Greenbeck was two miles farther on, and the road was uphill, but it was exhilarating country and Macdonald enjoyed it. He found the approach to Greenbeck Farm was a stony track edged with a stone wall. Above the wall was rough sheep pasture, mainly consisting of agrostis and rushes, too poor for dairy cattle to thrive on. The house was the usual long, low stone building, house and barn under the same roof; it was a small building and looked in poor condition. As Macdonald reached the fold yard gate, a dog rushed at him, barking. It was a vicious-looking beast and Macdonald swore at it, his Scots speech surprisingly harsh and vigorous. The dog hesitated, as though recognising something to be reckoned with, and a voice came from the barn calling the dog to heel. Then a tall thin man appeared at the shippon door and stared at Macdonald.
“Mr. Ashthwaite?” inquired Macdonald.
“Aye.” The curt rejoinder was not encouraging—nor was the farmer’s expression. He had a thin, lined face, a harsh mouth, drawn down at the corners, and light, expressionless eyes which seemed to be looking a great distance away.
“My name is Macdonald. I am an officer of the Criminal Investigation Department, and I am in charge of the inquiry into the death of Mr. Robert Garth.”
Ashthwaite’s expression did not change. He turned and swore at the dog again, and then turned back to Macdonald and waited. He did not invite him to come in, and the Chief Inspector leaned on the fold yard gate, reflecting that he was getting used to carrying out interrogations thus.
“I am making inquiries of all those present at the fox hunt,” he went on. “I understand that your position was at the top of the gill.”
“Aye.”
“Could you see Mr. Garth during the shoot?”
“No.”
“Did you see him leave the gill at the end of the hunt?”
“No.”
Macdonald wondered if he could get more than a monosyllable in reply. “What did you do when the hunt was over?”
“Went down to the river.”
“Why did you go down to the river?”
“Because I chose.”
“Hell’s bells, this is thirsty work,” said Macdonald to himself, and changed his tactics a little. “You know that Mr. Garth was murdered in the hull at the top of the old lane, Mr. Ashthwaite?”
“Aye.”
“How do you know that?”
At last Ashthwaite’s expression changed; there was wariness in his eyes. “Heard it from Mr. Lamb at Higher Fell,” he replied.
“Very good. I have told you who I am. It is my duty to caution you and to tell you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence. That is not a threat, Mr. Ashthwaite, but it is fact. You can refuse to answer my questions. In that case I report your refusal, and you will probably be summoned to the Coroner’s Court to be questioned there. On the whole, it’ll be much less trouble for you to answer my questions here—unless for any reason you prefer to have a solicitor present.”
Again Ashthwaite said nothing. Macdonald went on: “It seems to me it would be much more comfortable if we both went and sat on the bench yonder. I don’t expect you to show any respect to me, personally, but as representative of the law of the land I demand attention.”
Without waiting for a reply, Macdonald unlatched the gate and opened it, being interested to know if Ashthwaite would “order him out or try to chuck him out,” as Staple had suggested. Ashthwaite did neither. He made no comment as Macdonald went to the bench and sat on it, but he followed him a few steps and stood leaning against the door post of the barn. Macdonald took his notebook out.
“You were seen in your place at the top of the gill at the end of the fox hunt. Nearly half an hour later you were seen at the bottom of the old lane by the river. That lane leads directly down from the hull where Mr. Garth was shot. He was killed by a charge from a shotgun, fired at short range. I think you would be well advised to tell exactly what you were doing in the half-hour I have mentioned. It is stated by the doctor that Mr. Garth was probably shot during that half-hour.”
“Are you charging me with shooting the ould varmint?”
“No. I am not. I am giving you a chance to prove that you could not have done so.”
