Ann Purser: The Hangman’s Row Enquiry

Roussel made a face at Gus, and began to shut the window. Then he stopped and said, “Nuisance about the Blake woman. Beattie’ll get the daughter moved on. Hardly pays any rent, you know. Old John Blake used to work on the estate until he died. Useless when he was alive, and even more useless now he’s dead. Don’t let the daughter bother you, Mr. Halfhide. Beattie’ll get rid of her.” He closed the window, and the car moved off with a jerk.

Gus walked on home and thought hard about what Roussel had said. He had seemed extraordinarily unconcerned about having a murder in his property. Did that mean he had had a hand in it? Or had Beattie? Gus’s experience of murders in villages was much influenced by the crime novels of Agatha Christie, and so he was sure that under the tranquil surface there were secret family feuds and hatreds. A large bagful of twenty pound notes under the mattress might be quite enough to trigger a violent death! Money problems at the Hall? It was common knowledge that members of the aristocracy were poor as church mice.

Gus shook himself. This was pure fantasy! Maybe the old duck was holding the bread knife and conked out, falling on the knife as she went. But no, in his experience, such things seldom happened without a helping hand.

As he approached the terrace, he saw a police car parked outside the Blakes’ cottage. Damn and blast! He hoped they hadn’t arrived to arrest Miriam Blake. His meetings with Ivy Beasley and Theodore Roussel had fed his curiosity, and during his walk home he had again felt that need to know . He had given in, and now had all the excitement of being back in business. After all, there was damn all to do in this place, and Gus had quite decided that a satisfactorily long investigation would fill his time when not writing. Now he had to think quickly how he proposed to make a start.

First, he must have a way of talking to all kinds of village people. He had quickly realized that he had no hope of keeping himself to himself, so he might as well make use of village nosiness.

What would give him easy access into their lives? He could apply for a job as newspaper delivery man, going every day to village houses. Or relief postman? No, neither of those sounded convincing. He would be instantly under suspicion. He looked around his sitting room for inspiration, and saw where a triangle of plaster had already fallen off the corner of the wall by the fireplace. A cheap, bodged job by a local, he thought. But that was it! He would advertise in the local shop as an experienced painter and decorator. The fact that he knew very little about either did not bother him. It surely could not be too difficult to slap a coat of paint on a wall. And he was good with his hands. He could easily manage the fiddly bits, like window frames.

With relief, he watched the police car depart with no Miriam Blake inside. It would be neighbourly, he convinced himself, to pop along and see that she was not too upset by a visit from the law.

Miriam answered the door straightaway. She looked warily at him, and said, “Hello.”

Gus gave her his most charming smile. “Gus Halfhide,” he introduced himself. “Next door. But I am sure you know that. I couldn’t help noticing the police car, and wondered if you would like a restoring cup of tea with me?” He hadn’t meant to say that at all, but she looked so unhappy that he could not suppress his natural kindness. After all, he had many times comforted the bereaved.

She hesitated. “Um, well, I’m not sure,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” Gus reassured her. “I am quite safe in taxis.” She looked puzzled, and he realized the old phrase used by flappers in the twenties meant nothing to her. “I can’t prove it,” he said, holding out his hand, “but I assure you I am a perfectly trustworthy and honest citizen.”

He was relieved when she shook his hand limply, and gave him a faint smile. “Well, thank you, Mr. Halfhide,” she said. “Just a small cup, then. I can only spare a few minutes. So much to do after a death in the family.” Her chin wobbled, and he nodded. “Off we go,” he said. “ ‘The cup that cheers but not inebriates.’ ”

“Mother used to say that,” Miriam said, and locked her cottage door behind her.

COMFORTABLY SETTLED, MIRIAM looked over the top of her glasses at Gus Halfhide. “Now then,” she said, putting down her mug of strong tea. “If we’re to be neighbours and friends, I shall have to know a bit about you.”

Oh no you won’t, thought Gus. But he was practised in dissembling, and was relaxed about answering her questions with lies and half lies. “Fire away, Miriam,” he said. “I do hope I may call you Miriam?” Without those dreadful glasses, she would be quite good-looking, he decided. Good skin, thick wavy hair. A little carroty, but nicely done.

Miriam looked doubtful. He was definitely attractive, she considered, and someone a lot worse might have moved in next door. “Well, I suppose it’s all right,” she said.

“And you must call me Gus,” he continued. “Perhaps you’d like a potted biography? Or should it be autobiography?”

Miriam frowned. What on earth was he on about. “Go on, then,” she said, and waited.

Gus gave her a big smile. “Born thirty-five years ago,” he said, having knocked off ten years for luck. “Out in India with parents until aged five, then home to Surrey. Series of unpleasant nannies, and finally boarding school. Harrow, actually.” No need to add the grammar school bit. He could see she was looking mightily impressed, and he continued. “Married twice, divorced twice. Not the marrying kind, I have decided. Still on good terms with both ex-wives. No children, fortunately.” He paused for breath.

“What work do you do?” Miriam asked. This was the most important question as far as she was concerned. They had had enough advertising executives, film producers, aging actors, and so on, buying up all the village properties.

“I’m a best-selling writer,” he said. He put his head on one side and smiled winsomely at her.

Miriam looked at him, then burst out laughing, a surprisingly raucous sound. “Pull the other one,” she said.

“Absolutely true,” he said, joining in the laughter. It always worked, he thought happily.

AFTER MIRIAM HAD gone, Gus cleared away dirty crocks and found himself a glass. All the glasses in the cupboard were straightforward tumblers, thick and not too clean. He rinsed it under the tap and poured himself a whisky. Adding a teaspoonful of water, he took it into the sitting room and settled down with a pad of paper and a pen. Time to make plans.

He noted down his intention to become a painter and decorator. He must make an attractive poster for the shop. His computer would do that for him, with two or three images of paintbrushes and efficient looking men up ladders. Then there was Miriam to cultivate. He felt he had made a good start there. And probably the most important of all was to develop a friendship with the all-knowing Miss Ivy Beasley at Springfields. Once he had got a foot in the door there, he reckoned he could tap in on several of the old folks’ memories. But most usefully, he would gain Ivy’s confidence so that she would tell him all her secrets and continue to glean information around the village. He must also get to know her cousin. Quite an attractive woman. Probably a goer in her youth. And moneyed. He laughed. Must be well worth listening to a conversation between Ivy and Deirdre!

Right, no time like the present. He would walk up to Springfields and ask about being a volunteer. All these retirement homes had Friends groups. He could offer to read to them, play cards, push wheelchairs… All good opportunities for gathering information. He reckoned that he would, in record time, find the assassin who had done for old Mrs. Blake. No need for PC Plod! Never fear, Gus is here!