The Blackwoods Farm Enquiry (An Ivy Beasley Mystery) (21 page)

WHEN GUS TELEPHONED
from Boston, he was anxious to know how Ivy and Roy had progressed with their enquiries. He explained that he and Deirdre had drawn a blank so far. They would not be able to look at the registry office records until tomorrow, and so had wasted time wandering around graveyards and accosting elderly people in the street asking if they remembered the Winchen family.

“Bad luck,” said Roy. “You’ll be glad to hear that Ivy and I have not been idle. I’ll put her on.”

“Hello, Gus. Oh, it’s Deirdre now. Hello, dear, how are you enjoying Boston?”

“We’re not here to enjoy it, Ivy, as you very well know. But I must say the keen east wind is enough to freeze you solid. Turn a corner of a street and you run slap into it. You’d never know it is still summer! It
is
just like a slap in the face. We did find some Winchens in the graveyard, but all from the nineteenth century. Quite posh graves, so I imagine they were a wealthy family. One of the gravestones praises a Walter Winchen for his charitable acts in helping the poor.”

“Very interesting. Anything else?”

“No, but we’ve got a special dispensation to look in the register records tomorrow, and let’s hope that will be more fruitful. Now, how about you and Roy?”

“Well, I didn’t have much luck, either, talking to a farming couple, parents of one of the college students, and his grannie. They were friendly, and knew Eleanor, of course, and also—and here’s the nugget of gold. Apparently Eleanor was once pregnant, but lost the baby, and Mary came down to look after her. But according to the farmer and his wife and the grandmother, she never came again. At least, not to their knowledge.”

“That
is
interesting, Ivy. Did they say anything else?”

“No, only polite conversation.”

“And Roy?”

“He did better. Talked to one of our residents, who remembered the Winchens visiting Barrington. One sister married Ted Blatch, and the other went off somewhere else. She was a bit hazy about that, apparently. But then she said, out of nowhere, that now Eleanor was dead, Mary would get all the money,
after all
.”

“Doesn’t that make sense, if Mary was younger?”

“That’s what we have to find out. But there was a problem, that’s for sure. We’ll talk about it tomorrow when you get back. Can you come here in the evening? Or come to tea?”

“Depends on how we get on in the registry office. We’ll ring you.”

• • •

IT WAS LATE
by the time Peter Rubens, up at the Manor House, had finished his paperwork and gone round locking doors and putting out lights. His electricity bill was enormous, and he planned to give a lecture to students on putting out lights in unoccupied rooms.

His daughter, Stephanie, was playing loud music in her room, and from across the yard he could hear voices talking and laughing. All going well, he thought. How lucky he was, to have come across the Manor House, being exactly what he was looking for. His thoughts turned to Rickwood Smith and all the rumours surrounding him. He had proved a very useful tutor and had said nothing about leaving. He hoped the farm would be sold and Rickwood become a fixture at the college. The loud music dimmed down, and was eventually switched off. With a sigh of relief, Peter drifted into sleep.

• • •

NEXT MORNING, ROY
woke early, and thought he would toddle along to Ivy’s room to share a cup of tea and plan their day. He climbed out of bed, reached for his stick, and limped slowly along the landing. Bright sunlight streamed through a window, and he could see the sky was blue and cloudless. His spirits rose. Perhaps he and Ivy would be able to take Elvis and his taxi into town, and do some frivolous shopping. The Winchen Blatch case was moving along. Slowly, certainly, but after Deirdre had had her interview with Mrs. Winchen, things should be a lot clearer. And even more so if she was able to extract information from Inspector Frobisher. So they were all waiting for Deirdre.

A gentle morning in Thornwell would take their minds off it and clear the air for both. Perhaps Ivy would allow him to buy her a present! She was very strict about such things, being unwilling that he should spend money on her until they were formally married. And that was not long to go now, so perhaps she would relax the rules.

Ivy heard his tap on her door, and called to him to come in. She sat up in bed, whipped off her hairnet, and did her best to adjust her nightdress neatly. First impressions are most important, she told herself, and the thought made her smile. She and Roy had been more or less permanent companions for so long now that short of seeing her totally naked, he was familiar with her every mood and appearance.

“Good morning, beloved!” he said. “You’re looking as beautiful as ever. The sun is shining, I am pleased to say, and I have come to share an early cuppa with you. I saw Katya on her way up the stairs, so she should be here in less than a minute.”

“How did you sleep, Roy?” Ivy said. “I couldn’t go off for ages. Winchen Blatches kept passing before my eyes in ever increasing numbers! Anyway, I made a few notes—here, take the book—so that we know exactly what we are doing. Please add anything you think I’ve missed. Then we can get going straight away.”

