The Valentine Murder

by Evelyn James

  Constable Stanley did not look convinced. Clara did not really want to be stood here all night trying to wheedle information from him. It was cold, her breath was fogging before her eyes and there was a chill creeping into her bones that would take ages before the fire at home to thaw out.

  “It is your duty to report suspicious activity,” Clara reminded him.

  “I don’t think the Inspector would understand,” Stanley looked miserable. “I think he would use some sharp words with me. I’ve been on this beat nearly a year now. He sent me here because he said I was too dim-witted for proper policework in Brighton and I ought to get by just fine in a backwards place like Hangleton.”

  The constable looked utterly morose as he spoke. Clara sighed. Clearly, at some point, the unfortunate constable had clashed with the inspector, probably over something quite minor. Inspector Park-Coombs was a fair man, but he did not tolerate fools or those he deemed incompetent. Clara was still surprised that he had been so critical of the young constable. The inspector must have been having a bad day.

  “Why don’t you just tell me about all this, and I can decide if it is something the Inspector should know about?” Clara suggested.

  The unhappy Constable Stanley sniffed and wiped at his nose with the back of a hand.

  “You won’t say I am dim-witted?” he asked cautiously.

  “You have my word,” Clara swore.

  Constable Stanley gave a long sigh.

  “It was a strange thing, that’s all. Folk around here understand what I mean, they know the old ways. Mr Beech, especially. Had he still been alive, I would have asked him about it,” he said.

  “I may not be Mr Beech, but I am a good listener,” Clara reassured him.

  “The Inspector has no time for superstitions,” Stanley muttered. “He doesn’t understand them. But folk around here, they exist on superstition.”

  Clara felt they were getting nowhere.

  “Why don’t you just tell me what happened,” Clara suggested. “Rather than all this beating about the bush.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t feel so upset about it now. It just spooked me, before.”

  “Constable Stanley,” Tommy interrupted. “whatever you saw, it could have a bearing on bringing a killer to justice. Let me assure you that we are very open-minded and I, for one, have a full appreciation for the old ways of the countryside.”

  He had carefully excluded Clara from that assessment. She said nothing. She just wanted the constable to tell them what had upset him so.

  “Well, I don’t suppose I shall be telling the Inspector, not the way he spoke to me the last time I saw things,” Stanley looked uneasy. Clara was starting to have reservations about the conversation. “I’ll tell you, then, and I shall feel I did my duty.”

  Stanley took a deep breath.

  “I patrol all along the country lanes around the farms. It is a long way in the dark, but I don’t mind it. I grew up in the country and I can see as well in the dark as a rabbit,” Stanley had a touch of pride at this statement, even though it was obviously inaccurate. “About an hour ago, no, make that more like two, I was walking down the lane that runs along the bottom of Spinner’s Farm. I don’t go close to the farmhouse, but I always look up the hill and just glance at the house. I usually see lights on at around this time of night.

  “Sure enough when I looked up at the farmhouse the lights were on. I confess I had my eyes on the house a little longer than I usually would, because I was thinking about that other night and standing in Mr Spinner’s kitchen, trying to calm him down as I took his statement.

  “When I looked back, my eyes swept across the fields and that’s when I saw it, right before me. A hound as big as a small horse, with eyes that blazed at me. It was black as the night, but it split from the shadows of the bushes nearest me and turned its wicked eyes upon me!”

  “You saw a dog?” Clara asked.

  “Not a dog, not a living dog!” Constable Stanley insisted. He was being swept up by the story now. “It was a demon, a barghest. It snarled at me and that noise made my blood run cold. I thought it was going to lunge at me and then I would have been doomed, but it turned around and it ran across the fields. I watched it leap over the far hedge in a single bound and then it was in the field where poor Mr Beech was slain.

