The Measby Murder Enquiry (40 page)

Ivy and Roy went quietly with the rest, speaking in low tones to each other, and most of the time holding hands.

“I saw an empty pill bottle on the table by her bed,” Ivy whispered, and Roy nodded. “But where did she get it from? We’re not allowed to have pills permanently in our rooms, not even painkillers.”

“I suppose she brought them in with her. Do you remember how she guarded her handbag as if it carried a gun? Well, sleeping pills can be equally effective. I bet that’s what happened. But what on earth possessed her?”

“Worry,” said Roy flatly. “That poor woman was consumed with worry. She’s been up in her room brooding alone ever since we came back from our outing. And we know what she was so anxious about, don’t we, my dear? Daughter Bronwen, deeply in debt and being squeezed by her Auntie Doris.”

“I think it was Alwen who was being squeezed,” Ivy replied. “After all, she was the one with the money. We don’t know how much. Maybe Bronwen knew, and was putting pressure on her mother. So Alwen was getting it from her sister Doris and her daughter as well.”

Roy shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of thoughts of a desperate Alwen. Ivy took his hand again, and moved a little closer.

“Let’s think, Roy,” she continued. “When Alwen came here, she seemed a straightforward sort of woman. Retired teacher, good position in the town. Proud of her daughters, and secretive about their father. But nothing suspicious about her at all. Good family background over at Measby, comfortably off. Then we find out husband William was an adulterer and a gambler, and went through his own money, some of the brewery’s, and probably Alwen’s as well. She made it plain she had to work to bring up the girls.”

“Ah, but there’s the mystery,” Roy said. “We don’t really know. She may have tied up her own money safely so William couldn’t get at it. Probably inherited a fair bit from her parents, as did Doris. Alwen must have had savings, Ivy, to afford to come and live here.”

“So now that Bronwen has no job and no means of raising money on her own to pay her debts, she’s a pawn in Doris’s cunning little game of blackmail and extortion? All carefully planned in order to get Alwen to shell out all she has to rescue her daughter,” she continued. “Oh my dear Roy. It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“I agree,” Roy said, patting her hand. He could not help contrasting his Ivy now, visibly deeply upset, and the Ivy who reacted with mirth at the death of Daisy Worth. A complicated little person, his beloved. He said he could see how trapped Alwen was. But why should she decide to end her life? After all, she could have released her money, rescued Bronwen, told Doris to go to hell, and found a nice state-run retirement home where she could end her days, couldn’t she?”

Ivy was silent for a couple of minutes, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think she would have been able to face that. And anyway, she was probably past thinking straight, poor soul. Escape must have looked like the kindest way out.”

They looked across at the entrance hall, where the door had opened and Alwen’s two daughters appeared.

“And there they are,” Ivy said. “And if I’m right, one as innocent as the day is long and the other as guilty as hell. It will be a nasty business, Roy, and I’m afraid we shall be deep in it.”

TREVOR EVANS HAD tried hard to get a word out of Bronwen ever since she came back from Springfields. She would not look at him but went through the motions of making supper. “I’ll do that,” he had said, but she pushed him out of the way without a word.

They sat now at the table in the kitchen, eating baked beans and sausages. Trevor had cleared his plate, but Bronwen had managed only half a sausage and then moved her plate to one side. She sat looking down at her hands, her shoulders hunched, and Trevor could take it no longer. He got up and came round to her, leaning forward and putting his arms around her.

“Come on, Bron,” he said. “Let’s go into the sitting room and have a cuddle on the sofa. We’ll not bother about talking. I can’t bear to see you so alone.”

She allowed him to pull her to her feet, and take her hand. They sat like young lovers on the sofa, except that there was none of the lovers’ spark. After about half an hour, Bronwen moved her head away from his shoulder and looked at him.

“I murdered her,” she said, and silent tears streamed down her cheeks and plopped onto her clenched hands.

 

 

BETHAN AND HER family were in a huddle, crouched on the floor and lamenting in a loud, uninhibited wail. There was a sudden knock at the door, and Bethan went to open it. It was her neighbour, looking anxious.

“Are you all right, dear?” she said. “We heard this awful noise, and had to come and see what has happened. I do hope you don’t think me nosy and interfering.”

Bethan reached out a hand. “Come in, Marjorie,” she said. “My mother has died, and we are grieving together. I know she met you once or twice and liked you very much. She would be so touched that you cared. Come, join us for a minute or two.”

Marjorie was acutely embarrassed, and perched on the arm of a chair. She muttered how sorry she was and how sad to lose your mother, and then said that she had left potatoes boiling on the stove and must go and check they hadn’t dried out. “You know where we are if you need any help,” she said, relieved to be out again and on her way home.

“Right,” said Clive, as Bethan returned. “I think a warm drink for us all, and then we must get these boys into bed.”

“But what about
Doctor Who
on the telly?” said Freddie.

“You can see the repeat on Tuesday,” said Clive. “Just for tonight, lads, we are going to be quiet and think how much we loved Grannie.”

“But she won’t know,” said Freddie, “she’s dead.”

“But our love will go winging its way to where she has gone, and comfort her,” said Clive with a dreamy look.