Roy shook his head. “No, not straight away, Ivy dear. This morning I am ordering Elvis to pick us up at ten o’clock and take us into Thornwell, where we shall have our favourite coffee and doughnuts, and visit my friend the jeweller, where I am going to buy you a sparkling jewel to wear on your bosom.”

Ivy stared at him. “Are you feeling all right, Roy?” she said.

“Never better,” he said. “Ah, here’s Katya with our tea. Morning, my dear, how’s the bump coming along?”

Katya smiled. Roy was a specially nice resident in her eyes. “I think he was playing football last night,” she said. “Kicking away for hours. I could actually see his little feet making small humps on my stomach! Isn’t it exciting?”

“Did he win?” said Ivy, also smiling. “Oh, good, you’ve brought two cups.”

“I spied Mr. Goodman on his naughty way to your bedroom,” Katya replied.

After she had disappeared, Ivy returned to the attack. “We cannot possibly afford the time to do all that,” she said. “I plan to go down to the church, to find Miriam Blake, who is always there on a Saturday morning, busying herself about God knows what.”

“I expect he does,” said Roy mildly. “May I ask what you plan to say to her?”

“I’m going to search her memory. She hasn’t got much sense, but her memory is unusually good.”

“How old do you reckon Eleanor was when she died?” Roy said thoughtfully. “I would have said sixty-ish.”

“Difficult to say. When we first met her, when she came to ask for our help, she looked dreadful. Old and unkempt. But after she came out of hospital that time, and got herself together with Deirdre’s help, she looked years younger. Probably sixtyish, I would say.”

“So this sister, Mary, who is younger, would be anything from midfifties to sixty? Miriam Blake is well into her forties, and so could possibly remember something, but not much, I would say.”

“Are you trying to say it is not worth my going to see her?”

“I think she has already told us more or less all she knows. Other more urgent things for us to do. Like booking Elvis for Saturday, and getting out of Barrington for a few hours. It will still be here when we get back. What do you say, dearest?”

Ivy frowned. She wanted to say that his suggestion was rubbish, but she was learning, and so nodded instead. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said.

ON SATURDAY, ELVIS
turned up promptly at ten o’clock and loaded Roy and his trundle into the taxi. Ivy sat in the front, and they went off smoothly through the sunlit village, while Elvis warned them not to be fooled, there was a chill in the air. “There’s a rug in the back there, if you’re chilly, Mr. Goodman,” he said.

They assured Elvis that they were indeed warm enough, and chatted idly until Roy said something about Ted Blatch being a tough old farmer if he’d lived in that derelict house for many years.

“Ted?” said Elvis. “Ted Blatch? He was a nice bloke, never mind about being tough. A bit mean, maybe. He and his wife, they were a pleasant couple. The number of times I’ve given him and her a lift into town, but neither of them ever had any change to give me. I gave up hoping in the end, and decided I’d get a bonus point on the day of Judgement!”

“Perhaps they were really poor,” said Ivy. “The place is certainly derelict now. Nobody in the village really knows what’s going to happen to it.”

“They were certainly poor. Ted sunk all his savings into the place when he took it over. His uncle was a bank clerk, with the National in Thornwell. I think that’s how Ted got a loan to do what he wanted to the place, and he really worked hard at it. He was a good-looking man, was Ted. Tall and dark-haired. Wiry build, and kind of loped along, like a cowboy! Him and Eleanor made a handsome pair. But after he’d gone, she lost heart, I reckon. Let the place go. It’ll take a bit of capital to put it right.”

“How do you know all this, Elvis?” asked Roy.

“Ah, you’d be surprised what I hear in my job. People don’t reckon I’m human. A deaf human at best! Conversations, arguments, threats and courting couples. All human life is here, Mr. Goodman. I hear it all.”

“So I suppose Ted had to sell up, in the end?” said Ivy.

“No, he said he’d never sell. He told Eleanor one day in the back of my vehicle that although it was a millstone around his neck, he intended to carry on until he died, and then it would be her millstone to do what she liked with. Left it to her in his will, so he said.”

“And you never heard a whisper about it being sold?”

“No, nothing like that. Why are you so interested, Miss Beasley, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Oh, no reason, really. It’s only that I’m doing this writing course at the Manor House College, and am interested in background material to the life of the farm, then and now.”

“I see. That’s really clever of you, at your age. Do I get a copy when it’s published?”

“Of course. Perhaps you know of some knowledgeable person I could talk to? Everything that’s told to me is confidential, and I’d never use any names an’ that.”

Elvis was quiet for a moment, and then came up with a real person, a lady he took every so often to her chiropodist. “She has always lived in Barrington, with her family at Church Farm. I think they have been in the village for generations. I could ask her if she would have a talk with you, Miss Beasley?”

Ivy thanked him kindly, and said she could walk along to Church Farm, if Elvis would make the introduction.

