The Measby Murder Enquiry (32 page)

Ivy said a ham sandwich on white bread, without mustard, would be fine for her. She could see that Alwen had responded, as always, to Roy’s gentle charm, and she tried hard not to feel jealous. And she did feel sorry for the poor woman. She certainly had something on her mind, and it wasn’t graveyards. Why had she wanted to watch people as they came into the café? Was there someone she would rather not see?

“Well, it’s the omelette for me,” Roy said firmly, and Alwen nodded. “I’ll have the same,” she said. “Thanks, Roy. You’re a star, as my grandchildren say.”

DEIRDRE HAD WOKEN early. She saw sunshine streaming through a gap in her bedroom curtains, and got out of bed. Drawing back the curtains to see the day, she opened the window wide, and heard the piercing sound of the rooster that lived with his wives in an old wooden henhouse on the allotments over the road. His voice had a crack in it, and Deirdre found herself wondering how long chickens lived. Two, three years? That cockerel had been there for longer than that.

It had rained in the night, and the air was clean and fresh. She turned back into the room and pulled the bedclothes back. No Theo last night, after all. She decided she was glad. Yesterday, when Gus had come up for coffee and a planning meeting for just the two of them, she had sensed a coolness in his voice. Well, for God’s sake, what did she expect? He had heard Theo’s voice in the background when he phoned, and no doubt he assumed the worst.

Gus had made it plain that he was very fond of her, and would be happy to take things further, but was not interested in sharing. She had hesitated. Theo had also declared his fondness. The trouble was that neither of them appeared willing to be more closely involved.

But Deirdre Bloxham! Wasn’t this exactly what she wanted? She shook herself and went back to the window. “Oh, blast it all!” she said aloud, and her tame blackbird, perched on the window ledge waiting for his raisins, flew off with an alarmed squawk.

The telephone rang, and Deirdre picked up the bedside extension.

“Deirdre? Ah, I’m glad to hear you’re awake. Have you seen the lovely morning?”

“Hello, Ivy. Yes, I am awake. Just. And yes, I have seen the lovely morning, and am about to have a shower, breakfast and make myself look equally lovely for a trip to Measby with Gus. What’s on your mind so early?”

“For a start, Deirdre,” Ivy said, “I don’t call this early. And secondly, I was wondering whether it wouldn’t be a good idea for all of us to go to Measby together? Four heads are better than two.”

“We’d hardly be inconspicuous, Ivy! Isn’t that what we usually aim at? I bet Measby doesn’t often see four assorted strangers appearing out of a Rolls!”

“Ah. Well, I suppose you’re right. But I have been thinking.”

Deirdre groaned.

“I have been thinking,” repeated Ivy firmly, “that it is time Gus told us more about his abduction and why exactly he was taken. And who those two mysterious kidnappers are. And don’t forget to find out if he’s phoned that Martin, and what came of it.”

“In other words, Cousin Ivy, you don’t want me to forget this is an Enquire Within trip, and not just a jolly outing to the other side of the county with friend Gus?”

“That’s right,” said Ivy. “You’d better get yourself prepared. I shall ring Gus to remind him of one or two things now. Report back on Monday. Meeting at Tawny Wings? Fine. Good-bye.”

AS THE ROLLS purred along the road to Measby, Gus was silent. When Deirdre spoke he answered in monosyllables.

“All right, then, what is it?” she said in the end, thinking he might be brooding about Theo, and this was her punishment.

He sighed. “It was Ivy’s call this morning. She made it quite plain that she thinks I am not pulling my weight with Enquire Within. She says I have to explain a lot more, and report back on my contact with Martin. Is she right, Deirdre? Are things falling apart?”

Deirdre thought for a moment, then said that on the whole she agreed with Ivy. “As you know,” she said, “it wasn’t exactly a picnic for the rest of us when you went missing. Don’t you think you owe us something, Gus? Okay, so maybe you do still have to keep up some kind of secret agent image, but frankly I’m not convinced. If you want my opinion—”

“—not sure I do, Dee-Dee,” he interrupted quietly.

“Well, you’re getting it, anyway. I think it is a bit of a game for you. I think you know perfectly well who those two kidnappers were and what it was all about. And I am beginning to wonder if the mysterious Martin actually exists.”

“Right!” he said, straightening up in his seat. “Well, here goes. I used to work for a government department, and still have a retainer from them. If they think I can now and then be useful, then I have to jump to it.”

“Why aren’t you still working for them full time, then? You’re not retirement age, for sure.”

“No, not in the usual way. But once your cover’s been blown in that kind of work, you cease to be useful on most occasions. Sounds dramatic, I know, but that’s how it was. Not exactly a secret agent, Deirdre. Investigating, as I have quite honestly told you before.”

“Does that mean you could be in danger?” Deirdre said. He was serious now, she could tell. Or was he just telling a good story?

