The Measby Murder Enquiry (4 page)

THEODORE ROUSSEL WAS not happy. After the disastrous end to his long association with former housekeeper Beatrice Beatty, he had engaged a woman from the village to take her place. Although Noreen Price kept herself to herself, and this was a welcome change from the domineering Beatrice, she did not run his household with the same sense of what was right, or, come to that, the same efficiency.

“I have people coming for drinks next Tuesday,” he had said to her at least a week ago, and as far as he could tell she had made no preparations. And now it was Tuesday. He looked at his watch. It was three o’clock already. Perhaps he should find her and check.

“Noreen? Are you there?” He peered into the kitchen and saw the big larder door was open. “Noreen?”

She emerged, looking flushed. “Bit of a failure, I’m afraid,” she said. “I made some bits and pieces this morning and they’re disgusting. That’s what comes of cooking something from a recipe you’ve never used before. Now what are we going to do?” She looked helplessly at him, and he was tempted to say
he
was going to do nothing, but she had better find a way of dealing with it or else take herself off and not return.

Instead, he heard himself saying he would take her into Waitrose in Thornwell and buy quantitites of those ready-made mini-snacks. Not the same, but a very useful substitute, he had heard Deirdre say. He told Noreen to get her bonnet on and received an uncomprehending look from her, and the two of them drove down the drive and off towards town.

During the half an hour it took to make the trip, Noreen kept up a running commentary on the events, good and bad, that had occurred in Barrington during the previous week. After a while, Theo stopped listening. At the mention of Springfields and a new resident, he had begun to think of Katya, the Polish maid there. Such a pretty little thing, and always so helpful and willing. Just how willing, he had yet to find out! But now he was reminded of a vague plan he had formed some time ago. He would persuade her to come and work for him at the Hall, and once she was on the premises he could get to know her better. How much more would he have to pay her to tempt her away from Springfields? She could assist Noreen for a few months, and then he would find an excuse to fire old useless here, sitting next to him and keeping up a monologue all the way to Thornwell. Katya would be in charge, and then . . .

His speculation was interrupted by a raised fist from a man backing out in front of him in Waitrose car park. He had not noticed the reversing lights, and had to stand hard on the brake.

“Oops, Mr. Theo!” Noreen said. “Now, are you coming in to help me choose?”

Theo shuddered. He would not be seen dead in a supermarket and said no, he had an appointment with his bank manager. He would see her back at the car promptly at half past four.

 

 

DEIRDRE HAD PUT her car away, put the food shopping in the fridge and settled with a cup of tea in front of an afternoon rubbish programme when she heard her telephone.

“Blast! Who the hell can that be?”

It was Ivy, and she sounded oddly quavery. “Deirdre, can you come round straightaway? No, I’m all right. No, it’s the new woman, and for some reason she’s latched onto me, and old Spurling is out and Miss Pinkney is hysterical, and you’re the only person I could think of to help. Get here as quick as you can.”

Deirdre sighed. The one thing she had tried to avoid had happened. When she persuaded Ivy to come to Springfields, she had made it clear that she did not want to become involved in Ivy’s private life, or the daily happenings in the home. So far, Ivy had been only too pleased to establish herself in her own way, and had life at Springfields pretty well sewn up to her own satisfaction.

And now this. Was it serious, or was Ivy panicking? No, Ivy never panicked. It must be important. She locked up her house and began to walk swiftly along to Springfields. As she approached, she remembered Ivy’s words. It’s the new woman, she had said. Must be Mrs. Jones, the possibly mysterious Mrs. Wilson Jones.

What could have happened that was so serious that Ivy had to call for help?

Miss Pinkney was waiting for her at the door. “Oh, I’m so glad you could come down, Mrs. Bloxham,” she said. “Poor Mrs. Jones is very upset, and Miss Beasley was sure you’d be the person to help.”

“What seems to be the trouble?” said Deirdre, like a visiting doctor of the old school.

“Best if you talk to her,” Miss Pinkney said. “They are both together, with Mr. Halfhide, in the interview room. Mr. Goodman was there, too, but Ivy sent him away.

“Why?”

“Goodness knows why Miss Beasley does anything!” Miss Pinkney did indeed sound on the verge of tears, and Deirdre said not to worry, if she could be shown where the interview room was, she was sure she could sort it out.

IT HAD ALL been very distressing, Ivy said, on greeting her cousin. “If you ask me,” she pronounced, “the silly woman’s been conned.”

The room was sparsely furnished, with four reasonably comfortable chairs, small tables dotted around for soothing cups of tea, a seedy-looking plant on the corner of a desk and an overhead fitting that reminded Deirdre of torture by spotlight. Ivy was sitting upright, as usual, Gus had slumped down and had the desperate air of someone needing to be elsewhere, and Mrs. Jones was a deflated version of her usual solid self. She peered over the top of a large handkerchief obscuring most of her face, and said, “Who’s this?”

“My cousin,” said Ivy, who had clearly regained her confidence. “Deirdre, this is Mrs. Jones.”

“I’m Mrs. W-Wilson Jones.” The anguish in the woman’s voice reached out to Deirdre’s kind heart, and she sat down next to her and reached for her hand.

“Now then, what is all this about? Take your time, Mrs. Jones. Whatever the problem is, I am sure it can be solved.”

Mrs. Jones lowered the handkerchief and said weakly, “Not unless you’ve got twenty thousand pounds to spare.”

