The Hangman's Row Enquiry Page 17

  “Oh, all right!” said Deirdre. “And don’t try touching the computer while I’m gone. You could lose everything I’ve got stored on there.”

  “There you are, then, Ivy,” Gus said mildly, as Deirdre flounced out of the room.

  “That’s one of the reasons I haven’t bought a computer.”

  Thirty-four

  “HE’S RESTING, MRS. Bloxham,” Miss Pinkney said sternly. “I’m afraid I cannot disturb him. Mrs. Spurling would be very cross.”

  “Blow that!” said Deirdre. “I’m cross!” she added. “I’ve been sent up here by Miss Beasley to fetch Roy Goodman, and I’m not going back without him.”

  Miss Pinkney was shocked. She had never experienced such an encounter before in all her time working in retirement homes. What was she to do?

  “Oh, look, there he is!” Deirdre said. “Poor old lamb looks bored to tears, staring at the telly with all the others. He’s as sharp as a pin, you know,” she added to a rigid Miss Pinkney.

  Deirdre walked into the lounge, went straight up to Roy Goodman, and said, “Hi, Roy! We need you. Can you come with me? I’ll bring you back for supper. Ivy and Gus are waiting up at Tawny Wings.”

  “Need me?” said Roy Goodman. He got to his feet without assistance. “I haven’t been needed for thirty years,” he said. “Lead on, Macduff! Get my coat, Pinkers—I’m needed!” he said, and like an agile gnome, followed Deirdre to reception, where she helped him on with his coat and led the way out to her car.

  Envious eyes watched as he left. The lounge had its inevitable share of men and woman who couldn’t hear, couldn’t see and some who could no longer care what happened to them, but had once been needed. And some who would have given all their considerable savings to be Roy Goodman, if only for one afternoon.

  Ivy and Gus greeted him with pleasure, and he joined them round the computer.

  “AH YES,” HE said. “I see you’ve got a website up for that newspaper I told you about. What would we do without Google?” he said, turning to Ivy.

  For once, Ivy spluttered and was speechless. Gus gulped. “Um, I see you’re, um, er, computer literate, Roy? Is that right?”

  Roy nodded. “Only in a small way,” he said modestly. “Nice little Katya has been giving me lessons when the old dragon is out of the way. Pinkney doesn’t mind. She’s a good lass, really. Bark’s worse than her bite. So where have you got to, Mrs. Bloxham?”

  “Deirdre, please,” she said. “We’ve got the right newspaper archive, but need to know as close as possible the date of the issue, and then remind us of the name of the missing woman, if you can still remember it.”

  Roy scratched his head. “Now then,” he said. “It was in the seventies. I remembered that before, didn’t I. The month would get us a lot nearer.” He closed his eyes, and the others waited silently. “August!” he said triumphantly. “I know that, because there was a story lower down the page about the rotten harvest. Rained solidly for six weeks, apparently. Well, I knew that, of course, from our own farm, but friends who had all arable and no cattle had all their eggs in one basket. We had chickens, too!” He chuckled, pleased with his joke.

  “August,” said Deirdre, tapping away on the keyboard. “Ah yes, here it is. What was the woman’s name again? Only the big stories would get into this archive by name.”

  “Bentall,” Roy said. “Katherine?” interposed Ivy, feeling left out. “Or Caroline,” said Gus, not wishing to be a silent partner.

  Roy nodded. “Try Caroline Benthall,” he said.

  “With an h?” Deirdre asked, fingers poised.

  “There’s always an h in Benthall,” said Ivy. “Surely you know that, Deirdre. With your secretarial experience an’ all.”

  “Yes, with, I think,” Roy said placatingly. “Try it with.”

  So Deirdre typed in Caroline Benthall, but with no luck. She tried again, this time leaving out the h. “Hey! There it is!” she shouted. “Look, Ivy! The picture and everything.”

  Suddenly everyone fell silent. It was the photograph. A woman in her forties smiled tentatively out at them.

  “Ye Gods,” said Gus. “It’s her to the life. Beattie Beatty. Except, of course, that it must be her mother.”

