The Blackwoods Farm Enquiry (An Ivy Beasley Mystery) (5 page)

DEIRDRE HAD GONE
to bed late, and was not pleased to be woken by an early call from Theo Roussel, the village squire. In her youth, Theo had been one of her hopeful boyfriends, and was now not much more than a good friend, with occasional warmer relations. He was a confirmed bachelor, and as she had no intention of letting any aspiring husband get his hands on her considerable fortune, their relationship was a permanent stalemate, which was fine by both of them.

“Watcha want?” she said sleepily.

“Deirdre darling, could you possibly come up to the Hall and do your usual elegant hostess bit? I have a dinner party to organise, with the local Inspector Frobisher and his wife, and a couple of other worthies. It will be boring as hell, but I promise to make it up to you after they’ve gone home. Any chance?”

“When? Tonight! Blimey, who let you down?” Deirdre did some quick thinking, and as she had once had a brief fling with said Inspector Frobisher, she decided it could be quite fun and agreed.

“You know I’d much rather our dinner party could be for two,” Roussel continued. “But you never seem to have a free evening! Anyway, I’ll see you about half six? You know the old trout who does for me is off sick. I am so grateful, Deirdre!”

The squire’s voice was loud and hearty, and Gus had heard every word. He turned over in bed. “Ask him about the Winchen Blatches,” he whispered.

“There is something you can help me with,” she said obediently. “Have a think about what you can tell me about the Blatches up at Blackwoods Farm. You’ve lived here forever and must have some useful info. And no, I’m not going to tell you why I want to know. Later, maybe. Bye, Theo.”

Gus made his usual protest about her double life, so she got up, showered and dressed, and went downstairs. She looked out at the rain teeming down and picked up her post and the local newspaper from the doormat. She saw under a photo of herself, a banner headline saying “Local woman saves recluse from certain death,” and also an old photo of a small girl holding on to her mother’s hand. The child’s face was clearly that of Mrs. Blatch, and Deirdre felt a catch in her throat. Poor mite. She looked scared stiff.

She put her damp letters on the hall table, and began to read the news story. Mrs. Deirdre Bloxham, she read, had snatched Eleanor Blatch from the jaws of death. Mrs. Blatch was now in the General Hospital, and recovering well. Her home, Blackwoods Farm, was isolated, and it was pure chance that Mrs. Bloxham had called to see her.

“A lucky chance,” muttered Deirdre, going through to the kitchen. “I hope to God they clean up her house before they let her go home.”

“Talking to yourself again?” said Gus, coming up behind her and putting his arms around her. “What’s that? The local rag? Oh my goodness! You’ve made the front page, Deirdre love. And rightly so, if I may say so.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Ivy,” Deirdre said, laughing. “Come on, let’s have breakfast. I’ve got Enquire Within work to do this morning. I’m going to see what the office can turn up about try-your-weight champion Green, and then I’ll have my hair done. Smarten up for tonight. Also, Gus old chap, my hairdresser is the biggest gossip in town, and who knows what he may have to say?”

• • •

IN THE HOSPITAL
room allotted to Mrs. Winchen Blatch, she lay quite still under the pristine, clean-smelling sheets, and slowly opened her eyes. A nurse, coming in to check on her, gently touched her veined and blotched hand, and saw her eyes flicker.

“How are you, my dear?” she said.

Mrs. Blatch said nothing, but with the faintest of smiles, nodded her head and closed her eyes again.

The nurse refilled her water jug and went quietly out of the room. At the nurses’ station she found the matron, and reported that Mrs. Blatch seemed very comfortable. “She smiled at me,” she said, “but she doesn’t want to talk. Closed her eyes, and that was that. But she did nod, when I asked her how she felt.”

The matron said it was early days, considering what a trauma the poor woman had suffered, not to mention pain from wounds and bruises. “If there are visitors for her, tell them she’s not allowed any today.”

“Have you seen the local paper?” the nurse asked, and the matron nodded and asked that there should be as little gossip as possible amongst staff.