There was a shocked pause. “You never said it was that much,” Gus said, looking admiringly at the ex-headmistress. He was always impressed by wealth, and had no idea a teacher’s salary could deal in such sums. Must be family money. Brewery money? He’d had a pint of Jones Brothers Best at the pub at lunchtime, and it was certainly good beer.

“Tell me more,” Deirdre said. She was not letting on, but she did in fact have twenty thousand pounds to spare, and much more, but her Bert had not worked hard all his life to subsidise careless old ladies.

It was a sorry tale that Alwen had to tell. A few weeks ago, a smooth-talking young man had knocked on her door, armed with sheaves of convincing documents revealing how by investing even a small sum, she could double it in no time at all. Of course, he had added with a friendly laugh, if she decided to invest a larger sum, then the return would be even more exciting.

“I can guess the rest,” Deirdre said. “You gave him the money, and have heard nothing since. No such investment exists, and you now have no hope of getting anything back?”

“Absolutely right, Mrs. Bloxham,” Alwen Jones said. “Ivy here said you’d be the one to ask, having been in business and, er, well, being comfortably situated yourself. I remember your husband, you know. Such a nice man, and always so good at cars. We bought all ours from Bert. It was Bert, wasn’t it?”

Deirdre confirmed that her husband’s name had been Albert. She did not miss the woman’s patronising attempt at slotting her into the gradations of Thornwell society. Bert was good with cars, was he? Yes, he was, and he was also good at making money, lots of it, and would never have given twenty pounds, let alone twenty thousand, to a smooth-talking stranger.

She stiffened and said there was very little she could do. Had Mrs. Jones told her daughter? She could go to the police with what sounded like a straight up and down case of criminal extortion.

“Naturally we asked Mrs. Jones if she had told Bronwen. Not on your nelly, she said.” Ivy’s face was bland.

“Not quite in those words,” Alwen Jones said. “But Ivy is right in that my supremely capable daughter Bronwen would be the last person I would tell. She would explode. And what is more, she would immediately assume power of attorney and give me a weekly pocket money allowance!” She frowned, and shook her head sadly. “No, I’d rather lose the twenty thousand pounds than have Bronwen in charge of my money.”

“You’d have to agree to putting power of attorney into effect, Mrs. Jones, so you’ve no need to worry about that,” Deirdre said. Voluntary work for the Citizens Advice Bureau had taught her this. Worried sons and daughters of senile old parents, seeing their inheritance at the mercy of unscrupulous marauders, were frequent visitors to the CAB waiting room.

“The police, then?” Deirdre said.

Alwen shook her head. “That would obviously bring in Bronwen and Bethan, and the whole tribe of rabbits’ friends and relations.”

“Rabbits?” said Ivy, confused. Had the shock knocked the silly woman off her perch?

“Oh, sorry. That’s what Bronwen calls the Jones extended family. Beatrix Potter, I believe.”

“Including the brewery rabbits?” Gus said. He could not believe that there was no connection between this woman and the brewery. Where else had the wealth come from?

Alwen sidestepped this question and looked at her watch. Her financial situation was her affair. She had spent nearly a lifetime teaching unruly infants and saving enough money from her family bequests to make herself feel safe. “Do you think you would be able to help? I know you conduct enquiries for people, and I’d be very happy to pay for your services. Enquire Within, did you say, Augustus? Are you busy with a case at the moment?”

“Have you got plenty of money left?” said Ivy baldly. “We’re not a charity, you know.”

Gus stepped in quickly. He had immediately thought of Martin’s request, and sensed that Ivy’s dislike of Alwen might prejudice their chances of making a few more bawbees. “It may be,” he said in measured tones, “that this attempt at fraud is related to another investigation involving extortion that we have been asked to handle. If preliminary research suggests that this is the case, then we would certainly be happy to take on what we realise is a very unfortunate situation for you and possibly other people in the area.”

“In other words, yes,” said Ivy, who began to see what Gus was getting at. Rumours of death and extortion in Measby, and now Alwen’s twenty thousand pounds apparently vanished down the drain. “And for goodness’ sake, Mrs. Jones,” she added, “be more careful in future.”

THE COCKTAIL PARTY, now a more or less obsolete social occasion, still had its uses. Theo Roussel kept up the old tradition at Barrington Hall, and although he no longer sent out invitations, it was an unwritten rule locally that drinks and nibbles would await the select few on a given evening between six thirty and eight o’clock. For anyone who arrived late, it was a quick drink, a dry-tasting nibble and then good-bye. In order to get the full quota of drinks and nibbles they felt was their due, most guests arrived on time. Those who stayed too late and talked too long were not asked again.

Theo stuck to this tried and tested formula because he was quickly bored. Boredom had been a constant companion for most of his life. He was bored at school, doing badly not because he was stupid, but because he could not concentrate on anything that did not immediately grab his attention. After school, he had led the life of a rich man’s son, dutifully riding to hounds, escorting debutantes to hunt balls and all the boring round of socialising faithfully recorded in society magazines of the time.

Then he met Deirdre. The daughter of working-class, respectable folk from the terraced streets of Thornwell, she was what his father called a bobby-dazzler. Red hair and green eyes, a peachy skin and a fabulous figure, all combined to make her a target for eligible bachelors for miles around. Theo had fallen for her, attracted even more strongly because of the competition. She seemed to prefer him, and had shown him a life that seemed to him infinitely more interesting and worthwhile. Then one day his father had called him into his study, and lectured him on marrying out of his class. He could not believe it. In these enlightened times, he had assured his father, nobody mentioned class. It was a taboo subject.