The Measby Murder Enquiry (5 page)

“Not here it’s not, my son,” old John had said. “Have your wicked way with whomever you please, but marry a sensible girl of good breeding.”

“Deirdre’s not a dog!” Theo had exploded. “And I’m of age, and make my own choice. In any case,” he had added, suddenly alarmed by the unsmiling face in front of him, “I have no intention of marrying anyone at the moment.”

“That’s all right, then, but just remember what I say. The Roussel estate is a valuable inheritance. I would hate to see you forfeit it.”

And so Theo had left it too late to make up his mind, and Deirdre had without warning announced her engagement to Bert Bloxham, a young and ambitious car salesman and garage owner in Thornwell. The Bloxhams had done extremely well. Deirdre and Bert together were a pigeon pair, and both worked hard to achieve a very satisfactory financial and civic status in the town.

Although subsequently they had known that they were living in the same village, Theo and Deirdre had not at first renewed their friendship, but when circumstances changed and Deirdre became a widow, they had found the bond still held, and a pleasant middle-aged affair had begun.

Now Theo looked at his watch. Five minutes to go. Those rather dreadful people from the brand-new Dower House were always first. Their luxury dwelling had been built on the site of the old one and at one stage became the subject of a planning controversy. The original farmhouse had been perfectly sound, but mysteriously collapsed in the middle of one dark winter’s night. Neighbours said they had heard bulldozing noises in the small hours but had not liked to interfere.

Sure enough, the doorbell sounded, and Theo heard light steps going to answer it. He was ready with the smiling welcome, and was once more delighted that he had asked Katya from Springfields to help out with dispensing the cocktail fare. She was so pretty! Such an asset! Ah, now here they came, Mr. and Mrs. Dower House, and he could not for the life of him remember their names.

 

 

THE PARTY WAS in full swing by the time Deirdre arrived. She never arrived on time, considering that it was a waste of time making an entrance if there was no one there to appreciate it. This evening, she was entirely in black. A slim black dress with absolutely no frills, and worn with no jewellery except for a very sparkly diamond flower brooch which Bert had given her for her fortieth birthday. With plain high-heeled shoes that showed off her still exceptional legs, and hair shining, every curl in place, she was a picture to behold. Stupid old Pa! Theo thought, as he went to greet her. She is every inch the elegant matriarch. We could have made such a splendid couple, and by now there would be tribes of children around us and the estate would be secure.

“Wotcha, Theo,” Deirdre said, deliberately puncturing the image. She was no fool, and knew exactly why he had failed to pop the question all those years ago. Well, they were having fun now, and without tensions that would probably have scuppered the marriage.

“All going well?” Deirdre continued, looking around the room and noting the delightful Katya dishing out drinks. He’d never change, she decided, and that was another good reason for having chosen dear old Bert.

“Much better now you’ve arrived. You are looking ravishing, as always,” he said gallantly.

“Thanks. Have you got a minute after this lot have gone?”

“More than a minute for you,” he said, smiling lasciviously.

“Come off it, Theo,” she said. “It’s a serious matter. So stay sober, you loose-living old gent. And you can get me a glass of what passes for champagne. At least it’ll see me through tales of high jinks on horseback. Anybody interesting here?”

Theo went off chuckling. What would he do without her? A sudden picture in his mind of his tenant Augustus Halfhide with his hand confidently on Deirdre’s shoulder appeared before him. He’d have to watch that carefully. He supposed he could always evict the man, but he’d have to think of a better reason than lustful jealousy!

At last the Dower House pair departed, full of promises of future invitations for Theo to see their lovely home. Lovely home, indeed! Nothing could be better than the lovely old farmhouse, restored for a previous Grannie Roussel. Theo had sold it at a time when he urgently needed cash to keep the mounting debts down to a reasonable level, and was now paying the price.

“Phew! I thought they’d never go,” he said to Deirdre. “Why don’t you go up to my study and we’ll have peace and quiet for a while. I’ll get Katya to make us some coffee.”

“Better let her go,” Deirdre said firmly. “She’ll be wanted back at Springfields. And Noreen will want to go home, too. I’ll make the coffee, and we can have the house to ourselves.”

“For the serious discussion?” Theo said, drawing her close into his arms.

“That as well,” she said, and burst out laughing in the uninhibited way he loved.

 

 

SETTLED IN A comfortable armchair in Theo’s study, Deirdre opened the subject of Mrs. Wilson Jones. She intended only to see what Theo knew about the family in general. Gus had said it was necessary at the moment to keep to themselves all mention of the fraud.

“Ivy’s got a new resident at Springfields,” she said casually. “A Mrs. Alwen Jones. Ex-schoolteacher, apparently, and looks like being a rival for Ivy. Forthright woman, used to being obeyed. Loud voice. You can imagine.”

Theo laughed. “Only too well!” he said. “Had one of those at my prep school. Foiled many a budding revolutionary. . . . Miss Chinnery, that was her name.”

“Well, this one is Jones. Common name, but you might know the family in Thornwell?”

“What? The brewery Joneses? Certainly do! At one time they were one of the most important families in the town. Jolly good beer, too. The old boy, Grandfather Jones, was a pillar of the Methodist Church, you know. He made sure with hefty donations that they overlooked his connection with strong drink! He was mayor, of course, and a genuine philanthropist. Youth guilds, Boy Scouts, sports clubs, all that. Gave land for playing fields, built a new church hall. Made his mark in Thornwell, and is still held up as an example to miserly businessmen in town today. And now can we go to bed?” he added. “Duty done?”

“Not yet,” Deirdre said. “What about the present generation. What are they like? Who was Mrs. Wilson Jones’s husband? She claims to be a widow, but I always read the local obituaries and don’t remember any Jones appearing. She also says she was only distantly connected to the brewery lot.”

