Free The Sleeping Salesman Enquiry by Ann Purser

Sunday walkies with Roy up to the cemetery. I do like a good cemetery, as you know.”
    Whippy barked joyfully. If she had understood nothing else, the word “walkies” was enough.
    The village was busy with customers making their way over the Green, its lush grass restored by the melted snow, towards the shop. James, the owner, thought ruefully that it was an ill wind etcetera. He sold twice as much food at the first fall of snow, when people panicked at the idea of not being able to get out of the village.
    “Morning, Gus,” he said now. “How does Whippy like the snow?”
    “Not much. Her coat is thin and she’s even more shivery than usual. We’re just going up to the cemetery and back.”
    James turned to the shelves behind him, and brought out a neat pack. “Here’s your answer,” he said. “Cosy Doggie Waterproof for Winter. Folds up small enough to go into your pocket.”
    “James, you’re a wonder. Is it Whippy’s size? Great, I’ll take it out and put it on her straight away. She’s on your dog hook out there.”
    “You make it sound as if she’s rotating on a spit over hot coals. Allow me, Gus,” he added. “I’d like to make sure it fits.” There were no other customers at the moment, and he followed Gus out of the shop.
    • • •
    LUNCH WITH MIRIAM was, as usual, protracted and excellent. After a suitable interval, Gus had brought up the subject of the Lowe family, and Alf in particular.
    “Turned into a horrible old man in old age!” she said. “Why on earth are you asking about him?”
    “Just curious,” he replied. “I met him at the bus stop, and we got into conversation. I sat next to him, and he was really interesting. You can’t always tell from people’s looks, can you, Miriam?”
    “Not just his looks!” she said fiercely, “and I know you went off with him to Thornwell last Saturday. Left Whippy behind, didn’t you. I was working in the shop and James told me.”
    “Yes, you’re absolutely right. Memory going, you know. Old age creeping on.”
    “Nonsense! If you’d let me look after you properly, you’d be a new man in no time.”
    Time to change the subject, Gus thought, and hastily asked whether the Lowes had lived in the village for a long time.
    “Always. At least, as far back as I can remember,” she said. “Some of his family farmed over at Settlefield, I’m sure. But Alf’s father ended up being this village’s blacksmith and farrier. The old forge is still there behind the cottage. Full of junk, I expect.”
    “Is his wife still alive? He looked rather uncared-for, I thought.” Miriam did not need to know that he already had the answer to that one. Best to start from scratch.
    “Susan? Oh yes, she’s very much alive. Much younger than him. Left old Alf in the lurch, and went off to live with a bloke from Thornwell. She’s probably dumped him by now! One of those who milk a man dry, and then swan off to find another sucker. Poor Alf didn’t turn nasty until she left. Took the heart out of him, she did. He went around swearing revenge for ages.”
    “You sound very bitter, Miriam. Did you not like his wife?”
    “Loathed her,” she said. “He was quite keen on me at one time, and though he’s quite a bit older, I really liked him. Made me laugh, old Alf. Then Susan came along and in no time he was taking her up to the altar in Thornwell. Mind you, they say he would never divorce her. Roman Catholic an’ all that. Out for all she could get, that was Susan Green. Her family are solicitors. It was said at the time that she was marrying beneath her, but I reckon she was already secondhand goods. No better than she should be, that Susan. Left him bitter and twisted, as they say. Now, Gus,” she added, “there’s an apple turnover hotting up in the oven, and I’ve got double cream to go with it. Fancy it?”
    • • •
    AFTER LUNCH AND a couple of glasses of Miriam’s primrose wine, Gus felt so contented and sleepy that he decided