The Measby Murder Enquiry (29 page)

When he judged it was safe, Max crept downstairs. “What did he want?” he asked.

“Some woman called while we were away,” she answered, shrugging her shoulders. “I expect it was you-know-who. I saw in the paper the brewery’s been taken over. Maybe she’s out on her ear, and skint. Who could blame them? Snooty bitch. Thank God we weren’t here.”

“No good antagonising her,” Maxwell said. “She’s part of the plan, ducky. Just watch what you say.”

“I’m getting sick of watching what I do and say all the time! Why can’t we take what we’ve got and cut and run? You’re just being greedy,
Martin
!”

“What do you mean?” he said angrily.

“I mean greedy, always wanting more! Just like when you couldn’t wait for that shaky old Smithson to fall down stairs by himself, which he certainly would’ve done after the pressure you put on the poor old bugger. Pay up, Bernie, or else! How many times did you threaten him? No, you couldn’t wait for nature to take its course. You had to pull that mat out from under his feet, didn’t you? Proud of that, weren’t you.”

Max took a step towards her, but she put out her hand as if holding him at bay. “Don’t touch me,” she said. “You’d be nothing without me.”

Max subsided onto a chair, and Margaret continued her tirade. “Poor old Bernie. An’ then those kids coming in and messing everything up around the cottage and covering up any traces you might have left.
And
taking the rap. Jammy old Max! But we won’t always get away with it, y’know!”

“Oh, sod off,” he said wearily. “How many more times are you going to rake over all that? And next time you want three weeks’ luxury holiday in the Bahamas, just remember which of us is the greedy one.”

 

 

THE MEETING OF Enquire Within had broken up, and Ivy and Roy went their way slowly back to Springfields.

“Funny old day,” said Ivy eventually, after a long silence between them.

“Certainly is,” Roy said. “First that poor lady dies in the night. Then we hear that odd report from Gus and Deirdre. What on earth is going on over at Measby, Ivy?”

For once, Ivy was not sure. “We’ve got to find out more about that old man who was found dead. Not murdered, said that publican. I reckon he was lying, for a start. And he told them that the old boy died of falling downstairs, and some evil yobs got into the cottage and splashed red paint about? Does that seem likely to you, Roy?”

He shrugged. “Could have happened, I suppose. But if it was true, why was Doris May so cagey with Deirdre the first time she went?”

“We should have talked about all this straightaway, instead of listening to Deirdre complaining of a migraine and ending the meeting before we had really started.”

“Oh, don’t be hard on her, dearest,” Roy said, stopping his vehicle and looking up at her. “Didn’t you see how pale she was, and those dark circles under her eyes? Poor love, she was obviously suffering.”

“Mm,” said Ivy. “And didn’t you see how Gus stayed behind to comfort her? If you ask me,” she added, her confidence returning, “they realise now they were taken in by a pack of lies and needed to think it all over. I reckon the whole thing, from the shopkeeper and his crafty boss to the man in the pub, was a crude attempt to get rid of a nosy pair of intruders for good.”

“Or maybe they knew perfectly well who they were, and had a good reason for wanting them out of the way,” Roy suggested.

They had arrived at the door of Springfields, and Katya rushed out to help Roy out of his vehicle. “You are sooner home than we expected,” she said. “Now you can come in and have hot chocolate and freshly made cookies. Anya has found a new recipe, and I need you to road test them. ‘Road test,’ is that right?”

“It’ll do,” said Ivy, smiling kindly at her. “I can’t think of anything more welcoming. Thank you, my dear. I must just go upstairs and collect Tiddles. She will be lonely, and I can keep an eye on her in the lounge.”

The atmosphere seemed to have warmed up since breakfast. Residents were talking to each other, and Mrs. Spurling was arranging fresh flowers on the window ledges. She turned to see Ivy coming in with Tiddles cradled in her arms, and shuddered. She had never liked cats, and heartily wished she had not allowed Roy to persuade her.

