Ann Purser - The Hangman’s Row Enquiry

“Can you print it out, then we could look at it under a magnifying glass,” Roy said. “I’ve got a really powerful one back at the detention centre. I use it for reading now.”

“Back at the what ?” Gus said.

Roy laughed. “S’what me and my old mate at Springfields used to call the place,” he said, and his expression changed. “Dead now. He was a good old boy, was Donald.”

Ivy reached out and patted his shoulder. “You still got some mates around,” she said. “We three, for a start.”

Roy began to hum, and then sang in a cracked voice, “ ‘We three, at Happydrome, working for the BBC’… Can’t remember any more,” he said, and the others burst into spontaneous applause.

“Right,” said Deirdre, sniffing a little, “I’ll print out this page, and then we can all go back to the detention centre and put it under Roy’s magic magnifier.”

UNFORTUNATELY, MRS. SPURLING had returned unexpectedly, and had given Miss Pinkney the rough end of her tongue, which could be very rough indeed.

“They pay very good money to be in here,” she had rasped. “And what for? Not to be let out on the loose with irresponsible people like those three! They come in here for protection, comfort and SECURITY!” The last word was shouted, and Miss Pinkney looked around nervously. She knew Katya was checking in all the rooms looking for Mrs. Somerfield’s spectacles. Hunting for lost specs was a regular job in Springfields.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Spurling,” Roy Goodman said, leading the other three through the door into reception.

“My dear Mr. Goodman,” she said, rushing forward and taking his arm. “Are you all right?” She glared at Ivy, who glared back.

“Of course I am,” Roy replied, shaking her off. “Don’t treat me like an old man, Mrs. Spurling,” he said, “or else I must look for another detention centre with greater opportunities for parole.”

“What? Did you say ‘detention centre’?” Mrs. Spurling gasped.

“A joke,” Gus said, stepping forward quickly. “We have taken great care of Mr. Goodman, and I think you will agree he is none the worse for a little outing.”

Deirdre beamed. “Look at his pink cheeks!” she said. “Years younger, wouldn’t you say, Miss Pinkney?”

Miss Pinkney nodded timidly. “I must see about supper,” she said, and vanished swiftly.

“Ah, supper!” said Roy. “What’s for supper, Mrs. Spurling? I could eat a horse,” he added enthusiastically. This reminded him that they had to magnify a horse and rider before supper, and he beckoned the three to follow him to his room.

“If my ever-loving husband had not run off with the cook,” Mrs. Spurling said to herself, “I would not have to stand here without support in front of a load of old loonies on the rampage.” She grabbed the book she had come back for, and went out of the building with shoulders hunched and fury in her heart.

“HERE IT IS,” Deirdre said, picking up a hugely magnifying eyeglass. Give me the paper, Gus.”

He put it down on Roy’s bedside table, and said she should take first look. “You’re the one who’s likely to recognise distinguishing features and so on,” he said.

Deirdre refrained from saying that the picture was unlikely to show the birthmark on Theo’s right buttock, but looked seriously at the photograph.

“Oh my God,” she said finally. “It’s him. Look, see that hard hat he’s wearing. It’s got a couple of pheasant feathers tucked in the band round the crown. It was his trademark. It’s him. I could swear it.”

THEO ROUSSEL HAD not come home for dinner last night, in spite of Beattie having cooked a pheasant in the way he liked best, in a casserole with white wine and apples.

She had tried telephoning him on his mobile, but it was switched off. Then she had thought of ringing the pub, but knew that if he thought she was checking up on him he would be furious. She had put the pheasant in the larder and made scrambled egg on toast for herself. As he was still not back at ten thirty, she had left a note reminding him to lock up, and went to bed.

Now, next morning, she heard him coming to find her, calling at the top of his voice. She was in the kitchen garden, cutting a lettuce for a salad lunch, and when she looked up to see him approaching, the sun was in her eyes, and for a moment she thought it must be some other man. This confident-looking stranger with dark glasses and an apologetic smile could not possibly be… But it was. Theo Roussel had spent half the night playing cards and drinking with old cronies in the Conservative Club in town, and had woken to find himself in the spare room of the town mayor, who had been one of the party. He had been touched by the genuine warmth of the welcome he received.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” he said. “Forgot to ring you about dinner.”

“You did say you might not be in, but I expected confirmation. And I slept in a house that was not locked against intruders,” Beattie said formally.

“Oh, come on, Beattie. A chap needs a little relaxation sometimes. Am I forgiven?”

It was quite clear to Beattie that he did not care whether he was forgiven or not, and she turned to pick up the lettuce. He had given no explanation, she noted. Not that he was likely to tell her the truth. He didn’t need to, anyway. She knew where he had been. Tucked up in a cosy bed at Tawny Wings, that’s where. Beattie could not bring herself to say the woman’s name, even to herself.

“I shall be in for lunch,” Theo continued, blissfully unaware of the ice in Beattie’s heart. “Back about one. I have to catch up with young David Budd now.” He walked off with a definite spring in his step, and Beattie glowered at his retreating figure.

THE BUDDS’ COTTAGE was in its usual chaotic state, and when Theo knocked at the door Rose peeped out to see who was there. “Oh, blast!” she said, and called up the stairs, “David! It’s the boss!”

“What, the very lovely Beattie?”

“No, it’s himself. The Honourable. Can you come down quickly, while I throw everything behind the sofa?”

There was nothing wrong with Theo’s hearing, and he laughed out loud. He tried the door and found it unlocked. Opening it a fraction, he called out, “Don’t mind me, Rosebud. I just want a word with David.”

Rose smoothed her hair down with her hands and went to the door. “Come on in, then,” she said. “And look where you put your feet. Simon’s gone for a nap after causing his usual whirlwind in the house. Ooops! Watch out for Thomas!”

“Who?” said Theo, looking around.

“Thomas the Tank Engine. Ah, here’s David. I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Morning, Mr. Theo. Though it feels like afternoon to me,” David said. “Bin up for hours! One of your ewes was in trouble. I could hear her, poor old thing. She was on her back and couldn’t get up. All four skinny legs waving about in the air. You got time for a cup of tea? I missed breakfast, so I’ll just have a bite to eat, if that’s all right with you.”

David realised he was talking too much, but it was such an odd experience, having the boss, the real boss, calling in to discuss farming matters. Something big must have happened up at the Hall. The man in front of him was like a kid let out of school, all smiles and bounce. He wondered how much Theo remembered about farming.

“Sit down for a bit,” said Rose, brushing small garments off a chair and giving Theo a mug of strong tea. “You’re looking well. Beattie all right?”

“Oh, I expect so,” Theo answered. “Now, David,” he began, and told him of new plans he had for the sheep. “And I think we should have a few milkers back in the cowsheds,” he said. “I’d be keen to help with the milking, and we could use most of it ourselves and in the village.”