Ann Purser: The Hangman’s Row Enquiry

“Oh, it’ll be the cleaning women who come in every day,” Roy said. “And don’t forget Miriam Blake. She has eyes and ears permanently tuned to the Hall. You bet she picked up the whole story.”

“Ah, Miriam, yes,” Ivy said. “Gus was going to see her, wasn’t he. She probably wormed the facts out of him. He pretends to be tough, but he’s a bit of a softy, and it wouldn’t take many warm smiles and hot suppers to get him talking.”

Roy smiled. “You’re right, as always,” he said. “Still, it doesn’t really matter, does it? The police are in charge now, and we can retire from the case.”

“Unpaid,” said Ivy sourly.

Roy agreed, and said that next time they must make sure they get the fee up front.

“Sometimes,” Ivy said, smiling in spite of herself, “I forget you’re eighty-six. Have a chocolate.”

UNACCUSTOMED AS SHE was to walking, Deirdre nevertheless strode out from Tawny Wings and set off for the village shop. The local evening paper arrived in the afternoon, and she was anxious to see if the Bentalls were in it.

Her head was still whirling from the scenes at the Hall. She had hardly slept, and when she did doze off, horrible dreams woke her up again, sweating with terror. After the last nightmare, when Beattie and Keith, standing like giants over her, brandished a knife and laughed as they forced her into a corner, she jolted awake, got out of bed, made herself a cup of tea and listened to the World Service on radio until it was six o’clock and a reasonable time to get up and start the day. Even the violent situation in the Congo could not alarm her as much as that nightmare.

Now the crisp air cleared her head, and she walked up the steps and into the shop feeling much more cheerful. After all, it was over now. The police were in charge, and Enquire Within could leave it to them.

The shop was crowded, full of chattering women, but when Deirdre walked in, all went quiet. “Morning everybody,” she said. “Morning, Will. Has the paper come?” Then she noticed that all the shoppers had open newspapers. Will took up one from the pile, turned to an inside page and silently handed it to her.

The photograph had been taken as Beattie and Keith, arriving at the court in separate vehicles, had been escorted inside, both in handcuffs and with faces covered. Still in shock, probably, thought Deirdre. She started off for home, but changed her mind and went in the direction of Hang-man’s Row. She needed company, somebody who had been there, someone to read the paper with. Gus was the obvious choice, and as she tapped on his door she hoped he was at home. He was, and beckoned her in with a smile. “You don’t look so good,” he said. “Takes a bit of recovering from, doesn’t it?”

Deirdre burst into tears, and sat down heavily on the sagging sofa. “Sorry, sorry,” she blubbed.

“Primrose wine is what you need,” he said. “I’m halfway through the second bottle. The old witch knew how to make a good brew.” He filled a glass with the golden liquid and handed it to her. “Is that the paper? Let’s look at it together.” He sank down on the sofa beside her and handed her a tissue.

It was a short account, using the formal words of police routine in such a case. The two were remanded into custody, without bail. “Doesn’t tell us much, does it,” Deirdre said, sniffing. “I suppose it’ll be a while before we know the truth of what actually happened.”

“We know quite a bit,” Gus said, taking her hand. “They had motive-money-and the opportunity. Miriam was out, Keith was ruthless and mad, Beattie was dominated by him and destroyed by old obsessions. We don’t know which of them did the deed, held the knife and shoved it into the old woman, and we don’t know if the police have any actual evidence that either of them did it. Fingerprints, that kind of thing.”

“I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see,” Deirdre said, blowing her nose. “Fancy a pub snack this evening? I could do with a real drink later, and not this cat’s pee.”

IN HER WINDOWLESS cell, Beattie Bentall, as the police were now calling her, sat staring at a blank wall. None of it seemed real to her. The last twenty-four hours were surely a bad dream, a nightmare. She would wake up soon, wouldn’t she?

She had been given a mug of tea, but when she began to drink, it was stone-cold. Her hands were also stone-cold, and she felt as if her body had turned to ice, frozen into an unfeeling state. She pinched her hand and felt nothing. Was she perhaps dead? Was this it, her punishment for helping Keith to kill Mrs. Blake? But she hadn’t helped him. He hadn’t needed any help. Could she have stopped him? No point in speculating now. Maybe she would have to sit here, alone and with no prospect of any relief, forever and ever. Death would be an escape.

“Now then,” said a harsh voice, and the door opened with a crash. “You’ve not drunk your tea, I see. You must do better with this nice cod and chips. Shall I get you another mug of tea?”

“Yes, please,” Beattie said, and realised it was the first time she had spoken since answering to her name and details in the court. So she was not dead! The smell of fish and chips was so good that she felt a pang of hunger.

Where was Keith? she wondered. He hated fish. Perhaps they would give him something different, though she doubted it. As she ate her cod with relish, she thought about Keith, and decided that whatever happened, when the time came for her to speak, she would tell the whole truth, the real truth. He was on his own now, and if what she had to say incriminated him, then so be it. It was everyone for himself, as she had learned long ago. Surely, after all those years apart, she was not his keeper, not responsible for him.

She saw his face, pale, thin and haggard. He was obviously not a healthy man. She had realised that as soon as she set eyes on him. Judging from his perpetual cough, years of living rough and an addiction to nicotine and God knows what else had weakened his lungs.

Savouring the last potato chip, she thought of the future, of the time when she would have to testify. It would not be difficult to recall what had happened. The scene was engraved on her memory. Winifred Blake, standing there with a bread knife in her hand, fear in her eyes but on the defensive, threatening to call the police if they didn’t leave her house. Then Keith had stepped forward and the old woman retreated until she caught her heel in the edge of the rug and fell backwards.

The worst thing had been Keith’s bloodcurdling laugh. She recalled her horror as he turned the bread knife round and plunged it into Mrs. Blake’s scrawny chest.

That wasn’t what they had planned at all! They had meant to frighten the old woman into giving up all her claims on Theo, so that she would leave the field clear for them. At least, that was what Keith had led her to think they would do. She had realised then in terror that her twin brother was unhinged, unpredictable and dangerous. When he had calmly suggested they get out of the cottage as soon as possible, she had feared for her own safety, and had allowed Keith to push her out into the lane. He had disappeared then, off towards the woods, and she had returned to the Hall, like a terrified rabbit scuttling back into its burrow.

Then had come the lies to the police, protecting herself and her mad brother. She was good at telling lies, always had been, but from now on she intended to tell the truth. She had no moral principles, just a strong sense of what was expedient. Looking after number one, her horrible stepfather had called it.

“Dear God,” she said aloud. “Help me now. Keith is past help, so you might just as well concentrate on me. If I tell the honest truth, and they believe me, I could get off lightly. Is that too much to ask?”