The Measby Murder Enquiry (19 page)

And then he had another thought. It was possible they suspected Enquire Within’s involvement, and needed to find out exactly what the four of them had discovered.

 

 

BACK HOME IN Springfields, Ivy and Roy suggested Deirdre come in for coffee and a discussion on their next move. They had found no Halfhides in the address book, but then, as Ivy said, you wouldn’t expect Gus to need more than a Christian name to contact his ex-wife.

“The trouble is,” Deirdre said, as they settled in Ivy’s room with comforting hot coffee and Katya’s cookies, “there are a good few women’s names without surnames right through the address book.” She fished it out of her pocket and began to turn the pages. She stopped at
D
, and was embarrassed to see her own name, without Bloxham attached.

“No probs,” said Ivy blandly, daring the other two to comment.

Roy did. “No probs, Ivy? Where on earth did you hear that expression?”

Deirdre laughed. “It’s obvious, Roy,” she said, riding to Ivy’s rescue, “it means no problems. And Ivy’s right. We shall just have to go through the whole lot. If we don’t get the right answer, we’ll just say it’s a wrong number and ring off.” Mindful of the cost involved, she added that she would go through them on her mobile right now, and they could tell her the numbers.

“There’ll be no need for you to try the one under
D
,” Ivy said with a smirk.

Ungrateful old trout, thought Deirdre, but she said there was no time like the present, and they should make a start with
A
.

“Right, this one’s called Anita, and here’s her number.” There was no reply, so Roy made a note, saying they could try later. “On to the next, then, Ivy,” he said, and soon they had a system going, but with no luck until they reached
K
. They had just passed by Katya, with tut-tutting from Ivy, and had found a Katherine, with a London number.

“Hello? Oh, my name is Deirdre Bloxham, and I am sorry I don’t have your name, except for Katherine. I don’t know if you can help me, but I am trying to contact a person called Augustus Halfhide—”

She got no further. There was what sounded like an explosion at the other end of the line, and then the woman’s voice said Mrs. Bloxham must be out of her mind wanting to contact that rotter!

“Oh, so you know him?”

“Know him? I was his wife, and I could tell you more than you’d want to know about Augustus Halfhide! Except, of course, where to find him, and that’s par for the course. I hear from him from time to time, but only when he wants something. Anyway, have you tried his mobile?”

“Yes,” said Deirdre, her voice growing chilly at this woman’s reaction. “It’s dead. And there’s a strong possibility he may be dead, too,” she added.

“Deirdre, don’t say that again!” Ivy mouthed at her cousin, who was still talking. But evidently the rash remark had caused the woman to calm down and be a little more helpful. She gave Deirdre three possible telephone numbers, and said that if all else failed, she could try a number he had given her to use in emergencies. Deirdre recognised it at once. It was her own.

 

 

BY THE TIME Deirdre was back home at Tawny Wings, she had three messages on her answerphone. Two were trying to sell her car insurance, and the other was from Theo. She rang his number, and when he answered with an invitation to go for a drink, she accepted with alacrity, glad of the chance for a little light relief. There was no getting away from the fact that even Springfields, well run as it was, had occasional moments of unhappiness and decay. Perhaps she was being oversensitive, but she realised that if Ivy and Roy had not become friends, and found much to talk about and views in common, not to mention an obvious growing affection, their lives would have been very different. And, of course, if Gus had not gone missing, everything would be different. She busied herself with the garden, sweeping up leaves that the gardener had missed, storing garden furniture ready for the winter and picking remaining golden plums that hung like grapes on the old tree she and Bert had brought from Thornhill as a tree sucker from his parents’ garden. Gardening usually relaxed her, but she still felt very much on edge. Perhaps it was the approach of autumn, with its cold nights and blustery days.

Time to go in and clean up for Theo. She put away her tools, and went to have a hot shower. Maybe that would brighten her up. But when it didn’t, she got into her car and set off for the Hall. As she drove past Hangman’s Row and Gus’s empty cottage, she admitted to herself something she had up to now kept at bay. She was missing Gus himself, mysterious old Gus, and she shed a tear.

BETHAN ARDLEY SHOUTED to the boys to turn down the sound. She couldn’t hear what the voice on the phone was saying, although she knew it was her sister Bronwen.

“What? Sorry, just a minute. I have to go and turn down the sound.”

Bronwen sighed. Why didn’t her sister just turn the wretched thing off? Those boys spent far too long watching the flickering screen. She had said so to Trevor, but he had answered that kids learn far more from the telly than they ever had from school. So what did he know about kids? She thought this was nonsense, but gave up, as she did so often these days.

“Hello? Bronwen? Still there?”

“Yes, oddly enough. As you know, I’m a very busy person, and not used to the tantrums of two small boys.”

“Not tantrums. Just their point of view needs to be respected. Anyway, is this a sisterly chat, or do you want something else?”

“It’s Mother,” Bronwen said. “She’s being very cagey about money and her will, and all of that.”

“You mean she won’t lend you any?”

“No need to be nasty,” Bronwen said. “Trevor and I were wondering whether we wouldn’t get together with you two, and Mother, and in the nicest possible way thrash out some sensible course of action for the future.”

“Like power of attorney, for when she gets gaga?”

There was a silence, and then Bronwen said, “Yes, possibly something like that. For all we know, she may be chucking away her savings right, left and centre! There’s plenty of no-goods around trying to get old folks’ money out of them. And we’d never know, Bethan, until she . . . well . . .”

