The Measby Murder Enquiry (15 page)

“I had really thought a walk would be the thing,” he said. “It’s awfully good of you, but I have plenty of time. So nice to have met you again,” he added, and got to his feet. She was still struggling with her coat, and he did not offer to help. The carriage was almost empty now, and he walked swiftly to the door, not looking back. Phew! A lucky escape, he hoped, and walked out of the station and along the road towards the café where he had arranged to meet Martin. It was much too early, but he intended to dive into the network of back streets to be sure that Margaret Fortescue had not followed him.

In a narrow lane, he stopped to tie his dangling shoelace, and in the reflection in a shop window he saw a taxi stop behind him, and the woman got out. Real fear hit him then, justifiably, as his arm was caught in a vicelike grip, and he was marched firmly to the taxi’s open door.

“Get in!” she said, and he felt something sticking into his back. Oh no. He thought he had left all that behind, he moaned to himself. The taxi took off at speed, and a strange man sitting next to the driver turned around.

“Hello, Gus,” he said. “I thought that café we chose was a bit public, so we’re going somewhere safer. Much safer, eh, Margaret?” he added, and laughed. Then she joined in and the taxi driver, too. Gus did not laugh. He felt sick, and could see no way out.

IVY SAT IN her room, dozing before it was time for supper. Roy snored companionably in the extra armchair Mrs. Spurling had supplied on demand from Ivy, who, soon after arrival, had said she would need to entertain her visitors in private. As it happened, Ivy had few visitors apart from Deirdre, and just lately Roy had taken to popping in and staying for the odd half hour.

Today was the first time he had fallen asleep, and Ivy found herself surprisingly happy about it. It was restful, somehow. She was reminded of happy Sunday afternoons, when her father would doze off after a good lunch. Mother would go up to the cemetery to put flowers on family graves, while she sat by her father, reading her favourite book. It was always the same book, read over and over again:
The Pied Piper of Hamelin
, by Robert Browning, and illustrated by the great Kate Greenaway. She could recite it off by heart when she was only ten. “At last the townsfolk in a body, to the town hall came flocking, ‘Tis clear,’ cried they, ‘our Mayor’s a noddy; and as for our Corporation—shocking!’ ” she began aloud, and Roy woke with a start.

“What’s shocking!” he said, rising to his feet in alarm.

Ivy put out her hand. “Nothing, nothing. I was just saying some poetry out loud. Something I remembered from when I was little. Sorry, Roy, if I startled you.”

“No need to apologise, Ivy,” he said. “Just so long as you’re not in any trouble. I must confess I closed my eyes for a minute or two, and do you know, I dreamed a terrible dream!”

“Not much of a dream in that short time,” said Ivy.

“About you, as a matter of fact,” said Roy tentatively.

“Sounds more like a nightmare,” Ivy said. “What had happened to me, then?”

“You’d been taken off by a stranger. He was riding a great white stallion, and scooped you up into the saddle and galloped away.”

“Oo-er,” Ivy said. “Was I screaming?”

“No,” said Roy sadly, “you were laughing with delight.”

“Oh, Roy!” Ivy burst out into deep chuckles, a little cracked from lack of use. “Nobody makes me laugh like you do.”

He took her hand, and she blushed like a teenager. “Well,” she said. “That’s enough of that nonsense. Come along, time for supper.”

Roy thought maybe he had gone too far too soon, but then he realised Ivy was still holding his hand. “I’d like to hear the rest of that poem one day,” he said. “You’ve got such a lovely voice.”

This was patently so untrue that Ivy laughed again, and the two descended the wide staircase side by side.

Miss Pinkney, standing by Mrs. Spurling at the dining room doorway, watched them. “I say, Mrs. Spurling,” she said, “do you think we might have a romance amongst us soon?”

“Don’t talk such rubbish,” replied Mrs. Spurling. “I have quite enough trouble with this lot, without romance!”

Ivy and Roy had settled themselves at their usual table when Ivy’s mobile phone rang. It was Deirdre, and she sounded worried.

“Ivy, have you heard from Gus at all?”

“He went to London, Deirdre. Of course I haven’t heard from him. Did he say what time he’d be back?”

“Well, yes, he said he hoped to be back in time for Whippy’s tea. She always has it around five o’clock without fail.”

“But Deirdre, he could have got held up anywhere. There’s always tube strikes and rail strikes and rush hour traffic jams. He’ll be back soon, I’m sure. Anyway, if you ask me, he’ll have decided to stay with one of his mysterious friends. You know our Gus!”

“Mm, I’m not so sure. He loves that dog like she was a child. I think he’d do his best to be back by five.”

“Well, maybe Miriam Blake knows something. I saw her from my window going down the street with Whippy on a red lead. Why don’t you give Miriam a ring?”

“Okay, Ivy. I’ll do that. Sorry to bother you. Anyway, I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

As they sat at the supper table, with Alwen now making up a permanent threesome, Ivy told the others about Deirdre’s call. “Making a fuss about nothing, if you ask me,” she said.

“Sounds like it,” said Alwen. “It’s typical men, though, Ivy. He’ll turn up late tonight, I bet, full of the joys of spring.” Her words were encouraging, but her expression was oddly one of concern.

 

 

IN A DINGY back room of a small café not far from Liverpool Street, Gus thought nostalgically of having supper with his friends in the protected atmosphere of Springfields.

