The Measby Murder Enquiry Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Fifty-four

  Fifty-five

  Fifty-six

  Fifty-seven

  Fifty-eight

  Fifty-nine

  Sixty

  Postscript

  AUTHOR OF THE LOIS MEADE MYSTERIES ANN PURSER THE HANGMAN’S ROW INQUIRY

  NOW IN PAPERBACK TRAGEDY AT TWO A LOIS MEADE MYSTERY FROM Ann Purser

  CAN’T GET ENOUGH LOIS MEADE? Don’t miss the continuing adventures of everyone’s ...

  Praise for The Hangman’s Row Enquiry

  “Purser always comes up like roses . . . This mystery thrives on its characters and lively dialogue.”

  —Shine

  “A delightful spin-off.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “Full of wit, venom and bonding between new friends.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “Purser’s Ivy Beasley is a truly unique character, a kind of cross between Jessica Fletcher, Miss Marple and Mrs. Slocum . . . Pair this with Purser’s charming storytelling technique, and you have a fast-paced tale that will keep readers guessing to the very end.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Praise for the Lois Meade Mysteries

  “First-class work in the English-village genre: cleverly plotted, with thoroughly believable characters, rising tension, and a smashing climax.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  “Well paced, cleverly plotted and chock-full of cozy glimpses of life in a small English village.”

  —Booklist

  “Purser’s expertise at portraying village life and Lois’s role as a working-class Miss Marple combine to make this novel—and the entire series—a treat.”

  —Richmond Times-Dispatch

  “Fans of British ‘cozies’ will enjoy this delightful mystery with its quaint setting and fascinating players.”

  —Library Journal

  Titles by Ann Purser

  Lois Meade Mysteries

  MURDER ON MONDAY

  TERROR ON TUESDAY

  WEEPING ON WEDNESDAY

  THEFT ON THURSDAY

  FEAR ON FRIDAY

  SECRETS ON SATURDAY

  SORROW ON SUNDAY

  WARNING AT ONE

  TRAGEDY AT TWO

  THREATS AT THREE

  Ivy Beasley Mysteries

  THE HANGMAN’S ROW ENQUIRY

  THE MEASBY MURDER ENQUIRY

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  THE MEASBY MURDER ENQUIRY

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / May 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Ann Purser.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-51484-9

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group

  (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  In loving memory of my Grandma

  Acknowledgments

  The Professional Gambler’s Handbook—

  Beating the System by Hook and by Crook

  by Weasel Murphy

  A Paladin Press Book

  One

  “IF YOU ASK me,” Ivy Beasley said to Roy, as she sat down and carefully straightened her serviceable tweed skirt, “the fees in this place are daylight robbery! And what do we get for it? Bed and board, and not a lot else!”

  She had lived at Springfields Luxury Residential Home in the Suffolk village of Barrington for over two years now, exiled, as she said, to Suffolk from her native Round Ringford, where she had lived for most of her long life. “All Deirdre’s fault,” she said often. “Made me agree to it when I wasn’t meself. That flu was very weakening, and before I could say knife, she’d booked me in.”

  Deirdre Bloxham was Ivy’s only cousin, much younger, rich and bossy. She was a widow, and had inherited her wealth from her husband, Bert, who had built up a network of car sales showrooms all around the county. Ivy was a bit of a tartar herself, used to organising Round Ringford to suit herself. But times had changed, and when Deirdre had suggested the move, Ivy was perceptive enough to see that in Ringford she had been reduced t
o an awkward old woman who lived in the past. Newcomers had taken over, and she was ignored. Added to that, she had reluctantly agreed to having help in the house from New Brooms, a cleaning business run by a Mrs. Meade in Long Farnden, not far away.

  “Now Ivy, see sense,” Deirdre had said. “You’re in your eighties, and the only friends you have left are a couple of old women no longer able to get about, and you’re not too frisky yourself.” And so Ivy had agreed.

  Deirdre herself was very frisky, and, well positioned in her oddly triangular-shaped home, Tawny Wings, she had renewed a friendship with Theodore Roussel, the squire of the village, who lived in the Hall. He was still a bachelor, possibly even more frisky than Deirdre. Both of them were in their early sixties and well preserved. Plenty of money in the bank allowed Deirdre to buy the best designer clothes, and her apricot gold curls were kept immaculate by the best hairdresser in Thornwell, the nearest big town.

