The Measby Murder Enquiry (9 page)

“Hold your horses, Ivy,” Deirdre interrupted. “There’s more, but at least we know for a start that Alwen was Mrs. William Jones, of the highly regarded Jones family. Go on, Gus.”

After that, Ivy and Roy sat quietly whilst Gus told them what else had been found. The marriage was a quiet one, and Bronwen had been born “prematurely” six and a half months later. They discovered this from marriage and birth notices.

“Then we found the real treasure,” Gus continued. “It was quite a big splash. William Richard Jones, brother of Mayor George, had disappeared. Although no confirmed reason emerged, it was strongly believed that William, then company secretary of the brewery, and responsible for all financial matters, had got into debt and absconded with a sizable sum.”

“But surely George would have suppressed such a story?”

“Oh, he tried,” said Deirdre. “Categoric denials, threats to sue the paper, assurances that he was in touch with William, who was merely taking a sabbatical, all of that. And then suddenly it all went quiet, and in time the whole thing was forgotten.”

“And William came back?” said Roy, hoping for a happy ending.

Gus shook his head. “Oh no,” he said. “He never came back, and the last mention of him in the local paper was a report of his death in Australia. He’d been bungee jumping, according to report, and the springy rope had severed. Killed instantly, said the official report issued by the public relations office of the brewery.”

“So that was that? And Alwen was left a widow, but no doubt supported by the ever-generous George?” Ivy said, her eyes wide and incredulous. “Well,” she continued, “if you believe that load of cobblers, you’ll believe anything. Bungee jumping indeed! What rubbish!”

There was a stunned silence, and then Roy cleared his throat and said perhaps they could all do with another cup of tea. “I’ll ring the bell,” he said.

 

 

ALWEN JONES WAS intrigued. She was now, as usual, sitting at the supper table with Roy and Ivy, and they both seemed oddly abstracted. She regaled them with stories of infants and their useless parents, and in the end tried on them her best school story. It was when the children had written daily news books, she said, and described one entry that had made all the staff chuckle. “One little boy,” she said with a grin, “had written, ‘Dad killed the dog last night and buried it in the garden.’ ” This anecdote, a favourite one amongst teachers, had always gone down well, but Roy and Ivy had scarcely smiled.

“Poor dog,” Roy had said, and Ivy had merely nodded.

“Oh well,” Alwen shrugged. “I think I’ll watch some television. Are you coming, you two?”

“Um, what? What did you say?” Roy seemed to have difficulty concentrating. Was it something to do with her? Then a cold shiver struck her. Surely they couldn’t have been enquiring within too deeply?

“Oh, by the way,” she said, on a sudden impulse. “Um, there’s no need for you to worry anymore on my behalf about the money. All a mistake, and it’s back safely once more in my bank. But thanks for listening, anyway,” she added with a grateful smile.

Ivy stared at her. “Well, that’s all right then,” she said. “Let us know if you need any help in the future. Oh, and by the way,” she added, with not very convincing nonchalance. “Did your daughters ever go bungee jumping? I’ve just been reading that it’s all the rage for students on their gap year, whatever that is. If you ask me,” she added, “they’d be far better off finding a proper job and earning their living.”

Alwen’s face drained of all colour. “I think I’ll catch that wildlife programme on the box,” she said, and got up quickly from the table. Ivy and Roy watched her limp rather more unsteadily than usual out of the dining room.

“That hit home,” said Roy. “More coffee, Ivy?”

“SO WE NO longer have a paying client?” Gus said. How had Ivy managed to scare off Alwen Jones so early in their investigation? Well, he told himself, that’ll teach you to work with old ladies who should be doing nothing more arduous than knitting for charity.

He had been surprised by Deirdre appearing at his door soon after he had showered and dressed, and now they sat with cups of instant coffee in Gus’s cheerless sitting room discussing the latest development. Ivy had telephoned Deirdre first thing and told her about Alwen’s sudden freeze up. “It wasn’t anything me or Roy said,” Ivy had assured her. “Maybe we were a bit quiet, still thinking about what you and Gus found out, but we didn’t say anything about that to Alwen.”