“Ah, now I have to think,” Theo said, sighing and looking at his watch. He was hungry, and not just for supper. “There were two brothers, George and William. George inherited the brewery, and has run it ever since his father died. There’s talk now of a takeover, so I suppose he’s intending to retire.”

“He’s dead,” Deirdre said. “Recently popped his clogs. In the local paper.”

“Ah. Right. Yes. So, if this Mrs. Jones is a widow, but not of George, who’s only recently died—her husband could have been William. She’d have been very closely connected if he was the one. Can’t remember much about him. I think he was a solicitor or accountant, or some such. Maybe financial director of the brewery, or something like that? You could find out easily enough. Now can we go to bed?”

Deirdre shook her head. “Did William marry a Wilson woman?”

“And did she drop poison in his beer? And was there a scandal with one of the bottle-washers in the brewery? I know your game, my lady,” he added, rising to his feet and taking her hand. “Enquiring within? Well, I’ll think some more, and let you know if I come up with any juicy morsels. And now, off to bed!”

Much later, as they say in romantic fiction, Deirdre awoke from a pleasant doze.

“Theo,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Are you hungry?”

“Um, hungry, yes. Capable, not sure.”

“No, fool. Shall we raid the larder? I could murder a ham sandwich.”

GUS POURED HIMSELF a cup of coffee and opened the last letter of a pile of junk mail. He had not slept well. Images from the past had floated repeatedly into his half sleep. A rain-soaked city street in total darkness, with shadowy figures scuttling from doorway to doorway. Nights spent in a shepherd’s hut halfway up a Greek mountain. Bare rooms furnished with dubious-looking recording devices and unshaded lightbulbs.

At half past three, sweating with fear, he had drunk half a glass of water and reached for a book. He needed something to redirect his thoughts but knew from bitter experience that this did not always work. If the book was a spy thriller, his favourite reading, his dreams would be a jumble of experiences, and he would wake up doubly exhausted, unable to sort out fiction from reality.

Coffee helped to improve the morning, he now decided, as he spooned brown sugar into his breakfast mug and downed the strong brew. He slit open the envelope. At least this letter was addressed in handwriting, but it was familiar and unwelcome. He read it quickly. It was brief and to the point. On a matter of personal obligation, would he remit the aforementioned sum by the end of the month without fail. Or else.

He had met his persecutor years ago, and he had seemed a good sort, reliable and trustworthy, but he had turned out to be none of these things. He had led Gus into a world of gambling and deceit, from which he had still not broken free. This was his last unsettled debt, but with the relentless accumulation of interest at a high rate, it had now mounted to a total which Gus had no hope of finding.

His telephone rang. “Shut up!” he shouted, his nerves jagged. Why had he thought living in a remote Suffolk village would be peaceful seclusion? It continued to ring, and he finally answered it.

“Hello? Oh, good morning, Ivy.”

“What’s up with you, Augustus?” Ivy said.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course there’s something wrong. I am not stupid.”

“Sorry, Ivy. Didn’t sleep well. I’ll tell you later.”

“Unquiet mind,” she said, more perceptively than she knew. “Nothing like a clear conscience for peaceful nights.”

“Yes, well. Anyway, had you something special to ask me? Has Alwen Jones gone into a decline?”

“No, but you will, if you don’t get over here in good time. You’ve not forgotten
again
your talk with old Mrs. Worth? Mrs. Spurling will have your guts for garters if you don’t turn up.”

Gus had forgotten, but now he assured Ivy he would be there on the dot of eleven o’clock. He had to pick up bread and milk from the village shop but would come on from there. He only hoped he had the energy to keep up a one-sided conversation.

“I’ll come to see her with you, if you like. Mrs. Worth won’t have any idea who I am, or you, for that matter, but any visitor is better than none. See you later, then. And don’t be late.” Gus groaned. He desperately wanted another coffee but dared not risk the heart flutters and racing pulse that would inevitably go with it.

 

 

THE SHOP WAS crowded with children who had the day off from school because there had been a power failure. They were excited and noisy with the heady knowledge that they had an unexpected day off. The new shopkeeper, James, smiled at Gus over the heads of milling children. James knew he had no hope of spotting the odd chocbar finding its illegal way into a jacket pocket, and allowed for this in his budgeting. He was learning fast.

“Form a queue, you lot,” he said good-humouredly. “Now, girls first. Where’s your manners, boys? Susan Rampling, were you first?”

Gus found his milk and a brown loaf, and waited his turn, filling in time by reading the front pages of the newspapers on the stand by the door. The nationals were full of economic doom and gloom, and he moved on to the Thornwell morning paper. This was usually good for an entertaining story.

Sure enough, the brewery story still made headlines. The takeover had been completed, and the new giant brewers were promising that nothing would change.

Inevitably there would be redundancies, but this would be achieved in the most sympathetic way possible. Early retirement, reallocation to other allied companies, that sort of thing, said a spokeswoman. Gus saw her name and peered more closely. Mrs. Bronwen Evans. Bronwen? Wasn’t that Alwen Jones’s daughter’s name? The clever one, the one Alwen had positively ruled out as confidante?

“Your turn at last, Gus!” James called out. “Sorry about the wait. It’s best to get rid of them as quickly as possible, before they filch the entire stock of sweeties. Hope you’re not in a hurry?”

“As a matter of fact, I do have to be at Springfields by eleven.” Gus glanced at the big wall clock behind James. “Still five minutes to go. I’ll just have these, please. Then I’ll be in later for more supplies. Oh, and have you any idea what I can take a poor old thing with few faculties left?”

James did not hesitate. “Juicy Jellies,” he said. “Always acceptable. Fastest selling item in the shop. And when you bear in mind my customers’ average age, I rather dread the first packet put into my own shaking hand.”