The Measby Murder Enquiry (42 page)

She took the inspector into the morning room and seated him on a hard chair, while she sat opposite. “Now, what can I help you with?” she said, intending to keep the upper hand.

“I believe you are the sister of the late Mrs. Alwen Wilson Jones?” said the inspector. “We are investigating a possible suicide, and we are aware you will still be in shock and grief, and of course you have our every sympathy.”

He had spotted the travel brochures, and added sternly, “We are anxious to clear this up as quickly as possible, as there could well be ramifications of a criminal nature. I should be glad, therefore, if you would answer a few questions now, and then we can continue our discussion down at the police station.”

 

 

IN HIS SCRUFFY sitting room, Gus stood at the window, staring out at nothing very much. He had a great deal of thinking to do, but could not pin his mind down to tackling one of the several decisions he had decided must be made.

He looked down at Whippy, who, with the intuition of much-loved dogs, knew that he was troubled, and stood on her hind legs and licked his hand.

“Perhaps I should make a list?” he said to her, stroking her velvety head. “Ivy swears by a list, but in her case it is an aide-mémoire
.
Nothing wrong with my memory. In fact it is too good. I wouldn’t mind forgetting a few things. Anyway, Whippy, I’ll have a try at a list.”

The word “list” sounded a little like “
bis
cuits” to Whippy, and she looked hopefully at the old tin labelled “Your Faithful Friend.” “Later,” said Gus, “after we’ve had a walk. First, where’s my jotter?”

Armed with pen and paper, Gus began. One: had Enquire Within in any way caused the death of Alwen? If they had, he intended to wrap up the business at once. Two: if not, had she actually intended to die, or had it been an accident, as when old people forget how many pills they have taken and take a few more to be sure of a good night’s sleep?

He caught sight of someone passing his window, and knew it was Miriam Blake, come to offer him tea, supper, breakfast, a picnic in the woods, or anything else he might fancy. He got wearily to his feet, opened the door to her and said he was working hard on a difficult assignment at the moment. He would give her a buzz later, and went back to his list.

Three: if, as he suspected, Alwen had meant to commit suicide, what had been so overwhelmingly insupportable that this was the only way out? He gritted his teeth and faced this one squarely. Gambling. A daughter who had huge gambling debts and a ruthless casino-owning sister who cared for nothing but money. But was this really enough? Yes, he decided, remembering how many similar cases he had witnessed over the years. And, he had to admit, his own marriage had come to grief partly because of his own addiction.

And four: could he sustain his impulsive decision to offer advice and support to Bronwen Evans, enabling her to kick the gambling habit? What about her husband? He might not take kindly to Gus’s interference, as he would surely see it.

Whippy whimpered in sympathy as Gus put his head in his hands, temporarily defeated by the enormity of answering these questions. Then his phone rang.

“Hello? Gus? Deirdre here. Fancy a fish supper? I bought too much salmon from Kevin the Fish’s van this morning, so you’d be doing me a favour.”

How did she know? Gus said to himself. “Can’t think of anything better, Dee-Dee,” he said.

“Great. About six thirty? You can bring Whippy—if you must.”

Gus replaced the phone and looked down at his little dog. “We’ll convert her yet,” he said with a smile.

 

 

“WE NEED A meeting,” said Ivy. “Now the dust has settled. That Inspector Frobisher seems like a good man, and putting everything we know in his hands was the right thing to do.”

“Certainly was,” said Roy. “I was beginning to think we were getting in so deep we might all be murdered in our beds.”

“There’s murder and murder,” Ivy said enigmatically. “We know that from poor beleaguered Alwen. So,” she continued, “we need a meeting. I know Gus is all mixed up about the gambling side of it, and Deirdre is still smarting from being stood up by the Hon. Theo. She ought to know a leopard don’t change its spots. The big question is,” she continued with emphasis, “should we wrap up Enquire Within, forget about taking on any more cases, and think of something else to do? I think we’re all feeling a bit guilty about Alwen, perhaps done more harm than good. But no, don’t let’s talk about it now. Wait ’til the meeting.”

“What’s your real feeling about it, my love?” asked Roy.

Ivy thought for a couple of minutes. “Beasleys ain’t quitters, Roy,” she said, and he laughed delightedly.

 

 

GUS SET OFF for a walk with Whippy but had gone only a hundred yards along Hangman’s Row when his mobile rang.

“Is that Mr. Halfhide?” Gus did not recognise the man’s voice, and from habit he was about to deny that he knew anyone called Halfhide, when the caller continued. “It’s Trevor Evans here. I am Bronwen’s husband. Bronwen is the daughter of the late Mrs. Wilson Jones. . . .”

“I know,” said Gus. He could think of nothing more to say, and Trevor continued.

“This is rather a difficult call for me,” he said. “You must have heard rumours of the reason for Mrs. Jones’s death.”

“Suicide?” said Gus baldly.

“Possibly,” answered Trevor. “Well, as you can imagine, Bronwen is in a dreadful state. Blames herself, though goodness knows why.”

