Dead on Dartmoor

by Stephanie Austin

  ‘I’d enjoy it. And I think you should too.’

  She almost smiled, a tug of her tiny mouth. Was this a crack in the ice, the first hint of a thaw? I wondered.

  ‘That’s what Dean says.’

  ‘Is Dean your boyfriend?’

  ‘My colleague,’ her little mouth twisted again. ‘Detective Constable Collins.’

  ‘Ah!’ I wanted to ask how the paternity leave was going but thought perhaps I’d better not. I came up with a more serious question. ‘Tell me, are the police aware that Gavin Hall and Ben Luscombe knew each other?’

  ‘Ben Luscombe?’ she repeated.

  ‘He died at Moorworthy Pit a year ago, supposedly the victim of a fall.’

  Her dark brows drew together. ‘Supposedly?’

  ‘Yes. He and Gavin were friends.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, doesn’t it strike anyone as odd that two young men should die in horrible accidents, both on the Moorworthy estate, about half a mile from each other?’

  ‘Accidents happen and these were over a year apart.’

  ‘But I think Gavin tried to get into the woods because of what happened to Ben. They were both convinced that something was going on in the mines there. And they both ended up dead.’

  DeVille stared at me impassively, her violet gaze icing over. No hint of a thaw now.

  ‘So what did they think was going on?’

  ‘Well, that’s just it,’ I admitted lamely, ‘I don’t know.’

  The violet-eyed Medusa continued to stare. ‘Then what exactly are you saying, Miss Browne?’

  God, she was learning from her boss! I could hear him in her level voice, see him in the intensity of her stare. Yet, if Inspector Ford had been asking the questions, I wouldn’t have felt quite so foolish. ‘It just seems to me that their deaths have been too readily dismissed as accidents when there could be a connection between them.’

  Cruella hunched a shoulder. ‘Because they knew each other doesn’t mean their deaths have to be connected. Ben Luscombe was wandering about in a dangerous place at night, and he was high on drugs …’

  ‘His friends don’t believe that.’

  ‘And Gavin Hall,’ she went on inexorably, ‘was messing about with a dangerous weapon.’

  ‘But …’

  She silenced me with a shake of her head, pitying me. ‘It’s natural to want to find a reason when a death occurs, to make sense of a tragedy that seems senseless—’

  I cut her off. ‘Did that come out of some police training manual for dealing with the bereaved?’

  I knew I was being rude, but her condescending tone irritated me.

  Her little mouth twisted and she eyed me with hostility. ‘Inspector Ford is a very busy man,’ she told me, ‘but I will pass on your concerns.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I responded, and gave her back a little smile, like hers, a tiny tug of the mouth.

  She glanced at her watch as if to indicate she had wasted time enough on me already and I held out my hands for the jacket. ‘If you’re buying that, I’ll find something to wrap it in.’

  ‘No need, I can put it straight in the car.’

  I charged her the full ticket price. I didn’t feel like being generous.

  Ricky and Morris had asked me to go and help fit the fat fairies. The whole fluttering flock was descending on them in the afternoon, and they could do with an extra pair of hands to make sure that each fairy got the right blouse and petticoat. Some of them looked very pretty in their frills and coloured sashes. Morris had looped lace and ribbon around each hemline, tying them up with little knots of silk flowers made by yours truly. They all had wings made from glittery net and tiny hats or headdresses to perch on their hair. It’s true, there were a few sagging bosoms and unsightly bulges that weren’t exactly fairy-like, and as Ricky had prophesied, some of them would be wearing their bifocals, but on the whole I thought they were a success, and I am sure when they all come tripping onto the stage in Iolanthe, the audience will be delighted.

  But as I was down on my knees, pinning up a hem, I became aware of being stared at, and an increasingly hostile atmosphere. I looked up to see a lilac fairy fixing me with a baleful glare. It was Olly’s next-door neighbour.

  ‘Are you working here?’ she asked, obviously upset. ‘I thought you were a social worker.’

  ‘I’m just helping out.’ I felt at a disadvantage on my knees and scrambled to my feet, brushing cotton threads from my jeans. I tried a smile, but it got no response. ‘I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I work freelance. Some of my work involves care of the elderly, like Mrs Knollys. You met Maisie Biddle at the church coffee morning the other day,’ I went on as she continued to glower at me, ‘she’s a client of mine.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I did,’ she admitted, her hackles lowering a little. ‘But when we first met you gave me the distinct impression you were from social services.’

