The Blackwoods Farm Enquiry (An Ivy Beasley Mystery) (7 page)

DEIRDRE HAD BEEN
much occupied since Friday, thinking about Mrs. Winchen Blatch and her life since the departure of her lover. “Lover” was probably the right word, she was sure, and when this younger man came into her life, teasing her out of her widowhood and changing her life, it must have seemed like a miracle. And when the miracle did not last, her new world of love and affection came to a cruel end. It was not surprising that she reverted to her old ways.

The telephone rang, and Deirdre arose from her solitary breakfast table to answer it. It was Gus, and she was determined to be especially nice to him.

“To the hospital? Well, yes, I suppose so. Is she still in there? They hope she will go home tomorrow, after the doctor has signed her off. Why did they ask you to go in?”

Gus was sitting with his feet up on his sofa, reclining back on a cushion. “Obvious, my dear,” he said. “I was with you soon after you found her. And a man of my charm and winning ways is the obvious choice. But no, Deirdre love. They reckon I must have seen her around, at least. She has no friends or family, apparently. James at the shop suggested me, as a likely character to bring her out of her trauma. God knows why, but there it is. And I thought immediately of you, as I do frequently. So will you come? I could pick you up about two o’clock.”

He said a fond farewell, and then got to his feet. He looked at his watch, and saw that he had more than four hours before he needed to pick up Deirdre. Plenty of time to walk up to Blackwoods Farm and have a snoop around. If the hospital was intending to send her home tomorrow, there would surely be some swift cleaning work necessary, something he was sure Deirdre could organise. He set off with his small dog, Whippy, on her lead, across the Green and over towards the shop, where a gang of twelve-year-old boys yelled obscenities at him. Whippy broke away from him and approached the boys, who immediately became warm human beings, making an excessive fuss of her.

I suppose there’s a moral there somewhere, thought Gus, but for the moment he could not think of one. On then, and with Whippy returned to him, he walked up Manor Road, and came very soon to Blackwoods Farm.

The wind was sharp, and the previously blue sky clouded over as he approached the building. At first sight it looked completely derelict, and Gus’s heart sank. But then he noticed new paint on some of the windows and doors around the back of the house. Perhaps Mrs. Blatch had continued to make some improvements. Inside was what mattered, and Gus took the route through the dairy and into the kitchen, where he looked around without much hope.

But after half an hour or so, he had made some notes on what could be done to make it habitable. She would need only the kitchen and bathroom, one sitting room downstairs and a comfortable bedroom upstairs. He was pleased to find that the stairs were solid and safe, and when he pushed open the doors of the bathroom, lavatory and the biggest bedroom, he reckoned that with the help of a good cleaning service, they could work wonders.

The big bedroom had been cleared of traces of the accident, and Gus opened all the windows to admit gusts of chilly wind. He stood looking out at the road which led to the Manor House, and suddenly heard a noise behind him. He turned around quickly, but could see nothing. Then Whippy began to whimper and whine, looking fixedly at the door.

Gus strode over to the landing which connected all the bedrooms, and sniffed. Cigarette smoke? He sniffed again. Yes, that was it. Or perhaps a cigar? Anyway, someone had been in behind him, and was having a smoke somewhere in the building.

It could have been a homeless person making use of the house whilst it was empty. Getting in had been easy enough. But homeless persons do not usually smoke expensive cigars, even small ones. He opened first one door and then another, until he came to a half landing with one closed door at the end of the short passageway.

The smoke smell was stronger now, and he had a shiver of unease. He knocked. No reply, but a rush of cold air passed him. Again he knocked, but there was no response, so he turned the handle and pushed open the door. The room was empty, with its one long window, almost reaching the floor, standing open. He walked swiftly over, and looked down to the yard beneath. Then he noticed the fire escape, leading to the ground below. The door of the cage at the foot of the escape was open.

Taking a deep breath, Gus perched on the edge of a neatly made bed. There were signs of occupancy all around. A small cigar, half smoked, but black and cold, had been stubbed out in a saucer.

