The Hangman’s Row Enquiry

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 supper, 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