“As for those kidnappers, I did
not
know who they were. One object of the exercise was the ransom money. They threatened me with what they knew about my past life. One or two hints about unpaid debts, suspicions of cheating at cards, that kind of thing. Enough, Deirdre my dear, to convince me they were not joking. Someone, if not you, then probably Alwen Jones, paid the ransom, and I was allowed to go, but not without renewed threats of retribution if I tried to find out more about them. They had a gun, and I decided they would use it if necessary. They might have missed the target then, judging from the way they handled it, but next time they might get the bull’s-eye.”

“But you
are
still investigating them, aren’t you?” Deirdre refused to be frightened off.

“Not just them. That is what we have to find out. We need to know whether there is any connection between that uncomfortable episode and the assignment given to me by Martin.”

“And have you—”

“I have tried to speak to him. I think to save time, I’ll tell all when we meet on Monday. Can’t have Ivy feeling left out, can we?”

They drew up in a lay-by on the outskirts of Measby, and Deirdre switched off the engine. “A little walk will do us good,” she said. “This car sticks out like a sore thumb, and I suppose the less we draw attention to ourselves in this village the better.”

“I have a secret agent’s false moustache in my pocket, if you’d like that? And I could pull my cap down over my face?”

“Any more of that,” said Deirdre, “and I’m going home, and you can find your own way back.”

“Pax, Mrs. Bloxham,” Gus said, taking her arm. “Let’s step out. What did we plan to do first? Oh, yes,” he said hastily, seeing her expression harden, “call at the vicarage. Ask about a distant relation who used to live in the ruined cottage. Right, best foot forward!”

The village street was empty. Deirdre guessed that most people would have gone into town to do supermarket shopping. As they passed the village shop, she glanced into the open door, and saw the shopkeeper standing in the shadows, staring out at them. She bent down and took off her shoe. “Stone in it,” she said to Gus. When she straightened up, the man had gone. “Straight to phone his boss, I bet,” she said.

The vicarage was a large, turreted house, built at a time when the vicar was one of the most important men in the village. They knocked gently on the smart front door, and Deirdre noticed that the paint was fresh. In fact, considering vicars were so poorly paid, the whole place had a surprising air of prosperity about it. Neat garden, closely mown lawns, weed-free gravel drive. It was certainly a more impressive place than the new utility model vicarage in Barrington.

The door opened. “Yes?” A tall, bearded figure with a dog collar peeping out looked at them suspiciously.

“Good morning,” said Gus. “So sorry to trouble you, but we were wondering whether you could help us. We are trying to trace a relative of my wife here.”

Deirdre dug him fiercely in the back with her handbag. Wife, indeed!

The vicar sighed. “Oh, dear,” he said. “We get so many people. . . . You’d better come in, but I can’t give you much time. I have a meeting I must attend.”

They followed him into a very pleasant study. He had obviously been working on his sermon, thought Deirdre, seeing papers and books spread out on his desk.

“Now, who are you looking for? Name?”

“Well, that’s the problem,” said Gus. “We don’t exactly know. Could be Smith or Jones. Two sides of the family, you know. All we do know is that he lived in an old cottage in this village. He died relatively recently, and we are anxious that he should have a decent memorial. It is possible that he had no close relations. Never married, apparently.”

“Are you sure you are looking for
Smith
? We had a Bernard Smithson, died quite recently,” the vicar said. When Gus said that yes, of course it was Smithson he had meant to say, the vicar continued.

“Easily found. His cottage, now tumbling down, is in the High Street, and he is buried in the churchyard. No headstone as yet. In fact, we were hoping a relative would come forward to take care of that. Why don’t you go along and have a look? The new cemetery is just up the Oakbridge road, and his is the newest grave. Marked with a wooden cross at the moment, as are all graves until the ground settles. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must dash.”

He began to gather his papers together, and stacked the books into a neat pile. Deirdre watched him, thinking he certainly seemed a very busy man, and well organised, for a vicar. Maybe a bit too smooth? Then he picked up a paperback book that had been open facedown on the end of the desk. He closed it and slipped it underneath the pile, but not before Deirdre had noticed the name of the author. Weasel Murphy.
Weasel Murphy?
She couldn’t wait to tell Gus.

GUS’S REACTION WAS disappointing. “Well,” he said, “I don’t suppose he’d be the first man of the cloth to have a flutter on the gees.”

“But Weasel Murphy is not about having a few bob on the Tote. It’s big stuff, isn’t it? Ivy’s got it now. Maybe we should take another look.”

As they walked slowly up the road towards the cemetery, Gus once more took Deirdre’s arm. “On reflection, Dee-Dee,” he said, “you may be right, and the sad truth is that I really don’t want to know.”

She looked into his face, and was shocked at his despairing expression.

“On the face of it,” he continued, “there’s nothing wrong with an old man and a reverend gentleman having an interest in gambling. Lots of people enjoy the excitement, and don’t get fleeced. But there is another side to it, as I know only too well.”

He stopped and turned to face Deirdre. “Sod it!” he said loudly. “I really thought I’d left all that behind!”