The Measby Murder Enquiry (2 page)

 

 

DOWNSTAIRS IN HER office, Mrs. Spurling was talking to a smartly dressed woman who introduced herself as Bronwen Evans. “It’s about my mother, Mrs. Wilson Jones,” she said. “A lovely person, but now sadly unable to look after herself, even with help from my sister, who fortunately lives a couple of streets away from her. I am afraid I myself am much too busy to be of help to Mother. The dear soul understands this.”

I wonder if she does, thought Mrs. Spurling. And what about that sister? Did she understand that Mrs. Evans was too busy to help? She sighed. It was such a familiar story. Widowed mother, no longer of any use to her family, so must be comfortably installed somewhere where they could hand over responsibility.

“I quite understand, Mrs. Evans,” she said, remembering the empty room not earning anything in the Green Wing of the house. “And I’m sure we shall be able to welcome her into our friendly home here at Springfields. There are, of course, a number of official matters to deal with first, but I am sure we shall be introducing your mother to new friends here in the very near future.”

Ivy and Roy were finishing their breakfast when Mrs. Spurling came into the dining room with her usual mirthless smile.

“What does she want?” said Ivy. “She never comes in when we’re eating. Much too sensitive to see a lot of old parties dribbling over their food.”

“Ivy!” said Roy. “You know that’s not true. We are a very genteel lot in Springfields, minding our manners along with the best.”

Mrs. Spurling stood in the centre of the room and cleared her throat. “Ahem! Could I have your attention for a few moments, guests?”

“Get on with it, then,” muttered Ivy. “My toast is getting cold. I do hate cold, leathery toast.”

“I know you’ll be delighted to hear that we are to have another guest joining us very soon. Mrs. Alwen Wilson Jones has been living in Thornwell for many years, and has now earned a period of rest and quiet in our midst. I know you will welcome her with your usual warmth,” she added, looking nervously at Ivy. She looked around at the residents, some faces expressionless, others frowning suspiciously, and then walked quickly from the room.

Silence reigned for a moment, and then a babble of talk began as the residents aired their views about giving a warm welcome to Mrs. Alwen Wilson Jones.

“Never heard of her,” said Roy, who had grown up on a local farm and knew everybody worth knowing.

“We shall see,” said Ivy. “If you ask me, it’s best to stand back and see what the woman’s made of, before we clasp her to our bosoms.”

Roy chuckled. “Good for you Ivy, right as ever,” he said.

THE ARRIVAL OF a new resident was always a welcome diversion in Springfields, and by lunchtime all had gathered in the dining room, spruced up in their best outfits and ready to assess Mrs. Alwen Wilson Jones.

“Here she comes,” Ivy said to Roy. “Walks with a stick, I see.”

“And leaning on her daughter’s arm,” Roy said, and sniffed. “At least, I suppose that’s her daughter. You can see the likeness.”

“Don’t stare, Roy. Let her go to another table, until we see what she’s like.”

“Too late. Old Spurling is bringing her over. Look, her daughter’s kissed her good-bye. Can’t get out of here fast enough. Here she comes. Smile, Ivy dear.”

“Miss Beasley, Mr. Goodman,” said Mrs. Spurling bravely, “I am delighted to introduce Mrs. Wilson Jones, our new resident here at Springfields. These two lovely people,” she said to the sullen-looking newcomer, “are our liveliest guests, and I’m sure you will all be great friends.”

Ivy glared at her. “Not if you don’t bring the poor woman a chair to sit on,” she said.

Mrs. Spurling had decided to start Mrs. Wilson Jones off at the deep end, seating her at Ivy’s table. She could always move her to sit with less challenging companions, but when first introduced to Alwen Jones she had sensed an unwillingness to be moulded into shape, and decided another strong woman was needed. Perhaps Ivy would oblige.

“Of course, my dear,” she said, and called to the buxom waitress to bring over an extra chair. Then she settled Mrs. Wilson Jones down, said a small prayer and went back to her office.

Roy was a kindly soul, and immediately began to talk about the old days in Thornwell, turning on his undoubted charm, finding acquaintances they had in common and generally attempting to cheer up the woman and make her feel at home. Ivy, on the other hand, for the first time in her life felt something like jealousy. She and Roy had become close friends, and she had begun to regard him as her property.

“That was your daughter, was it? And by the way,” she added, “is it all right if we call you Mrs. Jones?”

“If you must,” she replied, and changed the subject back to her daughter. “Yes, Bronwen is a very successful businesswoman, and always busy, unfortunately.” There was a sour tinge to this answer, and Mrs. Jones hastily went on to assure Ivy that she was very proud of her clever daughter. “Though like the rest of us, she has her problems,” she added.

“Any other children?” asked Ivy. Who did she think she was, boasting about her genius offspring? Perhaps her son was a binman.

“Another daughter, living in Thornwell. A sweet girl, but not the calibre of Bronwen. No, Bethan is a homemaker, and dedicated mother of two. They live close by my house, and are always popping in to see me.” Then she remembered that her house was on the market and her face fell.

“Don’t fret,” said Ivy firmly. “We’ve all been through it. You’ll get used to it here, and I’ve been told there are worse places.”

“Ivy! Don’t frighten poor Alwen. May I call you Alwen, my dear?” Roy said with a smile. “Dear Ivy’s bark is much worse than her bite,” he added. “Now then, do you play pontoon?”

Mrs. Jones brightened. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I love it. I love all card games, and often play with the grandchildren.”

“Ah,” said Ivy, somewhat mollified by Roy’s declared “dear Ivy.” “Mrs. Spurling ain’t too keen on noisy kids. But I expect one at a time would be all right.”