“Gambling?” said Gus, who was now filled with confidence at the thought of a fish supper with Deirdre.

There was a long pause, and Gus wondered if Trevor had ended the call. But then he said that the best person to answer that was Bronwen herself. He would put her on.

“Hello? Mr. Halfhide?”

“Gus.”

“Well, Gus, this is Bronwen Evans. Um, I was wondering whether I might come and see you? Well, the thing is, I need help, and I believe you might be the person who can do it.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Just something my aunt’s employees over at Measby said once. I remembered it, you see, because . . .”

As her voice tailed off, Gus cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Give me a few days,” he said, “and I’ll let you know. I need to sort out some things but should be more certain about my immediate movements by then.”

There was a choking sound from Bronwen, and Gus said she should cheer up. It was not the end of the world, though that’s how it might seem at the moment.

“I’m so scared that that’s how it seemed to my mother,” she blurted out, and ended the call.

 

 

KATYA WAS CLEANING out the room that had last been occupied by Alwen Jones, ready for another resident. Mrs. Spurling said she wanted everywhere to be sparkling and welcoming. “And don’t forget under the bed, please,” she added.

Kneeling on the floor, Katya felt something touch the end of the cleaning brush, and hooked it out. It was a letter, addressed in a neat hand to Bronwen Evans, and it had not been opened.

“It must have fallen down the side of the bed,” she said as she held out the letter to Miss Pinkney, who had come in bearing clean bed linen. They both looked at the small envelope as if it was radioactive.

“I must give it to Mrs. Spurling,” said Miss Pinkney, and took it gingerly from Katya.

“Or I could just make sure it gets to the person for whom it was intended,” the girl said.

Miss Pinkney stared at it for a moment, and then without a word, handed it back to Katya and walked away.

 

 

NEXT MORNING, GUS was surprised to see Bronwen Evans at his front gate. He watched her hesitate, then push open the gate and come in.

“Sorry to bother you,” she said. “I know you wanted a few days to think over what I asked. But I have just been given this, and . . .” “This” was an envelope, and Gus could see that she was fighting for self-control.

“Come in,” he said. “I’ll get some coffee.”

“No, no, please don’t trouble. I just wanted to be with somebody when I open it.”

Gus knew at once it must be from her mother, and wondered why she had come to him, and not to Bethan or Trevor. But then he realised that it was because he was
not
a family member. And because he had been a compulsive gambler. Like her.

“Sit down, then. Open it up.”

But she was all fingers and thumbs, and her hands shook so much that he took the envelope from her, slit it open with a knife and handed it back. “You don’t need to tell me what’s in it,” he said. “But go on, get it over with.”

She unfolded the sheet of paper covered on both sides with small, neat handwriting, and began to read. It was as if she had been turned to stone. For what seemed to Gus like several minutes, she sat without moving a muscle, her face drained of all colour. Then she shivered, and silently handed the letter to him.

“
My dearest daughter
,” he read, and asked if she was sure she wanted him to read it.

She nodded mutely, and he carried on.

Gus handed the letter back to her. He shook his head sadly. “If only she had waited,” he said, and took out his diary. “So can you come along tomorrow, and we’ll make a start?”

THE MOTORWAY WAS busy, and Max had been cursing the traffic for at least an hour. “What did you say?” he asked.

“I said, what’s that knocking noise,” replied Margaret.

“Which particular knocking noise?” asked Max. “This old banger’s full of knocking noises.” He laughed, and put his foot down harder on the accelerator.

“Don’t go too fast, for heaven’s sake,” Margaret said. “The last thing we want is to be caught speeding. No licence, no insurance, and from the look of that petrol gauge, not much fuel left.”

“We would’ve got going days ago if this old crate hadn’t packed up. Lucky I had a contact.”

“I wouldn’t rate him very highly as a motor mechanic,” Margaret said. “And for God’s sake watch out! That woman in front is all over the place.”

Planes were going over the motorway now, huge and close to the airport. “Not much further to go,” Max said, and then it happened. The car began to judder, and slowly the engine died.

They were in the fast lane, and Margaret groaned. “That’s it, then,” she said, as cars all round them ground to a halt and a police siren sounded louder and louder. “End of story. For you and me, anyway.”

Ivy Beasley may have been moved to assisted living, but she has more interest in assisting her new partners in an amateur-sleuth business. She teams up with Gus, a mysterious newcomer who can’t resist a little excitement even as he strives to keep his past secret, and her own cousin, a widow with time on her hands and money in her purse. Together they’re determined to solve a local murder . . .

 

In one of the houses on Hangman’s Row, Gus’s elderly neighbor has been found with a bread knife sticking out of her chest. Local gossip has it that there was no love lost between the victim and her daughter, but Ivy and her fellow sleuths soon discover no shortage of suspects—or secrets—in the small English village of Barrington . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

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—
Publishers Weekly

 

Lois Meade’s daughter was admittedly considering leaving her partner, Rob—but she never expected him to die from a tragic beating. Inspector Cowgill has a murder investigation on his hands, and once again he engages the assistance of the woman he respects above all others—Lois.

 

 

 

 

 

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