AFTER GUS HAD cleared the face of the gravestone of moss and algae, he sat down next to Ivy and said, “Well, what does it say?”
“You can read, can’t you?” said Ivy.
“Not without my glasses,” admitted Gus. “How about you?”
“ ‘In Loving Memory,’ ” she read, and added that this obviously didn’t mean much, judging by the state of the grave. “ ‘John Frederick Blake, born 12 March 1908, died 3 February 1985.’ ” So that was quite a while ago, Gus, as I said.”
“What’s that in smaller letters at the bottom under the grass?”
Ivy peered at it, moving the long grass to one side. “ ‘He did the best he could.’ Well,” she said, shocked, “talk about damning with faint praise! What a dreadful thing to say.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Gus replied with a shrug. “Seems about right for most people,” he said. “Probably more like the truth than the usual eulogy.”
“Huh?” said Ivy, straightening up and wincing silently. “Usual usogy, usual eulogy?” she grunted. “Better stick to plain English, Augustus,” she said, and turned back along the grassy path to the graveyard gates.
They stood outside the church, looking down the village street, and Ivy said shouldn’t they go back to Springfields now and have coffee and biscuits? “Still plenty of the morning left, and we can decide what to do next.”
As Gus’s only commitment that day was tea with Miriam, he agreed. He might see that pretty Polish girl again, and then there was Mrs. Spurling to keep sweet. It occurred to him suddenly that he was surrounded by women. He’d not met a single man so far to share a pint with him at the pub. Perhaps he would call in again at the shop on his way home, see if Will was the matey sort. He would certainly be in possession of a good deal of useful information. Who else? Theo Roussel was probably a snooty toff who would never set foot in the village pub, even if the Beattie woman would allow him to. Nobody else, as yet.
He would ask Will what else went on in the village. He knew there was a Women’s Institute, but obviously not for him. Cricket club? Darts team? Reading group? Ivy had pointed out to him the old Reading Room, bequeathed by Theo’s grandfather to the village, and lately restored. Logical place for a reading group, he thought, but did he want to read books chosen by other people? Depends who are the other members, he decided. Lots of questions, all of which could be answered by Will the shopkeeper.
By the time they reached Springfields, Gus realised he hadn’t listened to a word Ivy had been saying. Still, he gathered early on in the conversation that it was mostly about the iniquities of the people of Round Ringford, Ivy’s home for most of her life.
“Morning, Mr. Halfhide!” Mrs. Spurling was in the hall, looking as if she had been standing there waiting for them. “Ready for your coffee now, Miss Beasley? Katya took up your tray, with a cup for Mr. Halfhide, only to find you two had absconded!”
“Eloped, perhaps?” laughed Gus. Oh God, he thought, is this really me?
“No chance of that,” said Ivy sharply. “And yes, send the coffee up to my room at once. And shortbread,” she added.
“What’s the magic word?” muttered Mrs. Spurling under her breath, but she smiled bravely and disappeared towards the kitchens.
When they reached Ivy’s room, she turned on Gus. “I’ll thank you to show a little more respect,” she said. “Eloped, indeed! Do you know how old I am?”
“Age is of no importance where love is concerned,” Gus said, “but no, Ivy, it was a small joke. Not meant to offend. You can be sure I have great respect for you and will watch my foolish tongue in the future.”
“Right,” said Ivy, sitting down in her chair by the window. “Now, what is next for us to do. I shall see Miss Beatty tomorrow, but we have no time to waste.”
Gus reflected that he had planned to put his feet up and watch the racing with Whippy, who always watched fixedly as the sweating, snorting horses galloped by. Then it would be teatime with Miriam. He would have to be careful that Ivy did not take charge, else all three of them would be slaving eight hours a day following up red herrings. Fortunately, there was a knock at the door and the pretty Polish girl came in with a laden tray.
“Morning, Katya,” Gus said quickly, before Ivy could find anything to criticise. “How are you settling down in England, my dear?” Ivy scowled at him, but he pretended not to notice.
“Very well, thank you, sir,” Katya said, smiling broadly at him. He spoke so beautifully that she could understand every word. “You like something else?”
“Won’t you stay and tell us about Poland for a while?” Gus said hopefully.
Katya raised her eyebrows. “Oh, no, sir. Not allowed! Thank you, sir,” she said, and rushed from the room.
“Fool!” Ivy said. “D’you think old Spurling would let her fraternise with the guests? She allows them two sentences per inmate, and that’s it.”
Gus was quite sure that Ivy was making this up, but consoled himself that he was quite likely to meet Katya in the street some time, and then he could take things further. Poor girl was probably lonely, and would welcome a fatherly friend to take care of her.
“Down to business,” Ivy said, seeing Gus lost in a day-dream. “You can drive, can’t you? Time to get a decent car for you, and then we’ll be safely mobile without asking Deirdre for the loan of her Rolls Royce every time we want to go into town.”
It was beginning to look like Ivy intended Gus and herself to be an investigating twosome, and he was not sure this was a good idea. She could cramp his style more than somewhat, and he said that yes, he could drive, but had no money for new cars at present. Maybe later. Meanwhile, he must drink up his coffee and get going. “Some important research to do,” he said vaguely, and palmed a couple of shortbreads into his pocket for later.