They wandered around the market, and Roy persuaded Ivy to let him buy a little black cat brooch. Then a happy half hour in the café with coffee and doughnuts worked its magic, and by the time they returned to Springfields they were back to their happy relationship. Elvis promised to be in touch in a couple of days, after he had spoken to the farmer’s wife, Mrs. Coleridge.

ELVIS WAS AS
good as his word, and on Sunday morning around eleven o’clock Ivy’s phone rang.

“Morning, Miss Beasley!” he said. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything? Good. I thought you’d like to know I talked to Mrs. Coleridge, and she says her memory of the old days is pretty good, and she’d be happy to see you for a chat. Here’s her phone number.”

Ivy wrote it down in her clear, precise handwriting, and thanked him kindly. Then she looked at her watch and decided to ring the number straight away. Roy was still upstairs, and she planned to fix an appointment before he appeared. Gus and Deirdre had not been in touch since a quick call saying they would be back around four this afternoon, so she might have something useful to tell them.

“Hello? Is that Mrs. Coleridge? Ivy Beasley here. Elvis spoke to you, I believe. Well, that’s very kind of you, I’m sure. Around half past two, then? No, no, I shall be perfectly able to walk that short distance! I look forward to meeting you.”

• • •

ARRIVING OUTSIDE CHURCH
Farm, Ivy could not help comparing it with the sadly neglected Blackwoods. A shallow stream ran parallel to the road, crossed by a small bridge with a freshly painted white handrail. The house itself was clearly very old, but well maintained, with window frames and a simple front door also painted white. The general appearance was of a busy, hardworking family farm.

Mrs. Coleridge was waiting at the door with a welcoming smile, and Ivy stepped inside with a pleasant feeling of familiarity. This was exactly how a farm should be, she thought, and was reminded of her own grandparents, who had farmed in the Midlands.

“Do sit down, Miss Beasley. My daughter will bring us tea in a couple of minutes. I do hope you take tea? I am afraid I am not a coffee lover.”

A woman after my own heart, thought Ivy, and relaxed into a comfortable, plush-covered armchair. “This is very kind of you,” she began.

“Not at all. I love talking about the old days. Don’t ask me the name of the man who brought the bread yesterday! But where shall we start?”

Ivy explained about her writing course, and said she was interested in the history of Blackwoods Farm, but could find nobody who could remember, or wanted to remember! “It is such a neglected old place,” she said. “I wondered what could have happened there in the past?”

Mrs. Coleridge heaved a deep sigh. “Ah, Blackwoods Farm,” she said. “Not a happy tale, I’m afraid, Miss Beasley, but a very interesting one. I must think carefully and make sure I get it right.”

“Perhaps if I tell you what I have found out already? I know Ted Blatch lived there, and his wife was from a family called Winchen, from Lincolnshire. Eleanor Blatch was, as everybody in Barrington knows, found dead from a fall down that fire escape recently.”

Mrs. Coleridge looked at her, paused and smiled. “Miss Beasley,” she said, “shall we get this clear straightaway? You are, I know, doing a writing course up at the Manor, but you also run a private enquiry agency from Springfields? Now, that doesn’t make any difference to me. In fact, it is more interesting than putting words together in the right way. Can I suppose you need to know about the Blatches because you’re on a case there? Did she fall or was she pushed?”

Ivy frowned, and then her face cleared and she broke into a rare cackle. “Got it in one, Mrs. Coleridge,” she said. “What a relief to talk to someone like you! Yes, you are quite right. Eleanor Blatch came to us before she died, quite a while before, and said she thought she was being persecuted by the ghost of her husband. We thought she was a bit batty, but took her on. My colleague, Mrs. Bloxham at Tawny Wings, got to know her, and said she was perfectly sane, and actually became a good friend. Then this awful thing happened, and we felt duty bound to help find the truth surrounding her death. We suspect there is something to do with a family feud that goes a long way back. And that’s why I’m here. Is that still all right with you?”

Mrs. Coleridge told her a great deal about the rumours that began almost as soon as Eleanor Winchen came into the village as Ted’s fiancée. It seemed it had been common knowledge that there was another Winchen girl, who was much prettier than Eleanor, and who was reputed to have turned down Ted when he proposed to her first. So Eleanor had been second best, the village decided, and waited to see what would happen. They waited in vain for trouble, and when Eleanor said she was pregnant, everybody thought they must be getting on all right together.

And then the miscarriage,” Mrs. Coleridge ended. There was a pause, and she passed a hand over her eyes.

Ivy got to her feet. “I have taken up quite enough of your time,” she said. “Perhaps we can talk again soon. I don’t have to tell you how useful your recollections are. Such a shame about the Blatch baby,” she added, as she put on her coat and hat. “Things might have been so different if it had lived.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Coleridge. “But they always refused help, you know. None of us ever found out whether the baby was a boy or girl. And in fact, it must have been an early miscarriage. Eleanor never showed. Poor little thing.”

