The Measby Murder Enquiry (41 page)

The vicar delivered an excellent address, describing Alwen’s valuable teaching career, and confessed that he himself had been for one year under her guiding hand. He commented on the full church and the warmth of feeling for this much-loved citizen of Thornwell.

Bethan read a passage from the Bible, and Bronwen got up to give a second reading. It was to be a poem by Christina Rossetti, and she got as far as “Plant thou no roses at my head” and then choked and stopped. Trevor immediately joined her, took her hand and finished the poem for her. Then he put his arm around her shoulders and gently shepherded her back to the pew.

Gus felt Deirdre’s hand creep into his, and he gave it a squeeze. “Nearly done,” he whispered.

When they finally emerged from the church through the chatting crowd, the sun had come out and shone cheerfully on the hearse and procession of cars taking the family to a private interment at the local cemetery, where Alwen would be buried next to her brother-in-law, George.

“I don’t think she liked him much,” Ivy said. “Still, who knows? They might not be going to the same place,” she added enigmatically.

They drove back to Barrington in silence, until Deirdre turned into Tawny Wings, saying she had prepared lunch for them, and if that was all right with Ivy and Roy she would return them to Springfields later.

“That’s very kind of you, Deirdre,” said Ivy.

“Better give Pinkers a buzz to let her know,” said Roy, and watched admiringly as Ivy fished her mobile out of her handbag and dialled the number using her thumbs, just like the kids in the village.

“We shall not be requiring lunch, Miss Pinkney,” she said. “What did you say? Well, how could we let you know before? We’ve only just been invited. Yes, of course you can tell Mrs. Spurling. Time you stood up to that woman, you know. Good-bye, Pinkers.”

“You could have used my phone, Ivy,” said Deirdre as they got out of the car.

“No need,” Ivy replied. “Oh, and Roy dear, remind me to top up my mobile at the shop. My balance is low.”

“There’s no answer to that,” said Deirdre, and led the way into the house.

 

 

AFTER LUNCH, THE four sat in the pleasant room looking out into Deirdre’s garden, and carried out a postmortem of their own.

“What did you mean, Ivy, when you said Alwen and George might not be going to the same place? Surely neither was destined for the nether regions?” said Gus.

“If you mean were either of them going to hell, then I couldn’t even guess. But though Alwen was a good woman, a good mother and a good teacher, she was most likely the Barrington informant we talked about. A spy, if you like.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Deirdre said.

“Think about it, Deirdre,” Ivy insisted, “she was best placed to know all our movements, from the moment she arrived in Springfields and realised that we were investigators and on the trail of what turned out to be Doris’s blackmailing activities.”

“But who did she tell?” Roy did not believe in speaking ill of the dead and was not happy with this turn of the conversation.

Gus replied for Ivy. “I’m afraid it was Doris, who was no doubt more or less forcing her to help.” He had worked out some time ago from conversations overheard when he was kidnapped that Doris had Alwen in thrall. “The twenty thousand story was clearly concocted by one or other of them and then dropped when it looked like we would be getting too close.”

Ivy was nodding and the others waited for Gus to continue.

“Doris ordered my kidnap,” he said. “That was quite clear. She needed to know how much we had found out about her schemes. I would be made to talk and then seriously warned with death and destruction if I spilled the beans. The ransom part of it was pure greed, and Alwen was dragged into all of it, I am sure.”

“I’ve just remembered something,” Deirdre said. “You and me, Gus, we must have made them more suspicious of us early on. Do you remember how Bronwen was standing in the newspaper queue that day? And us asking about her father? Couldn’t have been a clearer warning to her, and no doubt she reported to her mother, who passed it on to Doris. Poor old Alwen,” she added. “Talk about motherly love! She certainly did all she could. I bet she cursed her late husband more than once.”

“
Late
husband
?
” said Roy. “Do we know that for certain?”

“We do,” said Deirdre, picking up a pile of newspapers and leafing through them. “Look, here’s a death notice. Alwen must have put it in.”

“But I don’t get it,” said Deirdre. “Why kill herself? Now all the money will be divided between Bronwen and Bethan, and Doris will extract all that is due from her powerless niece.”

Ivy looked at her watch. “We should be getting back. But before we go, I’d like to say that Bronwen ain’t necessarily easy prey for Doris now. You can be sure that although Alwen paid up some, she still had plenty in the bank, tied up nice and tight so that Bronwen wouldn’t inherit and be in Doris’s thrall once more. She would have found a way to outsmart her sister.” She paused and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Something in my eye,” she said crossly, but Roy knew better.

Ivy sniffed, and continued, “And now I can see,” she said slowly, “that Alwen did pay more than the money ransom. She paid with her life.”

There was a long silence until Gus cleared his throat. “I’d just like to add,” he said, standing up and offering Ivy his arm, “that as I am probably the best person for miles around to help Bronwen kick her habit, I shall be in touch with her very shortly.”

Deirdre smiled at him. She knew what this decision must have cost him, when he was still doing his best to forget the whole gambling scene. “So, all in all, and taking all things into consideration,” she said, “have we actually achieved anything in this investigation? After Alwen’s funeral today, I am inclined to think not.”

