat in the lounge at Springfields, awaiting the arrival of Wendy Wright. There were few fellow residents, as all had been invited to a matinee performance of the Cinderella pantomime in Thornwell. Ivy had said wild horses would not drag her to a pantomime of any kind, and Roy said he must stay with his fiancée, as they were expecting a teatime visit from his niece-in-law, Wendy.

Ivy saw her first. “My goodness,” she said. “She’s overdoing the mourning wifey bit. Look at her! Dressed in black from head to foot!”

“Ivy! The poor girl has every right to be in black, if it helps her through this difficult period.”

“I bet she didn’t wear black beside the pool abroad,” said Ivy, and then, as Wendy approached, her tone changed, and she welcomed her warmly.

“How are you, my dear?” said Roy. “Are you managing everything now you’re back? You must have a house full of reminders of poor Steven. But time heals, so I’m told. We are very glad you were able to come today.”

Wendy thanked him with tears in her eyes. “You are quite right, Uncle Roy,” she said. “But I mean to get a job as soon as possible. No good moping around the house, I’ve told myself. And how are you and Ivy getting on with wedding plans? I haven’t been back long enough to ask before. Now that Steven has gone, I do hope we won’t lose touch.”

“So you mean to stay in Thornwell now?” Ivy sat back in her chair, hands folded in her lap. “Oh, here’s Katya with our tea. Thank you, my dear. This is Mrs. Wright, widow of Roy’s unlucky nephew.”

Roy frowned. Surely an inappropriate adjective for Ivy to use?

Wendy coloured. “Oh, not so much unlucky as unwise, Miss Beasley,” she said. “He had a lifelong problem with inadequate natural immunity to infection, and I am afraid he refused to take treatment that was offered.”

“I expect he thought he could handle it himself. Avoid people with colds and flu, and watch his diet? That kind of thing?”

Wendy looked at her sharply. “Yes, of course. Exactly that kind of thing. I am not sure if you knew, but we had dinner with friends, and he was very sick afterwards. Said he had tasted something bad. It turned out to be salmonella poisoning.”

“Yes, we did hear about that,” Roy said. “But why don’t we change the subject, if you don’t mind, Ivy? I’m sure Wendy doesn’t want to have to relive that upsetting time.”

Ivy continued as if she had not heard. “What did you have to eat at your friends’ that night, Wendy? It must have been something pretty virulent? Here,” she added, offering a plate of chocolate biscuits, “have another one.”

Wendy drew a deep breath. “No, thanks,” she said. “I’ve not had much appetite for quite a while, not since Steven died, in fact.”

“Naturally,” said Ivy. “You must now be very wary before you eat anything not prepared by yourself. That is surely to be expected; wouldn’t you say, Roy?”

Roy was worried. What on earth was Ivy up to? The poor woman, deep in mourning black, was looking very upset. Frightened, even.

“Oh yes,” Wendy replied. “I was always very careful with Steven’s diet.”

“I had a friend with the same condition as Steven,” Ivy said. “Same problem. Insisted on his wife preparing all his food, even when they dined out. You probably did the same, Wendy?”

“Yes, of course. It was a way of life with us. I always ate the same as Steven to save time.”

“So what on earth could he have eaten that night? I imagine you and the rest of the guests were fine?”

Wendy’s hands were twisting together agitatedly, and Roy sent urgent signals to Ivy to change the subject. But Ivy kept her eyes on Wendy, and said, “Could it have been something else he ate? Like some leftovers for breakfast? Your neighbour told me that her dog had been sick after you gave her the remains of an omelette that day?”

To Roy’s surprise and horror, Wendy burst into terrible sobs and rushed towards the door, where she was met and held by Inspector Frobisher.

“Now, now, Mrs. Wright, what is the trouble?” he said. “Why don’t you come and sit down and tell us all about it.”

He took her by the arm and escorted her to where Ivy sat, perfectly composed, and Roy struggled to stand up, consumed with anxiety.

“I’ve asked young Katya to send in more tea,” said the inspector. “We must give this lady time to recover. We can have a little talk before I have to ask you, Mrs. Wright, to accompany me to the station.”

Wendy Wright pulled herself away from the inspector’s supporting arm. “Let go of me!” she said angrily. “I don’t want any of the old witch’s tea! Let’s get out of here and down to the station. None of you knew what Steven was really like! He enjoyed making me suffer, and several times I thought of going away for good, and yes, I do mean suicide!” She began to cry, but quickly recovered herself.

“Steven was very clever, Uncle Roy,” she continued, “and I knew it’d be hell’s own job to leave him. He wouldn’t permit it, and would always be after me. I was desperate after that party, and I got the idea from him being so sick and that reminded me how the wrong food could do for him. He ate something bad there, though it wasn’t my salmon. There was a curdled cream pudding. Looked very dicey to me, and I tried to stop him having any, knowing that it would make him even more determined to eat it! So next morning, after he’d recovered, more or less, I remembered some rotten old chicken I’d saved for the neighbour’s dog, and I disguised it in an omelette I made for him at breakfast. He didn’t eat much, though obviously enough to make him ill again.” She bit her lip, and no one spoke.

Then she began again. “So you see, there was nothing to tell whether it was the cream pudding or next morning’s chicken omelette.”

She began to cry again, and muttered something that no one could hear.

“What was that, Mrs. Wright?” asked the inspector gently.

She scrubbed at her eyes with a small handkerchief, and looked at Ivy. “I said, Miss Beasley, that I am glad he’s gone, and I meant it.”

“I’m sorry, gel. I’m really sorry,” Ivy said.

Eventually calming down, Wendy submitted meekly to being led by Frobisher out of the room, leaving a shocked silence behind her.

After a few minutes, Ivy spoke again. “Well, so now we know. I am sorry, Roy, and mostly sorry for you. I wish it had never had to happen.”

“Poor creature,” he answered, “poor, poor lady. How could Steven have treated her so badly? What would my poor sister have thought? There must have been bad blood in that Wright family. My sister would not have killed a fly. Well, this has been a terrible day. I hope never to see another like it.”