  “It stopped right at the spot where his body was found. It was like it was marking out the place, then it sprang again, right over the hedge, and away. I was so startled that I nearly ran all the way into the village, but I remembered my duty and I finished my patrol of the lanes before coming into Hangleton.”

  Clara now understood why the inspector had considered Stanley dim-witted.

  “You witnessed a phantom hound?” She said, just to be sure she had heard him correctly.

  “I did,” Constable Stanley nodded. “They talk of such things around here. My grandmother used to tell stories. Some say they are a forewarning of doom. Others say they appear when a terrible thing has occurred, and magic was involved. Well, it has to be connected to the death of Mr Beech, doesn’t it? He died so horribly, and they say it was because he was a wiseman and had upset some witches from London.”

  Clara had to take a deep breath before she could respond to that, fearful her immediate response would sound sarcastic or at best disbelieving.

  “Wait a moment, what is this about witches from London?”

  “It is what some of the locals are saying,” Stanley told her with keen eyes. “Mr Beech had a reputation as a wiseman, someone who worked good magic. They say that maybe some witches in London heard about him and thought he could cause them trouble, break their spells.”

  “That is…” Clara began.

  “Interesting,” Tommy swiftly interrupted. “I can’t see why witches in London would be worried about Mr Beech, though.”

  Clara cast him a scowl.

  Constable Stanley was in full swing.

  “There is another theory, I heard it from the butcher. He said it weren’t that they were scared of Mr Beech, rather it was because he was a powerful wiseman that they chose to make him their sacrifice. Human sacrifices are used by witches to increase their magic. The butcher says that’s why they took his heart.”

  “Mr Beech’s heart was not removed,” Clara told him firmly.

  “Was it not?” Constable Stanley frowned. “There was a lot of blood.”

  “And yet his heart remained securely in his ribcage,” Clara said. “I think the butcher may have gotten a little carried away.”

  “Well, he says it isn’t the first time such a thing has been tried. He read about it somewhere. During the war, some witches who were for the Kaiser came together and sacrificed an old man to create a spell that would bring Germany victory.”

  “That obviously failed,” Clara pointed out.

  Stanley shrugged.

  “It’s just what they say.”

  He looked uncertain again.

  “I ought to go back to my patrol,” he rubbed his cold hands together. “You won’t mention this to the inspector, will you?”

  “I shan’t say a word,” Clara vowed.

  Constable Stanley walked away and once he was safely out of earshot Tommy began to chuckle.

  “Demon dogs!” He said.

  “This place is a little insane,” Clara groaned, turning for the car.

  “Poor Constable Stanley,” Tommy said.

  “Poor Inspector Park-Coombs for having him on the force!” Clara corrected.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The following day, Clara was preparing to seek out Mr Gage and see if he could offer any insight into his mysterious friend and who might want to kill him. She had managed to conjure up some toast on the kitchen range without setting fire to anything important and was in the process of smearing it thickly with marmalade, when the telephone made its plaintive demands for her to respond to it at once.

  She left her breakfast with a sigh of disappointment and went to answer it.

 
; “Hello?”

  “Miss Fitzgerald, this is Mr Spinner. Something has happened. Come at once.”

  “What precisely…”

  The line had gone dead. Mr Spinner had hung up. Clara wondered how anyone could imagine that being so rude was productive, though it did explain Spinner’s woeful business dealings. She replaced the receiver of her own telephone and called out to Tommy, who was still in the process of rising from bed.

  “Something has happened at Spinner’s farm. Mr Spinner wants us there at once.”

  Tommy appeared at the head of the stairs.

  “What sort of something?” He asked.

  “Mr Spinner declined to elaborate,” Clara said, disgruntled at the way the telephone had been slammed down on her. “I can see why people prefer not to work for him.”

  “What was that?” Tommy asked.

  “Nothing, just we better go soon. At least we have the use of O’Harris’ car.”