“Until she dies? And since you mention it, there’s other people besides no-goods trying to get money out of old folks.”

There was a pause, and then Bronwen said, “Well, yes. So wouldn’t it be best to organise something now with the four of us. Or, more properly, between you and me. Don’t you agree?”

“No, Bronwen, I do not agree. If our mother was gaga already, then you might have a point. But she’s got all her marbles, and as far as we know she is managing her own money satisfactorily. She’s got a good brain. Has had to have over the years, bringing us up on her own, as even you must accept. If she’s spending her savings—
her
savings, hard earned over a long career—on drink and gigolos, then good luck to her. Does that answer your question?”

There was no reply, and the call cut off. Bethan returned to her boys, turned up the sound on the telly and went to make herself a cup of tea. What a shame, she thought, that Bronwen is so tricky. It would have been nice to be close to my only sister over the years. But there it is. And now Bronners is out of a job and she and her slimy husband are in debt and facing hardship.

“What’ya laughing at, Mum?” called her elder son.

“Nothing, love,” she replied. “Just something Auntie Bronwen said.”

“WE SEEM TO be going round in circles,” Deirdre said, as she sipped a large gin and tonic in Theo’s tranquil drawing room. The sun was low in the sky, and he had half drawn the blinds to shield their eyes from the glare. The room was full of the scent of late-flowering lavender from a bed outside the open window, and Deirdre slowly relaxed. Theo had told her the result of his conversation with Freddie Armstrong, and the telephone number he had been given was, of course, the same as Deirdre and the others had found in Gus’s address book.

“Not quite circles,” Theo said. “Since I spoke to Freddie, I have been thinking back to the old days, when I was a gambling man myself. I never came across Gus Halfhide, but I do remember a cheating scandal in one of the poker schools set up in a London casino that no longer exists. Freddie and I often played there, but the stakes were high and one or two friends ruined their lives. It can become an addiction, you know, Deirdre. If Halfhide was also a regular there, he may well have been one of the victims.

“But not the cheat! Don’t tell me he was the cheat, because I don’t believe it. Unwise he may have been, but not a cheat.”

Theo raised his eyebrows at the vehemence in Deirdre’s voice. Did she fancy his stringy-looking tenant? He smiled. Good luck to her, he thought. At our age we take our pleasures where we find them, and as he felt a pang of jealousy he reminded himself of his plans for little Katya.

“No, no,” he reassured her, “it wasn’t Halfhide. The cheat was discovered, and duly punished. He wasn’t a Londoner, and I have no idea of his name. Came from the provinces somewhere. Never heard of again, as far as I know. Anyway, it’s probably not relevant to your search for Gus.”

Deirdre was silent for a few minutes, and Theo got up to refill their glasses. “What was Halfhide’s wife like?” he said idly, filling in the gap in conversation.

“Brisk,” said Deirdre, smiling back at him. Things were not good, but meanwhile, here was Theo, looking particularly attractive this evening, twinkling at her over the edge of his glass. “She hadn’t a good word to say for her ex-husband, but when I said he might have been kidnapped and shot, she softened up. Became quite helpful, in fact, and asked us to let her know if we found him.”

Theo walked over to the window and drew up the blind. “Come over here, Mrs. B,” he said. “Just look at that glorious sunset. It’s just possible Gus Halfhide is on the other side of the world enjoying a fantastic sunrise coming up on his horizon. More things in heaven and earth, Deirdre love.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Theo,” she said, taking his arm.

“No matter,” he said, not all that sure himself. He turned her round from the window, and suggested they go upstairs, where he would explain everything.

Except how to find Gus, Deirdre thought, and followed him slowly up the stairs.

 

 

IN THEIR PRISTINE, soulless house, the Evanses were clearing up after lunch. Trevor was taking the afternoon off, planning to work over the weekend to see if he could force a few sales.

“Do you fancy going to the Friday market this afternoon? We might pick up some fresh veg at half the price of the supermarket,” Bronwen said. She had decided to warm up her relationship with Trevor. It had been sorely tested since she had failed to persuade her mother to lend them money. Now they scarcely spoke to each other, and she needed to talk to somebody. Her sister had been distinctly cool, and her mother was taking refuge behind the wretched Spurling woman.

Bronwen was feeling lonely, and, she had to admit, along with losing her job she had lost a sizable amount of self-confidence. Trevor had changed, too, and now that she wasn’t bringing money into the household kitty, he had been treating her like an unwelcome dependent. She would not be at all surprised if he suggested divorce. Would she miss him? She had considered it a number of times, when she had discovered his lies and secret assignations. But what else was there in her life? Only one other preoccupation, and that was now under threat.

“The market? Is that what we’ve come to?” answered Trevor, not taking his eyes from a tired-looking quiz show host going through the motions with obvious boredom.

“What do you mean? Other people swear by the fruit and vegetable stall. Much fresher and all local, instead of the stuff supermarkets import from God knows where.”

“Can you see me with a shopping basket over my arm, bargaining with some ignorant stallholder in Thornwell market, where I might bump into any of my clients. I do have an image to maintain, Bronwen. I am aware that yours has crashed, but all the more reason why I should continue to be the best estate agent in town. No, no, no. You go, if you want to. Mingle with the peasants, by all means. This afternoon I’m having a well-earned rest, and for the rest of the weekend I shall be busy selling houses, with any luck, and bringing in at least enough to keep us in fruit and vegetables, from wherever you choose to buy them. And now,” he added, turning up the sound, “can I be left to enjoy the telly in peace?”