The Wild Wood Enquiry (13 page)

“Me, Deirdre.”

His tone warmed. “Ah, Deirdre, my treasure, how are we?”

“I’m fine,” she replied. She could tell from his voice that he was in bed and half-asleep.

“What can I do for you, Deirdre? If there’s a problem, why don’t you call me in the morning?”

“I need to ask you a question, and then you can go back to sleep.”

He sighed. “Fire away, then, if you must.”

“It’s just this. Do you remember we talked about the saxophonist in Sid and His Swingers? Tallish chap with lots of dark hair?”

“Oh, you mean Sebastian? Yes, of course I remember the name now. It was me that got him the job playing with them. Son of an old chum, you know. Temporarily down on his uppers. His father was older than me, of course, old Donald Ulph. Grew apples somewhere near Boston in Lincolnshire. Interested in rare breed cattle. Dead now. Sebastian was a bit of a lad but good at heart. Excellent musician. Some woman took him for a ride, and I wanted to give him a helping hand.” He paused, but Deirdre said nothing. “Is that what you wanted to know?” he continued.

“More or less,” said Deirdre. “But one thing puzzles me. If he was such an excellent musician, why couldn’t he have got a job with an excellent orchestra? For one thing, the money would be a whole lot better, surely?”

Theo shifted his position in bed and resigned himself to another hour of wakefulness. “You have me there, Deirdre,” he said. “Perhaps there was some scandal attached to him, but I don’t know of any. Now,” he added, “is it in order to ask why you wanted this information so urgently? And are you coming up to help me get off to sleep again?”

“Answer to question one, can’t tell you at the moment. Answer to question two, no. Good night, sleep tight and don’t let the bugs bite.”

Theo grinned. She was a great girl, and he was lucky to be so close to her. If only she would marry him, they could
be a great team. Possibly. He sighed, made himself comfortable and went quite quickly to sleep, thinking of all the good times he and Deirdre had had together.

GUS HAD FALLEN asleep in front of the television and was dreaming. He was in the woods, searching frantically for Whippy, who had gone missing. Miriam was with him, and she had run off, saying she knew where the dog would have gone. There was a badgers’ holt there, and all dogs made a beeline for that. Then she reappeared, carrying a spade, her hands covered with earth. She was laughing, and saying Whippy would rest easy now. She had buried her comfortably under the trees.

Gus jerked out of the nightmare. “Whippy!” The little dog also woke in surprise and jumped out of her basket. She rubbed her head against his knee, and he picked her up, hugging her tight. Fully awake now, he felt hot tears streaming down his face and knew his grief was for more than a nightmare about his whippet.

SIDNEY WATSON, CONDUCTOR and music director of the Swingers, sat at his desk in the Inland Revenue office and tried hard to concentrate on an almost illegible tax return from one Augustus Halfhide. Must be a made-up name, he thought. He checked it against the records and found that he was a single man living in Hangman’s Row, a terrace of cottages in Hangman’s Lane, Barrington. A nice village, Barrington, and Sid and his wife had fancied buying a bungalow there. But it was one of the most desirable villages in the county, only a few miles from Oakbridge and Thornwell, and boasted a grand stately home and ancient church. As a result, its beautiful plastered houses in varying shades of pink, fetched high prices.

His mobile rang, and he saw an unfamiliar name on the screen. Deirdre Bloxham? He thought he remembered the name. Bloxham Car Showrooms were big in the area, not only around Oakbridge but across the county. There had
been a Mr. Bloxham, and Sid remembered his obituary. Albert Bloxham had had a whole page to himself.

“Hello? Can I help you?” he said. He had grudgingly caught up with the new policy of being nice to clients of Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs.

“This is Mrs. Deirdre Bloxham here,” the pleasant voice said. “I wonder if you could spare me a few moments. No, not to do with income tax,” she added hastily. Her financial affairs were handled by her accountant, and she kept a close eye on them herself. “No,” she continued, “I wondered if you could help me with a member of your band. Sebastian Ulph? He plays the saxophone.”

Sid thought before he answered. Was this why Ulph had left them so suddenly and inconveniently? Said he was off to France or somewhere. “I’m very sorry,” he said, “but Sebastian is no longer with the Swingers. He left us after the ball in Barrington. I think he mentioned a trip to France. It was a shame, really. Lots of people had commented on his lovely playing.”

“Did he say why he was going?” asked Deirdre. She had felt a shiver of anxiety at the news. He had said he would be here and there. But France? And what was he using for money, if he was as broke as he had said?

“’Fraid not, Mrs. Bloxham. I paid him up-to-date and wished him well. It was inevitable really,” he added. “He was much too good to be playing with the Swingers, though I says it as shouldn’t. I was hoping to give him an introduction to the town orchestra. They have professional players and a good reputation.”

“How long had he been with your band?” She did not tell him that Ulph had requested the same introduction from her.

“Only a month or so. Funny, that. He was quite posh,
but the lads really took to him. Reckoned he was all right. And that was quite a compliment, I can tell you!”

“Well, thanks very much. If you hear from him at all, would you mind asking him to ring me? I might have some good news for him.” Deirdre cut off the call and frowned. Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice said.