  Clara returned to the kitchen to consume her toast. There she discovered Bramble stood upon the table, his mouth covered in crumbs and her toast wholly absent. He gave her a guilty look and Clara returned the gaze with silent admonishment. With an apologetic wag of his tail, Bramble jumped down off the kitchen table and slipped past Clara’s legs.

  “I wasn’t that hungry, anyway,” Clara lied to herself.

  An hour later, Jones was driving them up the steep drive towards the Spinner’s farmhouse. The countryside was quiet beneath a thick bank of grey clouds threatening yet more rain. Despite the gloom, an over-optimistic lone daffodil had poked its head up on the verge of the drive and bobbed its yellow trumpet with an air of triumph.

  Nothing seemed obviously amiss as they approached the property, but appearances could be deceptive. Mr Spinner must have been watching for them, for he was on his doorstep as Jones pulled up in the farmyard. His expression was even more sour than the day before as Clara and Tommy emerged from the car.

  “Good morning, Mr Spinner,” Clara greeted him.

  Alastair took a long look at their car and glowered.

  “Detective business must be good if you can afford a car and a driver.”

  Clara was not sure what he was trying to imply – that she overcharged for her investigative services?

  “It belongs to a friend, actually,” Tommy told Spinner. “He has allowed us to borrow it as it is such a long trip out here.”

  Mr Spinner did not appear mollified by this explanation.

  “You have to come this way,” he informed them, and then turned and headed back around the corner of his house, the same way he had just come.

  Tommy rolled his eyes at his sister. She had no words for their reception, so merely shrugged and followed the farmer.

  Mr Spinner led them to the back of his farmhouse, where they had been the day before. The workbench with its half-finished project was still stood there, but it was now joined by an old beet chopping machine that appeared to have lost its handle. Presumably, these were items Spinner was meant to be fixing himself and which he was doing a fine job of neglecting.

  The farmer walked past the broken beet chopper and stopped just inside a brick storehouse with a metal roof. The front side of the building was open and revealed that inside was stacked an array of broken metal and wooden items; seemingly other farming implements that had succumbed to old age or misuse and had been consigned to this place. That was not what had drawn Mr Spinner’s attention. He was looking at something on the floor.

  As Clara drew closer, Tommy just a pace behind, her stomach sank as she saw the object on the ground was a black dog.

  “Found it this morning, just outside my back door. I dragged it in here so as not to upset Kate. She don’t know about it,” Spinner growled.

  The animal was dead, though there were no obvious signs of what had killed it. Perhaps it had died of natural causes or been involved in an accident. What was clearly worrying Spinner was how it had ended up in his yard.

  “Do you know this dog?” Clara asked him.

  “You want me to give you its name? Hah!” Spinner snapped.

  “I was merely wondering if you knew where it might have come from, who it belonged to, as that would give us a means of discovering how it ended up here,” Clara was impressed at how calm and polite she was able to remain as she explained this.

  Mr Spinner calmed too. He nudged the dog with his foot.

  “It looks like one of Squire Piers’ animals,” he said. “He runs a shoot on his estate and has several dogs. This could be one of his Labradors.”

  “Poor creature,” Tommy mumbled.

  Mr Spinner took this as an insult.

  “Poor creature? Poor me! I wake up and find its corpse lying just outside my door! The shock rattled me and if my wife had been the first to find it, I dread to think,” he actually shuddered at this statement, which made Clara wonder about his relationship with his wife. Mrs Spinner had not seemed the fiery type, but there was a hint there, in Spinner’s reaction, that he would not like to see her upset.

  “You see what someone is trying to say?” Spinner pressed them.

  Clara had an idea where he was leading, but rather hoped to distract him.

  “The animal might have wandered into your yard and died,” she observed.

  “No! Someone put it there, I tell you, and for the reason of scaring me,” Spinner turned his outraged glare at the deceased dog. “I have heard the talk in the village, about a demon dog roaming the lanes and how that is connected with Bill’s death. They say if you see the black dog it is an omen of your impending death.”

