Ann Purser: The Hangman’s Row Enquiry

“I’m sure you’re up to more than you’ve said, young man,” she said. Gus was quite happy about the adjective, until Ivy added that most people looked young to an old lady like herself. “No doubt you have a good reason for living on your own, and you don’t seem one of those.”

“One of whats?” Gus said, knowing perfectly well what she meant.

“Fancy men,” Ivy said flatly. “I’ve always liked to call a spade a spade, and Mother always said she’d have no truck with fancy men.”

“Ah,” pounced Gus. “Your mother. Now do tell me more about her. She must have been a great character… like mother, like daughter, would you say, Ivy?”

Ivy wondered whether to point out that she never allowed people she hardly knew to call her by her Christian name, but decided to ignore it. Actually, she quite liked it from Augustus.

“Yes, she was a character. Very forceful. Boss of our house, no doubt about that. My father was a good man, but not as strong as she was. Came from farming stock, and had been brought up to work on the farm from an early age. I was an only child, Mr. Halfhide, but that didn’t mean I was spoilt. Oh no. ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child.’ That was my mother’s favourite saying.”

“You mean she hit you?” Gus said in a shocked voice. No wonder the old thing was so sharp-edged.

“On occasion,” Ivy said. “But not with a stick. Flat of her hand on the back of bare legs. That was her way. My father used to go out of the room. He couldn’t stay. Didn’t hold with smacking girls, I heard him say once to my mother. But she just laughed.”

“Now, that’s quite enough about Mother,” she went on, conscious that Gus Halfhide was looking a bit green about the gills. “Let’s talk about the reason you’re here. It’s finding out who killed old Mrs. Blake. And my guess is that you’re nothing to do with the police. Right?”

Gus nodded firmly.

“And you want me to help you. Right?”

Gus nodded.

“Very well,” Ivy said. “I like the idea of something to occupy the brain. It can go to mush, you know, if it’s not exercised. But Deirdre has to be in on it, too. She’s a pain in the neck, but not stupid. And she has money. We might need that. Add to that the fact that she’s fit and well and has nothing to do, I reckon she’d be useful.”

“Can she keep her mouth shut?” Gus said meekly.

“Like a clam,” Ivy said. “She’s had plenty of practise, spending her husband’s money without the rest of his family knowing,” she added, smiling grimly.

Gus stood up and extended his hand. “A deal, then, Ivy?” he said.

“A deal, Augustus,” she said, shaking his hand vigorously.

DEIRDRE BLOXHAM HAD married money, but not class. But then, she hadn’t been exactly classy herself, not upper class nor even upper middle, but good solid working class, eminently respectable. She was a bright schoolgirl, and went on to improve herself in adulthood with all kinds of further education courses. It was on one of these, a basic introduction to motor maintenance, that she met her future husband.

Bert Bloxham had planned out his future as a successful garage owner. Included in his plans was an attractive, capable wife, who could rise with him up the social ladder.

In Deirdre, he saw the perfect partner. She was lively, ambitious, and capable, and, what is more, he fancied her. Luckily, she fancied him, too, and after a decent interval of courtship, they were married, had two small girls, and settled in a small terraced house in the suburbs of Thornwell, a large town near to Barrington.

By retirement age Bert and Deirdre had amassed a considerable fortune, selling the now large chain of garages for a handsome sum and moving into a large house in Barrington. Unfortunately, Bert was not suited to retirement, and within two years had died of inactivity and boredom.

Deirdre, apart from loneliness after Bert had died, did not pine. Once grief had been dealt with, she set about making a different, but satisfactory, life. She was good at spending money and bossing people around. Ivy had not been her only project. Her proudest moment had been the presentation to her of an MBE for dedicated services to the local community.

Now she sat in her elegant drawing room, as she had learnt to call it, enjoying a large gin and tonic, and wondering if it would be a good idea to invite Ivy to tea to meet some of her club’s members. She weighed up the pros and cons and decided that on balance it was a bad idea. The old thing could be very tricky, and deliberately tactless, and it would probably be best to have Ivy for a cup of tea along with Deirdre’s next-door neighbour, who was ninety-three and deaf as a post.

GUS, MEANWHILE, HAD returned home a happy man. With Ivy on his side, he reckoned he could have a great deal of fun playing detective and sorting out Miriam Blake, who was rapidly becoming an object of considerable interest. No better than she should be, did Ivy say? Ah ha! Just the kind of thing he loved to investigate.

Then he remembered one thing Ivy had stipulated. Her cousin Deirdre must be involved. Deirdre had money, said Ivy, and they might need some. Gus could second that heartily. He always needed money, and if this was a way of making some, all to the good. So, an approach to Deirdre Bloxham was the next thing on his agenda, and Ivy had made it plain that it was up to him to persuade her to cooperate.

He looked out of his dusty window and saw a fine sunlit evening. Right, no time like the present. He washed his hands, combed his hair over the patch where a small niece had told him his head was showing through, and set off in his car to find Mrs. Deirdre Bloxham, MBE.

TAWNY WINGS WAS a strange house, built by a patriotic builder for his own family in Barrington. He had made his millions putting up cheap little dwellings miles away on the outskirts of Thornwell, but for Tawny Wings he had chosen a picture village and had designed and built the house in the shape of a V sign. Deirdre often wondered whether he had been inspired by Churchill’s famous gesture. Odd as the exterior appeared, it was a comfortable house. Even the bath in the master bathroom was extra large. The builder had meant to have nothing but the best, and Deirdre felt thoroughly at home.

As she gazed out of her drawing room window her eye was caught by a battered-looking car approaching slowly up her driveway. Who on earth could that be? She looked at her watch. Seven o’clock, and her supper browning nicely in the oven. Ah well, she would soon send him packing, whoever he was.

She answered the doorbell, and saw to her surprise that her visitor was Augustus Halfhide, friend of Ivy and something of an enigma.

“Good evening, Mrs. Bloxham!” Gus at his best could be very persuasive. “I apologise for calling at such an hour without making an appointment first, but I wondered whether you would have ten spare minutes to talk to me?”

“What are you selling?” said Deirdre bluntly. She had not spent years in her husband’s motor car business without knowing all the tricks of the salesman’s trade.

Gus lifted his eyebrows, and gave her a quizzical smile. “Goodness me, Mrs. Bloxham! I am not a commercial traveller, you know. No, I have been talking to Miss Beasley-a cousin of yours, I believe?-about a rather interesting project, and she encouraged me to think you might be willing to participate. She has been telling me about all your numerous good works, and the MBE, of course, and I cannot help but think you would be enormously helpful to our little scheme.”

“Cut the cackle,” said Deirdre, standing back and opening the door wider. “You’d better come in and explain in plain words what you’re on about. I can’t spare many minutes.”