A Country Way of Death (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 4)

by R. A. Bentley

  Miles watched her scurry away towards the pigsties, still in her fluffy slippers. 'You can come out now,' he said.

  'I thought she sounded cross,' said Rattigan, stepping from behind the Clements' truck.

  'You could say that. We'd best make ourselves scarce while we can. What did you get?'

  'I learned a lot about pigs,' said Rattigan as they beat a hasty retreat. 'Tell me, is there a breed with particularly long legs and, er, antlers?'

  Miles laughed. 'Best draw the veil of expediency over that, I think. Anything else?'

  'Also that Baverstock's indubitably dead.'

  'Now, that's more like it! Was it natural causes?'

  'He wasn't there, or so he claims; just disposed of the body. Came right out with it, he did. Boastful, even. Queer sort of cove. I wouldn't call him simple exactly but there's something lacking, if that makes sense.'

  'Half man, half pig,' explained Miles. 'Different standards apply. Could he have killed him, do you think?'

  'Probably capable of it, but I don't think he did. I could tell he didn't like him though. Contemptuous, you could say, like he'd put one over on him.'

  Miles nodded. 'That fits.' He glanced at his watch. 'I think we'll call it a day. It's time I paid some attention to my fiancée or I'll be in trouble. You're dining with the Pipers, aren't you?'

  'Yes, sir,' grinned Rattigan. 'Shan't need to trouble you again tonight.'

  'Happy new year then, Teddy.'

  'Same to you, sir. Have a nice evening.'

  'Oh, and how did he dispose of him? Or shouldn't I ask?'

  Rattigan grimaced. 'Let's just say, I hope it's not gammon tonight.'

  'They really do that?'

  'So it would seem.'

  Miles watched him disappear behind the barn, heading for Ivy Cottage. Then checking he still had his snow-shovel he drove the Vauxhall down to the village.

  Chapter ten

  'I thought you were never coming,' said Connie, a little petulantly.

  'Sorry darling. You look nice. Smell nice too. Everyone gone?'

  'Ages ago.'

  'Good. Have you eaten?'

  'No, not yet.'

  'Something you'd rather do?'

  She pushed him crossly away. 'Miles Felix, I could hit you sometimes!'

  He laughed and swung her into his arms, making her squeal. 'Up the apples, then.'

  Connie grabbed the banister. 'Not until you unhook that telephone.'

  Their clothes scattered, they stood and admired each other before the bedroom fire.

  'You really are a goddess,' he said, chastely kissing her shoulder. 'Your skin, your hair, your figure, perfect in every way.'

  'Then worship, damn you!'

  Abruptly she found herself hurled onto the bed, Miles half across her. At the same moment a mirror behind them shattered into fragments. 'What on earth?'

  'Don't sit up!'

  'I wasn't going to!'

  With one swift movement he'd doused the lamp and keeping low was peering out of the window, now with a neat hole in it. 'Can't see anyone. There's Reuben.' He opened the casement. 'Reuben — up here! It came from the lane, I think. See if you can grab Teddy. Have a care now. Are you all right darling?'

  'Yes, I think so,' said Connie, rubbing her bruised head. 'What are you going to do?'

  He was hurriedly dressing, sitting and kneeling on the floor. 'Knock someone's bloody block off, if I can catch them!'

  'Was it the murderer?'

  'I don't think that's likely. Listen, when I've gone, lock and bolt the doors. Don't let anyone in unless you know them.'

  'You will be . . .' began Connie anxiously, then bit her lip. She'd promised herself she'd never say that.

  Back downstairs he loaded his police-issue revolver. 'If you're worried,' he said, 'telephone to the Trenchards. And keep away from the windows.'

  Still in her dressing gown, Connie did as she'd been told, checking and bolting all the doors. It was too horrible! They must have been watching in the darkness, waiting for them to show themselves. Well, they'd certainly got an eyeful! She supposed she should be frightened but it had happened so fast she could scarcely take it in. She was minded, however, to telephone immediately. Someone else ought to know. She peered at the square of cardboard that held the local numbers. But even as she rescued the dangling earpiece, strong arms encircled her from behind.

  'Here's a nice one, Charlie,' said a voice at her ear. 'Ain't hardly got no clothes on.'

