The Sleeping Salesman Enquiry (9 page)

S
ixteen

“I HOPE YOU
found yourselves something useful to do, Deirdre,” Ivy said. “I’m not sure what Gus does with his spare time, but I know you are a great time waster.”

“Ivy! That’s not true.” All four enquirers were assembled in Deirdre’s house, with Roy insisting on tackling the stairs to the agency office.

“Don’t worry; we made good use of the morning,” replied Gus. “How did your session with the vicar go?”

“Very satisfactorily,” Ivy said. “We were able to settle several matters. The banns will be read on Sunday for the second time of asking. I do hope you two will find time to come? Solidarity means a lot to me and Roy.”

So even Ivy is feeling nervous, thought Deirdre. She had a sudden pang of affection for her fierce old cousin. It must have been a hard decision for her to make. So self-reliant and used to managing her life exactly as she wanted it. It was a miracle that she agreed to come to Barrington and Springfields! Probably that bout of flu she had in Ringford weakened her resistance. Still, it had all turned out well, and now she was to have her chance at being a married lady.

“Of course we’ll be there, Ivy. Won’t we, Gus?”

“Certainly try to make it. Dogs allowed?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Augustus.” Ivy smiled at Roy, and said if anyone asked her, she would say that her leg was being pulled.

“Now, you two,” said Deirdre, picking up a pen and attempting to look businesslike behind her desk. “Do you want to hear about our expedition yesterday?”

“Told you they were up to something,” whispered Ivy to Roy.

“You start, Gus,” said Deirdre. “I’ll fill in as we go along. I am afraid it’s nothing to do with our Alf assignment.”

“Well, it was unplanned, actually,” he began, crossing his fingers behind his back. “Deirdre needed a new kitchen table, and I suggested we go to have a look in Thornwell at the new retail park. There’s a big furniture store there, and as she wanted a perfectly plain table, I suggested Maleham’s.” He looked at Deirdre and hoped she would remember that Roy would not necessarily approve of information-gathering about his nephew.

“Then I remembered that your nephew worked in a furniture store, Roy,” she continued, nodding slightly at Gus. “We realised that whereas you both, Ivy and Roy, had met him, maybe two or three times, Deirdre and I would not know even what he looked like. We thought we might introduce ourselves, but there was no opportunity, and we just wandered about. Deirdre wore her fur coat, to show we had money to spend!”

“Not relevant, Gus.” Deirdre frowned at him.

“And then we overheard the most extraordinary conversation. Although shouting match might be a more accurate description. A thickset young man marched in and demanded to see Wright. He was steaming with fury, and it turned out your nephew had been very rude and accusatory to the young man’s wife, who rang in to complain. She had subsequently needed sedatives from the doctor, he claimed. Seems they had taken delivery of a table and set of chairs, and after the van had gone, she found damage on one of the chairs.”

“And the young man was out for revenge?” asked Ivy.

“Well, actually he was out for a replacement chair. After some argy bargy, the top man arrived and smoothed him down, and he left with a threat that if he found Wright, he would see to him. He was a rough-looking chap. The sort you wouldn’t want to cross in an argument.”

“Did Steven appear?” Roy’s voice was full of concern.

“No, they said he was off sick. Didn’t know when he would be back.”

“If ever, I reckon,” added Deirdre.

Gus nodded. “I agree. The boss said all the right things, but times are hard and losing a customer is a disaster for stores selling furniture that people might want, but can’t afford. If this is Wright’s first-time offence, maybe he’ll be given a warning, but if he’s known for it, he’ll get the boot. And rightly so, in my opinion.”

“Oh dear,” said Roy. “What would my poor sister have said? In a way, I feel responsible for him, now she’s gone.”

“Rubbish, Roy!” said Ivy. “He is in no way your responsibility. I advise you to find another best man at once. Forget all about Steven Wright.”

“I’ll think about it, dearest. I will certainly give it some thought.”

