“Well, as you say, that’s the picture, Mr. Staple, and a very vivid picture you’ve made it,” said Macdonald. “Now let’s get back to Sam Borwick. Don’t you think, when he came out of the army, he’d have come back to these parts to see if his parents were still living?”
“He’d have wanted to know that, right enow. His father had always said, ‘When I’m dead, the land comes to you and you can farm it.’ Sam never meant to farm it, but if it came to him, he could sell it. I’ve no doubt he found out his dad was still alive.”
“And don’t you think he’d have gone up to High Garth, to see if there was anything he could pick up?”
“Aye, he’d have done that, likely enow, and he’d have seen those bars across the doors and thought a bit. He’d have known his father would have had a sale, and Sam would have known, near enough, what the stock was worth.”
“Do you think Sam would have known where his dad hid his money in the old days?”
“Not where he hid it. If Sam had known that, the money wouldn’t ha’ been safe for long. No. The old man was a sight too cunning to let Sam know where t’ money was hid.”
“I’m interested in those two points you made,” went on Macdonald. “First, that Sam would have known, more or less, how much money the sale of the stock would have realised, and second, that seeing the bars across the doors, he argued to himself that the money was hidden in the house somewhere.”
“That’s about the size of it,” agreed Staple.
“So it seems reasonable to suppose that Sam had a go at finding the money,” went on Macdonald. “Knowing the house as he did, it was easy for him to break in through the dairy wall.” Here Macdonald told Staple the manner of entry. “It was cunning, you know, because no one going round the outside of the house, as Brough may have done, or Jock Shearling, would have had any idea that the place had been broken into.”
“Aye, it was cunning, all right. Now about the dead man you found there, any ideas how he fits in?”
“Several ideas, but they may be very wide of the mark. First, Sam may have searched several times himself without finding anything, and said to himself he might do better if he had some help. The money might have been buried under one of those great flagstones and they’d be a difficult job for one man to lift.”
“That’s why the money wasn’t buried under one,” replied Staple. “It had to be somewhere Nat Borwick could get at himself, by himself, and somewhere his wife wouldn’t notice while he was on the job, him being that suspicious. Now in many old houses there’s a hiding place folks’d never think of: in the roof timbers, in the chimneys, aye, in the very beams, hollowed out by some dead-and-gone chap who was clever at joinery. That’ll be an almighty hard job to find, I’m sure of that. And mayhap after Sam Borwick had hunted high and low himself and found nought, he thought he’d ask some clever friend of his to lend a hand.” Staple sat and pondered, his wrinkled face frowning in concentration.
“And if so be they found the money, the pair of them, Sam thought it’d be a good idea to leave the other chap in the house for keeps. Then if ever there was an inquiry, the explanation was there, ’twas the dead chap broke in.”
“It’s a possibility,” agreed Macdonald, “rogues are often hopeful. But there’s another explanation. Perhaps Sam was followed by one of his thieving friends, a chap who knew that Sam came back to High Garth and thought he didn’t come there without a reason. We just don’t know, Mr. Staple, but we’ve got to lay hands on Sam Borwick. Now there’s another point I want to discuss with you. You knew that old Borwick never had a banking account: he kept his cash in the house. But you’re not the only person who would have known that. If a farmer always asks for cash and always pays in cash, a lot of other farmers must have known what that meant—no banking account.”
“Aye, you’re right, but ’twasn’t so uncommon at one time. When I was a lad, a lot of farmers did the same. ’Twas only the big farmers kept their money in a bank and paid by cheque.”
“So I’ve heard. Now Mr. Brough would have known that old Borwick had no banking account. Brough pays the rent for the land at High Garth in cash, every quarter day, he told me so.”
“Aye, he’d pay in cash, and that’s what the two old folks live on, they’ve nought else coming in.”
“And Mr. Brough would have known that old Borwick made a good sum at his sale, and since he knew Borwick’s habits, Brough may well have argued, as you have done, that the cash was hidden in the house. He never suggested that to me when he asked me to go round the house with him. He only said he wanted to look at the furniture, because some of it was valuable and Mrs. Borwick was worried about it.”