Now Deirdre looked at Gus and asked whether he thought they should give up, or continue without any hope of financial gain.

“Sod it all,” Gus said. “That’s what happened last time! I don’t mind telling you, Deirdre, I need the money.” This was strictly true, but when he had paid off the gambling debt in installments, and so long as he kept away from racetracks and bookmakers, he hoped to be able to manage his present lifestyle. This last was the real sticking point. What lifestyle? he asked himself. Living in a scruffy cottage, out of touch with all his old rakish friends, who were fun, always fun. And then there was his demanding ex-wife . . . and fending off Miriam next door.

“I do understand about that, Gus,” Deirdre said sympathetically. “If there’s one thing I do understand, it’s money. Bert taught me that, and it was a good lesson. So I’m not offering you loans or anything, but if you’d like to take expenses out of an Enquire Within account I can set up, then we’ll treat it as a kitty for all of us.”

“And who’s going to fund it?”

“Me, at the moment, until we get going properly.” This was not philanthropy on Deirdre’s part. She had felt more alive since working with the other three than she had since Bert died. And, she had to admit, she was quite fond of old Gus. He was really quite attractive in his own way.

“So are you saying we should carry on?” Gus looked at her, and began to suspect that the companionship of this pleasant, affluent blonde was the most compelling reason at the moment for staying with what he hesitated to call a lifestyle—more a way of life.

“Yep,” she said cheerfully. “There’s still your friend who wanted us to help on the Measby death. If we come up with the goods on that one, he’ll pay us, you said. It’s possible that Alwen Jones’s problem was nothing to do with that, but on the other hand it seems a strange coincidence. Two cases of extortion in a small area? Let’s get together this afternoon with the other two and plan what we do next. And do you mind if I tip this disgusting stuff down the sink? We can go to Tawny Wings and get a decent cup of coffee for a start.”

 

 

“GOOD MORNING, MRS. Jones!” Katya had almost collided with Alwen as she came out of her room, and she put a gentle hand on her arm. “I do hope you are feeling fit and well this morning?”

“Oh, yes, I’m fine,” Alwen said. “I’m just off to find Mrs. Spurling. I wish to have a word with her about dining arrangements.”

Katya frowned. “Nothing wrong with the cooking, I hope?” Her friend Anya was now in charge of the kitchen, and in general produced what residents agreed were delicious and interesting meals.

“No, no. I feel I should perhaps have a table of my own, or join up with other residents. Ivy and Roy seem very good friends, and I’d hate to be playing gooseberry! And anyway, I should get to know other people a bit more. I was rather thrust into the company of Ivy and Roy straightaway.”

“I am sure they love to have you with them!” said Katya. “After all, they have all the time in the world to be together privately if they want it. Don’t you think they might be offended?”

“That’s neither here nor there,” Alwen said more sharply. She had no qualms about offending those two. Unless she was very much mistaken, they had taken altogether too much upon themselves, nosing into her affairs. She wished she had never been persuaded to mention the missing money, and she was having second thoughts about how far their so-called investigations might go. Bronwen had called her to report hearing her father’s name mentioned at the newspaper reception desk. Her description of the couple was vague, but the woman could have been Ivy’s cousin.

“Ah, there you are, Mrs. Jones!” It was Mrs. Spurling, half running along the corridor. “Isn’t your telephone working? There is a call for you in my office. Your own line is not answering, apparently. Let Katya help you down the stairs, and then you can use mine. I’ll go back and make sure the caller waits for you.”

By the time Katya and Alwen had reached the office, Mrs. Spurling had assured the caller several times that Mrs. Jones was on her way. The voice, a man’s voice, had assured her he would wait. “Tell her it’s Max,” he said. He had some good news for Alwen, and was looking forward to talking to her.