  Soon after Ivy had moved to Springfields, she had been persuaded by a newcomer to the village, Augustus Halfhide, a thin, bony man with a charming smile, to join him in an agency entitled Enquire Within. They began in a small way, and the two of them, along with Deirdre bankrolling expenses, and Roy Goodman, another Springfields resident, supplying local knowledge, had played a large part in solving a very nasty murder in the village.

  Augustus Halfhide was still something of a mystery, even after some while living in Barrington. Ivy was at first convinced he was an undercover agent, now retired, either from choice or expediency, and was keeping his hand in with Enquire Within. But now she was not so sure.

  The fourth member of this oddly assorted group, Roy Goodman, had been a farmer, and had been resigned to boredom in Springfields for the rest of his days. Apart from the inevitable wearing away of his wiry frame, he had all his marbles intact. He had taken to Ivy at once, partly as a fellow prisoner, as he described their incarceration, and partly because she stirred in him feelings which he realised were unaccustomed affection, and occasionally as—could it possibly be?—love. Though Ivy had never actually said as much, he suspected and hoped that she returned these in some measure at least. When Roy had taken a recent tumble and retired to his bed for a few days, it was noticed by everyone in Springfields that Ivy Beasley spent most of the day in Roy Goodman’s room.

  “He’s having a whale of a time,” said Mrs. Spurling, the home’s manager, sourly. “We shall have to stop Miss Beasley visiting him so much. His ankle is quite better now, and he should be downstairs with the others.” She need not have worried. As soon as Ivy judged it was time, she told Roy that she would see him downstairs for breakfast next day, and he duly obliged.

  Now, on this blustery day, he had come down saying he was quite restored, and sat close to Ivy in the residents’ lounge. She had told him that something important had come up, and began to speak in hushed tones. “Time to convene,” she said. “Gus just phoned and said he’s got another case for us. Meeting tomorrow at Tawny Wings. Two o’clock sharp.”

  DOWNSTAIRS IN HER office, Mrs. Spurling was talking to a smartly dressed woman who introduced herself as Bronwen Evans. “It’s about my mother, Mrs. Wilson Jones,” she said. “A lovely person, but now sadly unable to look after herself, even with help from my sister, who fortunately lives a couple of streets away from her. I am afraid I myself am much too busy to be of help to Mother. The dear soul understands this.”

  I wonder if she does, thought Mrs. Spurling. And what about that sister? Did she understand that Mrs. Evans was too busy to help? She sighed. It was such a familiar story. Widowed mother, no longer of any use to her family, so must be comfortably installed somewhere where they could hand over responsibility.

  “I quite understand, Mrs. Evans,” she said, remembering the empty room not earning anything in the Green Wing of the house. “And I’m sure we shall be able to welcome her into our friendly home here at Springfields. There are, of course, a number of official matters to deal with first, but I am sure we shall be introducing your mother to new friends here in the very near future.”

  Ivy and Roy were finishing their breakfast when Mrs. Spurling came into the dining room with her usual mirthless smile.

  “What does she want?” said Ivy. “She never comes in when we’re eating. Much too sensitive to see a lot of old parties dribbling over their food.”

  “Ivy!” said Roy. “You know that’s not true. We are a very genteel lot in Springfields, minding our manners along with the best.”

  Mrs. Spurling stood in the centre of the room and cleared her throat. “Ahem! Could I have your attention for a few moments, guests?”

  “Get on with it, then,” muttered Ivy. “My toast is getting cold. I do hate cold, leathery toast.”

  “I know you’ll be delighted to hear that we are to have another guest joining us very soon. Mrs. Alwen Wilson Jones has been living in Thornwell for many years, and has now earned a period of rest and quiet in our midst. I know you will welcome her with your usual warmth,” she added, looking nervously at Ivy. She looked around at the residents, some faces expressionless, others frowning suspiciously, and then walked quickly from the room.

  Silence reigned for a moment, and then a babble of talk began as the residents aired their views about giving a warm welcome to Mrs. Alwen Wilson Jones.

