Miriam had definitely said there was something mysterious about Halfhide, and had hinted that he was some kind of investigator. It sounded ridiculous, of course, but if she was halfway near the truth it could be an unforeseen and possibly dangerous development. On the other hand, why should anybody want to investigate them? Self-protection was all they were aiming for, and also, she had to admit, an insurance policy for the future.
Another thought struck her. How much did Miriam know about the past? From her conversation, it seemed her mother had kept her in the dark about a lot of it. She was a bit of an innocent, for all her reputation in the village. So was there more to it than being man mad? It might not mean much more than that she tried to lure every man she met into her bed and some she won, some she lost. She seemed confident that Gus Halfhide had already swallowed the hook. If this was so, would it be a good idea to bring Miriam into their confidence, and use her as information gatherer?
No it would not, Beattie decided. The more conspirators involved, if that is what they were, the more likely it was they would be discovered.
She put the pheasant in a slow oven, sat down in the sagging armchair by the Aga, and began to read the evening paper.
MIRIAM SET UP the small table squeezed into a corner of the living room, and spread a cloth embroidered by her mother. She had been good with her needle, and at each corner was a cutout butterfly which seemed to flutter as she smoothed out the creases. Miriam sighed. In some ways she missed her mother, but in others her death had been a huge relief.
She shut her mind to such thoughts, and switched on a dim reading lamp on the corner of the mantelpiece. The overhead light was much too bright. She switched it off. Next, she brought in home-cured bacon from the shop, bread that she had made earlier in the day, farm butter, and a fresh salad. She mixed English mustard from dry powder and vinegar, put it in the centre of the table and stood back to admire her handiwork. Paper serviettes! She opened a drawer in the sideboard and took out two. Gus probably wouldn’t notice the holly and mistletoe theme, left over from a long-past Christmas. If he did, he would make a nice joke about it. He was kind that way.
But there was the matter of Mrs. Bloxham and the shawl. Miriam intended to get that cleared up straightaway, and then they could enjoy the meal. There was a tap at the door, and she opened it to let him in.
“I’m just collecting for the down-and-outs of Barrington,” he said with mock humility. “Can you spare a bit of dried bread, or a bruised apple?”
Miriam collapsed. All her suspicions and anxiety vanished, and she roared with laughter, a real hearty bellow such as she had not produced for years.
“I can do better than that,” she stuttered as guffaws continued to emerge. “Come on in, and have a drink. I’ve found some primrose wine that mother made a while ago, so it should be really mature.”
Oh, goody, said Gus to himself, as his stomach protested in advance. A glass of primrose wine, well matured. He hoped it wouldn’t have the same effect as Beattie’s biscuits.
Miriam had started a tape of Frank Sinatra love songs, turned down low, and by the time they finished they had eaten every crumb and Miriam removed the plates to the kitchen. “Coffee, Gus?” she called. It was all going so well, with her telling him all about her early life-well, nearly all-and describing how her mother had changed from quite a jolly woman into a carping old dragon in her last years.
“How about your mother, Gus?” she said. “Were you an only child like me?”
“Goodness!” said Gus, looking at his watch. “Is that really the time? How it flies when you’re enjoying yourself! D’you know, Miriam, I think I’ll skip coffee and be off next door. It has been a really pleasant evening, and an epic meal. Bless you, my dear,” he added, and waving a grateful hand exited from the front door and shut it gently behind him.
“Bugger it!” Miriam said. She scarcely ever swore, but now felt perfectly justified. In a few seconds she had scuppered all hopes of getting him to open up. Ah well, at least they had parted good friends, and next time she would be more careful.
THE HOUSE NEXT door was chilly and damp smelling, as usual. Gus turned on the lights and wondered whether it was worth lighting the fire. Probably best to fill his hot water bottle and go to bed with a whisky and a book. The primrose wine had been unexpectedly good, and he planned to ask Miriam to give him a bottle, if she had plenty. It had a wonderfully flowery aroma, and there was no doubt it packed a punch. All those years in the cupboard under the stairs must have given it real strength.
BED, HE DECIDED, and with his comforting fluffy hot water bottle he climbed the stairs.
Before he went to sleep, he reviewed the evening’s conversation. Miriam had given him very little useful information that he did not already know. Her nostalgic ramblings had been mostly about working at the telephone exchange, past romances and friends, and how much she had loved her hen-pecked father. Totally under her mother’s thumb, apparently, poor soul. He thought of his ex-wife, and remembered her sharp tongue, and was reminded that he hadn’t heard from her lately. Dare he hope that she had finally given up trying to get blood out of a stone?
As his eyelids drooped, a puzzling image floated by. While Miriam had been in the kitchen dishing up rhubarb fool, he had noticed a small photograph tucked behind the clock on the mantelpiece. The gilded frame caught the light, and he peered closer. Was it Theo Roussel? Not quite, he decided. But there were strong similarities. This was a man from another generation, wearing, as far as Gus could see, a tweed jacket and camel hair waistcoat. He was smiling, and he had Theo’s smile. When Miriam returned to the table, Gus had asked her who it was, and she had said it was just a friend of her mother’s and then changed the subject.
Forty-nine
IVY AND ROY had already arrived at Tawny Wings when Gus came panting up the drive. Deirdre opened the door to him, and he apologised for being late. “Blame it on the primrose wine,” he said, though in fact the lovely stuff had had no ill effects. He had merely overslept, probably the result of a good supper and, touch wood, relief that his ever-loving ex seemed to have given up dunning him for money.
As they made for the stairs, he said, “You’re looking very chipper, if I may say so.”
“Feeling good,” Deirdre said, with a smile.
“Ah. Visit from the squire on Saturday? Lots to tell us?”
“Wait and see,” she said, ushering him into her office, where Roy greeted him enthusiastically and Ivy looked obviously at her watch. “Can we get going?” she said. “I have things to do later this morning.”
Gus refrained from asking what an old lady living in a retirement home with all her wants supplied could possibly have to do that was so urgent. “Obviously no apologies,” he said, “so shall we have the minutes of the last meeting?”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Augustus,” Ivy said. “We can get straight down to business. Now Deirdre, it was reported to me that Theo Roussel’s filthy Land Rover was parked outside your house on Saturday night until the small hours. And yes, before you say it is none of my business, I say it is. He is a prime suspect in our first case in my opinion, and being too intimate is unprofessional.”
There was a stunned silence, and then Roy began to laugh. “Ivy, you are a gem,” he said. “Who else could bring us back to order in such a wonderful way?” He reached out and patted her on the back of her hand, and she shook him off. “Well, Deirdre?” she said.
Deirdre was trying hard to be serious, and professional. “Ivy,” she said, “I would never dream of telling you to mind your own business.” For one thing, she said silently to herself, it would be a waste of time, like old Canute at the seaside. “No, I can assure you that any association I may have with Theo is purely in the interests of our investigation.”