The Measby Murder Enquiry (17 page)

“You’ll have to get another job,” said Alwen quickly. “With your qualifications, that shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“Plenty of people out of work with better qualifications than mine, I’m afraid. I shall be trying hard, of course, but until I find another post that pays as well as the brewery, we are a bit desperate for cash.”

Alwen sighed. Why didn’t Bronwen come out with it straight? All this pussyfooting around was irritating, when Alwen knew perfectly well they were hoping she would offer financial help.

“Bronwen,” she said firmly. “I’m not a fool, as you know. You might as well ask me straight out for a loan, or even a gift, and the sad truth is that I have to say no for a number of reasons, as you well know. I have worked it all out, and by the time I snuff it here from natural causes, my savings will just about be at an end. I have never made demands on my children, unlike some of the residents here, and I intend to go on the same way. I shall pay my way here, but only just, if my calculations are correct.”

She ignored Bronwen’s angry expression. “So I’m afraid you will have to go home and tell Trevor that it’s not on,” she continued. “You’ll have to sell the house, if necessary at a bargain price. It’s much too big for just the two of you anyway. Look how well Bethan manages in that small house with her boys!”

Bronwen stood up with a jerk. “Bethan, Bethan, Bethan!” she said. “Bloody Bethan could never do any wrong in your eyes, could she? Oh, yes, you were proud of me because you could boast about my achievements. But Bethan had your love, all of it.”

By now her voice had risen, and all the others in the lounge looked across at her in alarm. This was something strange and new. Nobody ever shouted at them in Springfields. Even relations who had shouted at them at home put on hushed, sympathetic voices when they visited.

“Now, now, Mrs. Evans!” Mrs. Spurling marched across the room and tapped Bronwen on the shoulder. “I can’t have you upsetting my residents, now can I? Won’t you come with me into the office and have a nice cup of tea? There are a number of matters I wish to discuss with you, and then we can come back and settle down with Mother again. Come along,” she added, and with such authority that Bronwen meekly followed her out of the room.

 

 

AN HOUR LATER, there was a tap on Ivy’s door.

“Come in,” she said, expecting Katya to appear with a reminder that it was time to go down for tea.

But it was Alwen Jones who pushed the door open with her stick and limped into the room.

“Good gracious, Alwen,” Ivy said. “What’s up with you? Has our gaoler been getting at you?”

Alwen shook her head. “No,” she said. “As a matter of fact, Mrs. Spurling has been rather diplomatic. No, it was my daughter Bronwen. Can you believe it, Ivy? She brought me red roses and asked tenderly after my health, and then asked me to lend the pair of them, her and Trevor, enough money to get them out of debt! Can you believe it?” she repeated.

“Oh, yes,” said Ivy, who had always thought the worst of everybody, “I can believe it.” She wondered whether to remind Alwen that she had been quite ready to hand over twenty thousand pounds to a dodgy stranger. Ivy was still not convinced that this foolish step had been put right. But she looked at Alwen, pale and shaky, and decided not to mention it. “Sit you down, girl,” she said, “and let’s talk about something else. Like how we’re getting on with tracing Gus.”

 

 

TREVOR CAME HOME from the golf club around six o’clock, and Bronwen could see at once that he was half cut. He smiled foolishly at her, and failed to walk the straight line between the front door and the kitchen. “Put the kettle on, lovey,” he said. “I think I might need some black coffee. How’d’ya get on with your Ma?”

Bronwen shook her head. “Nothing doing,” she said. “In fact, we had a bit of a scene. That Spurling woman gave me a lecture on not rocking the boat.”

Trevor sobered up remarkably quickly. “You mean she won’t lend us any money at all?”

Bronwen nodded. “She said she’s got just enough to see her out in comfort, without being a burden on her family. That was when I lost it, I’m afraid.”

“Then you’d better go back and try again, hadn’t you. There’s one weapon we haven’t tried yet. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Bronwen dear.”

