The Wild Wood Enquiry (28 page)

But Deirdre was pulling out something covered in earththat looked to Gus like a filthy glove. “Now,” Deirdre said triumphantly, “how about this! A rubber glove, in exactly the same spot as those women found the hand—or should we say glove? What’d’you bet it is the same one? D’you know what I think, Gus?”

He shook his head. “Go on, tell me.”

“I think Ulph or someone else buried something here and then dug it up again and took it to the new place. Being a musician, he would obviously not want to damage his hands and used rubber gloves. In a rush to get away, he probably left one behind, pushed under the leaves and stuff. Maybe he was rumbled and needed to find a better hiding place for the jewellery? Here, you take it. It’s horrible!”

“It’s just a dirty rubber glove. Anyway, let’s get going and see what else you can find.”

This time they went straight to the mound of earth, Gus leading the way. A couple of yards away from it, he stopped. “Oh no!” he said. “Just look at it, Deirdre.”

“Blimey! Grave robbers,” said Deirdre. “They got here before us.”

In front of them, they could see that the mound had been taken apart, with heaps of earth in all directions. They walked forward and Gus poked around in the loose soil, but found nothing.

“What a mess!” said Deirdre. “If it was Ulph, you’d have thought he’d have tidied up a bit, just to cover his tracks.”

“In too much of a hurry, I suspect,” Gus replied. “Look about for footprints.”

They walked around, eyes down, but their own footprints were inextricably mixed up with others in the loose earth.

“I suppose we’ve failed, then?” Deirdre said sadly.

“Oh, that’s where I disagree, Mrs. B,” said Gus, smiling at her mournful face. He walked away a couple of paces from the mound. “What about this?” He speared a piece of screwed-up tissue. “Ta-ra!” he shouted. “Perfectly clear, I reckon. Someone has risked being discovered digging for buried treasure, and we can be sure the stuff has gone. Not likely to have been Ulph, at least, not since he got ill. But whoever took it, he or she is very possibly touting it around for sale amongst insalubrious buyers.”

“SO WHAT DO you suggest we do next?” Deirdre and Gus were making their way back down Hangman’s Row, when they caught sight of Roy in his trundle outside the village shop.

“We’ll catch them up and have a talk at Springfields. Ivy will certainly be able to rustle up a cup of tea in the summerhouse. Then we can swap the results of our enquiring this afternoon. No doubt, Deirdre love, that we shall have the most important piece of news.”

“And then?”

“The police,” said Gus. “From past experience, they’ll be close behind us, but we must do our citizen duty and tell them what we have found.”

“Including the earrings? After all, they point directly at your charming ex-wife.”

Gus thought for a moment. “You may be right,” he
acknowledged. “But Kath is unlikely to have taken on a dirty digging job. She would have had help. And if so, who? Her erstwhile lover is dead.”

“Dirt never hurt anybody, and she might have been desperate.”

“Mm. But there’s bound to be another swain. Rich, young and probably strong, with an emphasis on the ‘rich.’ Kath only trawls around for her kind of love in the upper echelons of society.”

“So you fell into that category?”

“Not telling,” he said, and laughed. “Come on, girl, let’s give the others a nice surprise.”

“YOU’D BETTER TAKE off your shoes, both of you,” said Ivy. “La Spurling is very strict about mud on the carpets.”

“But aren’t we going to the summerhouse?” Deirdre said, looking at her soil-caked sandals.

“She’s put carpet down in there,” Ivy said. “Sometimes I think she does it to annoy.”

Gus and Deirdre dutifully took off their shoes and stepped onto the grass green carpet.

“I’ve got muddy feet,” said Deirdre. “Shall I take them off as well?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Ivy. “No need to be childish.”

Roy abandoned his trundle, and they arranged themselves in a semicircle in the shade. Sunlight filtered through the trees, and the summerhouse was a cool retreat.

“All we need now is tea,” said Gus. “Would you like me to petition the gaoler?”

“No need,” said Ivy, and at that moment Katya appeared with a tray of tea and scones.

