Dead on Dartmoor

by Stephanie Austin

  ‘Something the matter, Moss?’ It was Jamie’s voice, but cold and authoritative, stripped of bonhomie. As I peered between the bushes, I saw the shadows of his legs scissoring across the road as he walked in front of the headlights. The driver in the cab was just a hunched shape slumped behind the steering wheel, but I was willing to bet he was wearing a green hat.

  ‘I saw the van parked, sir,’ Moss responded. ‘Just thought I’d take a look around. But there’s no one about.’

  ‘Hang on, that’s Juno Browne’s van, isn’t it? I recognise the number plate … and look at the back bumper! What the hell is that bloody woman doing up here?’

  ‘If it is hers, she’s long gone, sir.’ Moss laid a hand on bonnet. ‘Engine’s stone cold,’ he lied. ‘And I think she’s had a bit of a knock to this nearside wheel. Forced to abandon it, I reckon. She must’ve got a ride home.’

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right. She’s turning into a nuisance. We might have to do something about her. Look, just have another check around, will you, Moss? Make sure? There’s too much at stake to leave any loose ends. We’ll carry on.’

  I saw his shadow cross the road in the glare of the truck’s lights, heard the slam of the cab door. The truck growled into life again. As it roared past, tyres hissing on the wet road, I could see the back piled high with the rounded shapes of silage bales, light glimmering on black plastic.

  ‘Stay down!’ Moss yelled in my direction. After what seemed like an age cramped in the narrow wet ditch, scratched by the thorns of tossing gorse, he told me it was safe to stand up. ‘They’ve turned off for the farm.’

  ‘What the hell is going on?’

  ‘Stop asking questions.’ He handed me back the torch. ‘Get home and stay away from here.’

  ‘You said there’d been too many dead already.’ I squinted into the rain, trying to read his face beneath his dripping cap. ‘What did you mean?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Moss, what happened to Gavin?’

  ‘I tried to warn him, all right?’ His voice was broken, hoarse, shouting above the wind. ‘I tried to scare ’em off, him and the other lad!’ He headed back towards his car.

  ‘The other lad?’ I yelled after him. ‘Do you mean Ben?’

  ‘I’m not saying no more.’ He pushed past me. ‘My family’s been loyal to the Westershalls for years, but it never used to be like this. You don’t want to let them catch you up here, maid.’ He wrenched the car door open. ‘Go home!’ He climbed inside and drove off.

  I watched his tail lights disappear. I was clutching the keys he had thrust into my hand so tightly they had dug an impression in my palm. I hurried to the van and got in. I was soaked, shaking with the cold, water running off the ends of my hair. My hands were icy and for a few moments they trembled too much for me to get the key in the ignition. I fished an old towel I used for wiping muddy paws from the back of the van and dried my face and hands with it. I breathed in deep; the doggy smell was comforting. I got going at last, headlights on, heater full blast, windscreen wipers swishing into action.

  And as I passed the end of the lane that led to Applecote Farm, drove by the gates of Moorworthy House and trundled on down the hill towards the safety of Ashburton, I wondered why the hell anyone would be hauling trucks full of silage around empty farms at night. I wondered about Nathan Parr who just happened to have been placed next to me at dinner and who’d lured me to spend the evening alone in an isolated pub. And I wondered about Jamie. Was he a good ’un or a bad ’un? I think I had the answer to that now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Driving down the wooded hill towards Ashburton I had other things to worry about. The trees at the roadside shifted like restless giants. They came down in gales like this. I had to steer around branches wrenched off by the moaning wind, fearful that any moment a great trunk might fall across the road in front of me or come crashing through the roof of the van.

  When I got home, I ran myself a hot bath. I was still shaking, from fear as well as cold, and I spent a long time soaking in the glistening bubbles, staring through clouds of steam, thinking of Jamie and what he’d said to Moss about having to do something about me. I didn’t like the sound of that. And what about Nathan? Was he who he claimed to be, or had Jamie planted him next to me at dinner to find out what, if anything, I had said to the police about Gavin’s death, or to discover what I’d been up to with the drone? But if Jamie had set Nathan on me to spy, why hadn’t he turned up at the pub? Was Nathan a good ’un or a bad ’un?

  I slept badly. Even in my dreams I could hear the wind that had ripped and roared up on the moor. Down in the town it buffeted the houses like a drunken fist, smiting at chimneys and rooftops, rattling doors and windows, trying to get in.

  I did not want to get out of bed next morning, leave its snuggly warmth, but there were five waggy creatures waiting expectantly for me to take them for a walk so I was forced to drag myself from under the duvet, despite Bill’s best efforts to pin me down. Half of me wanted to drive them up onto Holne Moor, let them race around on the common land where I had stopped last night, just beyond Applecote Farm, and have a nose around. The other, more sensible half reminded me I had a full morning and not too much time. So we just followed the course of the river through the town and into the woods. Barely more than a stream for most of the year, after the storm it was swollen and muddy, choked in places by rafts of twigs and leaves.