The man and the woman, Margaret, had shoved Gus through the café, upstairs and into this smelly room, locking the door behind them when they left him with assurances of their swift return. There would be developments, he knew, but he tried not to think about that. His fear had gone. He was now the old Gus, living on his wits and never allowing distractions to prevent him from concentrating on the one important thing. In this case, it was escape.

He looked around. There was very little in the room. A few rickety chairs and a small table propped up on three legs with a pile of old telephone directories for a fourth. A window with one filthy pane looking out over a tiny backyard, stacked high with cardboard boxes and anonymous rubbish. There was no means of opening the window. He began to walk slowly round the skirting board, kicking it carefully for hollow sounds. A cupboard door was hanging half off its hinges, and he looked inside. Nothing, except for signs of an abandoned mouse nest. Not even a resident mouse. Not very promising, he admitted to himself. He would have to rely on the locked door. He sat down on the least rickety chair to wait and to think. Most urgent, he knew, was to find out why they wanted him, and why they thought he might run away when they told him. It was unlikely to be the unsavoury death of an old man at Measby.

 

 

“HELLO, THEO?” DEIRDRE was now trying long shots to find out where Gus had got to. It was nearly ten o’clock and dark, and Miriam Blake had taken Whippy into her own cottage with her bed and feeding bowl.

“Deirdre, my darling! How can I help at this hour? Well,” he continued before she could answer, “I can think of lots of lovely ways, but don’t suppose that’s why you’re ringing?”

A little of Deirdre’s panic subsided at the sound of Theo’s confident tones. “No, though that does sound very inviting. No, Theo, it’s about Gus Halfhide. I was wondering if he’d mentioned to you anything about being away in London for more than a day? He’s not answering his mobile. It’s dead as a doornail, and Miriam has taken Whippy into her house, and because of, well, you know, because of Gus’s past, we are all a bit worried about what might have happened to him.”

Theo’s answer was a hearty laugh. He said he had no idea where Gus Halfhide was, but guessed he was living it up with friends in London. “I do hope he hasn’t deserted us completely,” he said in a more sober voice. “He is an excellent tenant, always prompt with the rent and no complaints.”

“For God’s sake, Theo, never mind about the rent! The man might be in danger! Haven’t you any useful connections or ideas about how we could get hold of him?”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Theo said he probably still had Gus’s details from his application for the cottage. “I’ll look out the files in the morning, see if I can find his address at that time,” he said. “Meanwhile, darling Deirdre, why don’t you get into your car and speed up to the Hall, where I’ll help you forget all about the mysterious Augustus Halfhide?”

Deirdre cut off the call without saying good-bye.

 

 

IVY WOKE WITH a start, and sat up. She put on her bedside light and looked at the alarm clock beside her. Midnight, the witching hour. She rubbed her eyes and listened for any noises in the home that might have awakened her. Sometimes, there were shouts and screams as the residents fought with their dreams. But tonight it was silent. Nothing but an old tomcat yowling in the garden outside. She lay down again, adjusting her hairnet over stray strands of hair. Her eyelids began to close, until suddenly they shot open again, and she sat up once more.

“Of course!” she said aloud. “I bet Deirdre hasn’t thought of it. That’s where he’ll be. With his ex-wife!”

“THAT’S ALL VERY well, Ivy,” Deirdre said, “but how do you propose we should find Gus’s ex-wife’s telephone number or even address?”

“You’ve got a key to his cottage, haven’t you? And if you haven’t, I should think Theo Roussel has. You can bet old Beattie kept duplicate keys to all the cottages.”

Deirdre had called Ivy soon after breakfast with the news that Gus had not shown up, and Miriam was still looking after Whippy. She had heard nothing, and both of them were worried sick. Gus’s mobile was still dead, and he seemed to have vanished without trace. All this would not in any way have looked suspicious, but when he had left Whippy behind, and with no instructions as to her welfare if he should be delayed, they knew something was wrong.

“It’s just not Gus, and no, I don’t have a key to his cottage,” Deirdre said, sounding offended and ending the call.

At coffee time, when Roy, Ivy and Alwen met in the lounge, they agreed that it was totally out of character for Gus to behave in this way. Even Katya, who had been taken into Ivy’s confidence, said she thought maybe they should think about going to the police. Perhaps there had been an accident, and maybe Gus had not been carrying any means of identification.

“Good point,” Ivy had said, remembering Gus’s insistence on keeping himself more or less anonymous.

Now Deidre marched into the lounge, and Ivy ordered another coffee for her. “A council of war, you said, Ivy, so here I am,” Deirdre said, flopping down into a chair drawn up to make a circle with the other three. In this way, they shut out curious eyes and ears, and felt they could talk freely, if quietly.

Deirdre reported that at Ivy’s suggestion she had asked Theo for a spare key to Gus’s cottage, and she would pick it up later.

“Good,” said Ivy. “Now, any more suggestions or comments. I reckon we’ll need plans A, B and C.”

Roy looked at her proudly. There was no doubt about it. In an emergency, Ivy came into her own. No wonder she had commanded the village of Round Ringford for so many years. Various stories had filtered through to him about his beloved’s record in her home village, including one about the little school, threatened with closure, being rescued by Ivy’s sizable donation.

“I had this idea in the middle of the night,” Ivy continued. She told them about her plan for contacting Gus’s ex-wife, but Alwen was sceptical. “Last place he would go, I should think,” she said. “If I know anything about ex-husbands, they stay away from you as much as possible. Especially if they’re short of cash.”