The Measby Murder Enquiry (8 page)

“I’VE THOUGHT OF a possible snag,” Deirdre said as she and Gus cruised along in her big cream-coloured car. Gus was always a nervous passenger with Deirdre, irrationally anxious in case he suddenly vomited on the cream leather seats, or had Whippy’s best on his shoes.

Now he looked at her in alarm. “What snag?” he said, rather more sharply than he intended.

“Oh, it’s only a possible,” she said, turning to smile at him. “Just my enquiring mind churning away.”

“Go on, then. What is it?”

“Well, if we’re looking for a wedding notice and hopefully photograph, we might be heading for the wrong newspaper. Most girls are married in their hometown, not their husband’s. We don’t know where Alwen lived before she was wed, do we?”

Gus was silent, trying hard to remember if Alwen Wilson Jones had said anything about her early life and times. He thought not. She was unusually reticent about anything to do with her past. All they knew was that she had been a head teacher in Thornwell Primary School until her retirement. She had never talked about her husband, and had in fact deliberately avoided mention of him.

“Do you remember her saying anything directly about him? And has she ever actually denied having anything to do with the brewery Joneses?” Deirdre said.

“Says she was distantly connected, I think. We must ask Ivy and Roy. They see more of her than we do. Maybe their walk to the shop yesterday will have turned up something. Anyway, we’re nearly there now, so we might as well have a look in the archives.”

 

 

THE RECEPTIONIST IN the newspaper office was helpful and interested in their request. “Looking for William Jones’s wedding, are we?”

Gus nodded. “It would be about forty years ago, we guess,” he said. “Sorry we can’t be more specific.”

“Don’t worry. The Joneses are a well-known local family, always in the news, so we’re sure to find it. Who did he marry?”

“Well, possibly it was a girl called Alwen Wilson. We don’t know if she was a Thornwell girl. We just hoped that because it was the brewery family, there might be a mention or a photograph. Could have been quite a big wedding.”

The receptionist, a pleasant-faced woman in her forties, said that this was not necessarily the case. “Now, if you’d asked for George Jones’s wedding, that would be easy! But his brother William was always in the background. Seemed to like it that way. Some said he was actually the clever one, too, clever by half, said some. But George had a better business head. Anyway, I mustn’t stand here gossiping. There’s a queue forming! If you’d like to sit down over there and help yourselves to coffee, I’ll see what we can turn up.”

Bronwen Evans had just joined the queue. She had decided to comb the jobs vacant pages in back numbers of the newspaper, and as she stood waiting, she was sure she heard her father’s name mentioned at the desk. She watched Gus and Deirdre cross to the coffee machine and was certain she had seen one or both somewhere before. Why were they enquiring about her father? She could tell them all they needed to know, but she certainly did not intend to. Maybe the new brewery owners had commissioned a history of the brewery? She could help with that, but saw no reason why she should assist in glorifying a company that had just sacked her! The history idea had occurred to her once or twice. Good public relations, she had said to Uncle George, but he had scoffed at the idea. Everybody knows the story of Jones Brothers Best, he had insisted, and turned down her suggestion.

“Good morning, Mrs. Evans,” the receptionist said. “Can I help you?”

“I doubt it,” Bronwen said, “unless you can tell me who is enquiring about my father?”

The receptionist offered to recall Gus and Deirdre, but Bronwen said very firmly that it would not be necessary. Then she said that after all she would not take up the receptionist’s time and walked off. As she left the building, she glanced back, but could see nothing now but a group of people standing in reception. Never mind, she said to herself, I can ask mother. She would want to know, anyway.

Unaware that their conversation had been overheard, Gus and Deirdre settled down with their coffee. “How’s the romance going?” he said, making it sound like a joke, though he was quite serious.

“You mean Theo? Oh, he’s fine, thanks. Great fun to be with. Still a roving bachelor at heart.”

“Not intending to settle down, then?”

“Who knows?” Deirdre shrugged. She hadn’t thought that far, and certainly had not imagined herself as mistress of Barrington Hall. She was much too comfortable in Tawny Wings to consider life in a draughty old mansion with few mod cons and a five-mile trek from the kitchen to the dining room.

“I hear he’s approached little Katya to take on the housekeeper job,” Gus said casually.

“What? Ridiculous idea. The girl would have no idea how to run an English stately home!” Deirdre’s voice grew louder as she considered the news.

“Hardly stately,” said Gus quietly. “Not compared with some. Anyway, I think Katya is a very intelligent little thing. And her English has improved no end. She’d probably be a great asset to the Hon. Theo with his posh friends.”

“Huh!” said Deirdre, and relapsed into a sulky silence.

Neither said anything more until the receptionist called them back. “Miss Upson will be down shortly,” she said. “I think she’s found something for you.”

 

 

ALWEN WILSON JONES had elected to stay in bed. “I’m sure I have a cold coming,” she said. “It may even be flu. I was shivering all night,” she complained to Katya.

“Oh, you poor thing! I will find a nice soft blanket to put over your bed.”

“You are so kind. Do you like working here? Why don’t you sit and talk to me for a while? I am still feeling a little lonely after leaving my own home and neighbours, and the grandchildren popping in . . .”