“Of course,” said the young nurse. “But I don’t suppose she’ll get visitors. Seems she was a real Miss Havisham. Lived in a house covered in dust and cobwebs, and never emerged. Ordered her groceries from the village shop and had them delivered.”

“Very interesting,” said the matron dryly. “Now get on with your work, please.”

FIRST ON DEIRDRE’S
list of calls was Bloxham’s Luxury Car Showrooms, where she maintained a private office in order to keep a close eye on her late husband’s business. She was reckoned by the staff to be pleasant, efficient and, if necessary, tough. Her purpose in calling this morning was to have a chat with the oldest member of staff, William Partington. He had lived in Thornwell all his life, and would very probably have come across the Winchen Blatches of Barrington.

“Morning, Mrs. Bloxham,” he said, and sat down in the chair opposite her desk. “How are you keeping? This rainy weather doesn’t do old bones any good! But you’ve a while to go before such as that worries you!”

“I’m fine, thanks, William. And you? You look exactly as you’ve always looked. I can remember my Bert saying that. Now, I won’t keep you long, but I want to pick your brains. I wondered if you could recall anything about the Winchen Blatches? I think you said to me you had relatives in Barrington?”

He nodded. “Oh yes, them Blatches! I think it was that Mrs. Blatch who added the Winchen. When she were young, she were one of those who like to go up in the world, though I think she were no better than her husband, Ted. Snobby, though.”

Deirdre laughed. “William, that saves me asking a lot of questions. You must have seen that ridiculous story in the paper? They certainly embroidered the truth there! It was not at all sure that she had been attacked. She fell heavily out of bed and as far as I could see, hit her head on the bedstead. I did what anybody would do in those circumstances. But can you tell me anything at all about the poor woman?”

“Oh yes, I remember her only too well. My nephew used to work on the farm at Blackwoods. They had pigs, all free range in one of their fields. You know, where there would be little old arks dotted about the field for the pigs at night. Some of the old boars were as big as a bull, and fierce, too. My nephew got damaged. Broke his leg, it did. He didn’t get out of the way quick enough.”

“How were the Blatches about that?”

“Mean as muck! Refused to pay up any compensation. The case went on for years, but they never paid out a penny.”

“And the wife, Mrs. Winchen Blatch, didn’t she want to keep on the farm after her husband died?”

“She tried, with what was left of it, but soon gave up. Stopped feeding the animals, and had the inspectors in. After that, she was hardly ever seen.” Deirdre thought of stories of tangled grey hair and fingernails black with dirt. “So she gave up, did she?”

“Tha’s right. My sister over there, she tried to befriend her, but she wasn’t havin’ none of it. O’ course, it all changed after the boyfriend arrived,” William said wisely. “Much younger, he was. But they was always about together after he moved in. Very lovey-dovey they were. She changed then. New clothes, hair dyed, lipstick and that eye stuff. What a change!”

“But then the boyfriend left. I suppose she went to pieces again?”

“Oh yes, me duck. He was there living with her for quite a while, but then he did a runner, taking what jewellery she’d got, so people said. She went right back to how she’d been before he arrived. Folk tried to help her, but got the brush off every time. So they gave up in the end. And now she’s been attacked, and you found her, Mrs. Bloxham. And just in time, the paper said?”

“Possibly,” said Deirdre. “What can you remember about the boyfriend? He must have been a rotten so-and-so?”

William shifted in his chair, and a girl put her head around the door. “Would you like a coffee, Mrs. Bloxham?” she said.

Deirdre said that would be nice, and one for William, too, please.

“What about the boyfriend?” she continued. “Did people know his name?”

“It was Sturridge, I think.”

“Did he talk much to local people, like your sister?”

“He was friendly enough, but seemed to fancy himself. After he’d left, the locals said they’d not known much about him. Never talked about himself or where he come from. None o’ that kind of thing. Didn’t really have a single friend, except for Eleanor Blatch. And they all reckoned he was more than a friend there!”

“And she was devastated after he left?”

“Suthin’ like that. Went to pieces, like you said. He took a lot of her stuff with him. Silver and jewellery, that kind of thing.”

Deirdre could see that William was fidgeting to be back at work, and so she thanked him and said how helpful he had been.

