Ann Purser - The Hangman’s Row Enquiry

Ivy shook her head.

“You won’t believe it,” Deirdre began.

“Try me,” said Ivy.

“He said Miriam was good at it. Experienced, he said. Just what a virtual prisoner needed on a Saturday afternoon. He was quite honest about it, Ivy. We had a good laugh, I can tell you!”

“And why did it stop? Did Beattie find out?”

“No, it was the old woman. She blackmailed him. Said she’d tell Miss Beatty what was going on, unless he promised to marry Miriam. He said he seriously thought of topping himself. There seemed no way out. Disaster, whatever he did.”

“So what did he do?”

“It was a brilliant piece of luck,” Deirdre said, helping herself to another of Katya’s biscuits. “He had an anonymous letter, delivered by hand on a Saturday afternoon, and he happened to see it on the mat. When he opened it, it had a message in it that saved his life.”

“Oh, don’t spin it out, girl!” Ivy said.

“It said that the writer had absolute proof that Miriam Blake was Theo’s half sister.”

THERE WAS SOMETHING different about Theo. Beattie had noticed it straightaway, and made a mental note to find out what had happened while she was at market. Outwardly, he was just the same, if a little more pleasant than usual. He’d been lavish in his praise of the strawberry and peach meringue pudding she made for him. “So good of you to remember,” he had said.

But when she thought she might try a small advance and suggest they watched the Antiques Roadshow on television together, he retreated fast, saying he had some important reading to catch up on. “You watch it, Beattie,” he had said with a quick smile. “Let me know if I’ve got anything worth millions!” He had almost run upstairs to his study. She had not seen him so quick on his feet for years.

Now he sat in his comfortable leather armchair, a small lamp illuminating a book which he had no intention of reading. He was daydreaming, remembering Deirdre’s flowery perfume, fancying he could smell it on his cheek where she had kissed him good-bye. He replayed their reminiscences realising that he found her just as attractive as when they first met. What had she thought of him? The signs were good, he decided. She had been firm about her intention of seeing him again. Next Saturday, she said, and he knew then that Rosebud was in on the scheme to deceive Beattie. Hooray! At last, maybe the end was in sight!

He had put the ring in his jacket pocket, ready to replace in the safe. He wouldn’t give it to Rosebud for her birthday after all. A happy grin spread across his face. He might have another use for it.

He began to doze, but was awakened by a sudden thought. He had told Deirdre about his affair with Miriam Blake and the old woman blackmailing him, and his final lucky escape. Had that been wise? It had sounded sordid as he described the episode, and he remembered vividly his own feelings of disgust.

But Deirdre had laughed, hadn’t she? No doubt in her marriage to that garage mechanic she had seen all sides of life. And when he’d told her about the anonymous letter and Miriam being his half sister, she had looked really excited, and wanted to know all the details. All he knew from the anonymous letter, he had said, was that his father, the Hon. John, had employed Miriam’s mother as a cleaner, and required a few extras on the side. Miriam had been the result, and a husband-poor old John, employed on the estate-had been found for her mother in time for the birth certificate, and although he was lazy and a bad influence on the other workers, his job was safe so long as he kept his mouth shut.

With this ammunition, Theo had been able to counter-threaten both Miriam and her mother. He would ruin their reputations with spreading the story of illegitimacy far and wide. As for his own reputation, he knew from experience that the entire village probably already knew about his visits to Miriam. Squire’s privilege, the old blokes in the pub would say with a nudge and a wink. But the letter implied that the secret of Miriam’s biological father had been successfully kept. The old woman had seen at once that they had more to lose than he had, and a truce had been reached. He had, of course, not visited Miriam since.

His eyes closed slowly, and he smiled. Deirdre… Little Deirdre with the red hair and a charming Suffolk accent… Roll on next Saturday, he thought, and in seconds was asleep.

GUS HAD ALREADY been round to Tawny Wings for a report from Deirdre, but had found nobody at home. Deirdre’s car was not in the garage, and he was reluctant to conclude that she had not yet returned. So where had she gone? He had seen her car going past his window away from the Hall, and then he had checked off Beattie, as she lumbered home with her shopping. He wondered why the silly woman did not drive herself to market and not have to carry home heavy bags. Probably the parking problem, he decided. By the afternoon on market day, parking was impossible, with jams of cars trying to get away in all directions. The bus was a better option.

He looked briefly in the garden, but was left with nothing to do but to go back home. Just as he was emerging from the baronial gates, Deirdre drove back in, tooting as she passed him. He turned around and joined her as she unlocked her front door.

“Come on in, Gus,” she said cheerfully. “It’s little drinkies time, isn’t it?”

Oh God, thought Gus, remembering his father’s strictures never to work with women.

But he smiled and said that would be terrific, and followed behind as she led the way into her sparkling kitchen.

“Sit down, boy,” she said, as she opened the fridge door and took out a frosted bottle of white Frascati. She poured him a generous glass, and taking another for herself, perched on the high stool next to him.

“Bottoms up!” she said, raising her glass.

Why not, thought Gus, and said he hoped she had had a pleasant afternoon.

That was all the opening Deirdre needed, and for the next half hour she gave Gus a highly entertaining account of the success of their plan. “Couldn’t have gone better,” she said, and looking sly, added that she meant from all points of view.

“Did he drag you off to bed, then?” Gus said. Ivy wouldn’t like that, he thought. “Call a spade a spade” was her motto, but she drew a definite line at vulgarity.

“Of course not!” Deirdre grinned, and said maybe next time.

“But to be serious for a moment,” Gus said. “Did you talk about the murder at all?”

“Hardly at all,” Deirdre replied. “It somehow did not seem necessary. As I’ve told you, we chewed over his affair with La Blake very thoroughly, and the revelation that she was his half sister was quite a shock, I can tell you. I mean, fancy tupping your half sister without knowing it!”

“Marginally better than if you had known it,” said Gus drily.

“Well, anyway, the murder plot certainly thickened with that revelation! Now we have three possible suspects: Miriam, who hated her mother; Theo, who also hated the old woman and had still regarded her as a loose cannon; and Beattie Beatty, who hates everybody but Theo, and loves either him or his money, or both.”

Gus laughed. “Very good summing up, Deirdre,” he said. “Full marks! So on Monday, we shall have plenty to talk about at our meeting. We must fill Ivy in with what has happened.”

“Oh goodness, she was the first person I told!” Deirdre said. “It’s more than my life’s worth to keep her in the dark for longer than necessary. She’ll have mulled it all over by Monday and come up with some good ideas. You’ll see. She didn’t rule Round Ringford with a rod of iron for all those years for nothing! Cousin Ivy coming to Springfields is the best thing that’s happened to me since Bert died, now I’ve got to know her.”