“Oh, yes,” said Ivy. “We’re not done yet. I have made an appointment to see Inspector Frobisher on Monday. Blackmail and extortion are serious crimes, and if Doris hasn’t skipped the country by then, she will certainly be receiving a visitor she would rather not see. And, with any luck, no more victims will suffer her evil attentions.”

Roy stared at her. “Ivy, my love,” he said. “You never cease to surprise me.”

“YOU ARE CERTAINLY not going to that police station by yourself, Ivy,” Roy said firmly.

“Why didn’t the inspector offer to come here?”

“He did,” said Ivy. “But can you imagine the commotion if a policeman came here asking to see Miss Beasley? And don’t say he won’t look like one, wearing plain clothes, because they always look like policemen, whatever they’re wearing.”

“An answer for everything, Miss Beasley!” Roy said, and blew her a kiss, provoking scornful jeers from four jealous old nasties playing Ludo in the corner of the lounge.

“You wanna watch ’im!” shouted one, but Ivy pointedly shifted in her seat so that her back was towards them.

“What time is the taxi coming?” Roy continued.

“Ten thirty.”

“I shall be ready,” Roy said, and went across to have a word with the demon Ludo players.

 

 

A BEMUSED INSPECTOR Frobisher scratched the top of his head, got up from his desk and went to look out of his first-floor window. There they were, Miss Beasley and Mr. Goodman, hopping into a waiting taxi like spring chickens. Well, the old boy wasn’t so handy, but Ivy Beasley had rejected the small lift, and allowed the duty sergeant to use it for her fiancé—yes! fiancé!—in his wheelchair, while she climbed the stone stairs, punishing each one with her stick, with only a couple of pauses for taking a breath.

It was quite a tale they had to tell. Some of it he knew already. He had heard that Ozzy’s Casino was on the slide. He had also seen the takeover at the brewery, and the consequent loss of jobs. His good friend Trevor Evans, a fellow Rotarian, was worried about his wife Bronwen, who had been sacked and now was having no luck finding a job.

Bronwen Evans! Frobisher turned away from the window and sat down. Why on earth hadn’t Trevor mentioned the gambling problem? Well, it was pretty obvious why he hadn’t. You don’t tell a policeman that your wife is driving her mother to suicide. If it was suicide. She had not apparently left a note. At least, none had been found yet. And then all that stuff about Doris Osborne! Sister of the deceased, apparently, and a dab hand at blackmail and extortion. No telling with women, he thought to himself, not for the first time. One criminal sister putting on the squeeze, while the other innocent was at the receiving end, desperately trying to protect her daughter from demands she could not meet.

Where did they say Doris Osborne lived? Measby, that was it. They seemed to think an old man found dead in his cottage there was mixed up in gambling debts and his death was fishy. He remembered it well, and thought at the time that there was something not quite right about it. Accidental death by falling down stairs, wasn’t it? Mm, well, perhaps they should take another look at all of that. Ghoulish yobs had got in and turned the place over, if he remembered rightly. Caught and punished, but still rumours flying about for months afterwards. Measby was not his patch, of course, but he would get in touch with their local constabulary. A lot of work to be done there.

He had remembered Ivy and Roy from their last adventure with Enquire Within, and did not underestimate the importance of what they had told him. There were two others in their team, weren’t there? Bert Bloxham’s widow, of course. She would be involved. Quite a girl, from all reports. Then a tall, stringy chap, kept in the background. New to the area.

He looked at his watch. Nearly lunchtime. Well, no time like the present. He lifted his phone and asked his secretary to get him Inspector Sanderson at Oakbridge police station.

DORIS MAY OSBORNE was comfortably seated with her feet up on the velvet-covered sofa in her little sitting room, leafing through travel brochures. She had recovered from grieving for her sister. She had given it the whole day yesterday, and considered that was enough. After all, the old thing was clearly fed up with life, so why deny her a quick exit?

And now the money would be freed. It would, of course, be divided between the two girls, and it would be child’s play to call in all Bronwen’s debts. There wouldn’t be much left! But then, that was the luck of the draw. She had had her fun at the casino. Time to pay up. And what her niece had left in her bank account would soon be trickling away at the roulette wheel. Doris knew a compulsive gambler when she saw one.

She flicked over the pages until she found a luxury hotel in the Maldives. There was already an autumn chill in the air, and she fancied a winter holiday in the sun. She deserved a treat, she decided, as a reward for all her hard work. She got up, intending to spend a happy half hour on her computer, booking tickets and dreaming of handsome young men on a golden beach.

Halfway up the wide stairs, she was halted by a firm knock at the front door. Damn! She did not feel like talking to anyone. Callers were never good news, and she had no wish to have her good mood dispelled. But then another knock, louder this time, made her sigh and return downstairs. She put the sheaf of travel brochures down on the hall table and unbolted the door, opening it only a fraction.

“What do you want?” she said crossly. “I’m very busy.”

Inspector Sanderson offered his card, and said that he would like to have a talk with her. And no, he couldn’t come back later. It was an urgent matter.

“Then you’d better come in,” Doris said, and to her annoyance felt her heart begin to beat faster. What had that horrid Max said? Her luck was running out, he had blurted out the last time she had seen him. But that was ridiculous! Maybe he and Margaret had had an accident, wherever they were, and that was why this policeman had appeared. Maybe they were dead, she thought, and she could not suppress a sudden ray of hope.