  The gale had blown itself out, but in the wood the trees still stirred. A few odd leaves clung like golden pennies to bare and dripping branches, but most lay on the ground in soggy heaps, their crunchy crispness lost. The dogs didn’t care, snuffling amongst the sodden leaves. The wind stirred them up, ruffled their fur, excited them like kids in a playground, and the rain released fresh smells, wet smells, the earthy pungent tang of the forest floor and the creatures dwelling in it. For the dogs the world was new again.

  Back in town, Tribe delivered, I checked in at Old Nick’s, and had a brief chat with Pat.

  ‘That Olly’s a nice lad,’ she told me approvingly, ‘very eager. And you say he lives all alone with his nan?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, hoping to turn the conversation in another direction.

  ‘My mum knew old Dolly Knollys. I’d have thought she would have been dead long ago.’

  ‘Mmm.’ I nodded evasively. ‘I’m glad Olly’s being useful. I can’t hang about, Pat. I’ve got errands to run for a few people. I’ll be back here lunchtime to take over.’

  I hurried out of the door before she could chat further. I threaded my way between the wheelie bins in the side alley, stepping over the puddles, emerged into Sun Street and bumped slap into Jamie Westershall.

  ‘Hello!’ he cried, grinning. ‘Just the girl I was coming to see. Time for a coffee?’

  For a moment I stared, unable to reconcile the smiling blue eyes, the easy charm, with the man standing in the road last night.

  ‘Well …’ I stumbled, ‘I’m really short of time, I—’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ He grabbed my arm. ‘Just a quick one, look, there’s a place right here.’ His grip on my arm was firm, almost tight. He steered me through the door of the coffee shop and we sat down. For a moment we stared across the table, considering each other. ‘I’ve been worried about you, Juno.’

  ‘Oh?’ We paused, as the waitress came and took our order. ‘Why?’

  ‘I found your van abandoned on the moor last night. No sign of you. I wondered if you were all right.’

  ‘Just a puncture,’ I lied, with what I hoped was an airy shrug. ‘Luckily, someone I knew came by and gave me a lift back into town.’

  His brows lifted slightly. ‘When I drove back a little later your van had gone.’

  ‘We got the puncture fixed.’

  ‘You came back to do it? Couldn’t you and this friend have done it there and then?’ His voice was light, but his blue eyes, narrow with suspicion, never left mine.

  ‘We had to come bac
k into town to fetch a toolbox.’

  ‘Bit risky, I’d have thought, driving about the moor at night without proper tools. It makes me wonder what you were doing up there at all, Juno, on a terrible night like that.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ I volunteered, deciding to take the risk. ‘I went to meet your old pal from agricultural college, Nathan Parr, alias Jack Sparrow.’

  ‘Yes, I remember the two of you getting acquainted in a cupboard.’

  ‘Well, Mr Nathan Parr invited me out for a drink in a pub up on the moor and then stood me up.’ I waited to see his reaction, watched for any flicker in his blue eyes, but his gaze was unwavering. ‘I don’t suppose you would know anything about that?’

  He laughed. ‘Of course not, why would I?’

  ‘I just wondered if it might have been someone’s idea of a joke.’

  ‘Certainly not mine. Nathan had to leave the party early for some reason and I haven’t seen him since.’ He took a sip of black coffee and sat back, studying me reflectively. ‘So, he stood you up, eh? Poor old Juno!’ His shoulders shook with silent laughter. ‘And everything seemed so promising back in that cupboard.’

  His smugness, his amusement, convinced me that he knew more about this than he was saying. He’d set me up with his friend, I was sure of it. But then for some reason, he’d called him off.

  ‘It just seems a bit strange, you know, Juno,’ he went on, all trace of humour vanishing, ‘finding your van parked on my land like that, especially after the little stunt you pulled at Sandy’s party. I’m wondering if you’ve got something on your mind.’

  ‘I didn’t bring up Gavin’s name,’ I pointed out.

  ‘No, but you brought up Ben Luscombe’s. What was the point of that, Juno? He was trespassing. He took cocaine—’

  ‘Like your sister.’

  For a moment it was as if I’d struck a match; anger flared in his eyes. Then the flame died down. He smiled, but I could see the muscles in his jaw were tight. ‘Emma likes to experiment. She’s not an addict.’

  ‘And Jess?’

  He bit his lip, furious. ‘Jess doesn’t take drugs.’

  ‘No? Well, she was snorting something up her nose at Sandy’s party.’

  He leant forward across the table and spoke softly. ‘You’d better be careful what you say.’