  “So our Beattie’s name is really Beatrice Bentall, not Beatty at all,” said Ivy, confusing everybody. “Well, I don’t know I’m sure,” she added. “The woman looks happy enough. What could have made her run off, leaving small children?”

  “Not all that small,” said Deirdre, who had been reading on. “It says here there were two girls, one of five and the other fourteen. Both have been taken into care, and the police were treating the case as very serious, it says.”

  “What else does it say?” Gus peered at the screen.

  “Not much,” Deirdre said, and scrolled down the page.

  “Stop!” said Roy suddenly. “Well I never,” he muttered. “I’d forgotten all about that bugger,” he said, and the others looked at him curiously.

  “See that picture there.” He pointed at the screen. “Isn’t that young Roussel? Right on the end of the picture. On a horse, at the county show?”

  “Ask Deirdre,” Ivy said drily. “She’ll know.”

  Already staring closely at the screen, Deirdre shrugged. “Could be,” she said. “But it could be any of those young twits who rode to hounds and all that stuff. I know he was a good rider. Won all the jumping classes at the show. I remember that. But couldn’t swear that was him.”

  “Can you print it out, then we could look at it under a magnifying glass,” Roy said. “I’ve got a really powerful one back at the detention centre. I use it for reading now.”

  “Back at the what?” Gus said.

  Roy laughed. “S’what me and my old mate at Springfields used to call the place,” he said, and his expression changed. “Dead now. He was a good old boy, was Donald.”

  Ivy reached out and patted his shoulder. “You still got some mates around,” she said. “We three, for a start.”

  Roy began to hum, and then sang in a cracked voice, “ ‘We three, at Happydrome, working for the BBC’ . . . Can’t remember any more,” he said, and the others burst into spontaneous applause.

  “Right,” said Deirdre, sniffing a little, “I’ll print out this page, and then we can all go back to the detention centre and put it under Roy’s magic magnifier.”

  UNFORTUNATELY, MRS. SPURLING had returned unexpectedly, and had given Miss Pinkney the rough end of her tongue, which could be very rough indeed.

  “They pay very good money to be in here,” she had rasped. “And what for? Not to be let out on the loose with irresponsible people like those three! They come in here for protection, comfort and SECURITY!” The last word was shouted, and Miss Pinkney looked around nervously. She knew Katya was checking in all the rooms looking for Mrs. Somerfield’s spectacles. Hunting for lost specs was a regular job in Springfields.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Spurling,” Roy Goodman said, leading the other three through the door into reception.

  “My dear Mr. Goodman,” she said, rushing forward and taking his arm. “Are you all right?” She glared at Ivy, who glared back.

  “Of course I am,” Roy replied, shaking her off. “Don’t treat me like an old man, Mrs. Spurling,” he said, “or else I must look for another detention centre with greater opportunities for parole.”

  “What? Did you say ‘detention centre’?” Mrs. Spurling gasped.

  “A joke,” Gus said, stepping forward quickly. “We have taken great care of Mr. Goodman, and I think you will agree he is none the worse for a little outing.”

  Deirdre beamed. “Look at his pink cheeks!” she said. “Years younger, wouldn’t you say, Miss Pinkney?”

  Miss Pinkney nodded timidly. “I must see about supper,” she said, and vanished swiftly.

  “Ah, supper!” said Roy. “What’s for supper, Mrs. Spurling? I could eat a horse,” he added enthusiastically. This reminded him that they had to magnify a horse and rider before su
pper, and he beckoned the three to follow him to his room.

  “If my ever-loving husband had not run off with the cook,” Mrs. Spurling said to herself, “I would not have to stand here without support in front of a load of old loonies on the rampage.” She grabbed the book she had come back for, and went out of the building with shoulders hunched and fury in her heart.

  “HERE IT IS,” Deirdre said, picking up a hugely magnifying eyeglass. Give me the paper, Gus.”

  He put it down on Roy’s bedside table, and said she should take first look. “You’re the one who’s likely to recognise distinguishing features and so on,” he said.

  Deirdre refrained from saying that the picture was unlikely to show the birthmark on Theo’s right buttock, but looked seriously at the photograph.

