“No—but we ought to settle what’s got to be done to-morrow,” replied Charles. “I may be no farmer—I never pretended to be worth much in that direction, but I’m used to business. I can help you there if you’ll let me.”
Marion looked surprised. It was unlike Charles to volunteer help.
“I know you’ve thought I was an outsize in fools,” went on Charles. “I’m no judge of cattle and I frankly loathe sweating and breaking my back hoeing turnips and lifting potatoes—but I’ve run a fair-sized business in Malaya without making a mess of it. It wasn’t my fault the Japs messed it up for me,” he added rather plaintively.
“I know it wasn’t,” said Marion, her voice more sympathetic. She turned towards the house. “All right. I’ll come in. I expect it’s quite true that you know more about legal business than I do. I know all the farm business—but, as you say, that’s not going to help me to pay wages when I’ve got no money to pay them with. What happens? I don’t know anything about wills and probate and all that.”
“Let’s go in and get a bite before we start talking,” said Charles. “You never will admit you’re tired, but you’re tired now. I don’t wonder. That Superintendent was enough to tire anybody. Typical policeman, official all through, and full of his own self-importance.”
“I couldn’t stand him,” admitted Marion, as they walked towards the house. “I suppose he was competent—but he put people’s backs up. John Staple’s an even-tempered person, but even he was irritated.”
When she reached the kitchen she said:
“Let’s just slap everything on the table and pig it in peace. There’s apple-pie and cheese—oh, and some cold bacon if you want it—”
“—and beer and pickled onions and a whacking big rice pudding,” said Charles, looking in the larder. “OK by me. D’you want some tea? The fire’s out but I’ll pump up the primus. Here, you sit down. I’ll get things ready.”
Marion sat down. Tea? It was just what she did want. For once in her life she sat still, admitting a great weariness, while Charles “slapped everything on the table” and encouraged the primus stove. He made the tea, and Marion found herself laughing weakly as he lifted the lid of the teapot and stirred his potent brew, hitching up his right eyebrow in characteristic fashion.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, as he heard her laugh.
“Nothing. It’s just that it’s funny to see you doing things,” she answered, and he replied:
“I’m not nearly such an ass as you think. I’m quite a useful chap on safari—camping, y’know. The trouble is you’ve always told me not to interfere—and I was so fed up with everything I just took the line of least resistance. Here you are. Hot and strong. Do you good.”
The tea did do her good, and she watched Charles tucking into a hearty meal of cold bacon and onions, regarding him with a fresh eye. It was true, she had thought him an ass—feckless and lazy. At last she said: “Well, what ought I to do about money and all that?”
Charles took a good draught of beer and then replied with surprising precision: “You see the old man’s lawyer, find out who is named as executor or executors, and an interim account is opened at the bank by the executors on which they can draw until probate is obtained and the property distributed. He’d got a balance in his current account, I expect?”
“Oh lord, yes. He’d got a big balance. I know what he got from the sale of stock and the milk cheques. He’s been doing very nicely these last three years.”
“That’s all right, then. It’ll be plain sailing if you go the right way about it. Who is his lawyer by the way?”
“Flemming and Barton.”
“Have they got his will?”
“I suppose so. He never mentioned it to me, but he was always quite careful and businesslike about documents—policies and contracts and tenancies and all that.”
“Right. Any idea who the executors are?”
“I believe Mr. Flemming’s one—and I have an idea I’m the other one. I’m not certain, but I have a feeling he put me down—just from something he once said.”
Charles sat back and lighted a cigarette. He had a new packet of Gold Flake in his pocket, and he offered Marion the packet. “Any idea how his property goes?” he inquired.
Marion shook her head. “No. He never told me. The land goes to Richard, of course.”
“Yes. Eldest son. The point is—where is Richard?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. We haven’t heard a word about him for years—but I’ve never believed he’s dead. We should have heard if he’d died. Richard was a sensible creature. He’d have left some note of his origins so that news could be sent.” She moved restlessly. “At the moment I’m more interested in where Malcolm is. I wish he’d come in.”
