The Measby Murder Enquiry (12 page)

Huh! David wanted to answer that he kept nothing from dear Rose, but in any case could not think why anyone should be remotely interested in Theo’s little schemes. He kept silent, and since Katya did not reappear, he let himself out of the kitchen door and strode off down the drive to be home in time for the television news.

 

 

DEIRDRE’S MEETING HAD gone on much later than she expected, and when it finished one of her old friends asked if she fancied a drink before she went home. He was actually an old friend of Bert but had kept in touch with Deirdre, making sure she was managing everything by herself after the death of her husband. Now, when it was perfectly clear that Deirdre was more than capable of running her life, he still called her occasionally, and on one or two occasions she had gone to his house where he and his wife entertained the great and good of Thornwell. There was always a spare man, and Deirdre suspected they might be attempting matchmaking. But she was proof against that and always enjoyed a jolly evening and a meal she did not have to cook herself.

The pub was a smart hostelry in the market square in town, and they pushed their way through crowds to a small back room where there were free seats. Colin went off to fetch drinks, and Deirdre looked around, deciding that she knew nobody and was really out of touch with Thornwell society.

But, ah, there was somebody she knew. That tall, sniffy-looking dame standing at the bar was surely Bronwen Evans, nee Jones, elder daughter of Springfields’ latest resident, Alwen? As she watched, Colin, carrying two glasses, stopped to have a word with Bronwen and the man who was probably her husband. Then he came on to their table and sat down, putting Deirdre’s gin and tonic carefully in front of her.

“There we are! I think we’ve earned a couple of gins! It was quite a sparky meeting tonight, wasn’t it?”

“Um, yes,” Deirdre replied, still staring at Bronwen Evans. “Hey, Colin, do you know that woman? The one you were talking to?” She had a sudden flash of memory. Hadn’t she been standing in the queue at the newspaper office? Deirdre had watched her walking out, but it hadn’t registered then. But now she was sure. Bronwen Evans. She must have heard something of what she and Gus were asking about. Yes, well, worth mentioning to the others.

“Well, I don’t usually talk to women I don’t know, my dear,” Colin said. “Yes, my goodness, I’ve known Bronwen since she was a small child. Bronwen Jones? You must have met her. Daughter of one of the brewery brothers. That’s her husband, the estate agent in the marketplace, Evans & Jones.

“Of course,” said Deirdre. “And which Jones brother was her father? I should know, shouldn’t I, but we didn’t exactly move in the same circles!”

“You didn’t miss much. In spite of George’s success, the family was somehow unlucky. Things didn’t go right on a personal level, even though the brewery flourished. Oh, and Bronwen’s father was the younger brother, William. And don’t ask me questions about him. The less said about that nasty piece of work the better! Mind you, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but . . .”

“It’s no good telling me that, Colin! Now of course I want to know about him. Go on, do tell.”

“It’s a long time ago,” he said. “But I still remember wondering how George managed the scandal so efficiently. His brother William had always been trouble. He was bright enough but couldn’t be bothered to work. If there was an easy way of making money, William would take it.”

“But what was the scandal?” Deirdre persisted. She guessed what was coming but hoped for a small snippet of extra information that might help in their investigations.

“He gambled away everything he earned,” Colin said, and sighed. “Shame, really, as he was a clever bloke. George gave him a job in the brewery, and why it had to be in charge of finances I’ll never know. Needless to say the books were cooked. There were unpaid bills all round town by the time George got to know about it. My folks’ business was one of the victims.”

“But what happened? The brewery survived, after all.”

“Fortunately,” Colin said, “it was a very profitable year for them, and George made sure all bills were settled. Then things went quiet, and the next thing we knew, William had gone. Kicked out, everyone said.”

“And his wife?”

“Wife and daughters,” Colin said. “Well, Alwen Jones was a wonderful woman. Just buckled to and remade her life. Brought up the daughters and ended up head teacher in Thornwell Primary. Wonderful woman,” he repeated.

