The Measby Murder Enquiry by Ann Purser

could do drinks and snacks. Perhaps have a couple of craftspeople working in the stables to draw in the public?”
    “Oh, my dear chap! All of that would be a last resort! I may have to, one day, but please God not yet.”
    David shrugged. “Well, we could start with the children’s farm. You could talk to one or two of your friends, and get some advice on how to avoid pitfalls an’ that.”
    “There should be no pitfalls, David,” Theo answered. “If I put my mind to a project, I am quite capable of carrying it through with maximum efficiency.”
    “Well, as you know, I’m no schoolteacher,” said David, who was going off the idea of anything that would mean more work for him. Theo’s track record for hiring extra help had so far been pretty useless. David’s good-humoured intention of going along with the boss was evaporating rapidly. “So the first thing,” he continued, “might be to advertise for someone, maybe a retired biology teacher, to introduce the animals to the children. I could just about manage to do the farming side of it.”
    Theo’s tone was chilly. “I will certainly bear in mind the teacher idea. But I am sure you could cope. After all, it would just be a fun thing to do at weekends, not an extension of school. Anyway, thank you for coming along, David. You know the way out. Oh, and by the way,” he added, as David reached the door. “The business of employing young Katya is strictly confidential at the moment. Please keep it to yourself. Best if no one knows, not even dear Rose. Thank you.”
    Huh! David wanted to answer that he kept nothing from dear Rose, but in any case could not think why anyone should be remotely interested in Theo’s little schemes. He kept silent, and since Katya did not reappear, he let himself out of the kitchen door and strode off down the drive to be home in time for the television news.
     
     
    DEIRDRE’S MEETING HAD gone on much later than she expected, and when it finished one of her old friends asked if she fancied a drink before she went home. He was actually an old friend of Bert but had kept in touch with Deirdre, making sure she was managing everything by herself after the death of her husband. Now, when it was perfectly clear that Deirdre was more than capable of running her life, he still called her occasionally, and on one or two occasions she had gone to his house where he and his wife entertained the great and good of Thornwell. There was always a spare man, and Deirdre suspected they might be attempting matchmaking. But she was proof against that and always enjoyed a jolly evening and a meal she did not have to cook herself.
    The pub was a smart hostelry in the market square in town, and they pushed their way through crowds to a small back room where there were free seats. Colin went off to fetch drinks, and Deirdre looked around, deciding that she knew nobody and was really out of touch with Thornwell society.
    But, ah, there was somebody she knew. That tall, sniffy-looking dame standing at the bar was surely Bronwen Evans, nee Jones, elder daughter of Springfields’ latest resident, Alwen? As she watched, Colin, carrying two glasses, stopped to have a word with Bronwen and the man who was probably her husband. Then he came on to their table and sat down, putting Deirdre’s gin and tonic carefully in front of her.
    “There we are! I think we’ve earned a couple of gins! It was quite a sparky meeting tonight, wasn’t it?”
    “Um, yes,” Deirdre replied, still staring at Bronwen Evans. “Hey, Colin, do you know that woman? The one you were talking to?” She had a sudden flash of memory. Hadn’t she been standing in the queue at the newspaper office? Deirdre had watched her walking out, but it hadn’t registered then. But now she was sure. Bronwen Evans. She must have heard something of what she and Gus were asking about. Yes, well, worth mentioning to the others.
    “Well, I don’t usually talk to women I don’t know, my dear,”