“Mrs. Spurling says to tell you the rest of us had tea
some while ago, but she is once more bending the rules. What does that mean, ‘bending the rules’?”

“Just that she is very kindly taking care of us, my dear. And thank you. Did you bake those scones?”

Katya nodded. “My boyfriend is coming soon, and I shall try him out on them.”

“Try them out on him,” corrected Ivy, with a fond smile. “Run along now, and get yourself prettied up.”

How does she do it? Roy wondered. So sharp with everyone else, even me sometimes. And yet Katya can do no wrong. Ah well, there’s no explaining the contrary ways of my Ivy.

Tea poured and scones buttered, Ivy took the lead. “So what did you find out in the woods?” she asked.

“You tell.” Deirdre looked at Gus and nodded encour-agingly.

“Well, it was rather extraordinary,” he said. “First Deirdre risked life and limb to delve into the brambles and brought forth a filthy rubber glove.” He looked at Ivy and Roy for gasps of surprise but met none.

“Well,” said Ivy, “I for one had already decided that the hand was nothing more than a work glove, left behind by somebody. Ulph could have had to move jewellery buried there and, being a musician, would have worn gloves to protect his hands. He was most likely in a rush and so dropped one of them. Or could’ve been anybody, blackberrying maybe. I reckon we’ve all come to the conclusion that there was no dead body. So what else?”

Deirdre and Gus looked crestfallen, but Gus continued bravely. “And when we finally found the so-called badgers’ sett, it had been desecrated.”

“What do you mean?” Roy said. “You’re not telling us it was a grave?”

“No, though you could say it was a burial place of sorts.”

“And?” Ivy was losing patience with Gus’s customary love of spinning out a story.

Deirdre took over. “It was a real mess. Earth everywhere, and the mound levelled to the ground. I reckon he’d dug out all the stuff, then put some earth back into the hole and chucked the rest around to cover footprints.”

Ivy nodded approvingly. “Very succinct,” she said. “So when you say ‘he,’ are you referring to Ulph, and do we need three guesses to decide what ‘stuff’ was hidden there?”

“Jewellery. Valuable jewellery,” Roy said. “Almost certainly. But I think we must think carefully about
who
the excavator might have been and
when
the deed was done.”

“Before Ulph’s illness and death or after? That is the question.” Ivy helped herself to another scone, and spread butter as if punishing it.

“Well, obviously not Ulph, not once he was dead!” said Gus. “Unless he really was the Green Man of the Woods and made a ghostly return. And dropped a very real used tissue?”

“Or,” Ivy continued, “unless he had instructed someone else to do it for him.”

“Like who?” Deirdre was desperately trying to keep up.

“Take your pick,” Roy chimed in. “Could have been James from the shop or Tom, Dick or Harry from the pub. Or David Budd or his boss, Theo Roussel.”

Ivy stared at him. “Are you being serious, Roy? If you ask me, this is not a matter for levity.”

Fortunately, Katya appeared once more. “More hot water for the tea?” she said. “I am just on my way out but thought you must all be thirsty, being out in the sun all afternoon. But it must have been lovely, strolling around the village and watching the children playing in the
recreation ground. There now,” she added, filling the pot, “second cups for all.”

Deirdre suggested finishing up the last scone and took it to her plate before any of the others could stake a claim. “Exhausted from all our investigating,” she explained.

“Half for me, then?” said Gus. “No, no thanks, Deirdre, only joking.”

Ivy cleared her throat. “Well now, we should correct Katya’s assumption,” she said.

“Eh?” said Roy.

“I mean she said we were out for a stroll, but in fact we, too, were investigating, weren’t we, Roy?”

“Oh yes, of course, my love. It was Ivy’s idea, and we went down to the Hall and up through the gates, straight in without a by-your-leave, and progressed up the long drive. As we approached, we could see the Hon Theo standing on the front steps, staring at us.”

“And he would have sent us off with a flea in the ear,” said Ivy, with a smile. “But I reminded him of our previous encounters, and he softened. Right, Roy?”