Deirdre drained her glass. “Gosh, that was just what the doctor ordered!” she said. “Well, it sounds like it was good riddance to bad rubbish. What happened to William?”

“Vanished. Never heard of again. Never mentioned by any of the Joneses. It was just as if he’d never existed.”

“But his daughters? They must have wanted to know about their father?”

“Maybe,” said Colin, rising to his feet. “But if they did, and Bronwen Evans had set about finding him, you can be sure she succeeded. Chip off the old block, that one. And, of course, later on she worked in the brewery. Brilliant publicist, apparently. She’d know exactly how to find William Jones, but I doubt if any of the family wanted to. You could put money on it.”

“Perhaps not, under the circumstances! Anyway, thanks for the drink, Colin. Would you and Dorothy like to come over for dinner sometime soon? I’d like you to meet some new friends of mine.”

“Love to,” said Colin. “We’ll be in touch.”

“DID YOU HAVE a good weekend, Ivy?”

“Weekends are much like any other days in this place,” Ivy said, looking round her room. “Except for the excitement of going to church, of course. How about you?”

Deirdre put her hand over the phone and mouthed to Gus that Ivy was in a bad mood.

They were in the kitchen at Tawny Wings, where the dishwasher toiled in the utility room next door. Gus pulled the door shut, and motioned Deirdre to continue.

“Oh, my weekend was about as boring as yours,” she said. “Gardening, writing letters to my distant daughters, that sort of thing.”

“You should be grateful you’ve got daughters, Deirdre Bloxham,” the sharp voice replied. “Anyway, have you rung up just to pass the time of day, or do you want something?”

“I want something. I would like you and Roy and Gus to come to lunch next Sunday to meet some old friends of mine from Thornwell. Are you free?”

“Of course we’re free! What else might we be doing? It’s very kind of you Deirdre,” she added, her voice warming up slightly. “But I expect you’ve got an ulterior motive?”

Deirdre rolled her eyes to heaven, took a deep breath and said that her only motive was to have some good friends to a jolly lunch, and that included her cousin Ivy and Roy and Gus. “Would you like to have a word with Gus? I think he wants to fix a date for our next EW meeting?”

“Our what?”

“Enquire Within. It’s a bit of a mouthful, so I thought I’d shorten it to EW. Here’s Gus.”

“Morning, Ivy. How’s things? Ah, yes. You’ve already told Deirdre how things are. Right, well, I’ll get down to business. Can we fix a meeting for tomorrow morning? Up here at Tawny Wings? Would you like Deirdre to fetch you? The forecast isn’t good.”

Ivy said shortly that a little rain wouldn’t hurt them and any excuse to get away from incarceration would be welcome. “About eleven o’clock, in time for coffee? We haven’t got anything new to report, but maybe something will come up before tomorrow. Me and Roy are pursuing lines of enquiry. Isn’t that what the police say?”

 

 

THESE LINES OF enquiry were in fact enjoyable sessions between the two of them and Alwen Jones. Roy and Alwen delved into their memories of the local past, and Ivy prompted them with skilfully directed questions. After Deirdre’s call, Ivy joined Roy and Alwen in the lounge. They had more or less claimed a corner as their regular territory, and the other residents steered clear of them.

“Morning, Ivy,” said Alwen. “Did you sleep well?”

“I always sleep well,” Ivy replied, “owing to a clear conscience and a cup of warm Horlicks.”

Roy smiled at her. “I bet you look lovely when you’re asleep, Ivy dear,” he said daringly.

“Cold cream on me face, and a couple of hairnets to keep neat and tidy,” Ivy replied acidly, but she could not keep from smiling at him. “Guaranteed to put off anybody thinking of taking a look!” she said.

“That’s enough of that, you two,” Alwen said. She was becoming used to the sparring couple, and could see that a deep attachment was growing between them. She felt a pang of jealousy, and chided herself for bothering with such things at her age.