Mrs. Jones raised her eyebrows and looked coolly at Ivy. “Oh, they wouldn’t be at all noisy. I was a teacher you know. Fifty years dealing with young children, and I’m still able to guarantee good behaviour!”

Roy smiled. “Goodness, you must have many stories to tell us, Alwen,” he said. “Where did you teach?”

“I was head teacher at Thornwell Primary. And I certainly could tell you endless stories, I can assure you! But by the time I was due to retire, education had changed so much—”

“—that you felt like an old dinosaur?” interrupted Ivy with a bland expression.

Oh, lor, thought Roy, trouble ahead.

GUS, AS HE liked to be known, sat in the sagging armchair provided by his landlord, the Hon. Theodore Roussel, and looked through the
Guardian
obituaries. Nobody of interest to him today. Then his eye was caught by one of the mini-obits at the foot of the page. “George Jones—brewer extraordinaire,” he read. He had heard of him, of course. These days any single owner of a brewery was extraordinary. Most of the small ones had been swallowed up by conglomerates or brewed cult beers for the connoisseur. But as Gus read on, it was apparent that George and his family had maintained a successful brewery in Thornwell, producing beer by old methods and trading on a local reputation for providing a consistently good pint.

“Poor old George,” he said aloud. “What will happen now? Save the brewery!” he said loudly to his dog Whippy, sitting obediently by his side.

Miriam Blake, living next door in Hangman’s Row, was hastily taking in her washing as the skies darkened. Gus had opened a window earlier, before the rain had begun to bucket down, and now Miriam heard his shout. Never needing an excuse to rush to the rescue of her attractive neighbour, she hurried to his back door, clutching her washing basket.

“Gus? Are you all right?”

Oh, sod it. Gus had more or less trained Miriam not to call unless invited, but now here she was, with anxious brown eyes like a worried spaniel. Whippy bounced out to greet her best friend. No amount of training had taught
her
that Miriam was anything more than a wonderful woman who fondled her velvety ears and threw a ball for her up and down the lane.

“Of course I’m all right,” Gus said, and added belatedly, “Thanks. It’s just that I’ve discovered that George Jones, brewery owner, has just died. It’s a tragedy.”

“Are you thinking of taking over, then, Gus?” Miriam asked fondly, creeping into his porch to get out of the rain.

“What with, Miriam? As you know, my ex-wife takes all my money. I have barely enough to live on.”

Miriam had heard Gus plead poverty before but did not believe him. He seemed to have plenty of money when needed. Trips to London, a new suit for an old friend’s funeral. Sometimes she wondered jealously if he might be supported by his friend Deirdre Bloxham of Tawny Wings. A kept man! Well, he certainly needed rescuing from that woman’s clutches. And this ridiculous agency he’d set up with a lot of old fogies. That cannot have earned him much so far! As far as she knew, the only case they’d solved was the murder of her late and unlamented mother.

Miriam at once invited him to supper, saying that by a strange coincidence she had a couple of bottles of Jones Brothers Best in her larder. She hadn’t, of course, but she knew that the new shopkeeper, James, sometimes had a few bottles, and she had plenty of time to walk up and buy supplies.

Gus thought rapidly. “Sorry, dear,” he said kindly, “already booked for dominos at the pub. Can’t disappoint old Alf. Another time, maybe. You’ll have to excuse me now. Due at Springfields to do my bit for the old dears.” He shut the door and closed the windows, made a mental note to ask at the pub for Jones Brothers Best and set out to visit his partner in detection, Ivy Beasley.

 

 

“MORNING, GUS. MORNING, Deirdre, my dear.” Roy Goodman beamed. “Ivy is on her way. Seems our gaoler wanted her to have a chat with our new resident, Alwen something-or-other Jones. Apparently the poor woman had some complaints about this and that at Springfields, and Mrs. Spurling thought Ivy could help.”

“Shall we start the meeting, then, Gus?” Deirdre had a hair appointment at one o’clock in Thornwell, and was anxious not to miss it. Theo Roussel was having a drinks party this evening and she wanted to look her best.

“Not if you know what’s good for you,” Gus said firmly. “If we start without our Ivy, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Roy nodded in agreement, and the conversation revolved around Mrs. Alwen Jones and whether she was related to the brewery Joneses in Thornwell.

“There’s dozens of Joneses in town,” Roy said. “I remember my dad telling me about the Welsh drovers who used to travel on foot with their cattle to market. The drovers’ roads had inns along the route where they could stop on the way and leave their cattle in keep overnight. So there’s loads of Joneses and Owens and Davieses around here. Good beer, though,” he added thoughtfully. “I hope it don’t get taken over by one of them giants.”

The large black iron knocker on Tawny Wings’ front door banged loudly three times, and Deirdre went to admit Ivy. Her stiff, dark blue raincoat had been bought from a Round Ringford jumble sale with the waterproof guarantee that it once belonged to the village policeman, and she had pulled her black felt hat well down over her ears. She removed the coat, shook off the raindrops onto the parquet floor and lifted her black hat carefully, flattening down any wayward strands of hair. She said not a word.

“Why didn’t you ring me?” Deirdre scolded. “I could have popped down to pick you up.”

“Or I could have collected you both on the way,” Gus said.

“Well, you didn’t, did you?” snapped Ivy. “Anyway, I was delayed by that ridiculous Spurling woman. She seemed to think I would reassure the new prisoner. Tell her what a wonderful place Springfields is. Huh! I didn’t take to this Mrs. Jones from the start, but I did my best.” She smirked at the apprehensive faces watching her.