“Aye, he might have been wiser if he’d told you the whole story,” went on Staple. “Now I once heard you say, ‘I’m guessing my way along,’ and I’ve been doing a bit o’ guessing myself over this story. Brough, he goes along to Borwick’s little place to pay his rent every quarter day, same’s he told you, and I’ve no doubt he has a crack with Mrs. Borwick and she’ll tell him her troubles, likely enough. Old Nat, he’s in a sorry way and he won’t last much longer. When Nat’s gone, what is there left for his missis? The land goes to Sam, and Sam won’t bother about his old mother. As I see it, Mrs. Borwick may have said to Brough, ‘There’s that money Nat got for the sale of his stock and that money’s up there, at the house,’ and Brough said, ‘That should be looked into.’ You never know, he may have gone farther and said, ‘When Nat’s gone, you and I could do worse than make a partnership and farm together.’ ” Staple chuckled and then went on. “That’s an old story, a widow woman with money, and a farmer who could do with more capital, as they all can these days. Now I’m not just havering, Mr. Macdonald. I’m thinking things out my own way. Seems to me, Mrs. Borwick may have said, ‘Better find that money before Sam does,’ and that looks to me as though one of them, she or Brough, had heard tell that Sam had been seen in the district, looking around as it were.”
“Yes, that’s sound reasoning,” agreed Macdonald. “Now Brough suggested to me that perhaps Sam had got himself taken on by the pipe-line contractors. That would have given him somewhere to live in the district, near enough to High Garth to get over there any night he chose, to look around.”
“Could be, though Sam was never a worker,” said Staple. “Still, they’d have taken him on, likely enow, he’s a hefty-looking chap.”
“Now I don’t think he’s still up there with the gangers,” said Macdonald, “but there’s just a chance he’s hiding out there, especially if he’s short of money. Now when things are fixed up, so that I’m working with the county men officially, I’m going up to see the manager of the pipe-line gangs and I shall ask to have all the gangers paraded, so that I can have a look at them. Would you be willing to come up there with me? You know Sam Borwick by sight, and there’s not many folk could be sure of recognising him. I asked Jock Shearling, but he never really knew Sam.”
“Aye, I’ll go with you, if you ask me,” replied Staple.
3
While Macdonald was talking to Staple, Inspector Bord went to see old Mr. and Mrs. Borwick. They lived in a dreary little stone house close by the railway line which runs through Lunesdale to Yorkshire. The house had been built by a farmer a hundred years ago, before the railway took most of his land: it was “two up and two down,” a kitchen and a small parlour downstairs and two bedrooms above. The Borwicks used the kitchen as their living room and old Nat slept in the parlour, because he could no longer get upstairs. He sat crouched over the fireplace when Bord entered, a tremulous deaf old man who did not answer when spoken to.
“Don’t you bother talking to him,” said Mrs. Borwick. “He don’t take things in, not since his stroke.”
She was a shrivelled old woman, with white wispy hair and dark eyes, but still alert-looking and intelligent.
“I’m sorry to tell you that there’s trouble up at High Garth,” said Bord, and she shrilled:
“Trouble, what do you mea
n by trouble? That’s not burnt down, has it?”
“No. It’s not fire,” said Bord. “Now Mr. Brough went to the house to see it was all in order. He came to you for the keys, didn’t he?”
“Aye, he did. Several times he’s said to me, ‘Someone should look round that house,’ and I said, ‘If I’d had my way, I’d’ve got you to look round long since.’ I’d go myself, but that’s a hard place to get to, and doctor says I must keep off my feet. You see, it was all locked up, locked, bolted, and barred, and Nat, he hid the keys. ’Twasn’t till after his stroke I dared look for those keys, he was that difficult and wouldn’t have no one go inside the house. I found them at last, under the floorboards in the parlour where his bed is and a job I had getting at them. And I gave them keys to Mr. Brough and he promised to look round and see everything was all right.”
“He went to look over the house, and he took a police officer with him, thinking he ought to have a witness. Now I’m sorry to tell you that everything wasn’t all right. The house had been broken into. Somebody got into the old dairy, near the back door, and made a hole through the wall into the kitchen. Now can you tell me if there was anything valuable in the house?”
