Free The Hangman's Row Enquiry by Ann Purser Page B

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