  They paused in the lane about halfway to the village. The moon, somewhat past its third quarter, cast a good light but any of its shadows could conceal their man. Unless he moved or spoke, he was safe.

  'Was he aiming to kill, do you think?' said Rattigan, panting slightly.

  Miles shook his head. 'On consideration, probably not. He could easily have done so, had he wanted to.'

  'Trying to frighten you, then?' suggested Reuben.

  'Or get you out of the house,' said Rattigan.

  They all gazed at each other.

  'Back, I think,' said Miles.

  But even as they retraced their steps, two armed men stepped out of the darkness. 'Drop them shooters, gents,' said one of them. 'No sudden moves now.'

  The public bar of the Bell was hot and crowded, with most of its occupants herded to one end of it. In addition to a handful of farmers there were the Bullocks, the Shutlers, the Kitchers, Ronald Adams, the elderly Harrises, and Ian Titmus. The children, Miles was relieved to see, were absent. Facing them were Frampton the jewel thief and Travis, the latter coughing as if he might evert his lungs. A gunman, brandishing an automatic pistol, stood by the front door, and another had hoisted himself onto the bar counter where he sat holding Daisy by the throat, bending her backwards towards him. Over his other arm he cradled a sawn-off shotgun. One of their captors joined them, the other having disappeared, presumably on some errand or other.

  Miles glanced at Ian, who stood half crouching as if he might momently spring. He willed him not to move. For his own part he avoided Daisy's eye. It was possible their captors hadn't made the connection between them and it was better they didn't. They now numbered five, if you counted the currently incapacitated Travis, at least three of them armed. They could probably be dealt with, in extremis, but someone would get hurt, perhaps fatally. Rattigan, he knew, would come to the same conclusion. The others he couldn't be sure about, especially the excitable Adams.

  They waited in silence for Travis's paroxysm to end. Consumption, without a doubt, and pretty advanced by the look of it, his skin tight over the bones of his skull and his eyes unnaturally bright. Probably that's why they'd released him. It would go through an Indian prison like fire through a flour mill. Finally he was able to speak, which he did in a noticeable Hindi accent. Twenty-five years of incarceration had left their mark.

  'A piece of my property is in this village,' he told them, 'a tiara — diamonds, rubies and opals. I want it back. Where is it?'

  For some moments no-one spoke.

  One secret at least that isn't common knowledge, thought Miles. You can see by the look on their faces.

  'Is that what this nonsense is about?' frowned Martin. 'What makes you think we know anything about it? I certainly don't.'

  'Nor I,' said Gabriel. 'Wouldn't suit me anyway.'

  Travis didn't smile. 'You might not have it,' he said, 'but someone you know probably has.' he turned to Martin. 'You — Parochial Church Council. Where's your vicar? He's not at home.'

  'I've no idea,' said Martin. I'm not party to his movements.'

  Travis looked disbelieving. 'What about you, Mr Policeman?'

  Miles' mind raced. With luck, Connie would have got restless and telephoned to the Trenchards. The Colonel could be decisive enough when he wanted to be. And where was Buckett? He then remembered he'd sent him to Sir Rupert. What was happening there, he wondered, or had it happened already? He decided to play for time. 'I'm told such a thing exists,' he admitted. 'I've no idea of its present whe
reabouts.'

  'Who have you tried?'

  'I haven't tried anyone. I'm not particularly interested in it.'

  Travis looked incredulous. 'Not interested! Have you any idea what it's worth?'

  Miles shrugged. 'Half a million or more apparently.' There was a stirring in the room as he said it.

  Travis, glared around him. 'Yes, that much! And Mr Policeman's not interested! Why are you here, then? You're investigating something. What is it?'

  'A murder. A gentleman from the village was bludgeoned to death.'

  'In my garage', said Shutler. 'We've enough to worry about without flippin' tiaras!'

  'What use is a tiara in Bettishaw?' said a middle-aged farmer contemptuously. 'If somebody had one they'd probably sell it.'

  'You could buy the whole village for that!' said someone else.

  Frampton now spoke. He sounded, Miles was surprised to note, almost genteel, and not without intelligence. 'They might be breaking it up,' he told them. 'About fifteen years ago some stones were sold, almost certainly from the tiara. The seller is described as a tall woman, well-spoken and with a good figure. She would now be fifty or so. Who in the village answers to that description?'