“There was the furniture, very good pieces some of them, years and years old.”
“Apart from the furniture?” persisted Bord. “Did your husband leave any money or anything else of value up there?”
“Not as I know of, but he’d never ’ve told me. Terrible close, he was, never trusted no one, not even me.” Her face was grey-white now, her hands shaking.
Bord went on, “Well, if we don’t know what was in the house, we can’t tell if anything’s been stolen, Mrs. Borwick. Now I’ve got to ask you this: when did you last see your son Sam?”
“Never, not since he went away,” she quavered. “We heard he’d joined the army, and ’twas a blow to both of us, but we never saw him again. Nat, he kept on saying, ‘When Sam comes back,’ but I knew, he’d never come back no more. I’ve given up thinking of him, he must be dead, Sam must. He never came, he never wrote, all these years. He must be dead.” She leaned back in her chair, a frail tremulous old woman, and old Nat mumbled to himself as he crouched over the fire and slobbered horribly. It was a melancholy sight, and Bord knew there was nothing he could do, but he tried once again. “Was there anywhere in the house your husband used to hide things, the money he got when he sold beasts at market?”
“Of course he hid his money. I never knew where, nor Sam didn’t, neither. I knew he hid his money, but I never saw where and I never dared ask. He was a hard man, was Nat.” Shaking, as though in a rigor, she went on, “Nat, he won’t last long, look at him. Sam’s dead and Nat’s dying and they tell me you found a dead man up there, at High Garth, him as broke in. Not that it makes no odds to me. I’m not far off my own time.” Suddenly she made an effort and reached out a wrinkled claw. “You got those keys? The keys of High Garth? Mr. Brough promised he’d bring the keys back.”
“I’ve got the keys, I’ll look after them for you, Mrs. Bor- wick. We’ll search the house for you, and if we find anything valuable, we’ll let you know.”
“You’ll never find nothing,” she quavered. “Nat hid his money all those years—I never knew where ’twas, I couldn’t find out. And now you say the house was broke into and him that did it is dead. Dead men tell no tales, they say. Now, Mr. Brough, he’s not dead, too, is he?”
“No, no, he’s not dead. He had a tumble, up on the fell there, and he’s a heavy man, and they’ve taken him to hospital.”
“Hospital?” she quavered. “That’ll be the end, Sam’s dead, Nat’s dying, Mr. Brough’s in hospital, and I’m near the end. Deary me, the pain’s that bad; my heart it is.” She slipped forward in her chair until her white head lay on the kitchen table and Bord knew that his errand had been futile. She would never tell him anything else, only repeat, “Sam’s dead, Nat’s dying. . . .”
Chapter Eight
IT WAS BORD who went up to the encampment on Bowland.
The acting chief constable (deputising during the illness of his superior officer) was a stickler for regulations.
“We can’t co-opt a senior officer from the Yard without going through the regular drill,” said the acting C.C., speaking to Bord after the latter’s melancholy interview with Mrs. Borwick. “By tomorrow morning the formalities will be settled, Bord, and I agree it would be a sound idea if the superintendent went to Leverstone. But somebody should go up to the encampment immediately and have the gangers paraded, Bord, and I think you should go, taking with you somebody who can identify this Sam Borwick, because he’s the chap we want, make no mistake about it.”
So eventually Mr. Staple got into Bord’s car and they drove up through Kirkham into the hills. “We shan’t find Sam up there,” said Staple. “He won’t have waited. News travels: this story will be known by all the gangers and they’ll guess the police will be coming up their way.”
“How could the story have got up there?” asked Bord, and Staple replied:
“ ’Tis Monday. Every Monday a lorry goes up there with goods for the canteen. Everyone on the valley road knows that, and the lorryman, he often has a crack with the roadmen and the garage men, and he’d’ve been told that story: police going up to High Garth and a mortuary van and an ambulance coming down. D’you think there’s anybody in the valley hasn’t heard?”