  “Oh my God,” she said finally. “It’s him. Look, see that hard hat he’s wearing. It’s got a couple of pheasant feathers tucked in the band round the crown. It was his trademark. It’s him. I could swear it.”

  Thirty-five

  THEO ROUSSEL HAD not come home for dinner last night, in spite of Beattie having cooked a pheasant in the way he liked best, in a casserole with white wine and apples.

  She had tried telephoning him on his mobile, but it was switched off. Then she had thought of ringing the pub, but knew that if he thought she was checking up on him he would be furious. She had put the pheasant in the larder and made scrambled egg on toast for herself. As he was still not back at ten thirty, she had left a note reminding him to lock up, and went to bed.

  Now, next morning, she heard him coming to find her, calling at the top of his voice. She was in the kitchen garden, cutting a lettuce for a salad lunch, and when she looked up to see him approaching, the sun was in her eyes, and for a moment she thought it must be some other man. This confident-looking stranger with dark glasses and an apologetic smile could not possibly be . . . But it was. Theo Roussel had spent half the night playing cards and drinking with old cronies in the Conservative Club in town, and had woken to find himself in the spare room of the town mayor, who had been one of the party. He had been touched by the genuine warmth of the welcome he received.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” he said. “Forgot to ring you about dinner.”

  “You did say you might not be in, but I expected confirmation. And I slept in a house that was not locked against intruders,” Beattie said formally.

  “Oh, come on, Beattie. A chap needs a little relaxation sometimes. Am I forgiven?”

  It was quite clear to Beattie that he did not care whether he was forgiven or not, and she turned to pick up the lettuce. He had given no explanation, she noted. Not that he was likely to tell her the truth. He didn’t need to, anyway. She knew where he had been. Tucked up in a cosy bed at Tawny Wings, that’s where. Beattie could not bring herself to say the woman’s name, even to herself.

  “I shall be in for lunch,” Theo continued, blissfully unaware of the ice in Beattie’s heart. “Back about one. I have to catch up with young David Budd now.” He walked off with a definite spring in his step, and Beattie glowered at his retreating figure.

  THE BUDDS’ COTTAGE was in its usual chaotic state, and when Theo knocked at the door Rose peeped out to see who was there. “Oh, blast!” she said, and called up the stairs, “David! It’s the boss!”

  “What, the very lovely Beattie?”

  “No, it’s himself. The Honourable. Can you come down quickly, while I throw everything behind the sofa?”

  There was nothing wrong with Theo’s hearing, and he laughed out loud. He tried the door and found it unlocked. Opening it a fraction, he called out, “Don’t mind me, Rosebud. I just want a word with David.”

  Rose smoothed her hair down with her hands and went to the door. “Come on in, then,” she said. “And look where you put your feet. Simon’s gone for a nap after causing his usual whirlwind in the house. Ooops! Watch out for Thomas!”

  “Who?” said Theo, looking around.

  “Thomas the Tank Engine. Ah, here’s David. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “Morning, Mr. Theo. Though it feels like afternoon to me,” David said. “Bin up for hours! One of your ewes was in trouble. I could hear her, poor old thing. She was on her back and couldn’t get up. All four skinny legs waving about in the air. You got time for a cup of tea? I missed breakfast, so I’ll just have a bite to eat, if that’s all right with you.”

  David realised he was talking too much, but it was such an odd experience, having the boss, the real boss, calling in to discuss farming matters. Something big must have happened up at the Hall. The man in front of him was like a kid let out of school, all smiles and bounce. He wondered how much Theo remembered about farming.

  “Sit down for a bit,” said Rose, brushing small garments off a chair and giving Theo a mug of strong tea. “You’re looking well. Beattie all right?”

  “Oh, I expect so,” Theo answered. “Now, David,” he began, and told him of new plans he had for the sheep. “And I think we should have a few milkers back in the cowsheds,” he said. “I’d be keen to help with the milking, and we could use most of it ourselves and in the village.”

  “There’s a lot to dairying now,” said David, not fancying the extra workload. “Rules and regs without end. You ask any dairy farmer—if you can find one!”