Charles regarded her gravely. “Nervous, Moll?”
The use of her old nickname surprised her. “Oh, I don’t know. I got fed up with the way that Superintendent kept on asking about Malcolm. He is—well, excitable, you know.”
“Yes. I’ve often marvelled that the old man ever sired anything quite so imaginative as that boy. I suppose he gets his poetic qualities from his mother’s line. She always seemed a bit Brontë-ish to me. Came from the Haworth district too, didn’t she? Moll, is it true that Malcolm doesn’t know how to load a gun?”
She flushed. “I told the Superintendent that, and I shall stick to it. I’ve never seen him touch a gun. As a small kid he howled at the sight of one. The sound of a shot always frightened him.”
“Quite—but who left your loaded gun in the office the other day?”
“I don’t know. I simply don’t know, Charles. I can’t bear to think about it. It only missed Father by a fluke—his hair was singed.”
“Pity it missed him at all,” said Charles gloomily. “That’d have been brought in as accident. Not nearly so bad as this. Layng’ll see to it someone’s hanged for this. The trouble is he mayn’t hang the right man. He looked damned stupid to me.”
“Oh, heavens, isn’t it all utterly loathsome?” Marion cried her words aloud. “Why couldn’t they have waited…whoever did it? He was an old man… It’s not fair to us that we should be plagued and pestered and bullied… I hate it all!”
Charles stared in surprise. This was unlike the Marion he was used to. “Bear up, old girl. Don’t get jittered. The old man had to go the way of all flesh, and he died without knowing it. No lying in bed and dying by inches. Not a bad way to go. I hope I have as much luck when my number’s called. As for you—if I have any say in the matter you’ll be given a free hand to farm this place, and make your silage and plant your temporary leys and buy your Hereford bull—and buy a bulldozer for clearing the fells if you damn’ well want it.”
Marion laughed weakly. “Oh, Charles, I never knew you’d even heard of temporary leys… Look, there’s Malcolm and Elizabeth. Thank goodness!”
Charles cocked an eyebrow. “Is that a case?” he inquired. “Looks OK to me. She might make a man of that kid.”
* * *
The acting Chief Constable of the County, Major Havers, had been sent a report of the tragedy at Garthmere. All important cases were reported to him immediately, and the shooting of old Mr. Garth was a matter of outstanding importance. Major Havers originally assumed that the shooting was an accident—one of those accidents which do occur at intervals in the countryside where shotguns are habitually carried. When, during the course of the evening, he learnt that Mr. Garth’s death could not be classed as an accident the deputy official felt perturbed. Murder… Hm. That was quite a different matter—and often a very lengthy and difficult matter: it meant a prolonged investigation which involved the employment of a considerable number of men—and Major Havers was fully aware that he was already short-staffed and that his men had more and more to do. Rural inspection, use of petrol, surveillance of aliens, registration of alien children arr
iving at the age of sixteen, black-out offences, licences for pig-killing, black-market offences—even bee-keepers added their quota to police work of to-day, for hives had to be officially inspected before the bee-keepers could get a certificate empowering them to get sugar for winter feed. All this entailed a lot of office work—particularly for Layng, who was very efficient in dealing with the multiplicity of government regulations and preparing Court cases. Major Havers regarded a prolonged murder investigation as a very difficult problem in the circumstances.
Shortly after Layng had returned to his headquarters, Major Havers came in to hear his report.
“A straightforward case, Layng?” he inquired hopefully.
Layng shook his head. “Hardly that, sir. Too many possibilities. It will take a lot of eliminating.”
He gave the Major a terse, workmanlike account of his evening’s investigation, and Havers listened with some consternation.
