Ann Purser - The Hangman’s Row Enquiry

Gus had given in, and now they purred their way through country lanes and tunnels of overhanging trees. Gus had turned off his sat nav and asked Roy to guide them through a pretty route to Oakbridge. “Haven’t been along here for years,” the old man said now. “Look, Ivy, that’s where my old Aunt Eliza lived. Dead now, of course, and the farm sold. Still, the old apple tree’s still there-look at those Cox’s!”

Deirdre saw a sign outside the entry to the farm, advertising apples for sale. She slowed down and pulled off into the farmyard. “Go on, Gus,” she said, “go and buy us apples to munch.”

He got out and muttered to himself that this was turning into an outing for the Darby and Joan Club. But he came back with a bagful of crisp apples and an old knife the farmer’s wife had insisted on giving him. “She said some elderly people couldn’t eat apple skin,” he reported, handing the bag into the backseat. “We can return the knife anytime.”

It was a much longer route than the main road, but even Gus began to enjoy the absence of traffic and the gentle landscape. Finally they turned into the car park in Oakbridge, and both Ivy and Roy said they needed the toilet. “Leave me the key, Deirdre,” Ivy said. “We shall be fine. You might meet us in town, but ignore us. Me and Roy are determined to make the most of our parole.”

As Deirdre and Gus walked off in the direction of the post office, Deirdre said, “So you see, Augustus Halfhide. And we still have plenty of time.”

A YOUNG WOMAN behind the busy post office counter wished them good morning and smiled, obeying recent PO instructions to be polite to every customer, no matter how tiresome. She had a nice smile, and Deirdre was encouraged to ask her if there were Jessops living in Oakbridge.

“Are you a relation?” said the girl.

Gus took over and said no, but they knew someone who was, and were anxious to pass on a message.

“We have telephone directories for public scrutiny over there,” the girl said, twinkling at him. “I’m sure they will give you the information you want.” She pressed her button and the mechanical voice said, “Window number eight please.”

“Dismissed,” said Gus, as he, with Deirdre, headed for the telephone directories.

“Probably ex-directory, if they’ve followed their forbears into the underworld of crime and violence,” she said.

“Pure melodrama! Come off it, Deirdre,” Gus said, and found the right page. “Oh, my God, dozens of ’em! Where on earth shall we start?”

“Can I help you?” said a man’s voice at their elbow.

“We’re looking for somebody called Jessop,” Deirdre said, smiling gratefully at him. “There’s so many of them here.”

“Is it the old man you want? Interested in his house? I saw it was up for sale.”

“How old is he?” said Gus.

“Ooh, must be in his seventies now. We used to live next door to them until we couldn’t stand them any longer and moved away!” He laughed, and Deirdre said she was sure that would be the Jessop they wanted. “We might be interested in the house,” she said.

The helpful man nodded, pointed at the address in the directory, and wished them luck. “Better take y’ body-guard,” he said, and chuckled as he walked away.

Meanwhile, Ivy and Gus sat in a chintzy café not far from the car park, happily drinking coffee and eating doughnuts. “Ivy, can I ask you something?” Roy said hesitantly.

“Depends what it is,” said Ivy. Her heart began to thud. Surely not, not at their age?

“I’ve often wondered, since we met, why you’re living in Springfields? After all, you’re not infirm, and you’ve certainly still got all your marbles!”

Ivy sighed with relief, and thought for a moment. She was not accustomed to confiding her private feelings to anybody, but there was something gentle and reassuring about Roy.

“To tell the truth,” she said, looking down at her plate, “I was lonely. One or two of my old friends had passed on, and another gone into a home in Tresham, and I could be in the house for a whole day without speaking to a soul. I was never one for relying on other people, but I began to feel-well-a bit lonely.”

Roy had a good idea what this was costing Ivy, and reached out and patted her hand. “Just the same for me,” he said. “Only I ain’t got a lovely cousin Deirdre to rescue me!”

“I suppose she’s all right,” said Ivy, straightening up. “Better than I expected, really. Now Roy,” she continued, “you’ve done very well, but I reckon we should finish up and get back to the car and settled down. We can watch people coming and going, and have a listen to Desert Island Discs . It’s that nice whatsisname this week.” With the immediate future organised, they relaxed and took their time.

“Excuse me,” said a middle-aged woman, looking at the empty chair at their table. “Is this seat taken?”

“We’re just going,” Ivy said. “You’re welcome to sit there.”

Roy, who had spent years in the company of lonely old people in Springfields, looked at the newcomer and saw the same hungry look in her eyes. Hungry for company, poor thing, he thought.

“Why don’t we have another coffee, Ivy, before we go?” he said. “I am sure this lady won’t mind.”

Ivy looked at him in surprise, but the neat little woman said that would be so nice. Were they new to Oakbridge?

Roy said Ivy was, but he wasn’t, and this was Miss Beasley and he was Roy Goodman. “And your name?” he said politely.

“Bentall,” she said. “Renata Bentall.”

DEIRDRE LOOKED INTO the front garden wilderness and up at the pebble-dashed semidetached house. “Looks neglected,” she said, moving closer to Gus. “Is it empty already, do you think?”

Gus shook his head. “I saw a face at the window,” he said. “Just a flash, then it went away.”

“Man or woman?”

“Man, I think. Shall we go and knock?”

Deirdre took a deep breath and walked up the path to the peeling front door. She pressed a bell button, but could hear no sound.

Gus reached out and knocked firmly. “That should bring him,” he said. “Or we could always yell through the letter box that we are police and he must open up?”

“Don’t be daft,” Deirdre said. “And anyway, there’s someone coming.”

Shuffling footsteps approached, and then the door opened a crack. “Woja want?” a gruff voice said.

“Mr. Jessop?” Gus said. The old man grunted, “Yes,” and “So what?”

“We wondered if we could take a look at your house,” Deirdre said, in her most persuasive tone. “It is for sale, isn’t it?” They had noticed that there was no signboard outside.

“Why ain’t you with the estate agent, then?” the old man said.

“Oh, we haven’t got long in town,” Deirdre improvised. “Just called on the off chance that you might be at home. It is Mr. Jessop, isn’t it?”

The old man nodded, and said suspiciously that he never opened the door to strangers. How was he to know they wouldn’t beat him up and ransack the house? “Not that there’s anything worth having,” he said quickly.

“We could leave the door open, so you’d feel safe?” Gus said. “But if you’d rather not… You’ve probably had an offer already?” This was cunning, as the old man had had no offers, and was canny enough to want a quick sale at this time of economic downturn. The estate agent had told him the housing market was dead.