The Blackwoods Farm Enquiry (An Ivy Beasley Mystery) (17 page)

IVY’S TELEPHONE RANG
early next morning, and she was not pleased to hear Deirdre’s voice, bright and breezy, asking if she and Gus had been missed.

“Don’t be ridiculous, girl,” she said. “We’ve scarcely had twenty-four hours since you last left a whiff of Chanel in our noses.”

“Same old Ivy!” said Deirdre. “We thought you might like a report on what we’ve been doing.”

“Go on, then. I haven’t finished my cup of tea yet, so you’ll have to put up with slurping.”

“Well, we’ve found the pork butchers, but they are no longer Winchen’s. A man called John Jones bought the business. We talked with his son for quite a while, and discovered what he knew about the last of the Winchens.”

“Who were they?”

“Eleanor and her sister, Mary. After Mary left, there are no records of what happened to her. Until she turned up in Barrington at some stage, but relatively recently. We shall go through the local archives, of course.

“We’re all set, Ivy. More to report later. Our return will depend on what we find out. Oh, and Gus wants a word.”

Ivy sighed. Her tea was cold, and she could hear sounds of other residents going down to breakfast.

“Hello, yes?” she said.

“Morning, Ivy,” answered Gus, also sounding very chipper. “I wanted to ask a favour. Could you go down to Miriam Blake’s in Hangman’s Row, and make sure Whippy is all right? Not pining for her master? Thanks very much. Looks like being a lovely day, so you’ll enjoy the walk.”

“Thanks very much!” said Ivy. “I’ll say good-bye now. Roy is knocking on the door. Good-bye, both of you.”

• • •

“SO THEY THINK
they’re on to something?” said Roy. He turned to thank Katya for a plate of crispy bacon, fried egg and bread, all slightly burned, as he liked it.

“Deirdre sounded quite excited. Mind you, that might have had nothing to do with the hunt for the Winchens. I spoke to Gus as well, and he was worried about Whippy, but otherwise sounded sunny.”

“Dear things,” said Roy. “Obviously enjoying themselves. And so shall we, in a few weeks’ time. I have received confirmation from the best hotel in Blackpool, as requested. I shall make sure you are excited and sunny on our honeymoon, my dear.”

“Roy! That’s quite enough of that! Now, let us plan our day so that we have something useful to report when the others return.”

“Do you think we might have a trip into Oakbridge estate agents and pretend to be interested in Blackwoods Farm? I hate to see it all run-down and neglected. We could perhaps get in touch with an old friend of mine. He owns the big estate agents in town, and they specialise in farm sales.”

“Excellent idea! Are you thinking of buying it, if it comes on the market? There is one snag. Neither you nor I look young and fit enough to be working farmers.”

“Me? I ran four farms when I was younger, and you don’t grow out of being a farmer. But you have a point, Ivy,” he added, seeing her crestfallen face, “and we shall say we are looking around on behalf of my grandson. He will have to be fictional, since poor Steven died, and he was my only living relation.”

“Exactly right, Roy dear. What shall we call your fictional grandson?”

“Anthony, Anthony Goodman. Now, I shall finish my breakfast.”

• • •

ELVIS ARRIVED ON
time, as always, and came into Springfields reception to ask for Ivy and Roy. Mrs. Spurling was in the office, and she came out to intercept him.

“And where are they off to this time?” she said. “Sooner or later one of them is going to drop down dead from exhaustion, rushing about from pillar to post, and giving me no warning of when or where they are going. And, of course, I shall get the blame.”

Elvis nodded. “They are marvellous for their age, aren’t they?” he said, completely missing her point. “And now we’re off to Oakbridge. They love the coffee shop there, so I am sure that will be first stop.”

Mrs. Spurling sighed deeply and returned to her office, where she sat staring at her computer. She brought up a website of situations vacant for nursing home managers, and looked for a free position miles away from Barrington. Then she saw Miss Beasley and Mr. Goodman, arm in arm, following the taxi man out of the door, and they were all smiling. I must be doing something right, she thought. She closed down her computer, and went off to bully the girls in the kitchen.

• • •

HALFWAY TO OAKBRIDGE,
Ivy tapped Elvis on his shoulder with her umbrella. “Do you know anything about a family named Winchen?” she said.

