Ann Purser - The Hangman’s Row Enquiry

This time, Gus won, and Ivy miraculously produced a bar of Fruit & Nut from her capacious handbag. “Well done, Gus,” she said, and suggested another game tomorrow evening.

“Ra-ther!” enthused Roy. Really, things were definitely brightening up at Springfields.

With coffee all round, they settled back comfortably, and began to talk. As Ivy had hoped, Roy did most of the talking. With very little encouragement, he told them the story of his life. His family had been farmers in Barrington for generations, and when he, the last of the line, failed to get married and produce an heir for the old farmhouse and acres, he had decided to sell and use the proceeds to pay for luxury care in his old age. Naturally, he had chosen Springfields. He soon knew that he had made a mistake. Although he was physically infirm now, he still had all his faculties intact. He had been bored to tears, in spite of his best efforts to make friends and get something lively and interesting going amongst the other residents.

A reading group had ground to a halt when members pleaded they could no longer read well enough to keep it going. Failing eyesight and lack of concentration were blamed. Then, remembering his love of amateur drama in his youth, he had rounded up enough residents to attempt a Christmas revue to entertain the others. All the old songs, he had assured them, and a few jokes from old time music hall. He would be master of ceremonies, and Miss Pinkney had unexpectedly agreed to play the piano for them. They had made a start, but one by one the volunteers had backed out, mostly with feeble excuses, but nothing he could do would persuade them to return. The revue had been cancelled.

But now here were Gus and Ivy, playing pontoon with him and listening with interest to his reminiscences. He had reached the point where he had told his father he had no wish to continue at school, but wanted to be a full-time farmer and keep the family tradition going. He had been fifteen, and his father was delighted.

“Were you an only child?” asked Ivy. Gus’s eyelids were drooping, but at Ivy’s intervention he snapped awake.

Roy laughed. “The only boy!” he said. “I had three sisters, much to Dad’s disgust. Girls are no use to man nor beast, he used to say. Then mother would list all the things she did around the farm, and he would disappear fast to the pub.”

“Three girls, eh?” said Ivy. “I expect the village boys approved, even if your father didn’t.” Gus saw where this was leading, and looked on admiringly as Ivy steered Roy to the subject of the Roussels up at the Hall.

“Oh, lord, yes!” he said, as she asked if there was a wicked squire in those days. She had made a joke of it, but Roy revealed that one of his sisters had had to go off to stay with a distant aunt for a few months. She finally returned in a depressed state, and had been seen often walking round the village peering longingly into friends’ prams.

“So the Roussels had a reputation, did they?” Ivy suggested.

“They certainly did,” Roy said, “and made sure they kept it going. I remember when Mr. Theo was a lad-” He broke off and smiled, wagging his head at the memories.

Gus and Ivy held their breath.

“He was worst of all, I reckon. Mind you,” he added, “he was also the most handsome and charming. All the village lads wanted to be like Mr. Theo. We all tried!”

“But he never married?” Gus asked. He began to think this investigation was getting a bit one-sided and he should at least put in a question or two.

Roy turned to him. “D’you know, Gus, that puzzled us all. He could have had any of the girls in the county. Rich, beautiful, clever-they were all after him. But none succeeded. I still wonder about it.”

“So Beatrice Beatty came to look after him,” Ivy prompted.

Roy was silent. He looked at his watch. “My goodness!” he said. “It is long past my bedtime! Such an enjoyable evening. Thank you both for keeping me company.”

Katya appeared and took the old man’s arm. “Come along, Mr. Goodman,” she said. “Lots of time tomorrow for more games. You say good night to your friends?”

Roy thought of protesting that he was not in his second childhood yet, but he knew the girl meant well. She tried very hard with her English, and in any case, she was charming and pretty and they needed girls like her in dreary old Springfields. He obediently allowed her to escort him out of the lounge and up the stairs to bed.

“Bugger,” said Gus softly.

“Pardon?” said Ivy.

“Bugger,” repeated Gus.

“Indeed,” said Ivy.

READY FOR BED, Ivy drew back her curtains and looked out along the main street of Barrington. It was a beautiful moonlit night, and an owl hooted to his mate in the wood outside the village. She could see the lights outside the pub, and a shadowy couple, closely entwined, walked along the path in the distance. She thought of love, and the damage it could do.

“Beatrice Beatty, what bad thing did you do?” she said aloud.

As if in answer, there was a tap at her door. Who on earth…?

“Who is it?” she said.

“Me,” said a hoarse voice, and the door opened a crack. Roy’s white face peered round and he said, “Can I come in for a minute? Something on my mind, and I shan’t sleep until I’ve told you.”

For one moment Ivy was tempted to ring her bell and have him forcibly removed. Then she remembered he was eighty-six and feeble.

“Just for a moment, then, Mr. Goodman,” she said. “It’s probably strictly against the stupid rules, so you’d better come in.”

“I THINK I’LL give the market a miss tomorrow,” said Beattie. She was standing by the window in the kitchen, looking out over the stable yard. Theo had come down in order to tell her that for once he would not have Friday sausages for lunch. He had intended to say he would be going to the pub in the village for a change, but she had interrupted him with her announcement.

“But you love going to market,” he said, suddenly anxious that Deirdre might well keep her promise to see him again soon. Tomorrow was soon, too soon perhaps. She might well leave it a week or two. But it could be tomorrow, and he had no intention of letting Beattie spoil it all.

“It was terrible last week,” she said. “Too many people, not enough stalls. Not like it used to be in the old days, when you’d meet people you knew. And then everything much cheaper than in the shops. Not so nowadays. More and more difficult to find a bargain.”

“Well, that is a nuisance,” Theo said, thinking rapidly. “I wanted you to get some special aftershave balm from the chemist. My face has been a little sore lately, and I read about this stuff in the Oldie magazine. Works wonders, so it said.”

Beattie’s head was throbbing. She had woken with a headache, and in spite of taking painkillers, it was still there. She had planned a quiet day at home tomorrow to give herself a chance to recover. Her mother-God rot her soul-had been a migraine sufferer, and she had inherited it from her, along with a number of other tendencies.

But Mr. Theo had been different again these last few days, quite sharp with her on occasion. His good mood seemed to have evaporated. Perhaps it would be best not to irritate him further.

“Of course I’ll go to market, then,” she said. “Can’t have you with a sore face! What will Mrs. Budd think?”

Theo realised with horror that she was implying that Rosebud might think that Beattie and he had been having a close encounter, and he shivered.

“Right, I expect they’ll have it at Boots,” he said. “Oh, and I shan’t be in for lunch,” he added. “I have arranged to meet a friend in the village.”