The Measby Murder Enquiry (33 page)

They stood without speaking for a moment, and then Deirdre took his arm. “Poor old thing,” she said. “So do you want us to duck out of this case?”

Gus laughed. “Not likely,” he said. “Never fear, Gus is here!”

“Even if it turns out to have nothing to do with your Martin’s investigation?”

“Even so.”

“Right, well, let’s find Bernard Smithson’s grave and see if we can pick up any clues.”

They stepped out again purposefully, and Gus squeezed Deirdre’s hand. “And don’t worry about Weasel Murphy,” he said. “I know him off by heart.”

The cemetery was shaded and chilled by a row of tall, aged yew trees, gnarled and twisted, their gloomy graveyard green turned into black by the heavy rain clouds now gathering over Measby. The iron gate stuck fast, and Gus put his weight behind it to force it open. A rusty watering can stood under a tap, and the rubbish bin was overflowing with dead flowers and discarded cellophane wrappings. Beside the bin, lying where its killer had thrown it, was a dead fox, its fiery coat soiled with smears of liquid mud.

“God, what a place to be laid to rest!” said Gus. “Let’s find the old man’s grave and get out of here as soon as poss.”

Deirdre was surprisingly unmoved. “Foxes are vermin, so we’re told,” she said. “Theo has a lot of trouble with the anti-hunt lot, but he says local farmers lose lambs and chickens to the fox every year. They have to be culled, he says.”

Gus had no interest in what Theo had to say about anything except a little matter of increasing the rent on his cottage. He ignored Deirdre’s remark, and stepped forward to a clearly recent grave. A wooden cross had only the name Bernard Smithson and his dates of birth and death. Two wreaths of long-dead flowers remained.

“Not much to go on here,” he said.

“Wait a minute,” Deirdre said, leaning forward and picking up one of the wreaths. A label still clung to the wire frame, and she peered at it closely. “Have you got your glasses, Gus?” she said. “Didn’t think to bring mine.” She handed the wreath to him, and he began to read. “ ‘With fond remembrances. Bill and Jean next door.’ Neighbours, obviously.”

“What about this one?”

“ ‘Bernie—Gone but not forgotten. D.M.O.’ Any good?”

Deirdre frowned. “D.M.O.? Oh my God, Gus. Doris May Osborne. That’s who it is. Not the usual loving message, is it?” She shivered. “Come on, let’s go. I reckon that’s enough for one day.”

“Not really, Deirdre,” he said, replacing the wreath carefully. “What about the second item on our plan? Investigate the Reading Room. Remember? We noticed it on our first visit. The notice in the window about an archive that could be seen on applying to the caretaker for the key?”

“I need a drink,” Deirdre said, without much hope.

“Stiffen the sinews, wife,” Gus said. She took a deep breath, but he did not allow her to reply. “Now, do you remember where the Reading Room is? I think it’s up that side road near the church.”

 

 

THE CARETAKER LIVED conveniently close to the Reading Room and answered the door at once. Deirdre had the feeling that behind every cottage window was a pair of watchful eyes, following their progress round the village.

“Just a minute,” the woman said. “I’ll get the key. My name’s Betty, by the way. And yours?”

“Brian and Maureen,” said Deirdre quickly. “Nice to meet you, Betty.”

They were ushered into the Reading Room, a pretty nineteenth-century building restored by public subscription five years ago. The roof gables were edged with carved wooden boards, and the windows decorated with a latticed frieze of coloured glass.

“Nice and dry in here,” Deirdre said. “Good for your archive material. Damp is death to old documents, isn’t it.”

Betty nodded proudly. “Was it something particular you was looking for?” she said.

“Yes, we’re trying to trace some information on the Smithson family,” Gus answered. “We’ve seen old Bernard’s grave. So sad. I’m a distant relation, and never met him. But I’m interested in researching the family. Lots of people do it these days. Maybe we’re living in an insecure age where we need to find our roots!”