“Winchen? No, I don’t think so. Oh, wait a minute, wasn’t the woman from Blackwoods Farm a Mrs. Winchen Blatch? That’s the only one I can think of. Poor soul. They don’t seem to have made much headway with finding her killer. If she was killed! Fell to her death, didn’t she? It was all over the local paper for a while, but now it’s the floods in Summer Meadows in Tresham that’s making the news.”

“Oh dear, that sounds bad. Anybody drowned?” said Ivy.

“Yes, a couple of lads who were mucking about near the river bridge. The water’s running very high, and neither of them could swim. Tragic, really. Now, is it the coffee shop first?”

Ivy nodded. Roy said they could unload him and his trundle from the taxi, and he could park it on the pavement outside the café.

“Back here about twelve?” Elvis said. “Behave yourselves, and not too much sugar in your coffee!”

They parted laughing, and Ivy and Roy were then welcomed into the café as regulars, and ordered their usual milky coffee and jam and cream scones.

“Excuse me, dear,” Ivy said to a pleasant-faced woman who was serving them. “Can you direct us to Botham’s estate agents?”

The woman raised her eyebrows. “Are you thinking of moving away from Springfields, once you are married?” The entire staff in the coffee shop were well acquainted with the several-times-postponed wedding day.

“No, no. We are just enquiring about a property, Blackwoods Farm in Barrington. On behalf of Roy’s grandson.”

“Isn’t that where that poor woman died? Is the place up for sale now?”

Ivy shook her head. “We are not sure. You don’t happen to know who owns it, do you?” she asked casually.

“Oh yes. Wasn’t it them Blatches? Maybe the one who’s just died. She came from up north. Lincolnshire, I think. They’ll probably sell it off now. The young ones don’t want to go into farming these days. Anyway, the agents are round the corner, on the market square. You can’t miss it.”

Roy thanked the waitress politely. “I suppose Mrs. Winchen Blatch used to come in here for your excellent coffee now and then?”

“Once or twice, I think. It’s coming back to me now,” she said. “She came in one morning, years ago, when I first came to work here. She was looking very down-at-heel, and didn’t speak to anyone. I remember because she made a bit of a scene about the bill. And she lit up one of them cigarillo things, and our manageress asked her politely to put it out. She said she wouldn’t, and it was all very unpleasant. No law against it in them days. She never came in again, thank goodness!”

“How long ago would that be?” said Ivy quickly.

“Oh, years ago, dear. As I said, she never came in again. Now, is there anything else I can get you?”

Ivy shook her head politely, and when the waitress was out of earshot, she looked across the table. “Come along, Roy,” she said. “Time we went on our way. We shall be back next week, God willing.”

Once outside, with Roy safely back in his trundle, Ivy set off for the market square. With only fifty yards to go, they were quickly there. Roy climbed down to the pavement, and followed Ivy into the impressive offices of Botham, Son and Lords.

Roy’s old friend was in his office, and greeted them with pleasure. “Long time no see, Roy old man. And have I heard whispers that you are breaking the habit of a lifetime and getting wed soon? And this is your lovely fiancée, I presume.”

Ivy was introduced, and coffee was offered but turned down politely.

“Strange you should come in this morning, Roy,” said the agent. “I had a call from someone called Smith this morning, making preliminary enquiries about selling a farm in Barrington. Rickwood Smith, his name was. A new one on me. But I know the farm. Blackwoods, isn’t it? Old Ted Blatch ran the place very well, but he died years ago, and I believe his widow died in unusual circumstances recently?”

After more reminiscing, the agent said he planned to go and have a quick look around the old place this afternoon. Perhaps he could meet Ivy and Roy there?

Ivy explained her brief acquaintance with Rickwood Smith, who would also be there, and the expedition was confirmed with another telephone call.

“YOU’RE NOT GOING
out
again
, Miss Beasley? Wouldn’t you like a quiet afternoon by the fire? I have collected some new magazines, and I’m sure there will be one or two to interest you. And you, Mr. Goodman?”

Before Ivy could get in a tart reply, Roy thanked Mrs. Spurling kindly, and said they were only going as far as Blackwoods Farm, where Rickwood Smith had agreed Botham’s could have a preliminary look around. Ivy had also given him a quick courtesy call to check that he was happy about them going round the farmhouse with the agent.

Rickwood had agreed. There could be no harm in it. He had asked local cleaners to go through the house and leave it all clean and tidy, and they had once more achieved wonders. He was not at all decided on what to do with the house and land. He might very well choose to stay there himself. But a valuation could do no harm.