“Has Tiddles been out in the garden this morning?” she asked, but Ivy was apparently deaf to her question. “No? Then later perhaps,” she insisted, but thought that she might just as well have held her tongue. Ivy Beasley was really impossible, but what could she do?

“When’s the funeral?” Ivy said to Katya as they sat down.

“Ivy!” said Roy, shocked at the baldness of her question.

Ivy ignored him, and looked enquiringly at Katya.

“I do not know at the moment,” the girl said. “There are so many arrangements to make, so I am told. As soon as we know, I am sure Mrs. Spurling will tell all the residents. Not many will be able to go, but I hope enough of us to send Mrs. Worth respectfully on her way.”

“I shall go,” Ivy said bluntly, gently stroking the curled-up kitten. “And so will Roy, I am sure. They say the parson here does a good funeral. At least there’s not likely to be pop music and sentimental poetry. Mrs. Worth claimed she had no family, but you never know at funerals. All sorts of hopeful relations crawl out of the woodwork.”

“Ivy!” repeated Roy.

“So now I shall fetch your chocolate drink and cookies,” Katya said soothingly, and walked off towards the kitchens.

“Are you sure you want to go to the funeral, my love?” said Roy. He was anxious to protect her from herself. She had not liked Mrs. Worth, he was certain of that. And a funeral of any of their number would be a reminder of graveyards for them all. And now Ivy’s strong sense of duty would force her to attend. Maybe he could dissuade her before the event.

“Of course I’m sure,” Ivy said. “Goodness me, Roy, don’t you see how important it might be? If Mrs. Worth was mixed up with the disappearing William Jones, there may well be people who are anxious to make sure she is well and truly out of the way. Never forget, my dear, that William Jones has had a second life somewhere, with who knows what ramifications?”

“I love that word,” said Roy. “ ‘Ramifications.’ It covers a multitude of sins. Very useful, Ivy. Very useful.”

“Yes, well, don’t change the subject. We shall both go to the funeral, with our eyes and ears open.”

“Yes, Ivy,” Roy answered meekly. She was a wonderfully strong woman, and he’d better get used to it.

ENQUIRE WITHIN HAD not met for a week, and apart from brief social visits from Deirdre to Ivy, and Gus calling in at Springfields to make sure both Ivy and Roy were not too distressed by the death in what was, after all, their home, there had been a tacit agreement that they needed a pause to consider all the facts they had collected before taking the next steps.

“Do you feel this is your home, Ivy?” Roy said to her one afternoon as they rested in her room after lunch. She did not talk much about Round Ringford, unless someone asked her questions about her former life, but he knew that she must miss it dreadfully. Maybe not all the time, but even he, who had been at Springfields much longer than Ivy, was occasionally saddened by a sudden picture in his mind of a sunny morning as he stepped out of his house into a yard busy with the life of the farm. In Ivy’s case he could picture her working in her neat vegetable garden or sitting with her friends Doris and Ellen, drinking tea from her best cups.

“It’s all we’ve got, isn’t it?” Ivy said, looking at him in surprise. In all the years of her spinsterhood, she had never dreamed that loving someone as she loved Roy could be so overwhelming. She took his hand and held it to her cheek.

“The thing is, Roy,” she continued awkwardly, “if you ask me, I’d say that home is where the heart is. And mine is here with you . . . and that’s home enough for me.”

After that, they sat in companionable silence for a while, until there was a knocking and Katya popped her head round the door. “We shall be leaving in about half an hour,” she said. “I expect you can hear the tolling bell? It is a little sad, isn’t it?”

Ivy saw at once that the girl was upset by the mournful ringing of the single church bell. “Oh, don’t let that worry you!” she said. “Our parson loves to make a meal of things. The tolling bell is not much used now, but it used to be. Told everybody in the village that there had been a death, I suppose. Anyway, we just need to get our bonnets on and then we’re ready,” she said, and rose to her feet.