  “Don’t worry,” said Theo. “I’ll take charge of all the bureaucracy. And I mean to look for a young student who could help you around the farm in general. I’m promoting you to manager, and we’ll see if we can find a little extra for you with your growing family.”

  “How did you know?” said Rose, patting her stomach.

  “I didn’t,” said Theo. “But congratulations! Do ask me to be godfather.”

  When he had gone, Rose and David looked at each other. “Deirdre Bloxham,” said Rose.

  “Then she’d better watch out,” David replied. “Hell hath no fury like a Beattie scorned.”

  IVY SAT IN her room with the window wide open, taking deep breaths of the fresh morning air. She was thinking about Roy Goodman, and their researches into the Bentall story. It had happened so long ago, and if it hadn’t been for Roy’s excellent memory they would never have known. “Mind you,” she said to her mother, whose ghostly shade seemed to have returned to listen to Ivy’s innermost thoughts, “mind you, as he said, it’s surprising how much you remember of the early days when you’re old. Can’t remember what happened a couple of hours ago, but the first day I started in the mixed infants class in Ringford is as clear as a bell.”

  “Talking to yourself, Ivy?” said Roy’s voice outside the door. Ivy had left it ajar to get a good blow through the room.

  “Come in, if you must,” said Ivy. She had wanted to spend a good hour thinking out where they should go next to discover more about Beattie Bentall. She had a very strong feeling that if they knew what had happened to Beattie over the years since she was abandoned by her mother, then they’d be well on the way to discovering the murderer of old Mrs. Blake.

  “I’ve remembered something else,” Roy said.

  “Go on,” Ivy said. The old man had a twinkle in his eye, and she wondered if this was just an excuse to find her.

  “Them children. Belonging to the missing woman, Caroline Bentall. There was a boy, as well. Beattie—if that was her—was a twin.”

  “It didn’t say so in that article we got up on the computer,” Ivy said doubtfully.

  Roy shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t. But we had this woman who trimmed cairn terriers—she used to breed them—and she came from over that side of the county. Came to the farm about every six months. Mother used to breed them. They were good working dogs, too, not silly lap dogs like they are now.”

  “So, what about the twin?” Ivy said, trying to get Roy back on track.

  “Ah yes, well, I heard her and Mother talking in the kitchen. I remember it clearly, because I was home from school with chicken pox. Covered in spots, I was. But I hated missing school, and went back much too
soon. Still got a couple of scars on my face—see?” He pointed to two tiny pockmarks beneath one eye.

  Ivy sighed. “So, what about the twin?” she repeated.

  “Sorry, Ivy,” he said. “Well, this dog lady was talking to Mother about the missing-woman case. I was wishing she would hurry up and go, so I could cadge some biscuits out of Mother, while she still felt sorry for me.”

  “Roy!”

  “Oh, yes, well, the dog woman said that what nobody else seemed to know was that the missing mother had had twins. It was a scandal at the time. Unmarried mothers were not so common then, although there’d always been plenty in the old days, when the squire and his sons had the pick of the maidservants.”

  He looked at the expression on Ivy’s face and hurried on.

  “Apparently the Bentall woman kept one of the twins, it was a girl, and had the boy fostered. So there’s probably a man around somewhere who’s Beattie’s long-lost brother! O’course, he might be dead by now, or emigrated or summat.”

  Ivy frowned. “You’re making this up,” she said. “You wouldn’t remember all them details from forty years ago.”

  Roy bridled. “I’ll have you know, Miss Beasley,” he protested, “that I can remember lying in my pram in the orchard at the farm, looking up at a bird on a branch and seeing it do a plop right on my teddy bear.”

  Ivy smiled, and then, because the memory was so ridiculous, she began to laugh loudly. She fumbled for her hanky, wiping her eyes. “All right, Roy,” she said. “I’ll believe you, tho’ thousands wouldn’t.”

  Roy beamed. “That’s the first time I’ve seen you laugh, really laugh, since you came to this place,” he said. “Well done, Ivy.”

  The door was still open, and as Katya passed by, she heard Ivy laughing and came back to look. It was such a rare sound in Springfields. Not many residents laughed out loud like that.