Ann Purser: The Hangman’s Row Enquiry

IVY BEASLEY WAS in her room, which she preferred to spending useless hours in the communal lounge, listening to boring reminiscences from old people. She did not consider herself a typical candidate for a residential home for the elderly. And why “elderly”? “Old” was a perfectly good word, wasn’t it? She narrowed her eyes. Labels were ridiculous, anyway. It was all Deirdre’s fault she was here, going on and on and forcing Ivy to agree. Deirdre had mustered all the support she could find in Ringford, including the Standings’, in order to convince Ivy that Springfields was the answer.

Her reminiscences were interrupted by a girl with duster and a basket of cleaning materials peeping round her door.

“Please knock before you open the door!” Ivy said sternly. “And I am not ready for you to come in, anyway. Come back later.” The girl swore under her breath, but shut the door quietly, as instructed.

Back in her reminiscences, Ivy remembered that it was those leaflets of Springfields that Deirdre had sent her that had softened her up. “Comfortable rooms and all residents’ privacy requirements respected,” she had repeated to the vicar of Round Ringford. He was one of a campaign to get rid of her, she reckoned. But she had finally reluctantly given in, with the thought that perhaps a new start would be a challenge. With the best of her old friends in Ringford graveyard, Ivy decided she had little to lose.

Now her room was beginning to be a familiar and pleasant retreat. She looked out of her window, and could see down the drive and as far as the road. Wasn’t that the lanky figure of Augustus Halfhide approaching? He must be coming to see her, of course. There was nobody else in this dump worth speaking to. She got up from her chair and swiftly closed the romantic novel she had been reading. There had been only one romance in Ivy’s life, and that had gone horribly wrong. It had been a long time before she could even think about it, but now she could look back and despise herself for being so stupid. Much better to rely on novels. If the romance went sour, you could get another from the library and hope it would be different.

Half an hour went by, and Ivy frowned. Where had he got to? Probably that wretched woman had intercepted him and kept him talking. Well, she still had the use of her legs, and she would go and rescue him. She left her room and went purposefully down to the hallway. As she thought, there he was, trapped by Mrs. Spurling. He saw her coming, and smiled broadly.

“Ah! There you are, Miss Beasley. I do hope you have time to talk to me for a while? I have been offering my services as a volunteer to Mrs. Spurling, and would like to become a friend to all at Springfields.” Is this really me? he thought to himself. Gus Halfhide, man about town, gambler extraordinary-friend of Springfields Home for the Elderly? Yes it is, he told himself firmly.

“You’ll soon get fed up with that,” Ivy said, with a prim smile. “Why don’t you come and have a cup of tea with me, and I can set you straight.”

“Wonderful!” said Gus. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Spurling. Now don’t forget, I am at your service. Lead on, Miss Beasley.”

Ivy gave her orders to Mrs. Spurling for a good pot of tea and two pieces of window cake.

“Window cake?” Gus said. Ivy laughed. “Dear me,” she said, “you’re still wet behind the ears, Mr. Halfhide.”

He followed meekly as the old woman stumped back to her room. She ushered him in and shut the door firmly. “All eyes and ears, the residents of Springfields,” she said. “And that includes me. Sit you down, and you can tell me what you’ve really come for.”

Gus hesitated. Should he enlist Miss Ivy Beasley straightaway? Tell her that at the moment he was a one-man detective agency, but could use a partner? She would laugh in his face. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“My line of business, Miss Beasley,” he began, “before I came to this village of Barrington, was investigation. I am not at liberty to tell you the nature of this investigation, but I have now retired. However, as I have been unfortunate enough to move next door to a house where there has been a violent death that looks like murder, I can hardly forbear to use my skills to help Miss Blake and obtain justice for her poor old mother.”

Ivy looked at him, her head on one side, weighing up what he had just said. “Now, Mr. Halfhide,” she replied, “let’s put it like this. You were in some dodgy line of business that probably meant poking your nose into other people’s affairs. Now you’ve given it up, or it has given you up, and you’re here in Barrington, in the middle of nowhere, to keep your head down and hope that whatever it is you’re escaping from will go away and be forgotten. Am I right?”

The old devil! Gus dearly wished he could tell her how near the truth she had guessed. But it wouldn’t do. He had to be consistent, and he laughed rather too loudly and said she couldn’t be more wrong.

“The only part of it that is correct is that I was in the investigating business,” he said, looking at her seriously now. “And I am sure you will appreciate that I have sworn an oath of secrecy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ivy said. “That may wash with Miriam Blake, but not with me. Anyway,” she continued, “I don’t care a fig what you were in the past. It is what you do here that is important. As for the Blake affair, if you ask me,” she added, “you don’t have to look no further than the daughter. I can’t say I care for her much, but she did have a time of it with that old mother giving her the runaround. And I’ll tell you this for nothing. From what I’ve heard, that Miriam Blake is no better than she should be. Don’t let her give you all that innocent spinster stuff. Ah,” she added, “here’s tea.”

She looked at the tray brought in by a young girl, and said slowly and loudly,”You forgot the window cake!” The girl looked frightened, said she was sorry and vanished to fetch it.

“Foreign,” Ivy said in explanation. “Polish. They’re everywhere these days. I don’t know I’m sure, what is this country coming to, Mr. Halfhide?”

“We can fix it,” Gus said with a smile. “Shall I pour, or will you?”

Gus and Ivy sat talking amiably in her room for a few minutes when there was a tap at the door. Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Spurling bounced in.

“Just popped in to see if you two dear things would like a small sherry? Such a gloomy day…”

Ivy stared at her. “What are you talking about?” She looked at her old clock brought from Ringford and put safely on the chest of drawers where she could see it, even if she was in bed. “Drinking at this hour?” she said bluntly.

Gus said quickly, “A small sherry is very acceptable at any hour. Most kind of you, Mrs. Spurling.” He gave her the full blast of his charming smile. She giggled. Not a pretty sight, he thought. Then she said, “Would you like me to join you, possibly?”

“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” said Ivy firmly. “And if Mr. Halfhide would like a sherry at such a daft time of day, then please send that girl up with one. Nothing for me, of course. What an idea! Mother would turn in her grave.”

When Mrs. Spurling had retired scarlet-faced with annoyance, Gus attempted to calm the atmosphere. “Tell me about your mother, Miss Beasley,” he said. “She sounds a most interesting woman.” An evil old bag, more likely, he thought, but settled back in his chair prepared to listen.

Ivy looked at him, frowning. “You don’t want to hear about my mother,” she said. “You want to know some more about the Blakes, don’t you. D’you know what I really think about you, Mr. Halfhide?”

Oh Lord, now what, thought Gus, but he nodded bravely.