Ann Purser - The Hangman’s Row Enquiry

“No, no bag, thanks. That’s all I want at the moment. And to answer your question, yes, it was a bit of a shock. Poor Miss Blake is in a bad state. Pale as a ghost and very shaky. I suppose she was fond of her mother, living together all those years. When did the father die?”

“Years ago,” said Will. “And not much missed, as far as I can tell. As for being fond of her mother, our Miriam and the old woman scarcely spoke to one another. Miriam said Mrs. Blake was so sharp and unkind that she had given up talking to her. Everything she said, apparently, was found fault with, and the poor girl found keeping quiet was the best policy.”

“Still, a mother is a mother,” Gus said, picking up his bread. “Bound to be lonely, poor Miriam. I shall do my best to be a good neighbour.”

He left the shop, and Will said under his breath, “Well, just watch it, mate. Miriam Blake eats unattached men for breakfast.”

When Gus reached Springfields, he saw Ivy waiting for him at the garden gate. “You’re late,” she said. “Might as well be off straightaway.”

“Off where?” he said. He’d been looking forward to coffee and biscuits.

“To the graveyard, of course. Follow me.”

“But the old lady is not buried yet,” objected Gus. “They’ll keep the body for a while yet, while police investigations are going on.”

“Not the old lady. We’re going to see the old man. Poor old Blake. Had a terrible time with those two women, so I hear.”

“Maybe,” said Gus. “But what use is it going to look at a mouldering gravestone? The dead can’t speak, Ivy.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. And don’t argue, even if you are the chair.”

Gus sighed. “Right,” he said, “just the morning for visiting a graveyard. Sun shining, birds singing, a warm breeze. Where else would you want to go on such a day?”

“We shall all be in there for good soon enough, so might as well get used to it,” Ivy said, and walked on steadily.

The graveyard in Barrington was in fact a pleasant spot. Dutiful parishioners cut the grass and trimmed the roses that lined the path to the church door. The churchyard itself was full, but Ivy led Gus to an extension round the back, and stopped at an overgrown grave with moss covering the lettering.

“That’s him,” she said. “You can just make out his name. Now, before we uncover the inscription, what do you notice, Augustus? You’re the gumshoe.”

“The what?!” he said.

“Isn’t that what private detectives are called in America?”

“For God’s sake, Ivy, couldn’t you just stick to Gus and leave it at that?”

“Right, Augustus,” she said, with an unaccustomed smile on her face. “Well, what do you make of it?”

“Neglected, first of all. And why? Because nobody cares for it, and maybe nobody cared for its occupant. Who should have cared? Mrs. and Miss Blake, of course. Well, maybe in later life Mrs. B was too disabled, but Miriam could, or should, have tidied it up once in a while. And what about flowers at Easter and a holly wreath at Christmas? No trace of either. How am I doing, Ivy?”

Ivy had to admit that he had done very well, and said so. “Now you have to scrape off the moss,” she said, and, brushing leaves from a nearby tomb, perched herself comfortably on it and prepared to watch Gus get down to some real work.

AFTER GUS HAD cleared the face of the gravestone of moss and algae, he sat down next to Ivy and said, “Well, what does it say?”

“You can read, can’t you?” said Ivy.

“Not without my glasses,” admitted Gus. “How about you?”

“ ‘In Loving Memory,’ ” she read, and added that this obviously didn’t mean much, judging by the state of the grave. “ ‘John Frederick Blake, born 12 March 1908, died 3 February 1985.’ ” So that was quite a while ago, Gus, as I said.”

“What’s that in smaller letters at the bottom under the grass?”

Ivy peered at it, moving the long grass to one side. “ ‘He did the best he could . ’ Well,” she said, shocked, “talk about damning with faint praise! What a dreadful thing to say.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Gus replied with a shrug. “Seems about right for most people,” he said. “Probably more like the truth than the usual eulogy.”

“Huh?” said Ivy, straightening up and wincing silently. “Usual usogy, usual eulogy?” she grunted. “Better stick to plain English, Augustus,” she said, and turned back along the grassy path to the graveyard gates.

They stood outside the church, looking down the village street, and Ivy said shouldn’t they go back to Springfields now and have coffee and biscuits? “Still plenty of the morning left, and we can decide what to do next.”

As Gus’s only commitment that day was tea with Miriam, he agreed. He might see that pretty Polish girl again, and then there was Mrs. Spurling to keep sweet. It occurred to him suddenly that he was surrounded by women. He’d not met a single man so far to share a pint with him at the pub. Perhaps he would call in again at the shop on his way home, see if Will was the matey sort. He would certainly be in possession of a good deal of useful information. Who else? Theo Roussel was probably a snooty toff who would never set foot in the village pub, even if the Beattie woman would allow him to. Nobody else, as yet.

He would ask Will what else went on in the village. He knew there was a Women’s Institute, but obviously not for him. Cricket club? Darts team? Reading group? Ivy had pointed out to him the old Reading Room, bequeathed by Theo’s grandfather to the village, and lately restored. Logical place for a reading group, he thought, but did he want to read books chosen by other people? Depends who are the other members, he decided. Lots of questions, all of which could be answered by Will the shopkeeper.

By the time they reached Springfields, Gus realised he hadn’t listened to a word Ivy had been saying. Still, he gathered early on in the conversation that it was mostly about the iniquities of the people of Round Ringford, Ivy’s home for most of her life.

“Morning, Mr. Halfhide!” Mrs. Spurling was in the hall, looking as if she had been standing there waiting for them. “Ready for your coffee now, Miss Beasley? Katya took up your tray, with a cup for Mr. Halfhide, only to find you two had absconded!”

“Eloped, perhaps?” laughed Gus. Oh God, he thought, is this really me?

“No chance of that,” said Ivy sharply. “And yes, send the coffee up to my room at once. And shortbread,” she added.

“What’s the magic word?” muttered Mrs. Spurling under her breath, but she smiled bravely and disappeared towards the kitchens.

When they reached Ivy’s room, she turned on Gus. “I’ll thank you to show a little more respect,” she said. “Eloped, indeed! Do you know how old I am?”

“Age is of no importance where love is concerned,” Gus said, “but no, Ivy, it was a small joke. Not meant to offend. You can be sure I have great respect for you and will watch my foolish tongue in the future.”

“Right,” said Ivy, sitting down in her chair by the window. “Now, what is next for us to do. I shall see Miss Beatty tomorrow, but we have no time to waste.”

Gus reflected that he had planned to put his feet up and watch the racing with Whippy, who always watched fixedly as the sweating, snorting horses galloped by. Then it would be teatime with Miriam. He would have to be careful that Ivy did not take charge, else all three of them would be slaving eight hours a day following up red herrings. Fortunately, there was a knock at the door and the pretty Polish girl came in with a laden tray.