“And you look after yourself, Mrs. Bloxham,” he said. “Your Bert wouldn’t have wanted you to be too miserable.”

• • •

AS DEIRDRE MADE
her way to the hairdresser’s salon, she thought how lucky she had been. That poor Blatch woman, left all alone, with few friends and little money. It must have seemed like a miracle to her, when an unattached man arrived on her doorstep.

“Morning, Deirdre!” said her stylist, taking her coat and seeing her to the seat she always had. It was by the window, and if she was bored, as she often was while the staff busied themselves around her, she could look out of the window at the life of Thornwell. It was only after she had mentally put together what William had told her that she realised she still had no idea what Mrs. Winchen Blatch was really like.

She looked at her watch. She had missed the time she would have gone to talk to her friend in the social services office, but now she thought of a better idea. She would take her out to lunch, ask her what she could discover in the records and have a general chat with her. She took out her mobile and dialled the number.

“Where were you? I thought you were coming in earlier?”

“Sorry, Jean,” said Deirdre. “I got held up in the showrooms. A small crisis over tax affairs. I sometimes think I could do without an accountant! Anyway, are you free for lunch? Say in about an hour? Brilliant! See you then.”

• • •

WHEN DEIRDRE INTRODUCED
the subject of the Winchen Blatches to her friend, she immediately ran into another conversation about the newspaper item. Dealing with that as swiftly as possible, she asked if it would be possible to trace anything interesting about Eleanor Blatch or her lodger in the records.

“Tricky, that,” said her friend. “Confidentiality, and all that, as you know very well. Still, we could get round that by keeping everything anonymous. Would that do? Mind you, I might not turn up anything about them. An awful lot of people never cross our path! How is the woman, anyway? The latest I read was that she would soon be out and back home.”

“And home is a tumbledown farmhouse on the outskirts of Barrington. Knee deep in mud and worse. A few chickens in the yard. No heating, cold water and a primitive gas stove in what passes for a kitchen. That’s all I noticed at the time, but I expect the rest is equally bad. You might very well be called in to work social services magic!”

They chatted on about this and that, and after a snack and coffee, left the restaurant. It was still raining, and Deirdre put up her umbrella to protect her expensive coiffure. They separated with warm good-byes, and Deirdre set off for Barrington and home.

• • •

ON THE OFF
chance that Ivy and Roy would be in Springfields, she decided to call and compare notes on what they had discovered so far. She walked into reception and looked through to the lounge. Yes, there they were, snoozing in armchairs by the fire. Dear old things! It seemed a pity to wake them, but even as she thought this, Ivy turned her head and saw her. She immediately waved and got to her feet, shaking Roy by the shoulder as she set off to meet her.

“Sit down, girl, and get dry. I can see you’ve been into town and had your hair done. Are you sure those curls are suitable for a woman of your age?”

Ivy had been having a daydream. She was back in Round Ringford, in her house next to the shop, and with a lodger who had been special in her life, but who had betrayed her. Seeing Deirdre in reception, she had jerked herself back to the present, but with a nasty cloud still depressing her. The parallel with Eleanor Winchen Blatch’s circumstances was uncomfortably close, and she had begun to wish Enquire Within had never taken on the woman and her ghostly visitor.

“So things are moving, but slowly,” said Deirdre.

“Slow but sure, my dear,” said Roy huskily. “Mm, just had a bit of shut-eye after lunch. You’re looking very pretty today, if I may say so. Very pretty indeed, doesn’t she, Ivy?” he continued.

“That’s as may be,” said Ivy. “But she has things to tell us, so we must order some tea and repair to my room, where we can be free from wagging ears.”

Tea was served by Katya, who added to the compliments paid to Deirdre’s hairdo, and said she really loved the colour and the curls. “So elegant, as always, Mrs. Bloxham,” she said. “Don’t you agree, Miss Beasley?”

“Not bad. That will be all, thank you, Katya,” Ivy said. “Now, to work. You first, Deirdre, and then I’ll tell you about our visit to my new alma mater, as Roy calls it. The Manor House College, that is.”