There was a moment’s tense silence, and then Macdonald went on, slowly and conversationally: “Think it over, Mr. Ashthwaite. I’ve no doubt Mr. Lamb told you as much as is known of the murder. He may have told you that only three of those known to have been present at the fox hunt did not go to the auction at the High Barn—Mr. Garth himself, Mr. Staple, and yourself. He may have told you that your lad, Jock, was seen at the hull when Mr. Staple found the body. Considering all these points, I think you would be well advised to give a clear account of how you spent your time, from the moment you left your place at the top of the gill until the moment you met Mr. Staple down by the river.”
Ashthwaite was in no hurry to answer. He leant back against the door post in silence, and Macdonald pulled his pipe out and began to fill it. He wanted Ashthwaite to regard him as a human being, so that they could get on to better terms. He also wanted to manoeuvre into a position where he could see the other’s face and hands. Macdonald always found that he learnt something by using his eyes. Feeling in his pockets as though to find a match, he stood up and rummaged in his trousers pockets, at last producing a match. Setting a foot on the bench, he bent down to obtain shelter to light his pipe, his back to the wind. This accomplished he stood straight again, this time facing the other man.
“Well, Mr. Ashthwaite—what do you think? If you’d rather not answer, I won’t waste any more time.”
Ashthwaite put out a hand as though to check Macdonald were he about to take his departure.
“I’ve no need to think,” he replied. “I didn’t shoot him and I tell you so plain.”
“But that’s not an answer to my question,” said Macdonald.
Ashthwaite paused again. Macdonald was pretty certain that his delay in answering was second nature to this man who lived alone, save for an idiot boy, on this lonely fell farm. At last he said:
“The river’d been in flood. I wanted to see if the dales was mucked up. Time’s, when Mr. Trant’s got more feed’n he needs, I put some of my grazing cattle on his land. ’Tis poor pasture for cattle up here.”
“Well, that’s plain enough,” said Macdonald. He knew at once that if Staple stuck to this story—and if no one else had seen him in the interval—the story could not be disproved. It was a perfectly reasonable thing for a farmer like Ashthwaite to have done. Macdonald decided to try another angle.
“How was it you went to the fox hunt?” he inquired. “Did Mr. Trant ask you to go?”
Again suspicion showed in the man’s curiously light eyes. Macdonald knew at once that Trant had not asked him, and awaited his reply with some interest.
“The corn miller’s man towd me on’t,” was the reply. “I didn’t need ask any leave to go and join a fox shoot on Mr. Trant’s land.”
“Aye, I see that,” said Macdonald. He felt he was getting on a little bit. This last statement could be proved or disproved.
“I’ve got a difficult job, Mr. Ashthwaite,” he went on. “I’m a stranger to these parts and it’s not going to be easy to get at the truth. Now you have known the Garth family for a long time.”
Once again, studying the thin, lined face of the farmer, Macdonald sensed a reaction, an uneasy change of mood. Ashthwaite shifted his stance too, and replied:
“Maybe—but I’ve got some work to do, and talking don’t get me any further.”
“But my job can’t be done without talking,” replied Macdonald, still good-humouredly. He was racking his brains for the best way to exploit that unease which had made Ashthwaite try to terminate the interview. This man’s daughter had married Richard Garth, twenty-five years ago. With this in mind, Macdonald asked suddenly:
“When d
id you last see Richard Garth, Mr. Ashthwaite?”
This question succeeded in so far as it startled the other altogether out of his immobility. Ashthwaite started, his gnarled hands clenched, and his thin lips disappeared into a hard line as the jaws contracted like a spring.
“Richard Garth?” he queried.
“Aye. Your son-in-law. Mr. Robert Garth’s heir.”
Ashthwaite spat, deliberately. “I last saw ’im the night afore he and Mary went to Canada,” he replied. “1919, that were.”
“And when did you last hear him talked about, Mr. Ashthwaite? Villages all over the country are alike in one way—they’re rare places for talking.”
“Aye, then you go and ha’ a crack wi’ ’em,” replied Ashthwaite.
“Right,” replied Macdonald, straightening his broad shoulders. “I’ll take your advice. The problem is this—to know what to believe. If honest men keep their mouths shut, liars are most likely to be believed.”