• • •

DEIRDRE HAD SPOTTED
that Roy was looking very downhearted, and so suggested a break for coffee before they discussed Alf and his problem. She cut a specially large slice of Miriam Blake’s butter shortbread, now selling at exorbitant prices in the village shop, and asked whether wedding plans were going smoothly.

“One more thing,” said Ivy, “and we might as well decide it now. There will be no bridesmaids or pages or any of that nonsense, but I’m told I shall need some female support, so how do you feel, Deirdre, about being matron of honour, or whatever they call it?”

“Oh, Ivy,” she replied, and her eyes filled with tears, “I thought you’d never ask! Of course I will, you silly old thing.”

“Here. Not so much of the ‘old,’ if you please,” said Ivy. “Now, can we get back to Alf and his rotten relations? He has asked us for help, and we have accepted, so we’d better get on with it.”

“I’ve done some thinking,” said Gus. “And the not very inspired result is that I conclude the big trouble is his wife, Susan. You’ve seen her in action, Roy. What did you think might be a way of persuading her to leave Alf alone to be miserly and bad-tempered all by himself?”

“My first reaction,” said Roy, cheering up visibly, “is that she is a real harpy, and since all she wants from him is a divorce, he’d do well to get rid of her permanently and leave her for some other man to tackle.”

“Sensible advice,” said Ivy. “The trouble with that, though, is that I can’t see Alf changing his mind. He’s one of those obstinate old devils, who won’t budge. The more we try to persuade him, the deeper he digs in his toes. Dog in the manger, our Alf. And not only that, we must take his religious objection seriously.”

“Well said, Ivy,” agreed Gus. “So I thought again, and came up with something that might work.” He looked around the others triumphantly, and was met with stony disbelief.

“If we can find out where Susan lives,” he carried on, “I am prepared to visit her and play devil’s advocate, pretending that I will support her attempts to get Alf to a lawyer. Then I will tell her the deed has been done and she need not pursue him further. Then we can decide what to do next. I could also reveal that I am aware poor old Alf has not long to go.”

“Gus!” said Deirdre. “That is the most impractical, unprofessional and dishonest plan I have ever heard! What do you think, Ivy and Roy?”

Roy hesitated, and then said he rather agreed with Deirdre, though thought Gus should have top marks for ingenuity.

“And Ivy?”

“Ridiculous.” Ivy’s expression was one of lofty determination. “Let’s start again.”

• • •

IN A SILENT
bedroom with the curtains drawn tightly across, Steven Wright slept a troubled sleep. With the aid of a double dose of aspirin and a glass of neat whisky, telling himself that he preferred a coma to the continuing pain and sickness of migraine, Steven Wright had finally fallen asleep.

S
eventeen

GUS SAT IN
his shabby little sitting room, reading the news. He had got up late, and taken Whippy across the Green to buy milk and the morning paper. When he got back, he had met Miriam, who was waiting for him in her front garden.

“Morning, old sleepyhead,” she had said, with a fond smile.

So I’m forgiven, Gus thought, and grinned at her. “Morning, Miss Blake, and a cold and frosty one, too.”

“That’s why I was looking out for you,” she had said. “The garden tap is completely iced up, and I know you use it for Whippy’s outside water bowl, so I’m offering to fill it up from my kitchen.”

“Thanks, but don’t bother. I can easily fill it from mine. Only a couple of yards farther to go! Do these cottages get frozen up inside? My winters here so far have not been too harsh, so no burst pipes.”

“You’ve been lucky. Several winters we’ve been frozen up. Have a look and make sure exposed pipes are lagged. Especially up in the roof. The Honourable Theo might have got it done before you moved in, though I doubt it. Poor as church mice, those Roussels. Are you free for lunch? I’ve made a huge Lancashire hot pot. It’ll last for days.”

“Then you won’t want me eating it up!”

“Oh, there’s plenty to go round. Half past twelve, then?”

Gus had been about to insist on refusal when he remembered his plan. Miriam had talked before about Susan Lowe and Alf, and now she might well know where the erring wife lived. Miriam knew a great deal about everybody who had ever lived in Barrington.