Betty looked at him blankly. “I suppose so,” she said. “Research, did you say?” She was clearly impressed. “Well, help yourself. It’s all in that filing cabinet over there. It’s this small key. I’ve got work to do, so I’ll leave you to it. Bring the key back to me, please, and then I’ll come and lock up.”

“You’re very busy, I’m sure,” said Deirdre. “Do you work in the village?”

“Oh, yes, I clean at the school, and I do some cooking for Mrs. Osborne at the Manor, when she’s got dinner parties, an’ that. I’ve got a steak and kidney pie in the oven right now! She’ll not be pleased if the pastry’s burnt!”

After she had gone, Deirdre and Gus got to work. They looked up Osborne first of all, and found a fat file full of details of the local squires, resident at the Manor since the conquest. They had lived in some style, it seemed, and a couple of generations back, one Geoffrey Osborne had used the family money, plenty of money coming from coal mines in Derbyshire, to install main drainage and water supply for the entire village.

“So Doris May married into the right family.” Deirdre remembered that for all her airs and graces, Doris had seemed not quite top drawer. “Mind you, she struck me as a very determined lady. Perhaps the late Mr. Osborne didn’t stand a chance!”

Gus didn’t answer, and she saw that he had crouched down and was absorbed in an old photograph in the bottom drawer. She looked over his shoulder, and saw a wedding group. She peered closely at the bride. “Hey, that’s our Doris May, isn’t it?” she said.

Gus nodded. “And read the caption,” he said.

Deidre read through the names and details of the wedding party. “Ah, here it is,” she said. “This is Doris May’s maiden name. Oh my God, it says ‘nee Wilson’! Ringing bells, Gus?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Loud and clear. How about you?”

“Alwen
Wilson
Jones,” they chorused.

“I’LL GO AND sit in the car, Gus,” Deirdre said, “and you can go to the shop and get something for us to eat. A couple of cans of something alcoholic wouldn’t come amiss.”

“Sure you don’t want to come?”

“No, the old man will recognise me and that’s probably not a good thing at the moment.”

“Right-o. See you in a couple of minutes.”

Gus strode off down the road to the shop, and Deirdre retraced her steps to the car. She sat in the driving seat and switched on the radio. Measby was giving her the creeps, and so she put on some loud jazz to cheer herself up. She did not hear the approach of footsteps, and was startled when a face appeared at the window next to her. With great presence of mind, she hit the locking button, and mouthed, “What do you want?” to the woman’s face.

“Open the window,” the woman shouted.

Deirdre switched off the radio, and lowered the window, but not very far, leaving enough open for a conversation.

“Mrs. Bloxham?” the woman said. She smiled, but Deirdre did not return the smile. How did this woman know her name?

“What do you want?”

“Just a little chat. It’s an awfully cold wind, isn’t it. Do you think I might sit in the car for a second or two? I’m doing a survey on the recent outbreak of swine flu, and would be most grateful if you could answer one or two questions?”

“How did you know my name?”

The woman did not answer but walked round to the passenger door and knocked gently on the window there. Deirdre sighed. She supposed the car was well-known. After all, Bert had been a public figure in the county. The woman seemed genuine enough, and it was important to get as much information as possible on swine flu.

She had her finger on the unlock button when she heard a great shout from down the road. She could see Gus approaching, and he was waving his arms about in a crazed semaphore. “Don’t open!” she heard as he came closer. She turned to speak to the woman, but she had disappeared.

“For God’s sake, Deirdre! That was her, the woman who kidnapped me!” Gus was level with the car now, and Deirdre unlocked the doors. Gus jumped in beside her and said in the time honoured phrase, “Follow that car!”

“What car?” said Deirdre.

“Oh, yes, sorry. Got carried away. She ran off down that track. But Deirdre, I did recognise her. She calls herself Margaret. What did she say to you?”

“Said she was doing a swine flu survey, and asked to sit in the car to talk to me for a minute. I was just going to let her in when you shouted. Are you sure that was the Margaret woman? This one seemed genuine to me.”