Ashthwaite peered at the lean, well-tanned face of the detective with an almost painful intentness.
At last he said:
“I’ll tell you this, mister. If any says Richard Garth shot his own father, they’re dirty liars. He deserved shooting, maybe, but Richard never did it, and no more did I.”
He turned abruptly into the side door of the barn, and Macdonald went his way, not entirely dissatisfied with his interview. As he got on his bike again, he said, “Well, if that’s the way of it, Garthmere Hall seems indicated right enough.”
Chapter Eleven
Macdonald was beginning to know something about the Lunesdale farmers. The term “gentleman farmer” belonged to the south: these independent north-country men were workers. A farmer might own stock and crops and gear worth some thousands of pounds, but he would still cart his own muck, milk his own cows, and wear garments which would have classed him as a tramp in the south while he went about his business. Farm houses had front doors, but these were seldom used. Farm labourers might be employed, but the term which described them was “hired man.” They generally lived under the farmer’s roof and ate at the farmer’s table.
Macdonald hesitated before he approached Garthmere. Did he uphold the dignity of the law by ringing at the front door, or did he study the convenience of the inmates by going to the back door, by way of the fold yard gate? Common sense prompted him to do the latter. Layng had said there were no domestic servants at the Hall, and it seemed futile to bring busy people to the front of that vast house to open a front door. The Garths were farmers; they were likely to be found, if about the place, in barns, shippons, or kitchen.
So it came about that the Chief Inspector leaned his bike against the fold yard gate just as Marion Garth was persuading a new-born calf to drink out of a pail. Macdonald watched, conscious of a feeling that he wished he were holding the pail, gripping a tiny calf between his knees and holding his fingers in its mouth while it learnt how to drink milk from a pail. Marion, aware of someone standing at the shippon door, called: “I won’t be a minute, Mr. Toller. Go and sit down.”
Macdonald obeyed, pondering over her voice. A north-country voice, but with a clearness and decision in its diction which differentiated it from the other voices Macdonald had listened to in Lunesdale.
He walked up a cobbled slope and turned into a flagged yard. Here he found a big stone slab, supported on stone uprights which must have once formed part of a very different structure, for they were moulded and foliated. Sitting in the mellow sunshine, Macdonald was not impatient: words came into his mind:
“‘No time to stand beneath the boughs, / And stare as long as sheep or cows.’”
Leaning against the sun-warmed stone of the barn he wondered if he could make a success of farming. Calves, he meditated, were more attractive than criminals—and this house had “been old before Flodden Field.”
Marion caught him unawares; she was wearing Wellingtons and came quietly over the flags.
“So you’re not Mr. Toller,” she observed.
Macdonald jumped up. “No, but it didn’t seem worth while explaining while you were busy. Are you Miss Garth?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Macdonald,” he began, and saw enlightenment in her eyes.
“Oh yes. John Staple spoke of you last night,” she said, and then added abruptly: “Would you like to come indoors—or shall we talk out here?”
“Out here,” said Macdonald, and added, he knew not why:
“I was just wishing that calf was mine.”
She laughed. “You can have it for a pound. It’s a bull.”
She sat down on the bench and waited for him to speak.
“Staple will have told you why I’m here, Miss Garth. I realise I’ve got a lot to learn before I can tackle this problem.” He paused a second and added: “I’m not forgetting that it was your father who was killed. I should like to offer you my sympathy.”
“Thank you.” Her voice sounded surprised and she went on without any prompting: “I wish I could help you, Mr. Macdonald—but I don’t know anything about it. I simply can’t imagine who shot him. I can only be quite sure that certain people did not.”
“That may help,” he replied, glad of the gambit. “I have just been talking to Mr. Ashthwaite.”
He saw her face frown a little, and she replied:
“Of course I can’t be certain about him. Admittedly he bore my father a grudge—but if he had wanted to shoot him, why wait all this time? So far as I know, they hadn’t spoken for years.”