  No-one answered, but there was a general stiffening that must surely have been noticed by their interrogators. Miles didn't need to look at Rattigan; he knew what he was thinking — another piece of the jigsaw, dropping into place.

  'Someone knows,' growled Travis. 'Perhaps you all do. Who is it? You, Postmaster! You must know.'

  'Mr Harris was perceptibly trembling, but he shook his head. 'There's no-one of that description in the village to my knowledge,' he said. He looked around him, as if for corroboration of this fact.

  'Never heard of no woman like that,' agreed the farmer. 'You sure you got the right place, mister?'

  Travis glowered at them, narrow-eyed. He began coughing again but managed to contain it. 'You people are beginning to annoy me! I want some answers and I want them now!' He glanced at Frampton, who looked, Miles thought, a trifle uncomfortable. 'At this moment,' he said, 'we are holding, in addition to this young lady, three more. Also a number of children. My men are not boy scouts, and I cannot indefinitely guarantee their safety.' He looked straight at Miles. 'One of those ladies, I am told, is remarkably attractive. . . at the moment.'

  Miles noticed that without seeming to have moved, his sergeant was now some feet away, marking the gunman nearest the door, Ian and Bullock were a long but unimpeded leap from the man on the bar counter and Gabriel and Archie had planted themselves firmly in front of the pregnant Alma. The perspiring Ronald, his lips soundlessly moving, seemed barely in control of himself, perhaps reliving some wartime horror.

  Chapter Eleven

  Stealthily, and with infinite patience, Bert Clement moved through the edge of the forest, listening for the faint grunting and snuffling that would betray the presence of his quarry. In his hands he carried a weighted net and, tucked in his overall a hessian sack. Pigs are great absconders, but no-one knew the porcine mind better than Bert. He could almost smell the best rooting places and the hard-to-get-at patches of acorns left over from the autumn. It was only a matter of time before the miscreant was apprehended. Passing behind Hilltop farmhouse, however, he looked automatically towards its uncurtained back windows, hoping for a glimpse of the angel who had stolen his heart. What he saw there made him forget all about pigs.

  Shortly afterwards there began in the darkness a dreadful, high-pitched whimpering, as of some creature in pain. It took a while, but eventually a figure appeared at the back door, a pistol dully glinting in one hand. He wasn't there long. The first blow snapped his wrist like a twig, sending the weapon spinning into the undergrowth, the second ensured that he would never need it again.

  Ten minutes, and Connie was dragging from a pigsty a very relieved Josie and Marjory.

  'Where's the fellow that was guarding us?' said Josie, brushing straw off herself.

  'Bert took him away.'

  'Oh dear, I hope he hasn't hurt him. What about your one?'

  'Not likely to give any trouble,' said Connie diplomatically.

  A terrified shriek and some undignified pleading told them the other man was very much alive. He was cowering in Tiny's pen with Bert's massive boar sniffing inquisitively at him.

  'Daddy, no!' cried Marjory. 'You can't do that.'

  'Why not?' frowned Bert.

  'Let him go sweetheart,' said Josie. 'You'll get us into trouble. You don't want that, do you?'

  'I think you should, Bert,' said Connie firmly.

  Sighing, Bert lifted the man bodily from the pen and set him down.

  'And if I were you, I'd start running,' Connie told him. 'May I borrow your truck, Josie? I'm worried about Miles.'

  'We'll come too,' said Marjory.

  The truck was soon bumping and rolling down the lane, its swaying occupants now armed with a rifle, a shotgun and the second man's pistol.'

  'What do you think is going on?' said Josie.

  'I can only suppose we were hostages,' said Connie. 'Or maybe they just wanted us out of the way. Hello, here's our chap.'

  'Gosh! He has got a long way,' said Marjory, impressed.

  'Too far, I'd say,' opined Josie and swerving slightly sent him flying into the ditch.

  'It's usually quite wet there,' said Marjory with satisfaction.

  They all laughed.

  We're a bit hysterical, and no wonder, thought Connie, eyeing, with slight misgiving, Marjory's rifle. 'Can you use that thing?' she asked.

  'Oh yes, I'm quite good.'

  'For the bears, would it be?'