“Thanks very much,” he had said. “I’ll bring a bottle.”

Miriam shook her head. “Plenty of primrose left,” she had replied, and Gus groaned to himself. Miriam’s primrose wine was lethal, unless you were actually hoping for eight hours’ uninterrupted sleep.

• • •

IVY AND ROY
had been up hours before, and Ivy was first in the breakfast room, staring fixedly at the kitchen hatch as if willing her morning porridge to appear. When Roy joined her, she announced in a loud voice that the service in Springfields was definitely going downhill.

“Didn’t sleep well, Ivy dear?” said Roy.

Ivy sighed. “No, I didn’t. I’m afraid I was awake half the night worrying about your nephew, Steven. If nothing worse, he sounds like a very unpleasant character. Are you sure you want him to be best man? Gus knows one or two unsavoury characters who could put the frighteners on him.”

“Ivy Beasley!” Roy looked horrified. “Steven is family, and I’m sure we can improve him by our wedding day. And really, he doesn’t have too much to do.”

“Oh, very well. I shall put him out of my mind, and leave him to you. I must get used to that, mustn’t I?”

“Yes,” answered Roy firmly.

“What shall we do today?” Ivy decided to change the subject. “Any ideas?”

“We could book our taxi and go shopping,” said Roy. “Or we could look at some of my family photographs, just to show you what an upright, God-fearing young man I was. Do you have any of your mother and father?”

Ivy shook her head. “I don’t remember photos being taken in our family. My mother wouldn’t have approved. But I’d love to see yours. Maybe some fancy women I can recognise. One or two of the old ducks in here look at you in a knowing way. We can get Katya to bring our coffee upstairs to my room.” And maybe, she added to herself, I can see whether there’s any truth in what old Alf said about the young Roy Goodman.

• • •

ROY HAD BROUGHT
along albums stuffed full of photographs, sepia and black-and-white, and later on colour snaps of families, prize cattle and sheep, and the occasional oldest inhabitant sitting in the sun outside a stone cottage.

“Your entire life is here,” said Ivy, smiling at him. “Perhaps we’ll do it in instalments.”

“Right, here we go. This one is my great-grandmother, Eliza Jane Wilson, with four of her six children. All girls! In those days you needed at least a couple of good strong sons to help on the farm.”

“I think my father wanted a boy,” said Ivy. “But there was just me.”

“I’m sure he was proud as punch of you, Ivy dear. And here’s her daughter Annie on her wedding day. And that’s when the Goodman name came in. My grandfather Valentine Goodman was not much of a man. Too fond of the ladies. But he and Annie had three boys and a girl, and the farm went well.”

“And one of the three boys was your father? Was your mother a farmer’s daughter?”

“No. Her father was a solicitor. I think it was a small family, and she was an only child. But she loved the farm, I remember. Became a pillar of the newly formed Women’s Institute, and was a champion bread maker.”

“And who is this?” said Ivy, pointing to a bonny baby, staring wide-eyed at the camera.

Roy chuckled. “That’s me, aged six months,” he said. “Good-looking even then, don’t you think?”

“Adorable,” said Ivy. “And no doubt spoilt rotten. But what’s happened here? Two pages stuck together. Shall I pull them apart?” she asked.

“No, no, don’t bother. Plenty more.”

But it was too late. Ivy had carefully separated the two pages and was peering at a studio portrait of two young people arm in arm and smiling broadly at each other.

“Roy, is that you?”

He sighed. “Yes, Ivy, that’s me.”

“And?”

“I forget her name. She was just a friend.”

“Rubbish! Of course you remember her name. ‘Just friends’ don’t have special studio portraits taken of themselves arm in arm. Who was she?”

“Her name was Ethel. Ethel Goodman.”

“As in the Settlefield Goodmans?”

“As in them, yes. She was a cousin many times removed.”

Ivy closed the album, and went over to the window, looking out for several minutes in silence. Then she turned.

“That’s enough for today, Roy. Time for coffee, I think. I’ll ring for Katya,” she said.