  “Never heard of her,” said Roy, who had grown up on a local farm and knew everybody worth knowing.

  “We shall see,” said Ivy. “If you ask me, it’s best to stand back and see what the woman’s made of, before we clasp her to our bosoms.”

  Roy chuckled. “Good for you Ivy, right as ever,” he said.

  Two

  THE ARRIVAL OF a new resident was always a welcome diversion in Springfields, and by lunchtime all had gathered in the dining room, spruced up in their best outfits and ready to assess Mrs. Alwen Wilson Jones.

  “Here she comes,” Ivy said to Roy. “Walks with a stick, I see.”

  “And leaning on her daughter’s arm,” Roy said, and sniffed. “At least, I suppose that’s her daughter. You can see the likeness.”

  “Don’t stare, Roy. Let her go to another table, until we see what she’s like.”

  “Too late. Old Spurling is bringing her over. Look, her daughter’s kissed her good-bye. Can’t get out of here fast enough. Here she comes. Smile, Ivy dear.”

  “Miss Beasley, Mr. Goodman,” said Mrs. Spurling bravely, “I am delighted to introduce Mrs. Wilson Jones, our new resident here at Springfields. These two lovely people,” she said to the sullen-looking newcomer, “are our liveliest guests, and I’m sure you will all be great friends.”

  Ivy glared at her. “Not if you don’t bring the poor woman a chair to sit on,” she said.

  Mrs. Spurling had decided to start Mrs. Wilson Jones off at the deep end, seating her at Ivy’s table. She could always move her to sit with less challenging companions, but when first introduced to Alwen Jones she had sensed an unwillingness to be moulded into shape, and decided another strong woman was needed. Perhaps Ivy would oblige.

  “Of course, my dear,” she said, and called to the buxom waitress to bring over an extra chair. Then she settled Mrs. Wilson Jones down, said a small prayer and went back to her office.

  Roy was a kindly soul, and immediately began to talk about the old days in Thornwell, turning on his undoubted charm, finding acquaintances they had in common and generally attempting to cheer up the woman and make her feel at home. Ivy, on the other hand, for the first time in her life felt something like jealousy. She and Roy had become close friends, and she had begun to regard him as her property.

  “That was your daughter, was it? And by the way,” she added, “is it all right if we call you Mrs. Jones?”

  “If you must,” she replied, and changed the subject back to her daughter. “Yes, Bronwen is a very successful businesswoman, and always busy, unfortunately.” There was a sour tinge to this answer, and Mrs. Jones hastily went on to assure Ivy that she was very proud of her clever daughter. “Though li
ke the rest of us, she has her problems,” she added.

  “Any other children?” asked Ivy. Who did she think she was, boasting about her genius offspring? Perhaps her son was a binman.

  “Another daughter, living in Thornwell. A sweet girl, but not the calibre of Bronwen. No, Bethan is a homemaker, and dedicated mother of two. They live close by my house, and are always popping in to see me.” Then she remembered that her house was on the market and her face fell.

  “Don’t fret,” said Ivy firmly. “We’ve all been through it. You’ll get used to it here, and I’ve been told there are worse places.”

  “Ivy! Don’t frighten poor Alwen. May I call you Alwen, my dear?” Roy said with a smile. “Dear Ivy’s bark is much worse than her bite,” he added. “Now then, do you play pontoon?”

  Mrs. Jones brightened. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I love it. I love all card games, and often play with the grandchildren.”

  “Ah,” said Ivy, somewhat mollified by Roy’s declared “dear Ivy.” “Mrs. Spurling ain’t too keen on noisy kids. But I expect one at a time would be all right.”

  Mrs. Jones raised her eyebrows and looked coolly at Ivy. “Oh, they wouldn’t be at all noisy. I was a teacher you know. Fifty years dealing with young children, and I’m still able to guarantee good behaviour!”

  Roy smiled. “Goodness, you must have many stories to tell us, Alwen,” he said. “Where did you teach?”

  “I was head teacher at Thornwell Primary. And I certainly could tell you endless stories, I can assure you! But by the time I was due to retire, education had changed so much—”