The fire escape, which had been left open when Eleanor had been found, was shut off with padlocks and warning tape wound around it. And the little room, where he knew his aunt had occasionally had a quiet smoke, was also locked, on his own orders.

Now Roy set about placating Mrs. Spurling. “I am enquiring on behalf of my grandson, Anthony,” he said. “At present, he lives in the West Country, but is interested in buying a property over here in Suffolk.”

“Very well, then. But do try to be back here before the sun goes down and the east wind takes over.”

As Ivy and Roy set off for Blackwoods, they discussed the interesting snippet they had heard from the waitress in Oakbridge. “If Eleanor was looking witchy,” said Ivy, “then the relationship with the lodger must have broken down some while previously.”

“Deirdre said Eleanor hadn’t been seen for years. Certainly not in town, smoking a cigar in a café.”

“Next time we have coffee, we’ll ask the waitress for more details.”

• • •

THE AGENT JUMPED
out of his car and advanced on them, hand outstretched. “Hello again, Miss Beasley, Mr. Goodman, lovely Saturday afternoon now, isn’t it?”

“Shall we go and have a look around?” said Ivy.

“As I told you, we are interested on behalf of my grandson,” added Roy, “and there’s Mr. Smith waiting for us.”

They opened the yard gate and walked in. “We’ll go in the back way,” said Rickwood. “The front door is temporarily stuck. Easy to fix, though, I can assure you.”

“I should get it fixed if I was you,” Ivy said. “Makes a bad first impression, doesn’t it?”

The house was cold, but there was a pleasant smell of air freshener. The police had, of course, been in, carrying out extensive tests, but the furniture was still there as Eleanor had left it. Ivy walked over to the window overlooking the yard. It was muddy and untidy, as if half the village had been in, helping themselves to anything of use.

“Upstairs, then,” she said. “Anthony has a family, and so will want several bedrooms.” The agent went up first, and began with the main bedroom.

“Very nice,” said Ivy. “Good view over the yard and the field beyond. Now the others, please.”

The smaller ones, including the one which Gus had occupied, were examined.

“Plenty of room for a family,” said the agent, smiling at Ivy.

“And the other one?” she said.

“Sorry?” said Rickwood.

“The other bedroom, along there. I’ll go and see.”

Before the agent could reply, she was off, heading for the dark chamber.

“It’s locked,” she said, returning quickly. “Can I have the key?

“Mr. Smith?”

“Sorry, Miss Beasley. We seem to have lost the only key. I shall have to find a locksmith.”

“May I try my magic opener, Mr. Smith?” said the agent.

Rickwood reluctantly agreed, but the magic did not work. “It’s only a glorified broom cupboard, anyway,” he said, “where the bed linen used to be kept. Let’s go down now, and have a quick look round the farmyard. Then you can make a report to your grandson, and he can ring me any time if he is interested.”

The yard was of no interest to Ivy. All the outbuildings must have been searched by the police. Roy went straight to the barn, and saw that the Ferguson tractor was still there.

“I’d like to put in a bid for that tractor,” he said. “I expect there’ll be a yard sale?”

“And how about that old sheep?” said Ivy. “Does it go with the rest?”

The agent laughed. “I am sure it will be taken care of, one way or another,” he said with a knowing look.

Ivy did not laugh. “It would make a nice pet for someone,” she said. “Needs to have a comfortable billet for the rest of its life.”

The agent sighed. “Of course, Miss Beasley,” he replied. “Now, are we all done? The sun has gone, and it’s getting really chilly. I am sure you two will want to be getting back home. Shall we meet tomorrow to inspect the broom cupboard?”

He could not quite keep the irritation from his voice, and Ivy stared at him.

“Of course,” she said. “Anthony will want to have a complete report. Good afternoon. We shall see you tomorrow.”

• • •

LATER THAT EVENING,
Gus telephoned. “Good stuff to tell you,” he said to Ivy, “but we plan to come home tomorrow, so it’ll be best to keep it till then. Sunday tea at Springfields?”

“Fine,” said Ivy. “We’ll have something to report as well. But before you go, you did see into the dark chamber a while back, didn’t you? Before Eleanor died?”

“Oh yes, certainly. And I noticed the fire escape, too. Remember? Why?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” said Ivy. “And make sure you drive carefully. Bye.”