Had someone been living here, using the fire escape as entrance and exit? Had he been living here all the time, and keeping his head down? Perhaps her lodger had returned, needing somewhere to hide. The dark clouds were overhead now, and a sudden burst of heavy rain beat down on the yard outside, sending hens scuttling for shelter and forming instant puddles and streams rushing out into the road. He closed the window, and decided he had seen quite enough. He needed Deirdre’s commonsense reaction to all of this, and he made his way downstairs and out into the real world in Manor Road.

• • •

“A FIRE ESCAPE?”
asked Deirdre, as they drove into Thornwell to visit Mrs. Blatch in the General Hospital. “That’s unusual, isn’t it, in a domestic building like that?”

Gus nodded. “But very useful for our mystery lodger. If it was his room, it was very neat and tidy, but he had left a smouldering cigar. Not the most sensible thing to do in a house full of old beams and rafters.”

“Turn right here,” Deirdre said. “We can park on the roadside. I’ve spent hours trying to find a place in the car park. And you don’t have to pay here.”

They walked into the hospital reception, and were directed to a lift. “First on the left, down the corridor we call the street, and you’ll find Roussel Ward at the end.”

“Must have been a philanthropic ancestor of Theo,” said Deirdre.

Gus snorted. “Pity he didn’t pass down his taste for philanthropy to our present Roussel.
He
could start with reducing my rent! Daylight robbery for that hovel.”

“Talking of hovels,” said Deirdre, “we must report what you found out this morning. It will surely affect her home-going tomorrow. Ah, here we are. In you go, Gus, and announce your charming self.”

• • •

HAVING ESTABLISHED THEIR
bona fides, they found Roussel Ward and hesitated at the entrance.

“Can I help?” said a young nurse.

“We’re looking for Mrs. Blatch,” said Gus.

Deirdre, meanwhile, had looked around the ward, but could recognise none of the old ladies, most of them asleep.

“The bed in the corner,” said the nurse quietly. “We’d be very glad if you could get some response from her. Gently, of course. But your voices might bring some recognition. I am afraid the poor lady had a terrible accident.”

They tiptoed down the ward, aware of one or two pairs of eyes following them. Then a voice spoke loudly across to them.

“You’ll get nothing out of ’er! She’s away with the fairies, that one.”

“Thank you,” said Deirdre politely, and took Gus’s arm. “Come on, let’s find the old dear. I shall recognise her.”

“Let’s do five minutes and then scarper,” whispered Gus.

The bed in the corner was almost as flat as if nobody were in it. Only the grey head on the pillow disturbed its pristine appearance. The nurse drew up two chairs, one each side of the bed, and they sat down. Deirdre saw two pale hands resting on the cover, and gently covered one with her own.

“Mrs. Blatch,” she said quietly. “Mrs. Bloxham and Mr. Halfhide are here to see you.”

An eyelid flickered.

“Hello, Eleanor,” said Gus. “I hope you don’t mind my using your Christian name? Mrs. Winchen Blatch is a bit of a mouthful.”

Another flicker. Then her eyes opened. Deirdre held her breath, and then Gus said in a loud, chatty voice, “Shame you fell over, my dear. Still, old age is a bugger, isn’t it!”

A strange noise came from Eleanor Winchen Blatch. After a few seconds, Deirdre realised what it was. The poor old thing was trying to laugh!

“Gus!” she said. “You’ll offend the other old dears.”

“Not likely,” said Mrs. Blatch in a much firmer voice. “Rough lot in here. Now then, young man, help me up on these pillows. I don’t know what I’m doing in bed in the middle of the day, anyway.” She added, “What day of the week is it?”, struggled and looked around her. “Where is this place? Looks like a hospital ward to me.”

Gus found it easy to lift her thin frame into a sitting position, and Deirdre went off to tell the nurse Mrs. Winchen Blatch was awake, and demanding food and drink.