  'You know about the bears?'

  'Daisy told me.'

  'What nonsense you talk,' chided Josie. 'Bears indeed!'

  'You're too old to see them, Mum, but they're there.'

  They trickled cautiously down to the crossroads and stopped. A few lights showed in the High Street, including from the Bell, but all seemed quiet enough.

  'I want someone to shoot,' declared Marjory, disappointed. Suddenly she pointed. 'What on earth is going on over there?'

  'That's interesting,' said Connie. 'Should we offer to help, do you think?'

  'Darned if it's not him again!' grumbled Josie, glancing in her wing mirror. She abruptly opened the door, causing their erstwhile guard to crash into it. Three weapons were immediately trained on him. 'I'm fed up with you,' said Josie. 'Drop your trousers.'

  'And your drawers,' sniggered Marjory.

  The man stared at them wide-eyed.

  'Do it, city boy,' snarled Josie. 'Or we'll blow your head off.'

  'Still can't raise 'em, boss,' said one of the men. He had gone behind the bar to use the telephone.

  'All right, you'd best take the car up there,' said Travis. He turned to his prisoners. 'And this young lady would like you not to try anything in the meantime.'

  As if to reinforce the message, the hoodlum on the bar counter jerked Daisy even further backwards so that she involuntarily cried out.

  Miles decided to precipitate matters before Ian or Ronald did it for him. But just as he was about to act, he heard a slight sound outside. Travis heard it too, glancing suspiciously towards the window. The bottom half of it was of decorative etched glass but the top was clear, and passing slowly by, apparently floating in mid-air, was a strange, reflective object. Lazily turning, it flashed fire as it caught the light.

  'Get your tiaras here,' cried a deep female voice. 'Lovely tiaras, one size fits all. Buy one for your missus, sir, and another for your lady-friend. Genuine gemstones, guaranteed no paste. Get 'em while they last.'

  With an alacrity surprising in a sick man and with Frampton close at his heels, Travis made for the door. Behind them, mayhem ensued. Marie, diving for a lamp, plunged the room into semi darkness, but not before Ian had snatched the seated hoodlum's shotgun and tossed it to Miles. Disarmed, he was lost in a ruck of angry men, from which emerged a slightly battered Martin Bulloch bearing t
o safety his future daughter-in-law. Another gunman screamed as Fanny Kitcher snatched him up and sent him skidding along the bar counter, scattering tankards and bowls of nuts, to be grabbed and cathartically beaten by Ronald Adams. Rattigan, meanwhile, had dispatched the man at the door with a casual, bone-crunching uppercut before following Miles outside.

  The tiara proved to be dangling from a broom handle set up on the Reverend Shepherd's Model T, the car slowly gaining speed as it freewheeled away downhill. It was impossible to tell in the darkness who was steering, but someone was shining a torch upwards, ensuring that the bait remained illuminated. Beside himself with fury, Travis was yelling and stumbling after it while trying to extract a gun from his pocket.

  'Travis! Stop or I fire,' demanded Miles, but was briefly distracted by a loud crash behind him. Gabriel, who'd immediately made for the smithy, had just hurled a man from an upstairs window, neglecting to open it first.

  In those few seconds, Travis had begun wildly firing at the disappearing car, but was stopped by Marjory, who achieved her ambition by downing him with a well-aimed shot to the thigh. Connie, meanwhile, had detained Frampton, while Josie was guarding their own man, who had tripped over his trousers in an attempt to escape.

  'You should invest in braces, dear,' she told him in a motherly fashion.

  Headlights were now coming towards them at speed, resolving into Sir Rupert's Bentley and a truck-load of farm workers, brandishing pitchforks and ancient firearms.

  'The vicar's car has gone over,' reported Jackson. 'The doctor has stopped to help.'

  Climbing stiffly from the Bentley, Colonel Trenchard observed the carnage with disapprobation. 'All over damn it!' he grumbled. 'Reminds me of that time in Poona . . .'

  The Ford had swerved suddenly and capsized, throwing Miss Pruitt clear but trapping the Reverend Shepherd under it. He was conscious and seemed in good heart. Dr Felix was in attendance but could do little until they got the car off him.

  'Good evening, Inspector,' said the vicar, 'ready with the handcuffs?'