Ann Purser - The Hangman’s Row Enquiry

I wouldn’t put it past her to bar the way with a Kalashnikov,” Deirdre answered glumly. “No, I hadn’t time to think it all out, but I shall certainly go back and insist on seeing him another day. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Take Gus with you,” Ivy said. “He’d stand no nonsense from Miss Beatty. I reckon he can be pretty nasty when needed. Not that you’d know it from the way he has been so far. But mark my words, he can be a hard man when necessary.”

Deirdre stifled a giggle. Ivy claimed not to watch television. All rubbish, she insisted. But “a hard man”? Where else would she have picked up that?

“You’re right, Ivy,” she said. “I’ll ask him next Monday at our meeting. Probably best not to go back to the Hall straightaway. Miss Beatty will be expecting me to try again, but if I leave it for a few days she’ll have dropped her guard. Poor Theo,” she added. “He was a really nice man, you know. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Not on our list of suspects, then,” Ivy said caustically. “Don’t let your emotions get in the way of investigation, Deirdre. We’ve a long way to go yet.”

“Do you reckon? I sort of thought we might clear it all up in a couple of weeks.”

“Oh no, we’re up against a wily bird. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s my bath night and if I don’t have it early the water’s stone-cold. Luxury accommodation, you told me! I’d not have agreed to come here if I’d known the bathwater would be cold.”

Deirdre stood up and leaned over to kiss Ivy on her warm cheek. “You’re quite a comfort to me, you know, Ivy,” she said. “Good night, God bless.”

After she had gone, Ivy touched her cheek and smiled. Luxury accommodation, indeed!

AS IT GREW dark, Theo Roussel decided to ring the police. His door was locked and he had shouted himself hoarse. But what would Beattie say to that? He slumped down in the chair by his desk and tried to think clearly. She was a clever, devious woman, and would certainly have a good story ready to explain his imprisonment.

He closed his eyes for a few minutes, concentrating on the best course of action, and until he woke with a start did not realise he had fallen into a doze. How long he had been asleep, he did not know. He had been awoken by heavy footsteps and a knock at his door.

“Mr. Theo, please open the door,” Beattie shouted. “It is getting dark, and I am worried about you!”

Theo shook his head, as if his ears were deceiving him. He had been trying to open the door for hours, or rather, persuading her to open it. He walked across angrily and prepared to give her a very stern warning. Then he noticed the key. It was in the lock, his side of the door. He felt quite dizzy, and held on to the door handle.

“Mr. Theo, open up at once! Please don’t alarm me like this!”

He turned the key and opened the door, staring at her with pure hatred. “You locked me in, you wicked woman,” he said.

“Now, now,” she said. “You’ve been dreaming. Look, here’s the key, on your side of the door. You must have locked it without thinking, and then fallen asleep. Now, come along, let’s get you some supper and a nice hot cup of tea.”

“I don’t want your bloody tea!” Theo said. “Leave me alone. We’ll talk about this in the morning.” He shut the door in her face, and so did not see her retreating quietly down the passage, smiling.

He walked across the room and looked out at the twilit park. Deirdre! What had happened to her? She would have come and gone, with Beattie making some excuse. He must telephone her straightaway and explain. He lifted the receiver, but there was no dialling tone. He groaned. He would call her tomorrow then, after he had summoned the strength to give Beattie her marching orders.

THE NEXT MORNING, Will was up early, checking stock in the back room and making sure that everything on display was still in date. He frequently cursed the “best by” rule imposed on all shopkeepers. Half the stuff in the shop would be perfectly wholesome a couple of weeks after its sell-by date. After all, he ate most of it himself when it was supposedly past its best, and he was still alive and kicking.

It was his day for going to the wholesaler for new stock, and as usual his neighbour, a retired businesswoman, would come in and look after the shop until lunchtime. Sadie Broomfield had run a small office service in town for many years, and was still an extremely efficient substitute when Will had to be away from the village. He knew how lucky he was, and had grown fond of her. He looked at the clock bequeathed him by the previous owners, and realised that Sadie should have been in by now.

The telephone rang, and he heard her voice, choked with what was clearly a heavy cold. “So sorry, Will. I woke up with it, and can scarcely breathe! Can you manage? Is there anybody else?”

“O lor, you poor thing,” he said, thinking frantically around possible helpers.

“What about Miriam Blake?” Sadie said. “She’s fancy free at the moment. Might be glad of something to do. I know she used to do quite tricky jobs, and is fairly bright. Could you try her?”

No, not if she was the last person left on earth, Will said to himself. But then he realised he had no idea who else could help out.

“I could give her a ring, I suppose,” he said reluctantly. “But don’t you worry, Sadie. Curl up in bed with a hot whisky and water, and a spoonful of honey, and I’ll be round this evening to see how you are.”

“Don’t come anywhere near me!” Sadie croaked. “Can’t have our shopkeeper going off sick. You don’t sound too sure about Miriam Blake. Might not want her as a permanent fixture? Bye now. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Bye.”

Will frowned. Was he really stuck with Miriam Blake? But then, what did he have against her? She had been a dutiful daughter and a good customer, and had once before filled in for him in the shop. And her mother had been found lifeless with a bread knife sticking into her chest…

He opened the telephone directory and looked up her number, hoping not to find it. Perhaps with luck she would not have a phone, or be ex-directory, and then he would have to find somebody else. He could go to the wholesaler tomorrow. But Sadie wouldn’t be better tomorrow, that was sure. And anyway, there she was: Blake-Barrington 870493. He dialled the number and heard the familiar voice answer in a bright, professional way. Oh yes, now he remembered she’d been a telephonist. Right, here goes, he muttered, and asked her. There was a pause, and then she said that she would be really pleased, and what time should she come? Straightaway? Yes, that would be fine. “See you,” she said, now friendly and confiding.

Half an hour later, Will had explained again most of the necessary details to Miriam, and she seemed to grasp it all with ease. “Now, if you are at all worried or have a problem, ring me on my mobile,” he said. “Anything at all, just ring me.”

She nodded. “Of course,” she said, “but I’m really sure I shall manage perfectly well. I feel quite at home already,” she added, slipping into a flowery overall. Oh God, Will said to himself, please let Sadie get better quickly. Please.

IT WAS QUITE a shock for Gus when he walked into the shop around eleven o’clock and saw Miriam behind the counter. He had been meaning to thank Will for organising such a good evening for him, and suggest they might do it again some time. Not that he intended to force a friendship on the pleasant shopkeeper, but there was never any harm in saying thank you.

“Morning, Gus!” Miriam said brightly. “You didn’t expect to see me here, did you? I’m the new assistant. Will has had to go out, and Mrs. Broomfield has a rotten cold. So here I am, launched on a new career!”