  Spinner had dropped his voice at this statement. Clara had hoped he would not be as superstitious as his neighbours.

  “You believe that?” She asked, a suitable note of disbelief in her tone.

  “Of course not!” Spinner growled at her. “But that is what someone wants me to believe. They want me to think my own death imminent.”

  “Why would anyone want that?” Tommy asked.

  Spinner turned an incredulous gaze upon him.

  “Are you stupid? People are saying I killed Bill! And now I am being warned, someone is out for revenge.”

  Tommy scowled at the insult but bit his tongue. Clara wondered how much longer they could both tolerate the disagreeable Mr Spinner for the sake of their case.

  “Mr Spinner, you are suggesting that someone intends to murder you,” she said, rather relishing the word murder. She could see why someone could come to hate Spinner.

  “That is exactly what I am saying!” Spinner threw up his hands in exasperation. “Do I have to explain everything to you? You are supposed to be finding out who really killed Bill and keeping me safe!”

  “My point is, Mr Spinner,” Clara said with more patience than she would have normally have credited herself with, “issuing such advance warning of an intention to harm you is not the usual way murderers operate. I would, therefore, imagine this to be designed to shake you up, but not actually to be a statement of intention. It could also be someone playing a very silly prank.”

  “Or the dog happened to die in your yard,” Tommy added. “Constable Stanley saw a black dog running through your fields last night. Odds are this is the same creature.”

  “You are not taking this seriously enough!” Spinner snapped. “This is a clear accusation against me! I have done nothing wrong, but the mishandling of this by the police means everyone now thinks I am a killer! I am ruined if you don’t prove my innocence!”

  Mr Spinner’s anger, which was his usual method for dealing with situations that worried him, now slipped into something troubling close to fear. He took a shaky breath, his fire burnt out and the dead dog at his feet starting to seem more and more like a sign of things to come.

  “We are going to find who killed Mr Beech,” Clara reassured him. That was different to saying they were going to prove Spinner innocent, for right at this moment Clara was not certain he was innocent. There were too many circumstances that seemed suspicious
to have her completely believe he had had nothing to do with the crime.

  “We ought to speak to the squire, perhaps he will know how the dog ended up here,” Tommy said.

  “Everything is collapsing around me,” Spinner groaned. “What have I done to deserve this? I never hurt Bill!”

  Clara said nothing, she did not have the energy nor the inclination to console him.

  “Can you direct us to the squire’s house?” She asked Mr Spinner.

  He seemed in a daze, it took him a moment to respond and inform her that it was five miles west of his own house.

  “You’ll know the place. There is a sign at the bottom of the drive that reads Piers Hall. He named it after himself.”

  With that rebuke at the arrogance of Squire Piers, Mr Spinner abandoned them and headed back into his house, slamming the door behind him to make sure they understood they were not to follow.

  Clara and Tommy returned to Jones and gave him directions to Piers Hall. It did not take long to find it, and as they entered through a pair of open gates, Tommy pointed out a sign that indicated the squire undertook all manner of gundog training, sold part and full trained dogs, as well as puppies, had several notable field champions at stud and offered shoots in the appropriate season. This was a man who knew his dogs, it seemed.

  As they rolled up the drive, the sound of barking greeted them, though they could not immediately spy the kennels that must be on the property. The hall itself was a massive, sprawling building, that appeared to have grown over time, rather than been extended by people. One of the wings was noticeably missing its roof and birds circled up from an exposed upper chamber.

  “Looks like someone has had a nasty fire somewhat recently,” Tommy said.

  There were signs of blackening around the empty windows and a lot of burned wood was sitting on the gravel path before the house in a heap.

  Jones deposited them outside, and they strode up three stone steps to knock on an impressively large oak door. Their knocks resounded deeply, suggesting a large hall or room just behind it. The barking was much louder here, and Clara wondered how a person could think with that noise going on.