  ‘I think you just assumed. I’d been asked to call in by one of the mothers at Olly’s school,’ I lied gaily. ‘Now, have you got all the bits you need for your costume? Gloves, yes?’ I caught her arm and steered her in the direction of Morris, who was trying to fit fairy bunions into dainty shoes and called, ‘Next!’ in a very determined voice.

  He gave me an old-fashioned look over his little gold-rimmed specs. ‘And what was all that about?’ he asked me later, when we had sent the fairies home clutching their respective costumes.

  ‘Nothing,’ I assured him.

  ‘She’s up to something,’ he said to Ricky.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, eyeing me narrowly, ‘and what’s worse, she’s not telling us what it is.’

  ‘I am not up to anything,’ I assured them, trying to sound indignant. They weren’t fooled.

  ‘You’re not getting into any trouble, are you, Juno?’ Morris asked anxiously.

  ‘Me?’ I asked innocently. ‘Noooo.’

  Well, not yet anyway.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  St Andrew’s Church was packed for Gavin’s funeral, local people turning out to support Gavin’s parents who were well known in the town, and there were representatives from Gavin’s old school. Sophie, Pat and I sat in a pew towards the back, and across the aisle, Jamie Westershall cut a lonely figure in black suit and tie. He nodded a greeting at me as he came in. I suppose he felt obliged to pay his respects. Emma obviously didn’t feel such an obligation, or maybe she was still recovering after her accident. I saw him glance over his shoulder as new arrivals came in from the back of the church. As he turned to face the front again, I caught a glimpse of his expression for just a moment. He looked disconcerted, I thought, and began to flick through the pages of the order of service with unease.

  I turned back to see who had entered and found myself staring at Detective Inspector Ford.

  I must have been staring for a few seconds, because as he inclined his head in a greeting, he gave me a slightly quizzical look. Embarrassed, I turned back to face the front. Was it routine for the police to attend a funeral when there had been a suspicious death? It was on the television. TV coppers are always turning up at the victim’s funeral, convinced that the murderer will turn up to gloat. Except that, according to Cruella, they didn’t believe Gavin’s death was a case of murder.

  The service was pitiful and mercifully short. Not the celebration of a life fulfilled but a lamentation for a life cut short. Poor Mrs Hall sobbed uncontrollably, and by the time we had struggled our way through ‘The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, Is Ended’, Pat was sniffing, surreptitiously wiping her eyes, and Sophie was in floods. I let the two of them go out ahead of me as the mourners filed out of the church. I wanted to talk to Inspector Ford.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you here, Inspector,’ I told him frankly.

  ‘Just paying my respects, Miss Browne.’ His manner was friendly but guarded, as always.

  ‘So, the case of Gavin Hall is now closed, I take it?’

  ‘Not officially, not until the coroner’s ruling, but,’
his shoulders lifted and fell in the slightest of shrugs, ‘unofficially, yes. We are satisfied that we have pursued all lines of enquiry.’

  ‘Detective Constable DeVille told me the same thing.’

  I sensed he wasn’t really listening to me. His concentration seemed fixed on someone else. Following the direction of his gaze I saw Jamie Westershall making his way out through the mourners. ‘Excuse me, Miss Browne,’ the inspector said politely, and walked swiftly after him.

  I followed, watching Jamie climbing into a car that had drawn up outside the church gates. The inspector was also watching him go and I wondered whether the police were quite as uninterested in the death of Gavin Hall as they liked to pretend.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It took a long time to get ready for the Legends of the Silver Screen party. Ricky, who insisted on doing my hair, made me sit for hours with a head full of huge curlers, which frankly I thought was the last thing I needed. Meanwhile, Morris got Sophie ready. She emerged from his ministrations wearing a full-skirted black dress with white polka dots, a stiff petticoat underneath, and a bright-pink belt. She wore pink pumps and ankle socks, and tiny net gloves. A small pink hat perched on her dark head between two round black, cardboard ears. She was the prettiest, sexiest, most sophisticated Minnie Mouse you ever saw.

  I was poured into plum-coloured velvet that fitted like a second skin from the very low neckline to the knee, where it suddenly flared out in a cascade of sparkling net, forming a train, which dragged on the floor behind me. Long black satin gloves completed the outfit, and my hair, released from the curlers, was brushed into glossy, rolling waves and swept over one shoulder. Then Ricky flung a pale mink stole around my shoulders.