“You’re probably right,” agreed Bord. “There’s not much you don’t know about events in Lunesdale, Mr. Staple. Now you may be right about Sam Borwick, that he’d have bolted, but there’s this to it: the manager and overseers will know how many men they’ve got on the pay roll, and if one of them has bolted—well, he had a reason for bolting, for from what I can remember of their regulations, the gangers aren’t paid in full until they’ve worked the time they signed on for, so if a man bolts, he’s got a strong reason to do so. Now, can you give me any description of this Sam Borwick?”
“Carrots,” said Staple, “his head’s real carrots, always has been. He’s a hefty chap, not very tall, but built solid, great shoulders he’s got and muscles on his arms like a joint of meat. And he’s got eyes that go with his hair, brown eyes, but what I’d call hot, as though some of the colour from his hair got into his eyes. I’ve known Sam by sight since he was a nipper and there’s no mistaking him. He was never no beauty and the other youngsters, they always called him ‘Carrots.’ ”
“Well, if he wanted to get around without being recognised, he’d have dyed his hair,” said Bord, but old Staple snorted derisively.
“Sounds easy, Inspector. He’d have had a lot of dyeing to do. His eyebrows and eyelashes, the hair on his chest, even on his arms, he was proper carrots. And remember, if he got a job up yonder, he’d’ve been living in the huts with the other gangers—no privacy. If a chap dyes his hair black and his chest and arms are all carrots, the other chaps are going to notice and everybody in the place’ll hear about it.”
“I dare say you’re right,” said Bord. “Well, I’m going to ask the manager to parade the men, so that you can have a look at all of them.”
“Sam won’t be there,” said Staple.
2
“You’ll have heard that we’ve been investigating trouble at High Garth, the empty farmhouse over the fell, about five miles away, Mr. Wharton,” said Bord. They were sitting in the manager’s office and Wharton replied:
“Yes, I’ve heard, Inspector. Now let’s get the facts clear. You’re investigating a case of assault, which occurred this afternoon, and you’ve found a man’s body in the house. Now tell me this. Was the dead man killed recently, today or yesterday?”
“No, he wasn’t. His body must have been there for months,” replied Bord. “Anything I tell you is in confidence, of course.”
“That’s all right, I know when to hold my tongue,” said Wharton. “How you’re going to find out what happened months ago I don’t see, but this afternoon’s a different cup of tea. You’re thinking one
of our chaps attacked your farmer, perhaps? Well, I can tell you you’re wrong: this was one of the few afternoons when we knew just where all our chaps were—and we can prove it.”
He touched a bell on his desk, and two men came into the office. “These are our overseers, Mr. Lawley and Mr. Wright,” said Wharton. “This is Inspector Bord, Lawley, he’s looking into this story Turner talked about. Now tell him about this afternoon, Lawley, and just how it is you know the gangers were all present and correct, and no chance of any absentees.”
Lawley described precautions taken when blasting was in progress and then went on: “We’ve got forty-eight men working on the pipe line. You’ll know as well as I do that you can’t keep tabs on four dozen men when they’re scattered or milling around, here, there, and everywhere. They’re careless devils, a lot of them. The only way to ensure safety on this job is to divide them up into gangs, four gangs of twelve, each with an overseer, and it’s the overseer’s job to keep his eyes on his gang, every man jack of them. In times past, we’ve had men injured when the charge was delayed in action and the men thought the job was finished and scattered, getting too near the blasting point. Well, the rule now is that gangs have to stick together in their appointed area until I send the overseers word that operations are finished. I can tell you—and so can the other overseers, that the men were all around the blasting site from one o’clock until four o’clock, when we knocked off. That satisfy you?”
“It will indeed, Mr. Lawley, couldn’t be better,” replied Bord. “It’s not often we get such a clear piece of evidence when we’re asking about such a large body of men.”
“Well, you can see the other overseers, Walton and Lang,” said Lawley. “You’ll find they can answer for the men they were in charge of. Now would you be willing to tell us this, Inspector? Have you got anything against any of our men, or is your presence here just due to the belief that labour gangs, drawn in the main from industrial areas, are a likely source of criminals?”
Dishonour Among Thieves Page 8