MONDAY MORNING’S ENQUIRE
Within meeting was well under way, and Ivy was in good form. “Do you really think, Gus dear,” she said, “that it was your personal magnetism that woke Mrs. Blatch from her coma? Or has it occurred to you that she might have been conscious all along, and was just having a comfortable rest at the expense of ratepayers like you and me?”

Gus bristled. “I’m sure there was no doubt that Mrs. Blatch was seriously hurt. It is surely something to be glad about that she has been so strong and survived. And, may I add, the ward sister, or whatever they call them now, was amazed. She said it was the quickest recovery she had seen in a long time.”

“There you are then!” said Ivy triumphantly.

“But Ivy,” persisted Deirdre, “I think it is best to accept that Mrs. Blatch was woken by Gus’s cheery voice. I was there, and I saw her reaction. Granted it could have been the next man who spoke to her, but it wasn’t. It was Gus, and she was very grateful when she realised what had happened to her.” Deirdre was on the defensive, and Gus put his hand on her arm.

“Very well,” said Ivy. “But I’ve heard tales about that particular woman when she was younger, flaunting herself about in the company of a much younger man. You can’t trust that kind of woman.”

Seeing things becoming something of an impasse, Deirdre said brightly, “Time for me to make tea. With milk and sugar, Ivy?”

“No sugar, thank you. I’m sweet enough already,” Ivy answered.

“Indeed you are, dearest,” said Roy, “but I think we should continue to concentrate on the return of Mrs. Blatch to her house. The least we can do is to make sure it has been cleaned and warmed throughout.”

“Done,” said Ivy. “Deirdre organised everything yesterday, and the cleaners went in this morning. They said the door at the end of the passage leading to the little room where Gus said he found a cigar stub was locked. So they left that alone. Everywhere else is habitable, though badly in need of a fresh coat of paint and some curtain laundering.”

“How about food?”

Ivy nodded. “Dealt with,” she said. “Deirdre went to Waitrose and stocked up. At her own expense, I might add. I tried to get her to claim from social services, but she hasn’t, have you, Deirdre?”

“Not yet,” Deirdre said. “We’ll see how things turn out.”

“Well,” continued Ivy, “the Blatch woman can’t expect to be subsidised forever. Rumour is once more rife that she has a hoard of gold stashed under the floorboards.”

“That will surely have been assessed and sorted out before she leaves hospital,” said Gus. “But I did volunteer to keep a friendly eye on her. The police will be investigating her accident, but the last thing she said was that she wanted us to continue searching for evidence of an intruder. She now thinks, apparently, that her late husband’s appearance was probably a bad dream. But she can’t shake off the threat that somebody wants to kill her, and might try again. The police have probably put it down to demented wanderings.”

“Mm,” said Ivy, and then was silent. Her silence was eloquent, and Deirdre said that if Ivy did not want to be part of this investigation, she and Gus were willing to carry on alone.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Deirdre! Of course I want to be part of it. But I think a little caution is in order when dealing with the likes of Mrs. Winchen Blatch. We are dealing with an old lady who is clearly confused. But if having us on the case helps with her recovery, then I suggest we go ahead.”

“You may be right, Ivy dear,” said Roy. “But perhaps we could make a polite call, when we go up to the Manor House College? You remember you have books to collect for your course work.”

“Why not? It sounds like a good idea, Roy. We will take her unawares, and see if she can shed any more light on this attacker of hers. We’ll go this afternoon. She should be home by then. We can also remind her of our fees, though I have to admit she did give us a hefty down payment. But we’re not a philanthropic institution, and she needs to remember that.”

• • •

“DO YOU FANCY
going into town for lunch, Gus? I feel the need to get out of Barrington for a bit. I’ll treat you. Shall we go to the Royal Oak?”

Deirdre felt the morning’s work had been unproductive. Ivy’s very evident dislike of Mrs. Blatch depressed her, and she felt in need of cheering up.