“Right, my dear. We had a chat, and then we came back down the drive and out into the village. But, before you interrupt, Deirdre, during our chat we brought up the subject of Ulph. He was most helpful. Confirmed that Ulph’s father was an old friend, now dead, and that Ulph—Seb, he called him—was a black sheep, with a history of minor transgressions, who had got involved with an unsuitable woman.” He paused, and Ivy took up the story.

“Foolish man, on the whole. Butterfly-minded. Skips from one thing to another. Still, the mention of the unsuitable woman was very useful confirmation.”

“Very useful,” Gus said. “Certainly something to bear in mind. Thank you, Ivy.”

IN A SMALL modern pub smelling strongly of last night’s beer, anonymously sited between two Oakbridge suburban housing estates, the landlady trudged wearily upstairs to clear out the two bedrooms that had been occupied. The first had been inhabited by a regular commercial salesman on his rounds in the east of England. It was neat and tidy, with the sheets and pillowcases folded into a pile ready for the wash.

She hoovered round and dusted where necessary and moved on to the second room, where things were very different. The bed was exactly as the occupant had left it, with screwed-up newspapers and dog-eared magazines strewn over the floor. She stepped into the tiny bathroom and gasped. The hand basin and shower tray still had the remains of scummy, bright red
something
lingering round the edges.

“Good God!” she said aloud. “Blood!” She still had in her mind the case of the man pushed to his death from a
lodging house in town. But when she gingerly rubbed a finger around and sniffed it, it smelled strongly of cheap scent. Then she looked in the waste bin and pulled out an empty packet of Flame Red hair colouring. “Flaming cheek!” she said, and added, “And my best white towels!”

Downstairs she checked her visitors’ book. Jean Smith had been the last entry, and she fumed. “Well, Miss Smith,” she muttered, “that’s the last time you visit my establishment.”

IN THE ENTRANCE hall at Springfields, Ivy and Roy sat waiting for their taxi to take them to Oakbridge. “Ah, there he is,” said Ivy. “Come along, my dear, we can meet him halfway down the path.”

Mrs. Spurling emerged from her office. “Off out again, Mr. Goodman?” she said. “And where are we going this morning?”

“Oakbridge,” answered Ivy, helping Roy into his trundle. “We shall be back in time for lunch.”

“Which is at one o’clock,” said Mrs. Spurling acidly.

“And delicious as ever, I’m sure,” said Roy as he allowed Ivy to precede him down the path and out into road, where their taxi was waiting.

Elvis had the door open ready, and Roy drove up the ramp with confident panache.

“Oops!” said Ivy, as he bumped into the back of the seats. She started to laugh, and Roy noticed once more that small catastrophes amused his beloved. It was as if she wished to take the sting out of an embarrassing or not too painful moment.

“All set, then,” Elvis said. “Off we go. Straight to the coffee shop?”

“Yes, as ever,” said Ivy.

Elvis was in a good mood this morning, having had a long and fruitful run to Heathrow and back yesterday. “And if you don’t mind my saying, when shall I have the pleasure of running you two to the church? I guarantee to get you there on time!” he added, and burst into a selection from
My Fair Lady
, which kept them entertained all the way to Oakbridge.

When they were welcomed to the café and comfortably settled at their usual table, Roy reached under the table and took Ivy’s hand.

“So maybe we should think about booking Elvis for one morning next spring?” he said. “It’s time I made an honest woman of you, don’t you think?”

“I have never been anything but an honest woman,” retorted Ivy. “And if you mean when shall we get married, I have been giving it some serious thought.”

For one horrible moment, Roy thought she was about to break off the engagement. But no, she smiled and said that if anyone asked her, a Christmas wedding might be a very good idea. Everyone was already geared up for the season, and they could save on decorations and probably refreshments, too.

Roy could not contain his excitement and beckoned to their favourite waitress. “I just have to tell someone, my dear,” he said. “This wonderful woman has just agreed to marry me at Christmastime!”

“Very nice, too,” she answered. “I hope I’ll get an invite! Now, have you got all you need for the moment? Those doughnuts are especially nice today.”