“It’s going to be difficult,” he said. “All these farmers out with guns, and some of the beaters, too. Probably one of these cases where there isn’t anything but circumstantial evidence—and that’s going to be a bit dangerous here, simply because there were so many guns out. I’ve heard of old Garth, and he had a name for being a proper Tartar. It’s possible that any number of people had a grudge against him: not that any of them will admit it, or give one another away. They’re difficult fellows to interrogate, these farmers, especially when you haven’t been brought up amongst them. Close as a clam, and suspicious too—altogether very chary of speech.”
“Yes, sir, and slow! My country! I’ve had my work cut out to keep my patience with some of them.”
“Ah, you’ve been doing mainly office work and duties in the town lately, Layng—gets you out of touch with these old farmers. I hear them talk when I go to the cattle market occasionally—they’ve got their own dialect when they’re talking between themselves. I seldom get any of them to understand what I’m saying right away—I have to repeat everything at about half my normal speed. It’ll take the deuce of a time to interrogate every one you’ve got on this list.” He paused in his rapid speech and considered afresh. “You’ve got the one clue—that American coin—but I’m not sure it’s so very valuable. With the number of Yanks we’ve got over here there’s bound to be a lot of American coins about. The old man may have thrown it away himself, realising it was no good to him.”
Layng felt depressed. All this was true, but it wasn’t very heartening. “I haven’t had very long to get at the facts, sir,” he said, and Havers agreed immediately.
“Of course you haven’t—and you’ve done very well in the time, Layng, very well indeed. You’ve given me an admirable report, clear and concise. Nobody could have done better. The difficulty is this—the amount of time this case will take up. We have got a lot of work on hand—there’s all this Milk Retailing to be watched. The Ministry want the distribution to be supervised more closely, and it’s a troublesome business.”
“Yes, sir—but it’s more important to arrest a murderer than to summons a milk retailer for selling an extra quart here and there.”
“Quite so, Layng, quite so. Now I’ll put it like this. If this Garthmere case promised to be straightforward, I should say go ahead with it. I’ve every trust in you, you’re a competent and conscientious officer. The trouble is that I can’t spare you. The Commissioner’s office—the Yard, Layng—exists to assist the provincial police in criminal cases, especially when the local police are short-handed. Now in a case of this kind, the C.I.D. prefers to be called in at once—or not at all. I can quite see that it’s exasperating for them to have a case handed over to them when every clue is stone cold and every witness jaded with repetition.”
“Yes, sir,” said Layng glumly. The effect of Major Havers’s rapid utterance in contrast to the slowness to which he had been subjected earlier in the evening had made the Superintendent nearly giddy. Layng saw himself being relegated to supervision of Milk Retailing, and Court Cases in which offending farmer-retailers pleaded not guilty to serving Mrs. Gubbins with a pint in place of a half-pint. He cursed to himself over the complexities of this case—all those farmers out with guns—he couldn’t pretend that it was going to be easy.
Major Havers went on: “I gather from your excellent sketch that this shed, or hull, as they call it, is on a by-road which is used almost exclusively by the Garth home farm people in the usual way. Did you get any report of any one seen on that road during the afternoon?”
“No, sir. The road isn’t overlooked from the house. I couldn’t get any reports in that line. Of course, the fact that Staple saw this man Ashthwaite down by the river indicates that Ashthwaite might have just come down the old lane which leads from the hull to the river.”
“Just so. By the way, what does the word ‘hull’ mean, Layng? What’s its derivation?”
“God knows,” replied Layng gloomily. He was feeling so irritated that the exclamation escaped him against his better judgment. Derivations indeed! He made an effort and added hastily: “The farmers talk about a pig hull, or a calf hull, sir. I think it means a shelter—not a shippon or cattle shed in regular use. I should say this hull is centuries old—a very primitive building.”
“Indeed? Very interesting—I must talk to old Bowles about the word. Such points interest me. Now to get to the matter in hand—you speak about this man Ashthwaite. Any connection between him and a twenty-five cent piece, Layng?”
“No, sir.”
