Ann Purser - The Hangman’s Row Enquiry

Miriam beamed, and said he should try her jam and cream sponge. “I’ll make you one for Sunday,” she said. “Maybe you’d like to come in and we could share it?”

Oops! Thinking quickly, Gus said he would probably not be around on Sunday. He had to go to London to settle a few things, he lied. “Maybe some other time, thank you, Miriam,” he said.

The conversation flowed easily, Miriam being quite able to conduct a monologue for hours. Gus cunningly steered her in directions that would be useful to him, and noted several leads to be followed up. He gathered that her mother was not as ill as she made out, that she was bad-tempered and picky over food. She had told a good story to the doctor and the nurse, having been a leading light in the village’s amateur dramatic group. In all, Miriam did not really have a good word to say about her mother, and this did not sit easily with her professed deep grief at the old woman’s demise.

“So what work did you do, Miriam, before you had to stay at home and look after Mother? I am sure you have many talents.”

Miriam blushed again. “Well, first of all I worked on the telephone exchange in a big company in town,” she said. “It was quite difficult work, and they did say I was a natural. The voice was important, you see, and I handled people very well-so they said,” she added modestly. “Now, of course, it’s all automatic. Press this button, press that button. No friendly voices needed!”

“And after that?”

“Funnily enough,” she said slowly, “I worked at the police station, doing typing an’ filing an’ that. That Frobisher man who’s an inspector now, he was just a young sprog at that time. Pushy, he was, even then. Now he’s investigating the murder of my dear mother…” She covered her face with her hands, but Gus noticed that no tears squeezed out from between her fingers.

“How long were you an honorary policewoman?” Gus said, laughing reassuringly.

Miriam shrugged. “Didn’t last,” she said, looking embarrassed. “My face didn’t fit. Happens sometimes, doesn’t it? Anyway, enough about me. What have you done with your life up to now?”

Gus gave her one of the many versions of his career which he had handy for any eventuality. This one, as well as being an author and journalist, included setting up charities for worthy causes, running organisations concerned with animal welfare and wildlife preservation. Never mind that the only animal he cared about was his own beloved Whippy. He judged that Miriam would be suitably impressed and he was right.

“Oh, how good of you!” she gushed. “My dad was a great one for wildlife,” she said. “He was in charge of the pheasants they reared for the shoots up at the Hall.”

Gus swallowed an urge to laugh and looked at his watch. “Goodness,” he said, “is that the time? How the time flies when you’re enjoying yourself! Thank you so much, Miriam, for tea and delicious gingerbread. My turn next.” He had no intention of returning her hospitality, but she saw him to the door with such pleasure on her face that he felt ashamed. Well, almost ashamed.

AS HE WALKED along to his own front door, Gus was startled by a shadow which passed the window inside his sitting room. What was that? He knew he had locked up securely before tea with Miriam, but he could have sworn someone was in there. He ran the rest of the way and approached his back door silently. Gus could move very quietly when necessary. The door was still locked, and he eased the key quietly, gently squeezing himself through the opening. Silence. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of his front door opening with a loud squeak.

Damn! He rushed through, hearing footsteps disappearing down the lane towards the woods. The front door had been slammed shut as the intruder ran, and by the time Gus had forced it open-it stuck with damp, as did every other door in the house-the lane was empty and quiet.

“Damn, damn!” Gus said out loud now. No point in trying to catch him-or her. Gus was well aware that he was out of condition, and would soon run out of breath. Better check if anything was missing. He reassured himself that there was nothing worth stealing. Except those papers upstairs… but who would know about those, or, for that matter, still be interested in them?

He walked around the house, and could find nothing amiss. The papers were safe in their red folder secured with white tape and labelled “Bills unpaid.” That’s all right, then, he said to himself, and decided a small whisky would be the best thing to stop his hands from shaking in this stupid way.

DEIRDRE LOOKED AT herself in the long mirror in her bedroom, turning this way and that, and decided her reflection was not bad, considering. She saw a plumpish but trim figure, nicely dressed in a suitably flattering dress from her favourite designer. She had been to the hairdresser, who had freshened up her apricot curls.

She smiled at herself, and was pleased to see how her face lightened up. It had been some time since she had seen Theo Roussel, and she had taken a lot of trouble to look her best for this evening.

Thank goodness Theo had answered the phone! If she had got the dreaded Beattie, the old bag would probably have said he was out or in the bath. Poor Theo. He’d lived under that woman’s tyranny for years. But she could remember before that, when Theo had been an attractive man about the county, hunting and shooting and squiring all the prettiest girls in the neighbourhood to balls and parties. The nicest thing about him was a total lack of interest in what was the done thing. He had loved an evening at the pub with the rest, sitting for hours listening to the old men’s tales of his father’s philandering. Perhaps he had inherited some of his tendencies?

Theo had spotted Deirdre at a Golf Club Ball in Thornwell and for several months had convinced her that she was the girl for him. She wasn’t, of course. He was a few years older than her, and when they parted, it was with amiable goodwill. Bert had come along to offer her genuine love and good prospects, and she had made a rational choice.

She had seen Theo on and off over the years, however, and they always had a friendly wave, so that now, when she telephoned him and asked if they could have a word, he had at once invited her to the Hall for a gin and tonic. “Still your tipple, I hope?” he had said, and his voice was just as she remembered it.

WHEN MISS BEATTY brought in Theo’s afternoon tea, he said, “Oh, by the way, Beattie, I shall be having a visitor this evening for a drink. Mrs. Bloxham from Tawny Wings. An old friend from the past. I knew she was living in the village, but never liked to intrude after the death of her husband. I am sure you remember Bert Bloxham?”

Beattie’s face was puce. “Of course I remember Bert Bloxham,” she said. “Had his head under the bonnet of a car mostly. Came from nothing, and went to nothing in the end, like we all do. I believe she was a back-street girl, too.”

“Beattie!” Theo said, and roared with laughter. Somehow that call from Deirdre had, as his father used to say, put a bit of lead in his pencil, and he felt full of energy, quite enough to challenge his minder! “I don’t want to hear you talking like that about my old friend. She was a lovely girl, one of the best. Please remember that. And be a nice Beattie and make us some of those lovely nibbly things to have with our drinks.”

This was too much for Beattie, and she stamped out of the room without shutting the door behind her. Unheard of, thought Theo, and he grinned. Now, he would have a shave and change out of his carpet slippers. He must not slip into his dotage before it was necessary. There were signs! First the carpet slippers, then next the juicy jellies, and then the wooden box… He had seen it happen to his contemporaries and he did not intend to have it happen to him.