Free The Sleeping Salesman Enquiry by Ann Purser Page A

he would have a doze in front of his fire before making some notes on Alf. But then he realised he would probably have forgotten half of it after he woke up, and so thought he would take Whippy into the edge of the wood for some fresh air.
    He felt refreshed and alert by the time the east wind had cleared his head, and he was just approaching the wood when a large black car drew up beside him. The window was lowered and a smart-looking man beckoned him over imperiously.
    “Hi. Tell me where Springfields is. I’ve been before, but not for some time, and I’ve taken the wrong road, I think?”
    Gus felt prickles on the back of his neck. It was a long time since men in anonymous black cars had issued orders to him through darkened windows, lowered enough to bark out a question.
    “You have indeed taken the wrong road,” he said lightly. “You’ll have to find somewhere to turn around, and then take a right and a left and it’s on the right-hand side opposite the old telephone exchange.” And if that doesn’t confuse you, nothing will, Gus said to himself.
    “How far is it to a place where I can turn round? This godforsaken lane is getting narrower, and there’s still snow under the trees.”
    “Hangman’s Lane, this is, and you’ll probably have to go up as far as the gibbet crossroads to turn. I’d hate to think of you backing into a ditch.”
    The window was wound up without another word from the stranger, who was, of course, Steven Wright in search of his uncle Roy.

T hirteen

    IVY HAD CHANGED her dress and shoes after lunch, and combed her hair back into her usual severe bun. She had powdered her nose—her one concession to makeup—and went down to find Roy equally spruced up, sitting in an upright chair and smiling at her approach.
    “Very smart, my beloved,” he said. “Nephew Steven will be impressed. More impressed than you will be by him! A shifty-looking gent, though perhaps I shouldn’t say such things about my own flesh and blood. But my sister married into the Wrights, who were reputed to be gypsy stock. Hence the shifty look.”
    “Now, now, Roy, I have known some very nice Romany gypsies in my time. Not at all shifty. There are bad apples, of course, but then, they pop up everywhere.”
    “Mm, well, I used to allow a regular band of gypsies to stop on the farm on their way to Appleby Fair. Great occasion for them. Then they’d stop on the way back, and always brought me useful things for the farm. But there was one year when a couple of brothers stopped, and after they’d gone, so had several of my best tools!”
    Their conversation was interrupted by a loud voice asking for Mr. Goodman. Miss Pinkney was on duty, and she very politely asked his name.
    “Wright. Steven Wright. He’s expecting me. And don’t worry; I won’t run off with the silver.”
    “Oh dear,” said Roy.
    “Not a good start,” said Ivy, and turned to look at the tall, heavy man approaching.
    “Uncle Roy!” he said heartily. “You’re looking splendid. And this is—?”
    “Miss Beasley. Ivy Beasley, my fiancée.”
    “How do, Ivy,” Steven said. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind leaving Uncle Roy and myself to have an important chat about your nuptials? Sounds rude, doesn’t it! I’m to be best man, and that’s exactly what I intend to be. Best man, see?” He laughed loudly, but Ivy did not even smile.
    “I wish Ivy to stay with us and have her say, Steven,” said Roy. “She already is the better half of the two of us. Now, shall we begin at the beginning? Have you done the job before?”
    Steven shook his head. “But the whole thing’s bound to be a doddle. I looked up weddings on my computer, and it gives the order of service and all that jazz. I have to look after the ring, give it to the vic at the right time, keep your pecker up in case you’re feeling nervous, and toast the bridesmaids in a jolly speech at the reception. Right?”
    “There will be no bridesmaids,” said Ivy firmly.
    “Then