The Hangman's Row Enquiry by Ann Purser

introduce him to some of the lads.
    “And by lads,” Will added, “I mean lads aged from eighteen to eighty! Some of the old locals are great. And just watch out if they challenge you to dominoes. They’ll have all your loose change off you in no time!”
    “Thanks a lot,” Gus said. “Are you also a member of the reading group? What’s that like?”
    Will shook his head. “Don’t have time to read the books. Running this place is more than a full-time job. They meet once a month, and I believe they’re a nice lot. You can go just for one evening to try it out—doesn’t even matter if you’ve not read the book, apparently!”
    “Are they all highly educated, well read, and all that?”
    “Shouldn’t think so. The ones I know are just average readers. Anyway, you could give it a try.”
    Gus spotted the shelf of jams and chutneys, and took a selection. “These’ll brighten my meagre diet,” he said, and handed over a surprising amount of money. “Only the best, I assume?”
    Will nodded. “Of course,” he said. “Though her up at the Hall, our Miss Beatty, says they’re rubbish, and expensive rubbish at that.”
    “Best recommendation you could have, I’ve been told,” said Gus. Then several people came in at once, and he left, pleased with himself for having made an excellent start.
    At exactly three thirty in the afternoon, he knocked at Miriam’s door. He had spruced himself up, including cleaning his shoes. In his experience, women were very particular about shoes. His own mother had always said that if your shoes were clean, then the rest wasn’t so important. Wrong, of course. Just like she was wrong about saying that if the corners were clean, the middles would take care of themselves. That was rooms, of course. She had cleaned a good many of them, and should have known better.
    Miriam opened the door, smiled and beckoned him in. There was a strong smell of air freshener, which Gus loathed. But he smiled in return, and handed her a posy of flowers he had picked from his overgrown garden. She blushed to the roots of her hair, and buried her nose in them. As most of them were dandelions, there was very little scent, but that did not matter.
    Settled safely on a well-worn sofa in the front room, Gus looked about him. Brown was the predominating colour. Brown carpet and curtains, cream paint and brown cushions on brown moquette chair covers.
    As if reading his thoughts, Miriam apologised for the state of the house. “Mother would never spend any money on it,” she said. “I hope to put that right in due course, but at the moment I can’t think of anything but the poor old lady who was my constant companion for so many years after father died.”
    “Perhaps your mother, God rest her soul, hadn’t any money to spare for interior décor,” he suggested.
    “For what?—oh, I see, yes, well, that’s what she said, but Dad had never spent much either, so I reckon they must have saved a bit. Mind you,” she added hastily, “what with rent and electricity and coal an’ that, it was probably difficult to make ends meet.”
    Gus was used to sifting the wheat from the chaff, and noted in his mind that Miriam had hopes of finding a nest egg somewhere. A motive? He complimented her on her tea, and asked if she had made the gingerbread set out on a plate before him.
    “Oh yes, I’m a good cook,” she answered. “Trouble is, there’s only me to cook for now. I expect you find the same? It’s not worth cooking for one, is it? Expensive, too, with all the waste.”
    Watch out, Gus. He had seen these signs many times, and was practised at sidestepping them.
    “Oh, I can live on a sixpence,” he said. “Food doesn’t interest me much, so long as there’s something to fill up the hollows. Mind you,” he added politely, “I’d love a piece of your excellent gingerbread!”
    Miriam beamed, and said he should try her jam and cream sponge. “I’ll make you one for Sunday,” she said.