“Blackmail,” Bronwen answered baldly. “You want me to blackmail my own mother to pay for your golf subscription and your nights out with the boys, not to mention funding a few relationships on the side. Well, sod you, Trevor Evans! You can forget it.”

He looked at her with contempt in his eyes. “I am not the only big spender here, am I? Think on, Bronwen.”

THEO ROUSSEL WAS still puzzling over this morning’s mysterious call from Springfields Residential Home. He vaguely remembered a Miss Ivy Beasley who had played a somewhat heroic role in the Beatty tragedy. Apparently, if it hadn’t been for her unlikely skill with a mobile phone, he might have been at this minute having a celestial gin and tonic with his illustrious ancestors. And now she and her fellow inmate—a Mr. Goodman?—had asked to call on him in half an hour’s time. They would have a taxi, the old dame had said, and would not stay long. He could think of no valid reason to refuse.

Useless Noreen had gone home, so Theo left his study and went downstairs to the kitchen. He rustled up a bowl of soggy crisps and cheese straws, and took them into the drawing room. A tray of glasses stood by the drinks cabinet, and he held one up to the light. It was disgustingly smeary, and he wished once more that Katya would make up her mind about working for him. He was confident of succeeding, but it was taking longer than he had hoped.

The doorbell rang, and he went to greet his elderly guests. The minute he saw Ivy, he remembered. No two old women could look as fearsome as Ivy!

“Good evening, Mr. Roussel,” she said. “I am Miss Beasley, and this is Mr. Goodman.”

“Come in, come in,” Theo said kindly. “Come through and have a drink.” He led the way to the drawing room, and turned to Ivy. “What can I offer you, Miss Beasley?” he said. “A gin and tonic, or sherry?”

“Never touch alcohol,” Ivy said, and behind her back Roy winked at Theo.

“Ah, then luckily I have ginger beer in the cellar, made by my former housekeeper.”

“Her!” said Ivy. “It’s probably exploded by now. Anyway, that might be acceptable, thank you.”

“And how about you, Mr. Goodman? A gin and tonic to fortify you when the explosion buries us all in rubble?”

Roy laughed, and even Ivy could hardly suppress a smile. When Roy was duly fortified, Theo disappeared, and there was silence for a few seconds. Ivy looked around the room, and said, “Last time we were here, it weren’t this peaceful, was it, Roy?”

He shook his head. “No, my dear, it wasn’t. But now we have another crisis on our hands. The longer poor old Gus stays away without contacting us, the more serious things begin to look. We’ll get a key from Theo, anyway, and then tomorrow Deirdre can have a hunt around for clues as to what might be afoot.”

“Afoot?” said Theo, coming back with a dusty bottle in his hand. “How very
Boy’s Own Paper
, my dears! I haven’t heard that word since I was a lad. Trouble afoot, Captain! Oh, yes. Wonderful stuff.”

“It is trouble afoot that has brought us here this evening,” said Roy stiffly, suspecting that Theo was laughing at him.

Ivy explained, and of course Theo already knew from Deirdre that Gus had gone missing. He couldn’t himself see what all the fuss was about. The man had gone to London and was probably enjoying himself in the gambling dens of Soho. He had quite by accident discovered from an old betting friend that Augustus Halfhide had been a familiar figure on racecourses and casinos in the past, though not for quite a while.

“I’m sure Mr. Halfhide would appreciate your concern,” he said. “But there is no reason why he should hurry back to Barrington, is there? After all, he is a completely free agent, as far as I know.”

The word “agent” clicked with Ivy, and she said they all realised that a great deal of Gus’s private life was very private indeed, but the most important reason why he should be back home by now was Whippy.

“Ah, the whippet,” Theo said. He had had many dogs, and had been soppily fond of them all. He began to see that perhaps there was some substance in the anxiety quite clearly felt by Miss Beasley and Mr. Goodman. And, of course, Deirdre, too, though he suspected that she was more interested in retrieving Gus for her own pleasurable pastimes than rescuing a dog.