“Deirdre’s invited us to lunch next Sunday, Roy,” Ivy said, taking a biscuit from the plate on a small table at her side. “Is that coffee cold, Alwen? Perhaps I should order some more.”

“Let me do it for you,” Roy said. “This has been here some time. You were late down, Ivy. Titivating, I expect. I know what you ladies get up to. And how kind of Deirdre. I shall look forward to that. Now then,” he continued, “where were we? I think you were telling us, Alwen, how you managed to train as an infant teacher and look after the girls and run a house at the same time?”

Alwen settled back into her chair. They were on safe ground here, and she happily launched into a story she edited as she went along. “It was a case of necessity, Roy,” she said. “As you have discovered, my husband had left us and emigrated to Australia. I have to admit that the marriage never really worked, although we both tried hard.” And that’s a lie for a start, she said to herself. William had never tried because he was hardly ever at home to attempt a reasonable relationship with her and the girls.

“Why did you marry him, then?” Ivy put her head on one side and smiled a false smile.

“I fancied him,” Alwen said baldly. “He was very good-looking and could be extremely charming. It was purely a physical attraction.”

“It happens,” Roy said, and risking a sharp rebuke, patted Ivy’s hand.

“Roy!” said Ivy, but she did not move her hand. She returned to her questions. “Hadn’t you got anything in common, then? Tennis, or bridge, or Young Conservatives?” Ivy’s ideas of how the well-off middle classes lived were mostly gleaned from romantic fiction from the travelling library.

Alwen laughed. “Not really, Ivy,” she said. “William spent most of his evenings poring over his accounts in the brewery office.” At least, that was what he told me, she added to herself. It was only later that she discovered he’d been seen one evening with his secretary in the restaurant at Ozzy’s Casino in town.

“Ah well,” Roy said, “he was probably augmenting his income in order to support a family.”

It’s not worth answering that one, Alwen thought, and changed the subject to concentrate on how when left alone she had studied hard, attended day classes when the girls were in a local nursery group, and been helped by one good friend who looked after them when there was no alternative.

“Who was that, then?” Roy said. There was a chance he might know this friend, and then he and Ivy would have another lead to follow up. He quite fancied a trip to Thornwell to do a bit of research. He and Ivy occasionally took a taxi into town and amused themselves drinking coffee and looking out of a café window at the passersby. Then they would ask the returning taxi to go a different way back, and Roy would point out to Ivy the farm where he had been brought up and other places of interest. Ivy was always quiet, absorbing Roy’s memories and getting to know what kind of a person he had been before she met him.

Alwen smiled at Roy’s question, and said her friend had been the only person who really understood what Alwen had undertaken. “She was my sister-in-law, George’s wife Jane. They’d had no children, and she would have loved them.”

“And George didn’t mind the constant reminder of his disgraced brother?” Ivy could see the difficulties, and thought this Jane person might be an interesting line to pursue.

“Oh, we had to keep it secret from him,” Alwen said. “The subterfuge! You wouldn’t believe how good we were at it, Jane and me. She invented the most ingenious excuses for her frequent absences from home.”

“And yet he gave Bronwen a job in the brewery?” Ivy said.

“That was much later, of course, and another story. Now, it looks like we’re being summoned for lunch. We have it much too early, don’t you think?”

“It means the staff can have a reasonable break in the afternoons,” said Ivy. “If you ask me, Katya and her friend, and poor old Pinkers, as Roy calls her, deserve a few hours free. Not from us,” she hastened to add, “but from Mrs. Spurling’s iron rule. It beats me why those girls stay on here. They could easily get jobs somewhere more congenial.”

 

 

“SO WHAT DO you remember about Jane Jones?” Ivy asked. It was early afternoon, and Roy was guiding his shopping scooter down the uneven path of Barrington’s main street, with Ivy walking at his side. “I suppose she’s not still around?”