“You have also been making inquiries about deceased’s eldest son, Richard, who left England twenty-five years ago. Is there any certainty that he’s still alive? Have any of his family heard from him in the interim?”
“No, sir. According to their statements they have heard nothing of him since his wife died—over twenty years ago.” (Layng recollected Charles’s voice, “Your detection’s a bit hoary, isn’t it?”)
Major Havers went on: “That will entail inquiries in Canada. Hm… A lengthy business… Then there’s the mental defective, Jock. Has he ever been seen with a gun? Does he own a gun?”
“I doubt if he would own one, sir. Quite unlikely.”
“And Ashthwaite was carrying his own gun when Staple saw him. Hm… How could Jock have laid hands on a gun, Layng? In the circumstances, any of the farmers who had missed their guns during the course of the afternoon would have reported it. Undoubtedly I think they could have been relied on to report it. There were several guns in the gun-room at the Hall, you say—but they had all been cleaned since they were last used?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A mental defective might borrow a gun, but I doubt if he’d clean it and replace it in a rack.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, there we are. A very pretty case—complicated and full of possibilities…” Major Havers paused, and then went on in his rapid, bird-like way: “By the way, Layng, to digress for a moment. That case you had on hand—the fellow at Arkwright who bought a hundred head of poultry last May and hasn’t a hen left in his runs—have you investigated his records?”
“No, sir. I was going to see about it when I was called out to Garthmere.”
“Just so—and there’s that matter of suspected black-marketing of eggs at Nethergill—the official egg collector reported it. Needs looking into.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, it’s like this, Layng: you’ve got as much work on hand as you can manage. In fact you’ve been doing the work of two men ever since I took over. I realise that—I’m a newcomer, a deputy, in fact, and I have to rely on your knowledge to a considerable extent. I can’t spare you, Layng, and I don’t want to put too much on your shoulders. In my judgment we should do better to apply to the C.O. for help immediately. They know the quandary we County men are in these days. We’ll go straight ahead with the Inquest to-morrow, Layng—arrange it with the Coroner. It will be better to take only forma
l evidence and adjourn immediately for further investigations, so as to leave the Yard a free hand. I’ll have a word with the Coroner myself and then I’ll ring the Commissioner’s Office. They’ll probably send a man to-morrow. That, I’m convinced, is the wisest course.”
As Major Havers spoke, the telephone on Layng’s desk rang, and he was informed that Harding had reported, bringing a witness with him.
Major Havers grasped what was being said over the line and said promptly: “Bring him in, bring him in at once.”
Gloomily Layng passed the order on to Harding. He wanted to interrogate Jock, but he had no real hopes of the result.
The door opened and Harding appeared, holding Jock firmly by the arm. The boy’s face was scarlet, his blue eyes bulging, his fair hair sticking up like straw. At sight of the other two men Jock gave vent to the roar of raucous laughter which, Layng was to learn, was his immediate reaction to surprise. It was an amazing sound, especially in a small room: his lungs had the power of a young bull’s. Major Havers winced and Layng said sharply: “That’ll do. We don’t want any row of that kind. Behave yourself.”
Jock roared again, pointing his finger at Havers. “Goody, goody, tha’s shot him! I saw tha’ shoot him!” he declared.
“Nonsense, nonsense,” declared Havers, and Jock obliged again with his colossal mirth.
“He’s been doing it all the way in the car, sir,” said Harding, and there was satisfaction in his voice. “Hardly stopped once. You might as well have had a bull calf beside you.”
Jock caught the familiar word, “bull calf,” and responded heartily. “Moo-oo… Moo-oo,” he bellowed. He was proud of his ability to simulate animal noises.
“Good God!” said Havers. “Make what you can of him, Layng. I’ve got to get on the phone…”
He hurried out and Layng looked at Jock sardonically. “I wonder what the experts from the Yard will make of you,” he muttered.
Chapter Nine
Fell Murder Page 11