“When you talked to Superintendent Layng, Miss Garth, he asked you if you could make any suggestion of any kind about the case, and you replied that you could not. You have had time to think the matter over, since then. Can you add anything now?”
“Oh, I’ve thought all right,” she said. “In fact, I’ve hardly thought about anything else, but I can’t make any sense out of it. The most probable suggestion is that daft Jock did it. He’d got into trouble with my father once or twice, and he’d been warned off—told not to come on our land again or he’d get a thrashing.”
“Why did your father object to Jock coming on his land? Because Ashthwaite employed him?”
“Partly, but more because he didn’t trust Jock. He’s like all idiots—cunning in some ways. Father believed he would try to steal—hens or ducks or geese—and if the cattle strayed or a gate was left open, Jock was always suspected. After all, he’d no business here. It’s natural to suspect him.”
“Yes. I see that. Have you had trouble recently with cattle straying?”
“Not on a large scale, but some of the young beasts have broken out, and Father said that someone had meddled with the fences. We say ‘fences’ here when we mean hedges. The hedges are often too thin to keep the cattle in, and they are reinforced with posts and wire in weak places. If the wire is cut or a post pulled out the cattle always find the gap.”
“And you think that has happened recently—deliberate meddling with your fences?”
“My father did—but I doubt it. Five hundredweight of bullock can do a lot of damage, and the beasts get wild with the flies.”
“Yes, but what you are saying interests me a lot. You say Jock had no business on your land; then why did he come here?”
“I don’t expect he knew himself. He’s inquisitive, and he’s a big, powerful lad. He’s nothing to occupy his spare time, he can’t go courting like most of the lads because no one would look at him, and he can’t go to dances or the pictures—he just wanders when he’s not working.”
“Has he wits enough to realise that Ashthwaite was at enmity with your father?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve no doubt he understood that. Ashthwaite would have to talk to somebody. It’s only human nature to talk sometimes.”
“Of course. Now do you think that Jock could aim a gun and fire it?”
“
Our men say no—the Moffats and Staple, for instance. They say he just wouldn’t know how, but it seems to me that there’s a likelihood, if he got hold of a loaded gun, he’d be able to fire it. He must have seen it done so often. It’s very easy to cock an old-fashioned shotgun and then pull the trigger. I can imagine Jock, if he managed to get hold of a gun, hiding in the hull, and shooting when he was found—when Father opened the door.”
“The chief problem is—where did he get the gun?”
“The only gun he could have got was Ashthwaite’s.”
“In that case Ashthwaite is a guilty party. He must know if he parted from his gun.”
“Yes. I suppose he must, and I must admit that I can’t see him doing it. A man like Ashthwaite, when he’s out with a gun, doesn’t lay it down or give it to someone else to carry. Also, Ashthwaite was carrying his gun when John Staple met him in the dales.” Marion Garth turned to Macdonald, puzzlement in her eyes: “So you see,” she went on, “all my thinking hasn’t got me anywhere. I’m just as much at sea as I was at first.”
“You’ve told me a number of interesting things all the same,” replied Macdonald.
“Have I?” She turned and looked at him, noting his long limbs, his leanness, and appearance of physical fitness. Marion Garth assessed men in terms of the work they could do, and Macdonald looked as though he would be capable of much more physical endurance than Layng, whose figure was getting bulky. Somehow she liked this deep-voiced stranger.
“All I have said is a commonplace to ourselves,” she went on, “what I call common sense.” A smile lightened her weather-beaten face. “Your Superintendent thinks all farmers are fools, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t own him, and if that’s his opinion, I don’t share it,” replied Macdonald. “On the contrary, I believe if you all held out on me, I’d get nowhere. It’s only with your help that I can understand this business.”
She laughed. “John Staple said he thought you were a good learner. I expect you’re a Londoner, aren’t you—but you do seem to understand what we say, which is more than most Londoners do.”
Fell Murder Page 14