  ‘You look amazing!’ Sophie breathed in awe. ‘Who are you supposed to be? Jessica Rabbit?’

  ‘Jessica Rabbit?’ Ricky repeated, scandalised. ‘Jessica fucking Rabbit!’ he cried again, unable to believe his ears. ‘She’s Rita Hayworth!’

  ‘I’m Rita Hayworth,’ I repeated, just to be sure she knew.

  ‘Now, listen, you!’ Ricky pointed a warning finger in my face. ‘You’re not Miss Marple or Sherlock bleedin’ Holmes, so don’t get carried away up there this evening. No crawling about in the woods, understand? Not in that dress! Nor,’ he added, waving his finger in Sophie’s direction, ‘you neither!’

  ‘I’m not going near the woods,’ Sophie protested with a shudder. ‘I never want to go in them again, not after what happened to poor Gavin.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Ricky nodded gravely. ‘Just don’t let Rita Hayworth lead you astray.’

  ‘She was well known for that, was Rita,’ Morris added.

  The dress was tight about my knees and it was difficult not to step on the train. ‘I’m not going crawling about anywhere. I can barely walk.’

  ‘Take smaller steps!’ Ricky cried. ‘You can’t stride about like a bloody Amazon! Oh my God! Shoes!’ he exclaimed. ‘What are you wearing?’

  I raised the hem of the dress to reveal the flat leather pasties I find so comfortable. Ricky shuddered. Morris disappeared, giggling, and returned bearing high-heeled sandals in gold. ‘The only thing in her size,’ he told Ricky in a mournful whisper.

  I tried them on and tottered about until I got the hang of them and my inelegant steps were pronounced passable by the two doyennes of Hollywood fashion.

  ‘And don’t get covered in dog hair!’ Ricky ordered as a final caution.

  I assured him that we weren’t travelling in White Van but were borrowing Sophie’s mum’s car for the evening. And Sophie would be driving. She didn’t really drink. Half a glass of Prosecco would be more than enough for her, whereas it certainly wouldn’t be enough for me. Then, after hugs and kisses and more promises to behave ourselves, we were allowed to go.

  ‘Have you got your inhaler?’ I asked Sophie, before we set off.

  She held up the dinky pink handbag that Morris had given her. ‘In here.’

  ‘Legends of the Silver Screen?’ Ricky rapped on the car window, grinning. ‘Just count the Marilyns!’

  There were three, actually: three Marilyn Monroes in varying degrees of age and sadness. Emma was not one of them. She looked stunning, her hair drawn back in an elegant chignon, her dress a long sheath of ice-blue crystals. She looked very cool, very Grace Kelly, except that the surgical collar she was forced to wear rather spoilt the effect. Any momentary guilt I might have felt for her suffering evaporated when I thought of her riding her motorbike alongside White Van, looking in. She knew I was the driver, knew I had a child beside me on the front seat, but she’d still tried to trap us in a deadly game of cat and mouse. Remorse withered at the memory of Olly’s terrified face.

  ‘You’ve been in the wars, I hear.’ I put on my best solicitous smile as I received her frosty greeting in the hall. She was on meet-and-greet duty with Uncle Sandy and other than dart me with an icy, cat-like glare, she couldn’t really make a response. Besides, there were too many Legends of the Silver Screen trying to pile into the hall behind us for us to be able to linger. We were forced to grab a glass of something bubbly from a proffered tray and move on into the ballroom where a lot of Legends were standing about, glasses in hand, and we could take a really good look as we drifted around introducing ourselves.

  There was a brunette, a friend of Emma’s, with piled-up hair, lots of eye make-up and a long cigarette holder, who made a really good Audrey Hepburn, whilst Jess wore a white hospital smock and had somehow turned her hair into a stiff, upright column and sprayed one wriggly streak of it silver. She was, she told me giggling, the Bride of Frankenstein. I liked that about her, that she’d gone for something fun, rather than for glamour.

  She wasn’t the only one who’d come as a film character rather than the legend who might have portrayed it. An older lady had gamely painted her face green and come as the Wicked Witch of the West and there was a Snow White as well as a Cleopatra.