“The day you get me into a bonnet, Ivy Beasley,” said Roy, “is the day our relationship comes to an end!”

 

 

THE SMALL PARTY from Springfields filed into the church and took their places at the front. Ivy looked around curiously. One or two village people who had never met Mrs. Worth, but enjoyed a good funeral, sat at the back, and there was a lone figure of a woman in the front pew on the opposite side of the aisle.

“Who’s that?” Ivy whispered to Roy.

He shook his head. “No idea,” he replied. “One of the agency carers who come into Springfields, maybe?”

“Doubt if she’d sit in the front,” Ivy said.

Roy put his finger to his lips as there was a shuffling noise from outside the church door. Then the parson’s loud ringing tones filled the air.

“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”

Katya sniffed, and fumbled in her pocket for a tissue. Ivy opened her handbag and silently handed over a small, lace-edged handkerchief. The black-suited bearers carried the coffin slowly up the aisle, and the organist played softly Mrs. Daisy Worth’s favourite tune, “On a Bicycle Built for Two,” doing her best to make it sound like a funeral march. As the coffin passed by, Roy’s eyes were suddenly riveted by the wreath of white chrysanthemums placed on top. There, nestling in the centre, was unmistakably a box of Juicy Jellies.

“Ivy!” he said in a stage whisper.

She looked at him with an innocent expression and smiled. Then the first hymn was announced and the service was under way.

As usual in these circumstances, Mrs. Spurling had asked the vicar to announce that there would be a cup of tea and light refreshments at Springfields after the service. Ivy had counted twelve mourners, and she watched with a sour look as the little group who had never met Mrs. Worth joined the others on their way back.

“Now then, Katya, back to work,” Mrs. Spurling said briskly. “I am very anxious that there shall be no miserable faces in the lounge to depress our other residents. Bring in the refreshments and do your best to lighten the atmosphere.”

“Yes, Mrs. Spurling,” she replied. “Perhaps we could have a sing-song?”

Mrs. Spurling raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t mean a knees-up, girl!” she said. “Off you go, now.”

“Morning, Ivy,” said a voice, and Ivy turned around to see Gus standing there with a cup of tea in his hand.

“Where did you spring from?” she said in surprise. “I didn’t see you in church?”

“I was there in spirit,” he said.

“And so was Mrs. Worth,” muttered Roy. He offered a plate of tiny sausage rolls to Gus, who took a handful and conveyed them swiftly to his mouth. “Palming cards comes in useful sometimes,” he said, bending down and whispering in Ivy’s ear.

“So who’s the mystery figure over there?” he continued, indicating the woman who had sat in the front pew.

“Why don’t we find out?” said Ivy, and marched across the room, closely followed by Roy and Gus.

“How d’ye do,” said Roy with his best smile. “A stranger round here, are you? It can be a sad time if you’re on your own. Have a sausage roll, my dear.”

The woman returned his smile gratefully, and said it was difficult holding a cup and saucer in one hand and a sausage roll in the other, and eat or drink at the same time. They all laughed, and the ice was broken. After introductions, Ivy discovered that the woman’s name was Martha, and she had known the Worths when they were all young kids at the Junior School in Thornwell.

“We lost touch, as you do,” she said apologetically. “Otherwise, of course, I’d have been over here to see Daisy while she was still alive. I happened to see the death notice in the local paper, and that’s why I’m here. Poor old Daisy, she didn’t have much luck. Looks as if I am chief mourner! No family members here, are there?”

“How d’you mean, she didn’t have much luck?” asked Ivy casually.

“Well, I know she had a child who looked exactly like William Jones! Maybe I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but everybody expected it, the way she carried on. Joe Worth was a bit simple, as they say, and not lively enough for Daisy.

“I’m lost,” said Gus.

Roy laughed. “Tell him, Martha. Or shall I? The fact is, William Jones was a frequent visitor to the Worths, and always when Joe was out gardening.”