“Fine,” said Gus. “But I’ll treat
you
for once. A small insurance policy matured and paid me a few pennies this month. So I don’t have to be a kept man. Yes, let’s go and order a huge lunch and then go back to your place to chew over the facts that we now know about Mrs. Eleanor Winchen Blatch.”

“I think I like her, you know,” said Deirdre slowly. “She’s got spirit, recovering from a really nasty accident. As for that, I know what I think,” she added.

“What? That the great god Zeus came down in a tongue of flame, and when she resisted him he knocked her about a bit and then went back up to Mount Olympus in a sulk?”

Deirdre laughed. “Something like that,” she said. “So is it lunch in town? Then we can call in on Mrs. Blatch on the way back. If we go reasonably early we won’t bump into Ivy and Roy.”

“And I can see if her secret lodger is back. A whiff of cigar smoke will give him away.”

“Do you think it might be him who attacked her? If he
is
there, and you are right, you can hardly go in with all guns blazing. It’s never a good thing to interfere between man and wife, or partner, or whatever. Come on, let’s go, and we can talk about it over lunch.”

• • •

AT SPRINGFIELDS, THE
customary quiet afternoon was disturbed by an argument between Ivy and Roy. He felt like forgoing their usual nap, and was attempting to persuade Ivy that it would be a shame to waste the sunshine. “The forecast is rain approaching later on, so why don’t we go out now? What do you think, my dear?” he said.

Ivy kissed his cheek. “I hate to disagree, but I think you and I should go upstairs and have our usual nap, maybe a bit shorter than usual, and then set off for the Manor House, calling on Mrs. Blatch on our way. I do not intend to stay there more than a few minutes, since she seems to have half the county running about after her.”

“Oh, come now, Ivy,” protested Roy, laughing. “I am sure she will be glad to see a friendly face.”

“Mm,” said Ivy, and led the way up to her room, where she and Roy tried to relax but failed dismally.

“Ivy? Are you awake?” asked Roy quietly.

“Uh-huh,” said Ivy. “Shall we get up and go?”

“Sun’s still out. I think we should be off.”

“Right. Best put a warm coat on, just in case.”

• • •

AS THEY APPROACHED
Blackwoods Farm, Ivy noticed a large cream-coloured car parked outside. “Isn’t that Deirdre’s?” she said. “Looks like Mrs. Blatch has got a visitor with a friendly face already. If not two,” she added, noticing Gus’s hat on the backseat.

“I suppose we should call in on our way back. Too many visitors at once will not be a good thing,” Roy said.

“Also,” said Ivy, measuring her pace against Roy’s trundle speeding up. “Also, by that time Deirdre will have sorted out any lingering problems, and we shall be able to get away after a couple of minutes.”

“Do I gather you are not keen to visit this poor woman, Ivy?”

“You gather right. I have already said that if I thought there was anything I could do for her, then of course I would be there like a shot. We shall find out, shan’t we?”

“How about Enquire Within? As a member of the agency, don’t you think that having taken on the case, we should do all we can to solve it? And in my book, that includes visiting the most important witness, Mrs. Blatch.”

“Thanks for the lecture, Roy. And yes, of course you are right. We will go there on our way back and see if we can pick up any vital clues. Sorry I’m such a miserable old grouch. It’s just that there’s something false about the woman. I can’t put my finger on it at the moment, but maybe if we call I shall be able to grasp it.”

“That’s my Ivy.” Roy sounded relieved, and turned into the Manor House drive with a flourish.

Peter Rubens was waiting to greet them, having seen their slow progress up the gravelled drive. It was not good for Roy’s wheels, but they moved steadily on and were directed round to the side door, where Roy could park and follow Ivy into the high master’s study.

“Lovely to see you again,” Rubens enthused. “Now, before we start, I have asked our new creative writing tutor to join us again. We have a daunting-looking pile of what we call ‘units’ for you. Each unit requires a written or typed piece of work from you, Ivy. I hope I may call you Ivy? And there will be tutorials three times a week. This is a trial programme which we have devised, and will be adjusted according to how you are getting on, so that we shall have good feedback for our future day students.”

