The Blackwoods Farm Enquiry (An Ivy Beasley Mystery) (26 page)

IVY HAD NOT
been able to sleep, with all the revelations and conclusions revolving in her head, and she had tiptoed along to Roy’s room and crept into bed beside him. He had, needless to say, welcomed her into his arms, where she had gone immediately to sleep.

Now it was morning, the doves cooing outside the window, and sounds of kitchen activity coming up from below.

“Morning, beloved,” Roy whispered into Ivy’s ear. She stirred, stretched, and said quite clearly, “Morning, Tiddles. Time to get up?”

Roy laughed, and Ivy woke up properly. “Ah, now, my love,” he said. “You must be gone before La Spurling catches us in flagrante delicto.”

“Or,” said Ivy, “in plain English, catches us red-handed!” She planted a kiss on his forehead and slipped quickly out of bed. She opened and closed the door noiselessly and sped along the corridor. Pushing open her door, to her dismay she saw a figure standing by her bed.

“Miss Beasley? Please come in and help me.” It was Katya, and she was clutching her stomach. “Aaaah! Please could you get Mrs. Spurling? I think the baby is coming, and I could not find anyone awake. I was on duty last night instead of going home. It was a favour, as the other girls are on holiday. Oh, oh, aaaaah!”

“Sit down here, dear,” said Ivy calmly. “Take some deep breaths, and try to relax.” She picked up her phone and summoned Mrs. Spurling and Miss Pinkney, and Katya’s husband as an afterthought, and then sat down beside her and held her hand. “Is it too early for the baby to come?” she said.

“A little, but I was not too certain about my dates. Oh, I think I hear Mrs. Spurling on the stairs. Sorry if I alarmed you, Miss Beasley. May I stay here with you until the ambulance comes? I do not think I am very well into labour yet.”

Then it was as if all hell was let loose. Mrs. Spurling bustled around, moving things from one place to another, fetching cushions for Katya’s back, and telling Miss Pinkney to fetch a cup of tea, when her assistant had already arrived with a steaming cup in her hand.

Ivy, still in her nightdress, but with a woollen stole put round her shoulders by Miss Pinkney, sat solidly beside Katya, telling her a long story about when she was at her village school and the nurse came to deal with nits. “We all got them in the end,” she said.

“What are nits, Miss Beasley?” said Katya, her attention fully focussed on Ivy’s story.

“Fleas, my dear. Fleas in your hair. I don’t suppose children get them now. Now, I think I hear the ambulance, and here’s your husband, so time to go. You have a bag ready? Good girl. Best of luck!”

• • •

AT BREAKFAST, ROY
was loud in praise of his Ivy’s presence of mind.

“I must say,” said Mrs. Spurling, sniffing, “that for someone with no personal experience of childbirth, Miss Beasley was magnificent.”

“Damned with faint praise,” whispered Ivy to Roy. “Little does she know that I once sat up all night with a sheep in labour. Beautiful little lamb, she had, when we had cleaned it up. Can’t be that different, can it?”

Roy’s mobile rang, and he handed it to Ivy. “It’s Deirdre,” he said. “Inviting us to lunch today. What do you think?”

“Deirdre? That would be very nice, dear. About half past twelve? Thank you. And do I hear Gus’s voice? So we shall all be together. How pleasant.”

“Better tell La Spurling we shall be out. I have a small errand to pursue, but can take care of that this afternoon.”

“Not the tractor!” said Ivy.

Roy smiled blandly. “Right first time, my love,” he said.

Lunch at Tawny Wings was as delicious and considerable as always, and after a short doze in the garden, Gus and Roy got to their feet, and announced that they had an urgent task.

“At Blackwoods Farm?” Ivy said. Deirdre groaned. “I’ve heard of a golf widow, and now it looks as if you and I, Ivy, are to be tractor widows.”

The two men slid away like naughty schoolboys, and walked swiftly out of the drive and on their way. When they were a hundred yards away from the farmyard, they could see an unfamiliar figure standing by the barn.

“It’s not Smith,” said Gus. “Definitely not Rickwood Smith.”

“Never seen him before,” said Roy. “At least, I don’t think so.”

“G’day, gentlemen,” the man said, as they approached. “Can you help me?”

“Ask away,” said Gus. He stood protectively against the barn door, closed with the tractor still there.

“I wonder if you could tell me where I can find Mrs. Eleanor Blatch,” he said.

Gus and Roy looked at each other. “And who are you, if you don’t mind my asking,” said Roy, frowning suspiciously.

“My name’s Sturridge,” the man said. “I remember you, Mr. Goodman. You used to farm over near Oakbridge. How’s life with you? Hope you’re not rotting away in that Springfields place down the road!”

“I am afraid I don’t remember you,” said Roy stiffly. “We are very busy, I’m afraid, and will have to get on.”

“But you haven’t answered my question,” said the man, still smiling. “I can see she isn’t here anymore. I lived with her a few years ago. She and I were, well, you know how it is. I thought I’d look her up, maybe stay for a week or two.”

Gus, annoyance rising sharply, decided to wipe the smile off the intruder’s face. He was a short man, stout with approaching old age. “I can direct you to where you will find Mrs. Blatch,” he said, pointing back down the road to the village. “Up Cemetery Lane,” he said. “The graveyard is on your right as you come to the top of the hill. You’ll find her there.”

“And,” said Roy, “we know exactly who you are now, and I advise you to get out of here as soon as possible, before we call the police.” Shouting that there was no need for that, the man turned on his heel and disappeared at speed.

Neither Gus nor Roy had anything to say for a few minutes, and then Gus said, “Right, come on, Mr. Goodman, let’s open this door and get to work.”

“It was him, wasn’t it?” said Roy. “T’was Roger the lodger, the sod.”

SUNDAY EVENING WAS
always a quiet time at Springfields. Everyone sat in the lounge, watching television or playing games. Ivy and Roy usually set themselves to do the quick crossword in the Sunday
Telegraph
, and when that was finished—they always finished it—they would retire to Ivy’s room to work on a jigsaw puzzle permanently set up for the odd idle hour.

Tonight, the crossword proved to be more difficult than usual, and in the end Ivy said she was fed up with it and was retreating up to her room to have an early night. Roy agreed, and they were halfway up the stairs when Miss Pinkney called from the hallway.

“Miss Beasley! Good news from the hospital. Special message for Miss Beasley, the nurse said. Are you coming down?”

Ivy turned and joined Miss Pinkney in the office. She picked up the telephone and a familiar voice said, “Is that Miss Beasley, yes?”

“Katya! My dear child, is that you?”

“Yes it is. And I shall be home soon, bringing with me my beautiful baby daughter! All went well, and she weighs seven pounds, ten ounces! And my husband says it is a good thing that girls can play football professionally nowadays.”

“Congratulations to you all,” said Ivy, laughing. “And what are you calling her? Have you got a name ready?”

“Oh yes, she is Elizabeth Ivy, of course. Miss Beasley, are you still there?”

Ivy sniffed hard and rubbed her eyes with her cuff. “Yes, my dear Katya, I am here and so is Roy, and we can’t wait to see the new resident at Springfields. Take great care, all of you. Good-bye.”

Roy took the receiver from her, and held her hand tightly as she sobbed. He had never seen Ivy in such a flood of tears. It was a new Ivy, and he loved her all the more. “Elizabeth Ivy,” he said. “And you are . . . ?”

She finished his sentence, “Ivy Elizabeth Beasley, soon to be Goodman.”

He handed her his snowy-white large handkerchief, and together they went up to bed.