Katya was used to seeing old people in tears. This place must seem like their last stop before the grave, she thought. No wonder the poor old thing is sad. “Is your daughter coming in to see you this week?” she said, hoping to cheer her up.

“Bethan phoned yesterday,” Alwen said. “She’s got to see to all the beginning of term things this week. But she promised to come in next week, and bring the children after school.”

“Oh good! That’s something to look forward to, then,” Katya said soothingly. She perched on the edge of a chair. “Mrs. Spurling doesn’t like us to waste time gossiping,” she said, “but she’s gone to the wholesale food place, so I can stay for a chat. Why don’t you tell me about your early days. You were a teacher, I believe?”

Alwen nodded, and dabbed at her face with a tissue. “Yes, for many years,” she said.

“And your husband, too?”

“No, he was an accountant. Tell me about your family in Poland,” she added, making it sound like an order. Katya duly obliged. She loved to talk about her family, and by the time ten minutes had passed, Alwen was much cheered. In fact, she said she felt so much better she thought she would get up.

“Ivy and Roy will miss me at lunchtime otherwise,” she said. “They’re an odd pair, but quite friendly. At least, Roy is friendly. Not so sure about Ivy Beasley.”

“Oh, don’t be deceived by Miss Beasley’s stern face,” Katya replied with a smile. “Her heart is made of gold, I am sure.”

Alwen did not comment, being far from sure, but asked Katya to fetch her clean laundry. “I shall have a bath, and be quite restored,” she said.

Katya left her then, and went back to the kitchen, where she told her friend that she thought Mrs. Wilson Jones would settle in well, once she and Miss Beasley had become firm friends.

 

 

DEIRDRE AND GUS decided to have lunch in town so that they could discuss what they had discovered at the newspaper offices.

“I never guessed anything like this,” Deirdre said. “I’d thought maybe William Jones had an affair with his secretary and Alwen divorced him, something like that.”

“No, this is much more interesting,” Gus said. “Especially when you remember that the poor old thing has possibly been defrauded of twenty thousand pounds. Who was this mysterious financial adviser who persuaded her to part with it? And what is the real reason she won’t go to the police? I mean, Deirdre, if you think about it, a possible spat with your daughter wouldn’t stop you bringing in the cops, would it? I know you’re loaded, bless you, but
twenty thousand pounds
!”

Deirdre nodded, not denying that she was loaded. In fact, it had occurred to her once or twice that Theo might be after an injection of cash into his impoverished estate, but as she had no intention of letting him get his hands on her money, she had pushed the idea aside. Now she said that however much more she had in the kitty, twenty thousand was a lot by anybody’s standards. “Have you got that photocopy the woman gave you? We’ll get Ivy and Roy together this afternoon and tell them what we’ve discovered.”

“And meantime, I’ll give my old colleague a ring and see if I can find out more about that strange case in the village near Oakbridge. You remember, the one where the man was found dead at the foot of his stairs. Extortion was mentioned, and it might be connected with a racket working the territory in East Anglia. That kind of thing can lead to violence, as my former colleague was suggesting.”

Deirdre made a face. “Very nasty!” she said. “Wouldn’t want that happening to our Alwen, would we?”

“La Spurling and Miss Pinkney would be a match for any midnight intruder,” Gus said, laughing.

Deirdre did not laugh. “They’re not there at night, Gus. And I reckon it would be child’s play to get into Springfields under the cover of darkness.”

“But it’s all alarmed from top to toe!” Gus protested.

“Alarms were made to be foiled,” Deirdre said. “I lost half my jewellery when a couple of evil professionals got into Tawny Wings when I was away. Nowhere is a hundred percent safe, if you ask me. . . .”

“As Ivy says. So we will ask her. Come on, give her a bell and tell her we’re on our way.”

ONCE MORE THE interview room had been commandeered by Enquire Within, and Ivy had imperiously ordered tea for four to be brought in immediately.

“You’d think she owned the place!” Mrs. Spurling had complained to Miss Pinkney, who, although always obedient, privately loved the idea of this extraordinary variation on the dull routine of Springfields. It made a welcome change from well-meaning volunteers organising sing-songs of old tunes, and wary-eyed children performing carols at Christmas. Even the whist and bingo faltered at times. But who in their right minds would want to play whist and bingo every day? And more residents were in their right minds than Mrs. Spurling cared to acknowledge.

“So what is this important new revelation?” Ivy said when they were settled.

“You tell,” said Deirdre to Gus. “With all your experience in the field of undercover enquiries, you’ll do it better than me.”

Gus looked at her closely. Was there sarcasm in her tone? No, surely not. Just a little green-eyed envy, he told himself, and began.

“They were very helpful at the newspaper archive,” he said, “although there was not that much about William Jones. Not at first, anyway. Much more about George and his achievements. George took care of that, apparently, being a brilliant self-publicist. No, over the years there was a mention of William’s coming-of-age party; his success at university, listed alongside others; and then the notice of his engagement.” He paused for dramatic effect.

“Who to?” Roy said, thinking it was time to get to the point.

“One Alwen Rosemary Wilson, of the parish of Oakbridge in the county of Suffolk.”

Gus leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and looked triumphantly at Ivy.

“Yes, well, we guessed that much,” she said, refusing to be impressed. “But what about the rest? The marriage, for a start. Were they actually married? Lots of engagements get broken off. And if they were, what after that?”