“I THINK I might take a ride down to Hangman’s Row this morning,” Roy said to Ivy. “I’d like to have a quiet talk with Miriam Blake.”

“You’re not going by yourself? I shall come with you, of course.”

“Well, actually, my love, I would quite like to see her by myself. Just one to one, as they say. I have a feeling she might be more forthcoming if her only audience was a silly old fool with a trundle and a stick.”

“Whatever you like, Roy,” Ivy said. “But are you sure you want to be alone with Miriam Blake?”

“Why ever not, dearest? She’s not going to seduce an old dodderer who can’t remember what day it is.”

“Don’t be silly! You’re the brightest of all of us,” she protested. “Still, if you’re sure, and promise me you will ring if you need help.”

Roy nodded. “If I am helpless in her clutches, I will do my best,” he said, grinning. “Now I must put on my hat and be off.”

SEBASTIAN ULPH HAD not gone to France. He had had no intention of going anywhere, having decided that Oakbridge and its surrounding countryside was just the place for him to spend time. Sooner or later the police
would take a serious interest in the fraudulent activities of Katherine Halfhide, and since she was known to have visited the village of Barrington, they would naturally concentrate first on that area. That would be the time for him to consider leaving. Meanwhile, he had unfinished business with her, when he was ready.

He was pleased with his interview with Deirdre Bloxham. Quite a girl, that one, for her age! A vision of her climbing out of the swimming pool in a mini-bikini had haunted his dreams. But she had seemed serious about getting him a job. Whether he would be able to take it was not certain, however. It would depend on the outcome of his plan. Meanwhile, he became as invisible as possible. Now he had found a cheap bedsit in a back street in Oakbridge and was living a hand-to-mouth existence until the time came for him to follow up messages he had sent to Katherine and act.

He had discovered that his room on the top floor of a three-story house was more or less soundproof, and he was able to practise his saxophone in short bursts so as not to attract attention. His landlady was a kind soul and had several times offered him food left over from her own meals. She said he was starved, and he had looked at himself in the flyblown mirror in his room and seen a hollow-cheeked, wild-haired version of himself. Well, never mind, he had thought, it all adds to the anonymity.

Outside his window, he found he could easily climb out onto the flat roof of a small extension. This evening, the sun was going down over the rooftops of Oakbridge, bathing everything in a spectacular fiery red glow. He climbed out with a rickety chair, and with a large glass of cheap red wine in his hand, he contemplated the sunset, turning over in his mind plan after plan to make sure all details for a deal with Katherine were foolproof.

IVY PACED AROUND her room, looking out along the high street from time to time. She looked at her watch and rummaged in her handbag for her mobile phone. She dialled Roy’s number, heard the message-taking voice, and switched off with a small and inoffensive curse. Where was he? It was half past eight, and he had not been in for supper. Miss Pinkney had come on duty at half past seven, and Ivy had been unable to speak to her. The assistant manager was sitting with a new and agitated resident, who was convinced she had been tricked into coming to Springfields on a long-term basis and was making vigorous efforts to escape.

It was so unlike Roy not to let her know where he was that for the first time in their relationship, she realised how agonising worry could be and how much she relied on his comforting presence.

Just as she had decided to go along to the new resident’s room and demand to speak to Miss Pinkney, a tap at her door was followed by Roy’s voice, asking to be admitted.

“Roy Goodman! Where on earth have you been? I have been so worried!” Ivy sat down heavily, overcome with relief.

Roy smiled, and there was something foolish about his smile. Ivy remembered her father coming home to her domineering mother, not too steady on his feet and wafting unmistakable alcoholic fumes over her.

“Roy, have you been
drinking
?” she said in shocked tones.

“Only a glass or two of Miriam’s beau-beautiful primrose wine,” he said, still smiling at her. “She’s a lovely person, Ivy dear. We must cultivate her as our friend.”

Ivy was speechless. After a minute or so, during which
time she guided him into a chair and put a cushion behind his head, she rallied and said that
nobody
could convince her that Miriam Blake was anything but a self-serving, irritating busybody and the last person in the world she would cultivate as a friend.

“You’ll think better of it in the morning, my dearest love,” Roy said, and his head drooped forward.

“Roy! Are you asleep?” Ivy was incensed. She poked his arm with her finger. “Roy! Wake up!” But he slept on peacefully, with a seraphic smile on his face.

Ivy heaved a sigh, and decided to let him sleep on. He would probably not wake up until tomorrow morning. Miriam Blake’s primrose wine had a reputation that had spread countywide. She had been taught to make it by her wicked old mother, and the recipe was a closely guarded secret. But Ivy had a vague idea that poppies had a soporific effect and had noticed Miriam coming back from the cornfields with bunches of poppies in hand. She feared the worst.

How typical of a man to be taken in so easily by a dreadful woman! Well, he could stay where he was and think up convincing explanations in the morning. She wrapped a rug around his knees, and began to prepare herself for bed, facing squarely the likelihood of trouble for them both.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp tap at her door. “Miss Beasley? Have you seen Mr. Goodman? May I come in?”

“Certainly not!” said Ivy loudly. “He’s probably staying at his niece’s overnight. Now please go away. I’m in bed and going to sleep. Good night.”