“Very convincing, I’m sure. She was very convincing in the train that day. No, I’m quite sure, Deirdre. I had plenty of time to get well acquainted with her. Are you up to following down that track? Might be a bit hard on the Rolls’s paintwork.”

“I’ll go if you think we must, but if the man is down there, too, and it’s likely to be a dead end, we might be in danger. What do you think?”

“I think a dead end might be exaggerating, but at the same time we don’t know how many more of them there are. You’re probably right. So why don’t we just note where it goes and leave our visit to them for another day?”

“I can see a muddy sign over there, pointing down the track. Can you read it?”

Gus peered through the window. “Hollings Farm, it says. Remember that. Now, let’s eat. There was a young girl in the shop. No sign of your old shopkeeper. Here you are, ham and mustard or cheese and pickle?”

 

 

MARGARET PUFFED INTO the house, and Max looked up expectantly. “Well?” he said.

“No good,” she said. “Doris wasn’t quick enough with her call. Bloxham was in the car, and about to let me in, when our mutual friend returned from the shop with supplies. He saw me and went mad, shouting and waving his arms about, so I beat it as quickly as I could.”

“Ah, well, it was a long shot. Worth a try, though. Nothing like a personal warning to make them realise we mean business. We have to get them off our case, Margaret, just until we finish the job. Then it’s away to the sunshine and a life of Riley.”

“Who was Riley?”

“God knows. But he obviously knew how to have a good time.” Max folded up his newspaper and walked over to where Margaret stood, still red-faced and breathing fast.

“How near are we to the end?” she said as he put his arms around her.

“Close, I would say,” he replied. “Last time I caught sight of the old woman, she looked very peely-wally, very peely-wally indeed.”

“I hope that means something bad,” Margaret said sharply. “We can do without Alwen fighting fit!”

“Take it from me,” he said, giving her a hug, “peely-wally will be much too mild to describe her by the time we take off.”

 

 

GUS AND DEIRDRE sat in the car until the windows steamed up and Deirdre said she supposed they’d better be getting back.

“One more call to make,” Gus said. “I can do it by myself, or you can come, too. Not too spooked by our day out so far?”

Deirdre shook her head. “I’m not going to be left alone here, though,” she said. “Wherever you go, I go, too, Augustus Halfhide.”

“Even to the Manor House?”

“Oh, no, not Doris May! Do you think it’s wise?”

“What can she do to us? She’ll probably be expecting us, anyway,” he said. “Come on, sooner we get this one over, sooner we can go home.”

It was raining gently when they got out of the car. Deirdre took an umbrella from the backseat and then locked up. “Straight there, then,” she said. “What are we going to say? She’ll know me again, I’m sure. I reckon the shopkeeper contacted her the minute he saw me pass by.”

“And then rang Margaret? Is it a village network we’re looking for? Small beer, in investigating circles, but may be dangerous, nevertheless. Is that umbrella fixed with a sharp point on the end?”

“Okay, okay. Enough of your sarcasm. I don’t care how small the network is, it could still be lethal. And I am
not
exaggerating. Depends on how high the stakes are, doesn’t it?”

“A very appropriate gambling phrase, Deirdre,” Gus said. “Now, here’s the entrance to the Manor. We might as well be consistent, and carry on with our family researches into the late unlamented Bernard Smithson.”

They walked briskly up the long drive, Gus determined and Deirdre reluctant, until they were within sight of the house.

“Come on, Dee-Dee,” Gus said, aware that she was slowing down.

“But Gus,” she said, “look at the windows. The blinds are down on every single one. There’s nobody there, surely. Why don’t we go back and try again another day? This is just a waste of time.”

Gus hesitated. “You may be right,” he said. “But then who made the call to Margaret, telling her you were in the village?”

“The old man in the shop?”

“But he wasn’t there, either, when I went in. That young girl was serving.”