  Most of the men just cheated. There were at least a dozen in dinner jackets, including Uncle Sandy, all claiming to be James Bond, and one in a white tuxedo who said he was Humphrey Bogart. Jamie wore a leather jacket and fedora and carried a whip, as Indiana Jones; there was an elderly Beau Geste, a rather rotund John Wayne, a Charlie Chaplin and a whippet of a fellow in white tie and tails who assured me, with a blast of truly appalling halitosis, that he was Fred Astaire. ‘Are you Ginger Rogers?’ he asked, grinning at me. ‘We could dance cheek-to-cheek later.’ Now there was something to look forward to.

  ‘I thought she was Rita Hayworth,’ Uncle Sandy approached, glass in hand. I dutifully gave him a birthday peck on the cheek. ‘Well, whoever you are, you’re absolutely magnificent,’ he went on, looking me over. ‘My word! But where’s your little friend?’

  I pointed out Sophie, who was chatting with a young man who could have been James Dean. ‘Oh, look at that!’ he exclaimed. ‘Minnie Mouse! Isn’t she cute? Mind you, with her looks, she could have come as Liza Minnelli.’

  Well, she could if she had borrowed longer legs.

  ‘And then,’ Sandy went on incorrigibly, ‘she could have worn the bowler hat and suspenders! Ah well!’ he added, his voice laden with regret. Then he turned back to me, his eyes brightening. ‘Now, you run a little antique shop.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly describe it as—’

  ‘We’ve got a few bits and pieces around the house you might find interesting. There’s a fine collection of oriental ceramics upstairs, in one of the bedrooms. I’ll show you later on, if you like,’ he promised, patting me on my arm, and sailed forth to greet another of his guests, saving me the awkwardness of a reply. Whilst I would certainly have loved a tour around the house, visiting any of the bedrooms in Sandy’s company was not on my agenda.

  After a lot of preprandial mingling, Jamie tried to call the party to order by raising his voice. This had no effect at all and so he silenced the babbling horde by cracking his whip.

  This had the desired result and caused Fred Ast
aire, who had been narrowly missed, to hop about a bit.

  ‘Sorry! I’ve always wanted to do that,’ Jamie admitted, grinning. I assume he meant cracking the whip, not flogging Fred Astaire. ‘Anyway, we’re here tonight to celebrate Sandy’s birthday and … where is the old devil?’ he asked, eyes searching the crowd. Sandy declared his presence, lurking rather closely behind Audrey Hepburn. ‘Ah! There you are! Emma and I have got you a rather special present.’

  A waiter, obviously ready for the signal, bore an easel into the room, the portrait covered by a cloth and Sandy, after a bit of prompting, performed the great reveal. The picture of the Old Thunderer was greeted by a genuine gasp of delight from Sandy and a burst of applause from the assembled throng. Sophie was dragged forward to receive her plaudits as artist and for several minutes she and the portrait became the centre of attention.

  Then the dinner gong sounded. I had assumed that, as there were so many of us, any food would be in the form of a buffet, but I was wrong. The enormous dining room contained a table the length of a bowling alley, covered in white damask, and sparkling with cut glass and silverware. Sophie was dismayed to discover we weren’t sitting together. She, the feted artist, was much nearer Sandy at the top of the table than I was. I waved to her as I sat down, bundling armfuls of sparkling net under the table. I wasn’t seated anywhere near Emma, thankfully; she and her cronies were giggling together at the far end.

  Sitting directly opposite me was Barty Bartholomew, looking truly awful in straining blue spandex as Superman, already crimson in the face and rather less than sober. He boggled at me across the tablecloth. ‘Are you Jessica Rabbit?’ he asked, grinning.

  He got a dig in the ribs from the Wicked Witch of the West on his right. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Barty! She’s Rita Hayworth.’

  ‘And every bit as gorgeous!’ Barty leered on, unabashed.

  Next to me on the right was an empty chair, and I was just thinking I was condemned to spend the evening trying to drag conversation out of a po-faced and reticent Beau Geste on my left, when a bronzed hand grabbed the back of the chair and Jack Sparrow thrust himself into the seat. He must have been a late arrival because I hadn’t noticed him in the ballroom. And I would have. I could tell he was Jack Sparrow, and not just any old pirate, because as well as the boots, baggy shirt, bandana and hat, he’d gone for the Johnny Depp eyeliner. I don’t know if I should be worried about myself, but I find something rather attractive about a man in eyeliner. Well, this one anyway. He grinned at me as he sat down and proffered his hand. ‘Jack Sparrow,’ he said.