At last Alwen, walking much more slowly than usual, arrived in the office, and Mrs. Spurling settled her in her own chair. “Come along, Miss Pinkney,” she said, “let’s leave Mrs. Jones to have her call in private. We shall be next door in the store cupboard if you need any help, dear,” she added.

After they had gone, and the door was firmly shut, Alwen picked up the phone gingerly, as if it would explode when she touched it. She put it to her ear and listened, saying nothing, but clearing her throat to indicate she was there. A few seconds passed, and she still said nothing. Then, quite suddenly, she banged the receiver down, cutting off the call. She stood up, and realised she was shaking, so sat down again.

“Mrs. Spurling!” she called in a croaky voice. “Help! Please come back!”

In seconds, both the manager and her assistant rushed back into the office. They took one look at Alwen’s face and went to comfort her.

“He said it was good news for you, my dear,” Mrs. Spurling said. “I am so sorry. Did I get it wrong? Was it something bad that has upset you?”

Alwen made a big effort and pulled herself together, brushing off their helping hands. “It was nothing,” she said. “Just a wrong number.”

Mrs. Spurling said nothing more, but she was sure the man had used Alwen’s name. It could hardly have been a wrong number, could it? Anyway, it was none of her business, so long as the poor woman had recovered herself and no harm had been done.

“I wanted to see you, anyway,” Alwen continued, “on a matter concerning seating arrangements in the dining room.”

 

 

“OH, LOR,” SAID Roy. “She’s got a table to herself, Ivy. I think we’ve frightened her off! We shall be unpopular with the others. Not so easy to ask her questions now.”

Ivy shrugged. “Too bad,” she said. “And anyway, we’ll not be doing anything more for her, will we? Assignment cancelled. And if Gus doesn’t like it, he can lump it.”

Roy looked doubtful, and lowered his voice as he replied. “But there’s this other case, Gus’s rumours of blackmail, et cetera. Might be a connection there? After all, whatever you call it, conning an old lady out of twenty thousand pounds is extortion. Could be the same dodgy operator, like Gus’s friend said. After all, Measby’s not that far from Barrington.”

“I don’t think our Alwen’s been straight with us about that. I’m not saying there’s no connection with the Measby business, mind. We shall just have to wait and see what comes up. No, if you ask me, either she panicked or she’s playing some game or other. O’course, it could just have been a delay with confirmation. Something like that. It’s always happening these days. I blame computers,” she added. “The work of the devil, if you ask me.”

Roy smiled at her indulgently. “Like mobile phones?” he said teasingly. He knew that Ivy was very attached to hers, which had been a Christmas present from Gus and Deirdre. Ever since Katya had given Ivy lessons on her own mobile, and this had helped in the last case they’d been on, Ivy had never been without her gift. She had mastered text messaging, and dropped jargon words into the conversation with ease. Roy felt nothing but affection for this unlikely side to Ivy’s nature. It was a tiny chink in her armour, and he knew there were others for him to work on if his slowly growing plan came to fruition.

Ivy’s eyes met Alwen’s across the room, and Alwen was the first to smile. She raised her hand and gave a small wave, just to say there were no hard feelings. Ivy managed to smile back, and on their way out of the dining room she and Roy stopped and asked Alwen if she’d be playing pontoon with them this evening. “For matches, of course,” Ivy added.

“Gus is coming along,” Roy said. “Deirdre’s got a meeting, and you’d be most welcome. It’s quite a fun game.”

“I’m well aware of the rules of pontoon,” Alwen said, and frowned. “And I swore I would never play it again. But if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,” she instructed herself, and continued. “Very well, as long as it’s matches.”

After they had left her sitting in solitary state eating her lunch, she had felt miserable on her own and couldn’t eat much. Irritated as she was with Ivy and Roy, she missed them. Especially Roy. He was such a jolly little man, and she failed to see what on earth attracted him to Ivy Beasley. And no harm could come from a game of cards played for matches, surely?