There was a knock on the door, and Rubens called, “Come in, Rickwood!”

Ivy looked him over and decided he seemed personable enough. She then ignored him and took up the conversation where they had left off.

“Does that mean that I can argue with what you think of my work?” said Ivy, who had clear memories of arguing with Miss Biggs, her village school headmistress. “No stripes across the hands with a ruler, I hope?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Smith. “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

Ivy shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. It all sounds tickety-boo to me. Which days are tutorials?”

“Monday, Wednesday, Friday. I hope these are convenient? We have a number of other students already, and subsequent applications have been accepted. We thought you would enjoy working with other students on the same material. Bouncing ideas to and fro, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t,” said Ivy. “I don’t bounce.”

Rickwood Smith smothered a laugh with his hand, turning it into a cough.

Rubens sighed, running his podgy hand through his luxuriant mane of grey hair. “I think I shall have to ask you to trust me, Miss Beasley,” he said. “I have had a great deal of experience in running these courses, you know.”

“How interesting,” said Roy. “Where was that, then?”

“Oh, well, mostly language courses for students abroad. I’ve travelled the globe one way or another!”

Ivy did not smile. Instead, she turned her attention to Rickwood Smith. “Now, Mr. Smith, and where do you live? I don’t remember seeing you around the village?”

“Probably not, Miss Beasley. But I expect you know my mother? Mary Winchen? She lives in one of the old persons’ bungalows in Spinney Close. I am staying with her at the moment, until I find a place of my own.”

“Winchen?” said Ivy. “Isn’t that one of Mrs. Blatch’s names?”

Rickwood Smith nodded. “They are sisters, but I am afraid they have little to do with each other. Shame, really, but it’s one of these family feuds. Goes back years.”

“So shall we leave it there?” said Rubens firmly. “There will be plenty of time to get to know each other when term starts.”

After more pleasantries, and promises of individual help and encouragement from Rubens, Ivy and Roy departed, the bagful of units safely tucked away in the boot of the trundle. As they walked and trundled down the long drive, Ivy looked back. Rickwood Smith was still there, watching them. He raised his arm and waved vigorously, then turned back and disappeared into the house.

“An interesting development,” said Ivy. “I’ll tell you later, my dear, when we have time to take it in.”

• • •

THE SUN HAD
gone behind a cloud as they proceeded towards the village and Blackwoods Farm. When they were closer, Ivy could see that Deidre’s car had gone. She wondered how long they’d been with Mrs. Blatch, and whether she was having a sleep to recover.

“Shall I go in first and see if she’s up to receiving more visitors?” she said to Roy. “Then you won’t have to alight if she’s not.”

He nodded, and watched as Ivy disappeared round the back of the farmhouse. After lightning visits of an army of workers, it was looking distinctly more lived in and cared for. Ivy came to the back door and knocked. She heard a distant voice call out, asking who was there. She yelled back that it was Miss Beasley and Mr. Goodman from Enquire Within, and pushed the door. It did not open, and was clearly locked.

“Key’s in the dairy cupboard,” came the faint voice.

Ivy went at once to the dairy door, which was, as expected, unlocked. She waved to Roy, who had come round to within sight. He clambered off his trundle and limped towards her.

“We can get in with this key,” she said, having opened the cupboard and found it at once. “Not much of a hiding place,” she said. “Go carefully, my dear. I expect we shall have stairs to negotiate. Sounds as if she is still in bed.”

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, however, they looked up and saw Miss Blatch, tidily washed and hair combed neatly, wearing a clean dressing gown and signalling that she was coming down.

“Can’t have you stuck on the stairs, Mr. Goodman,” she said cheerfully. “We can go into the sitting room. Mrs. Bloxham lit a fire in there, in case I wanted to come down and watch the telly. Wasn’t that kind? I must say I did not expect such service from an enquiry agency! And now here you are, both of you come to help me with the case of the disappearing attacker!”