“If you ask me,” announced Ivy, “if he had meant to stay away for several days, he would have asked Miriam Blake, or, more likely, Deirdre Bloxham, to look after Whippy for him until he returned. He would not have trusted to luck that they would do so anyway. Not in a million years, Mr. Roussel.”

“So how can I help?” asked Theo, looking surreptitiously at his watch.

“We’d like to look in his cottage for any helpful clues,” Ivy said. “And we’re hoping you have a key and will approve of our plan.”

Well put, thought Roy. She don’t beat about the bush, our Ivy.

“Of course, if you’re sure he wouldn’t mind,” Theo said, going over to a small desk by the windows. “Here we are. For all her faults, Miss Beatty was most methodical, fortunately. Because I’m afraid I am not!”

“Then the sooner you replace the Noreen woman with a proper housekeeper the better, Mr. Roussel,” said Ivy, and in a balloon above her head Theo could read “And stay away from little Katya” in big red letters. He changed the subject.

“Have you thought of trying his ex-wife?” he said helpfully. “A friend of mine who had played cards with Mr. Halfhide at the Carlton Casino remembered there had been a wife. That was at the time I was letting the cottage, and tried to research Mr. Halfhide’s background for my own satisfaction. I could find out very little, except for this one chance remark from my friend.”

“Oh, yes, I thought of the ex-wife immediately,” said Ivy. “We’re hoping to find contact details in the cottage.” She put the key in her handbag and stood up. “That was delicious ginger beer, thank you, Mr. Roussel. Pity that woman didn’t stick to brewing.”

Theo Roussel saw them out and into their waiting taxi. He waved a hand as they departed down the long drive, and went thoughtfully back into his peaceful drawing room. I suppose I could give old Freddie a ring, he said to himself, and see if he remembers anything more about Augustus Halfhide.

 

 

GUS WOULD HAVE given a lot to be in the Carlton Casino with Freddie Armstrong right now, instead of confined in a scruffy café in east London.

“Don’t try any funny business,” Margaret had said as they opened the door after a while to bring in a glorified camp bed, its mattress stained and sagging. He had contemplated pushing past her and Martin and out, and had moved slowly to position himself behind them and nearer to the door. But Margaret had swung round, and he saw she was holding a gun in a disturbingly experienced way. She had waved him back, and he retreated to stand by the window.

What could they possibly want with him? What made them think anyone would be prepared to pay a ransom to get
him
released? He held no secrets now, nothing that would be of any use. Then, who exactly had these two contacted for ransom money? He had no personal details of any kind on him. Years of experience had taught him the folly of carrying an address book! He felt a sudden shiver of alarm when he wondered if they knew he had an encyclopaedic memory, and carried all he needed to know in his head. To get at that, they would have to try persuasion, and he was only too well aware of the kind of persuasion they would use. So who had they contacted? Obviously somebody with money, someone who would
care
enough to shell out on demand.

Oh sod it all! Why hadn’t he stayed quietly at home with Whippy, instead of playing detective in cases of supposed fraud and blackmail? It was way out of his field, and he admitted to himself that it had been vanity. He couldn’t give up the glory of solving a puzzle, the high of being in action again, however lowly the case.

“Any news of a sucker willing to pay good money for the release of a man who is worth nothing?” he said now. “And who did you ask?”

“As a matter of fact, we are still waiting, but the deadline hasn’t expired yet, you’ll be pleased to hear. The person we contacted is perfect for the job. Rich, vulnerable and most unlikely to go to the police.”

“Why?”

“Because the person has something to hide, and we know what it is.”

Gus relapsed into silence. He tried to guess who they meant. Not his ex-wife, of course. She’d be only too glad to have him out of the way. Nor his old gambling friends. No money there! That left the most recent of his acquaintances, Mrs. Alwen Wilson Jones, who had money in the bank and appeared to be no stranger to attempts to get it away from her.