Ann Purser - The Hangman’s Row Enquiry

Gus gulped, and said he was sure she would be ideal for the job.

“What can I get you, then?”

“Just a Daily Telegraph , please,” he said. “I like to come and get it from the shop. Gives me a bit of exercise walking up from the cottage.”

Miriam nodded. “Very true,” she said. “And anything else? Some nice biscuits to have with your morning coffee? I’ve been thinking,” she added. “Maybe Will might like to think about a coffee machine and a table and chairs outside the shop. Encourages customers to stay a bit longer and buy a few more things they forgot on their list!”

Poor Will, thought Gus. Little does he know how unwise he is to employ this unstoppable woman. Still, it might get her off his own tail a little. But no. Now she was asking him if he would care to watch a good film with her on the telly this evening.

“Sorry, Miriam,” he replied. “No can do. Got some urgent papers to sort out. Now, here’s the money. Good luck!” And he escaped before she could think of a reason why the papers could be sorted out later. He remembered just in time to unhook Whippy from where she had been patiently waiting outside.

On his way home, he wondered how Deirdre had got on with Theo Roussel. She had hinted that there had been something between them in the past. That could be very useful. He could encourage her to confide in him. Or maybe not. He had once learnt a very hard lesson, and it was now number one on his list of don’ts. Never become emotionally involved on a case. Apart from one exception, this hadn’t been too difficult, as a good ninety percent of his “clients” had never met him, nor were likely to, and his assignments were completed in silence and nobody the wiser.

Now nearly home, he saw Whippy’s ears flatten and she stiffened. The next thing he saw was an enormous shaggy dog coming towards them. He had no idea of the breed, but sympathised with Whippy. It looked horribly dangerous, baring its teeth and growling. As far as he could see, it had no owner, no lead, and was clearly capable of eating both Whippy and himself for lunch.

It approached the now stationary Gus and his dog in that measured way that animals have when they are about to spring, and Gus stepped forward. Some distant play-ground instinct surfaced, and he faced the bully, shouting at it to bugger off.

To his surprise, it immediately turned and slunk away, its tail between its long, powerful legs. Then he heard a sound which was more like the cackle of a startled hen than laughter. The woman he now knew to be Miss Beatty came round the corner of the lane, still sniggering.

“You should keep that brute on a lead, preferably muzzled!” Gus said, his voice loud with fear.

“Why?” Miss Beatty said. “Look at him. Butter wouldn’t melt. You did the right thing, Mr. Halfhide. Face up to him and he’s the biggest coward in Barrington. Sorry about your little dog, though. She’s a whippet, isn’t she?”

Her obvious efforts to be nice mollified Gus, and thinking on his feet he realised it would be much better to be Miss Beatty’s friend than her sworn enemy.

“Yes, she’s called Whippy. Not very original, I’m afraid, but thinking up names is not my forte! I should introduce myself,” he added, but she interrupted him.

“I know who you are. You’ve got the end cottage. Settled in now? Oh, and I’m Miss Beatty, housekeeper and general dogsbody.”

More like minder, from what I hear, thought Gus, but he said only that he was pleased to meet her, and yes, he was settling in now, though the dreadful accident next door had been rather upsetting.

“Accident? It was murder, Mr. Halfhide. You don’t get a bread knife stuck in your heart by accident. We’ve heard nothing from the police. Have you?”

Gus shook his head. “Only that they are questioning just about everyone in the village. Miss Blake is very anxious for the matter to be cleared up, as she is unable to mourn properly until the culprit is found. In a sort of limbo, I suppose, not being able to lay her mother to rest.”

“Huh! Is that what she told you? Well, here’s a piece of advice, Mr. Halfhide. Take everything that our Miriam says with a large pinch of salt. That’s all I’m saying. Now, I must be on my way. Lucifer here needs a good run in the woods. Good morning,” she said, and with what passed for a smile on her plain face, she disappeared through a gap in the hedge.

“So that’s the dreaded Miss Beatty,” he said aloud to Whippy, who whimpered, still recovering from shock. “Quite a person,” he said. “Someone with a large estate to manage and quite confident in her ability to do it. What do you think?”

“Talking to yourself, Mr. Halfhide?” a new voice said, coming from the garden of the first cottage. It was a young woman, naturally blond and rosy-cheeked, with a toddling infant holding on to her jeans to keep its balance.

This was more like it, thought Gus, and stopped, smiling broadly. “Good morning!” he said. “Yes, a bad habit, I’m afraid. But I wasn’t actually talking to myself, rather to Whippy here. Best thing about talking to a dog is that they never answer back. Hello,” he added gently to the child. He prided himself on being good with small children, and picked up Whippy to show to him. At least, he thought it was a boy, though you couldn’t always tell these days. This one was dressed in blue dungarees, so it was a safe bet it was a boy.

“What a sweet doggie,” the blonde said. “This is my son, Simon,” she added, “and I’m Rose Budd. Now we’re introduced, and if you need any help or information about the village, you must come and knock at our door. My husband works on the estate, and he’s always around.”

“How kind,” he said. “It seems a very friendly village. I’ve just met Miss Beatty and her… um… dog. She was pleasant, though I’m not so sure about the dog!”

Rose laughed. “I can assure you that Miss Beatty is much more dangerous than Lucifer,” she said. “Stay well clear. She runs the place, you know, and nothing is secret from her.”

“Seems to be the general opinion,” he said. “I shall take the advice. Oh, and by the way, what is her Christian name?”

“Beattie,” Rose said, smiling.

“No, her Christian name,” Gus said.

“Beattie. She’s Beatrice Beatty, but always known as Beattie,” Rose assured him.

“My God, no wonder she looks like she’s swallowed a fish bone!” he said. “Fancy being saddled with that!”

To Gus’s embarrassment, she answered that her own name was odd, wasn’t it. “But at least Rose Budd sounds pretty, and anyway I acquired it by marriage. Apparently Beattie likes hers. Likes being different, she says. Old bag! Oops, there’s the phone-must go.” She scooped up the child and disappeared with a cheery wave. “See you later!” she called as she went.

“Hope so,” said Gus, and proceeded on his way.

THE WOMEN’S INSTITUTE in Barrington was one of the oldest in the county. Theo Roussel’s grandmother had set it up and become its first president. Originally, the meetings had taken place in the Reading Room, and the membership had never amounted to more than ten or so women, all with husbands working on the estate. It had been the usual thing for the lady of the manor to be president, or failing that, the wife of the grandest farmer around. The village women had been encouraged to join and it was made clear they were there to be educated in the traditional homemaking skills, plus the occasional speaker and, as in Barrington’s case, an enthusiastic folk-dancing team as a healthy hobby and a useful entertainment at village fetes.