Ivy walked home with her thoughts busily turning. An early miscarriage? Eleanor never showed a bump? A prettier younger sister who had turned down Ted?

“So here you are, my love. And with roses in your cheeks from cosy conversation. I hope you gleaned some useful information?” Roy was sitting comfortably by a sunny window, with the Sunday newspapers on his lap.

“I have, I think. Useful but sad. Anyway, I can see you’ve been busy,” she replied sharply. “Any more news from Gus and Deirdre?”

“Oh, yes. They did ring about an hour ago, and said they were nearly home. They would come and see us after tea this evening. Will that be all right?”

“Yes, of course. I shall have quite a lot more to tell them. In fact, if you don’t mind, Roy dear, I will keep it all until then. Meanwhile, you can tell me what’s been happening at Springfields.”

Roy smiled at her sweetly. “Well, my dear,” he said. “After you had gone, a small jazz trio arrived, and Mrs. Spurling, clad in a short skirt and dancing pumps, got us all doing the cha-cha-cha. Then Mrs. Cornwall said she would like to sing ‘Summertime’ from Porgy and Bess, and the jazz trio provided the backing.”

Ivy stared at him. “And then what?” she said sternly.

“And then Katya went into labour and produced twins in the dining room, while La Spurling acted as midwife. After that, you came home, which was the most exciting happening of the afternoon.”

• • •

IVY HAD TAKEN
exception to Roy teasing her, and had stomped off to have a rest, she said, in the peace and quiet of her own room. She did not invite Roy to go with her, and the air was distinctly cool when she reappeared for tea. However, by the time Gus and Deirdre arrived, good relations were restored, and Ivy greeted her cousin warmly.

“You look tired, girl,” she said. “Come and sit down and tell us everything.”

Gus looked at Deirdre, and they both laughed. “Nice to be home,” Gus said. “And I am sure you have lots to tell us, too.”

Ivy said she would start, as her afternoon’s visit was still fresh in her mind. When she got to the wedding of Ted and Eleanor, and the rumours surrounding it, Deirdre was all ears. “Honestly, Ivy? Did Ted really fancy the young sister first?”

“And she turned him down?” said Gus. “That begins to make some sense, doesn’t it? I don’t suppose sister Mary was very welcome at the farm. Eleanor would not have wanted to risk it!”

“And the baby, Ivy, how far gone was Eleanor when she miscarried? And why did she? Did your Mrs. Coleridge know any details?”

“Not many. She said the Blatches kept themselves to themselves at this time, and shut themselves off from friends. They didn’t seem to have much in the way of family, either. The sister never came to see them again, until Ted’s funeral. And then she didn’t turn up, although she was apparently expected.”

“We didn’t get round to that, but we know Mary might have been in Australia, or perhaps already disabled. But you are going to see Mary Winchen, aren’t you, Deirdre? Now you know some of the background, it might be easier. Mrs. Coleridge has offered to see me again, so I shall take her up on that. We got on very well. A very nice woman.”

“Well done, Ivy,” said Gus. “There are several leads there for us to follow. Now, Deirdre, you’re next.”

“Nothing as interesting as Ivy’s report,” she said. “But we did find the birth of Mary Winchen recorded in the registry. After Eleanor. About four years after.”

“Four years after the birth of Eleanor Winchen. It is strange, imagining Mary as a tiny squalling baby, arriving in this world with an already jealous big sister.”

“You don’t know she was jealous, Ivy.” Roy had listened to all that was said, and now considered all that was new, what was surmise and what fact.

“I think Ivy’s right,” said Deirdre. “My sister was four years younger than me, and I remember tipping her out of her pram in a fit of jealousy. The neighbours had been in to bill and coo over the new arrival.”

“Did she survive your attack?” said Roy anxiously.

“Oh yes, my mother held on to the handle of the pram and it only tipped very slightly. Baby yelled, but was quite safely tucked in.”

“So sister Mary remains the most important unsolved mystery in our case so far,” said Roy. “We’re pinning our hopes on you, Deirdre. And let’s hope Mrs. Coleridge has remembered more when you go to see her again.”

“Did she talk to you about the lodger who must have figured largely in Eleanor’s life at one time?” Gus was interested in encouraging Ivy to remember everything before it faded.

“She mentioned him, but couldn’t tell me any more than we knew already. So now, Gus, anything else to tell us?”

“That’s all, I’m afraid. I am sure if Deirdre finds Mrs. Winchen cooperative, a lot of all this will fall into place. Meanwhile, I propose we take time to consider what we do next, not forgetting one important piece in the jigsaw.”

“Rickwood Smith,” said Ivy. “Now, it seems, master of all he surveys.”