“Where has she gone, then?” Freddie persisted.

“Be quiet, and get upstairs to your bedroom,” said Bethan sharply. “And you, William. And no quarrelling in the bath. I’ll be up in two ticks. Go on, get going, both of you.”

Their mother’s change of tone sent them scuttling upstairs, and Bethan gave Clive a hug. “Thanks, love,” she said. “I’d better give Bronwen a ring and make sure she’s all right.”

“The woman’s a murderer,” Clive said, forgetting all about sweetness and light to all mankind. “No doubt about that.”

 

 

DORIS MAY FELT quite pleased with herself. Everything was working out as she had planned. Bronwen was now completely under her control, and in due course would persuade her mother, already softened up by her sister’s visit, to hand over some of the cash Doris was certain Alwen had salted away years ago. At least that would enable her to pay off some overdue wages at Ozzy’s, and allow her to keep on the gardener for a while longer. She could see a time coming when she would not be able to stay on at the Manor, but not yet.

Business had been falling off for some years, with online gambling now so widespread that it was having a major effect on her profits. The big casino chains could draw on resources and widen their services to the punters. But Ozzy’s was a small concern, and Thornwell an increasingly industrial town. Every family had a computer, and those who felt like a flutter had only to switch on.

No, she had done the right thing. She felt a sudden pang of regret at being so harsh with her sister but then consoled herself with memories of childhood when Alwen had treated her, the much younger sister, with a strict regime which in her opinion bordered on cruelty. It was her turn now, and after all, Alwen wouldn’t miss the cash. She was old, and her wants were small. If she could no longer afford Springfields’ fees, she could easily be moved into that place in Broad Street. It was quite adequate, people said.

So next she had to deal with Margaret and Max. They had worked for her for years, and she still had plenty of information about former indiscretions that they would rather not have made public, plenty enough to keep them loyal. They had been bluffing last time she saw them, she was sure of that. She wished she had picked up those tickets and checked the dates. Probably old ones. She had noticed they’d been turning out drawers. She had another job for them now, and intended to encourage them to work on a confiding relationship with the vicar. She had handled him gently up to now, but it was time to move things along. Vicars were poorly paid, she knew, but there were clear signs of family wealth there. She could see the evening sun streaming in through the coloured glass in the hall windows, and decided to walk up the lane and pay the pair a visit.

As she approached the cottage, she felt a sudden sense of foreboding. No car was visible, and although it was now twilight, there were no lights on in the house. She knocked several times, but nobody came.

“Evening, Mrs. Osborne,” said a voice behind her. It was the farmer, and he smiled knowingly. “They’re not there. They’ve gone,” he said baldly.

“Gone where?”

“Gone for good, I should say,” he replied. “They packed that old car of theirs, and made off down the lane. Went so fast it almost shook the old banger off its wheels! Anyway, they’ve gone. If you want a new tenant, I know somebody who’ll take the cottage. At a reasonable rent,” he added.

Doris was stunned. How dare they! She set off back down the track, and her mobile began to ring. She stopped and listened. It was Bronwen.

“Between us, Auntie, dear,” the ice-cold voice said, “we have murdered my mother.”

THE FUNERAL OF Alwen Wilson Jones took place in the parish church of Thornwell one week later. It was a big church, and Bronwen and a forgiving Bethan had made all the arrangements with a local undertaker. Mrs. Spurling had suggested that they might like to have a service in Barrington church with refreshments afterwards at Springfields. But Alwen’s daughters had remembered the days when their mother was a notable figure in the town, when they could not walk with her down the High Street without at least half a dozen people smiling and saying hello. “I used to teach that girl, and her mother,” she would say.

Trevor had said the church would be half-empty and echoing, whereas they could fill Barrington village church with no trouble. But the girls were adamant. Mother should have a decent funeral, and Trevor would be surprised how many turned up.

In the event, even Bronwen and Bethan were surprised. The big church was full, with extra chairs brought in. Men and women of all ages trouped through the big doors, greeting each other and exchanging memories of the teacher who had made their first experience of “big school” friendly and exciting.

Deirdre had offered to take Ivy and Roy, and Gus had surprised her by asking if he could cadge a lift, too. They sat towards the back of the church, and remained quiet, waiting for the entry of the coffin and mourners. As the vicar led the way up the aisle and the pallbearers gently set down their burden on trestles before the altar, Ivy watched the procession of family as they followed and filed into the front pews.

“There she is,” she whispered to Roy. “She should have been banned from the church.”

“Ivy!” Roy answered, deeply shocked. “She
is
her sister, my dear.”

“So what? There’s probably a word for—”

“Shhh!” hissed Deirdre, who had heard all of this, and knew what Ivy was about to say.

Gus was not watching Doris but had his eyes fixed on Bronwen. The woman was pale as a ghost, and hung on to her sister’s arm as if she might faint any minute. As well she might, thought Gus. But alone amongst the members of Enquire Within, he felt compassion for her. He knew the alternating elation and terror of the compulsive gambler, and thanked God he had overcome it. But he knew that, like any addict, he could never again risk the smallest indulgence, not even an innocent little bet on a rural pointto-point race. Never again, he told himself.