SOME DAYS LATER, Gus thought seriously of doing a runner. But then he reconsidered. Was it merely bad luck that right next door to him, in a deserted lane leading to a tiny village in darkest Suffolk, chosen by him because he was sure absolutely nothing would ever happen there, an old woman had breathed her last with a bread knife stuck through her heart? He could not deny that all the old instincts had immediately reappeared, just when he had renounced them forever.
“I rather wish,” he said aloud, “that there was some old chum who could put me right.” His little whippet jumped out of her basket and stood shivering in front of him. “Sorry, sorry!” he said, and tickled behind her ears. “You are quite right.” She made a small grumbling sound, and looked longingly towards the door.
“Right, message taken,” Gus said. “We’ll go for a walk. Clear our heads. I must forget all about it and concentrate on the Great Novel.”
This was one of the reasons why he had come to Barrington. He intended to free himself from all unwanted questions, and to escape the temptations of the casino and the race course. He would settle down and write a lively fictionalized account of some of his more lurid adventures.
It had begun to rain, a very light misty rain, and Gus put a small waterproof jacket on Whippy to keep her dry. She was in fact quite tough, but he felt that with so little flesh on her bones and such a thin smooth coat, he should cosset her. Anyway, he loved having the small creature dependent on him, and reflected that he would probably have made a very fussy father.
“Not too late, Gus,” he said to himself as they walked down Hangman’s Row and out into the main street of Barrington. All he needed was a tall, willowy blonde in her broken-down car languishing by the roadside, when he would leap forward, fiddle about under her bonnet-ahem!-and fall headlong in love. She would, of course, reciprocate.
A figure approached him, walking slowly with a stick, and he was sadly sure that this was not the girl of his dreams. An old woman, with a black coat, a hat like an upturned flowerpot and steel-rimmed glasses, bore down on him. His new friend, Miss Ivy Beasley. He had given the Standings a call, and asked them about her. “Guaranteed to find out all about you, Gus,” Richard had chortled. “You’d be safer in the middle of London!” But Richard’s warning had only sharpened his curiosity. Could an old woman in a retirement home still be a fearsome tyrant?
Ivy fixed him with her beady eyes. “Good afternoon,” she said firmly. “Getting to know the area? That’s a funny little old creature you got there, I must say. Is it a greyhound? Must have been the runt of the litter.”
Gus bridled. “She’s meant to be that size. Whippets are small. And she’s not old, you know. Quite young, in fact. She’ll be two in August. She’s a dear little thing, aren’t you, Whippy?” he said, and patted her light-bulb head. “It is nice to see you out for a walk, Miss Beasley,” he continued. “But aren’t you going to get wet again? Do let me see you back to Springfields. The weather forecast was not at all good.”
Ivy stared at him. In all her long life, nobody had ever before offered to see her home, and now it had happened twice. She was about to assert her independence and refuse, but her curiosity got the better of her and she accepted.
“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” she said, and took the arm that he proffered.
“You’ve heard the news, I expect. Living next door, that is,” Ivy said, as they walked on towards Springfields. “If you ask me, that daughter of hers should be asked some hard questions.”
“My neighbour?” Gus asked innocently. “Do you know the Blakes?”
Ivy cupped her hand to her ear. She was a little deaf now, but refused to have her hearing tested, claiming that there was nothing wrong with her ears that a good syringe wouldn’t put right.
“The Blakes,” Gus repeated. “I heard that the old lady next door had died. I called to pay my respects, but her poor daughter was obviously very distressed. Do you know more than that?”
“Huh!” said Ivy. “Distressed! I can’t think why. Miriam Blake has been wanting her old mother to kick the bucket for years. So you haven’t heard about the knife? The bread knife, sticking straight into the old woman’s heart?” Ivy’s voice was full of disgust and disapproval, and Gus felt her hand tighten on his arm. My goodness, Richard Standing was right! He must be very careful with this one.
“How on earth do you know that?”
Ivy glanced sideways at him. “I have my sources, Mr. er… er Halfhide, isn’t it? My memory is not as good as it used to be, I’m afraid.”
Gus doubted this. He could recognize a put-down when he saw one. They were nearing Springfields, and Miss Beasley left him at the gate, shutting it firmly against him. “Thank you,” she said. “I expect we’ll meet again. It is a very small village, you know. Very difficult to keep anything private here, I have found.” Gus judged it was not the time to remind her of his intention to visit her, and started off back home.
Whippy chose this moment to squat on the verge and Gus dutifully found a poo bag. He pondered on Miss Beasley’s last remark. Was it a warning? And what secrets had she found it difficult to protect? “We must find out more,” he said to Whippy as they set off again at a brisk pace. “And who knows, we may meet the blonde on the way back.”
Five
GUS WAS OUT of luck. So far no blondes. But he was curious to see a muddy four-by-four slowing down as it came towards him. It stopped, and the nearside window was slowly lowered.
“Good morning.” The voice was low, and came from a distinguished-looking, grey-haired man sitting in the passenger seat. Next to him, driving the vehicle, was a fortyish woman, with hair scraped back in an old-fashioned bun, and eyes like ripe sloes, blue black and blank in expression. “Mr. Halfhide?” continued the man. “I’m Theodore Roussel. Settling in, I hope? Anything you want, ask Beattie here. She runs everything.” He leaned forward until his head was close to the window. Gus walked forward until he was close. “Including me,” the man said sotto voce.
Gus smiled. It wasn’t the time to mention numerous faults in his little house, including the gap wide enough to post a parcel between the back door and its split frame. Nor would he complain about the old-fashioned flush lavatory that took at least three desperate attempts to make it work. First, he should be on good terms with everyone in the village, and especially with this interesting Roussel landlord. Not so sure about Beattie, he said to himself. Can’t see the old Halfhide charm working on this one. Still, give it time.
“Oh, everything is fine, I’m sure,” he replied. “Charming little cottage. Just what I was looking for.”
“Shut the window, Mr. Roussel,” Beattie said sharply. “You’ll be getting a chill.”
Roussel made a face at Gus, and began to shut the window. Then he stopped and said, “Nuisance about the Blake woman. Beattie’ll get the daughter moved on. Hardly pays any rent, you know. Old John Blake used to work on the estate until he died. Useless when he was alive, and even more useless now he’s dead. Don’t let the daughter bother you, Mr. Halfhide. Beattie’ll get rid of her.” He closed the window, and the car moved off with a jerk.
Gus walked on home and thought hard about what Roussel had said. He had seemed extraordinarily unconcerned about having a murder in his property. Did that mean he had had a hand in it? Or had Beattie? Gus’s experience of murders in villages was much influenced by the crime novels of Agatha Christie, and so he was sure that under the tranquil surface there were secret family feuds and hatreds. A large bagful of twenty pound notes under the mattress might be quite enough to trigger a violent death! Money problems at the Hall? It was common knowledge that members of the aristocracy were poor as church mice.
Gus shook himself. This was pure fantasy! Maybe the old duck was holding the bread knife and conked out, falling on the knife as she went. But no, in his experience, such things seldom happened without a helping hand.
As he approached the terrace, he saw a police car parked outside the Blakes’ cottage. Damn and blast! He hoped they hadn’t arrived to arrest Miriam Blake. His meetings with Ivy Beasley and Theodore Roussel had fed his curiosity, and during his walk home he had again felt that need to
