“Accident? It was murder, Mr. Halfhide. You don’t get a bread knife stuck in your heart by accident. We’ve heard nothing from the police. Have you?”
Gus shook his head. “Only that they are questioning just about everyone in the village. Miss Blake is very anxious for the matter to be cleared up, as she is unable to mourn properly until the culprit is found. In a sort of limbo, I suppose, not being able to lay her mother to rest.”
“Huh! Is that what she told you? Well, here’s a piece of advice, Mr. Halfhide. Take everything that our Miriam says with a large pinch of salt. That’s all I’m saying. Now, I must be on my way. Lucifer here needs a good run in the woods. Good morning,” she said, and with what passed for a smile on her plain face, she disappeared through a gap in the hedge.
“So that’s the dreaded Miss Beatty,” he said aloud to Whippy, who whimpered, still recovering from shock. “Quite a person,” he said. “Someone with a large estate to manage and quite confident in her ability to do it. What do you think?”
“Talking to yourself, Mr. Halfhide?” a new voice said, coming from the garden of the first cottage. It was a young woman, naturally blond and rosy-cheeked, with a toddling infant holding on to her jeans to keep its balance.
This was more like it, thought Gus, and stopped, smiling broadly. “Good morning!” he said. “Yes, a bad habit, I’m afraid. But I wasn’t actually talking to myself, rather to Whippy here. Best thing about talking to a dog is that they never answer back. Hello,” he added gently to the child. He prided himself on being good with small children, and picked up Whippy to show to him. At least, he thought it was a boy, though you couldn’t always tell these days. This one was dressed in blue dungarees, so it was a safe bet it was a boy.
“What a sweet doggie,” the blonde said. “This is my son, Simon,” she added, “and I’m Rose Budd. Now we’re introduced, and if you need any help or information about the village, you must come and knock at our door. My husband works on the estate, and he’s always around.”
“How kind,” he said. “It seems a very friendly village. I’ve just met Miss Beatty and her… um… dog. She was pleasant, though I’m not so sure about the dog!”
Rose laughed. “I can assure you that Miss Beatty is much more dangerous than Lucifer,” she said. “Stay well clear. She runs the place, you know, and nothing is secret from her.”
“Seems to be the general opinion,” he said. “I shall take the advice. Oh, and by the way, what is her Christian name?”
“Beattie,” Rose said, smiling.
“No, her Christian name,” Gus said.
“Beattie. She’s Beatrice Beatty, but always known as Beattie,” Rose assured him.
“My God, no wonder she looks like she’s swallowed a fish bone!” he said. “Fancy being saddled with that!”
To Gus’s embarrassment, she answered that her own name was odd, wasn’t it. “But at least Rose Budd sounds pretty, and anyway I acquired it by marriage. Apparently Beattie likes hers. Likes being different, she says. Old bag! Oops, there’s the phone-must go.” She scooped up the child and disappeared with a cheery wave. “See you later!” she called as she went.
“Hope so,” said Gus, and proceeded on his way.
Fifteen
THE WOMEN’S INSTITUTE in Barrington was one of the oldest in the county. Theo Roussel’s grandmother had set it up and become its first president. Originally, the meetings had taken place in the Reading Room, and the membership had never amounted to more than ten or so women, all with husbands working on the estate. It had been the usual thing for the lady of the manor to be president, or failing that, the wife of the grandest farmer around. The village women had been encouraged to join and it was made clear they were there to be educated in the traditional homemaking skills, plus the occasional speaker and, as in Barrington’s case, an enthusiastic folk-dancing team as a healthy hobby and a useful entertainment at village fetes.
Of course, things had inevitably changed over the years. Presidents were voted in, and there was now an influential national organisation overseeing the branches, conducted in a democratic and broad-minded way. Very few folk-dance teams could now be found, but instead there were Scrabble tournaments, rounders, drama competitions, and for the more adventurous, a college of education where courses spanning a wide range of interests could be taken. At the AGM in the Royal Albert Hall in London, serious matters were debated and voted on. Some older members said regretfully that the Institute was now neither one thing nor the other.
Ivy Beasley had been a stalwart member of Round Ringford WI, and when she moved to Suffolk, she had immediately joined the local branch. There were a number of things she objected to, but sensibly kept them to herself until she became established. Her old friends would not have recognised her. She had been known to be dreaded by many a speaker, her awkward questions leaving them trembling and unsure as they hastily packed up their leaflets and samples and left, excusing themselves from tea and cakes on obviously trumped-up excuses. Now she sat mostly silently, applauding with reserve, and phrasing her suggestions in a completely non-Ivy way.
This evening, she had a new mission. She knew from long experience that the WI was a clearinghouse for village gossip. After the speaker’s talk, plastic cloths were spread on card tables and plates of homemade cakes handed round by whoever was on duty for refreshments that month. Ivy already knew the women who would be the most reliable informants on rumour and secrets in the village, and she folded her arms, planning the questions she would ask.
The speaker, however, proved to be an unexpected challenge to the new Ivy. Esther Chantry was a tall, narrow-faced woman with the confident air of an infant teacher. She wasn’t a teacher, but an author, and her special interest was historical novels about village life. Claiming she had always lived in villages, she described life in the “olden days” and how today differed from those treasured times. Ivy simmered, but said nothing. In the end, after the speaker had said that then everybody had plenty to eat, kept warm in winter, lived longer and was supported by the neighbours when illness struck, it was too much for Ivy.
“Bunkum!” she said loudly, her face scarlet and her glasses steamed up with fury. “Have you ever read the tombstones in a village graveyard? All them little’uns that died in infancy?”
The president was immediately alert. She had long practice in keeping the meeting to order, including being forced to have a private word with a member who had chipped in to every speaker’s talk with her own opinions and experiences.
“Thank you, Miss Beasley,” she said. “There will be plenty of time for questions and comments at the end. Please carry on,” she added, beaming at the speaker.
So Ivy sat more or less quietly, except for the occasional “Huh!” until the end.
“Any questions, members?” said the president, with a reproving look at Ivy. She did not yet know that Ivy Beasley had never been permanently squashed, and did not intend to change.
“Yes,” Ivy said at once. “I would like to know where you got your stuff about old days in the villages? My family lived in a Midlands village for generations, and tales told by them speak of hardship, illness, early deaths in farm accidents and children wasting away in damp, cold cottages. They had food, yes, but what food? We wouldn’t touch it now. So where were your ideal villages, missus?”
To give the speaker her due, and even Ivy said this later, she reacted with an energetic defence of her evidence. Some villages were as Ivy had described them, she agreed, but it all depended on the squire, and there were probably a good few who were oppressive and mean. There were also, she stressed, many kind and paternal squires and their families. Neighbours were helpful and often shared what they had. There were feuds and enmities, of course. Any group of people could produce those, even the most affluent.