  ‘Had I?’

  ‘There’s a young boy who keeps flying a drone over our land. I don’t suppose you know him?’

  I felt a shiver of disquiet but managed a smile. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Just that he was spotted with you in your van.’

  ‘And you would know this, how?’

  ‘We both know how,’ he answered steadily. ‘Tell your young friend that it’s illegal to fly a drone over private property and I’m prepared to take steps to protect my privacy.’

  ‘Is that what you did with Gavin? “Took steps”?’

  ‘The police are satisfied his death was an accident.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Don’t meddle, Juno,’ he warned me softly. ‘Don’t meddle in things that are none of your concern.’ He flung a note down on the table to cover the bill, stood, ready to leave.

  ‘You don’t think another accident on the Moorworthy estate might arouse suspicion?’

  He gripped my wrist suddenly, his face bent close to mine. ‘Don’t cross me, Juno,’ he warned and strode out, letting the door slam behind him.

  I watched him go, watched the swagger of his broad shoulders as he set off down the street. I don’t like being told what to do, I don’t like being threatened. I was glad I’d made him angry.

  Late that afternoon, when I was in the shop, I got a distress call from Olly, just back from Honeysuckle Farm. He was crying, almost hysterical. I had to tell him to calm down before I could make sense of what he was saying.

  ‘It’s her, next door!’ he sobbed.

  ‘Mrs Hardiman?’

  ‘She’s coming in. She was round here earlier … come to the back door … she says, she says …’

  ‘Take a breath, Olly,’ I recommended. ‘Now, what did she say?’

  ‘She says she knows you ain’t a social worker. She says something funny’s going on … And she says, if I don’t let her come in and talk to Nan, she’ll ring the police—’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I told her Nan was asleep, so she said she’s coming back at five o’clock and she ain’t leaving till she’s seen her. What am I going to do?’ he cried piteously.

  I looked at my watch. It was already nearly four. ‘Bake a cake,’ I told him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bake a cake. Lay the table, nicely, as if we’re having guests to tea. Get out your Nan’s best cups. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  ‘But what are we—’

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ I promised him. ‘Don’t panic.’

  I put the phone down knowing I had an hour to find Olly a great-grandmother. As I ran to the van I was going through my options. Maisie was no good, Olly’s neighbour already knew her. Chloe Berkeley-Smythe would have been up for it, would have considered the whole idea of impersonating someone else a hoot, if she’d been persuaded it was a joke; but she was on the high seas, and anyway, no one in their right mind would believe she lived in a council house. I briefly considered Morris in drag, but this was too hideous an idea to contemplate. Anyway, I would have been forced to let him and Ricky into Olly’s secret and I had promised him I wouldn’t tell.

  I was halfway up the road towards Owlacombe Cross when I saw her. She wasn’t wearing her blue dressing gown, but beige trousers and a flowery top, and for a moment I didn’t recognise her. I pulled up next to her and wound the window down. She peered in at me, giving me a bright but questioning smile.

  ‘Hello, Judith-Marianne!’ I leapt out and opened the passenger door.

  ‘Are we going out to tea?’ she asked as she slid into the seat.

  ‘It’s funny you should ask that,’ I said, securing her seat belt. ‘But we are going out to tea. Yes, we are.’

  We got Judith-Marianne installed in Nan’s chair just a few moments before we heard the determined footsteps of Olly’s neighbour marching up to the kitchen door. I welcomed her inside whilst Olly put the kettle on. Two halves of a fragrant Victoria sponge lay on a wire cooling rack, and he had spread one half with jam.

  ‘Now, we must clear up this misunderstanding,’ I began, putting on my best smile. ‘Do come in … er …’

  ‘April,’ she reminded me, looking around the kitchen as if she expected a gang of terrorists to come leaping out from somewhere. ‘April Hardiman.’

  Single repetitive notes on the piano drifted through from the living room.

  ‘Let me introduce you to Mrs Knollys.’ I guided April into the living room. ‘She got up out of bed especially so that she can meet you.’

  Judith-Marianne had moved from the chair and seated herself at the piano, where she was prodding each of the keys individually with a forefinger. ‘This isn’t in tune, you know,’ she told us as we came in.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, Nan.’ Olly had followed us in, carrying the jam sponge on a plate, its golden top dusted with icing sugar. ‘It’s been out of tune for quite a while now.’

  ‘This is April,’ I said, as she continued to test each note repetitively. ‘She lives next door.’

  Judith-Marianne did not look up, ignoring April’s proffered hand. ‘April, May, June,’ she said, as she played each key. She scowled in frustration. ‘Out of tune!’

  ‘You play piano, then, Mrs Knollys.’ April’s face was fixed in a determined smile. ‘I’m musical, too. I belong to the Dartmoor Operatic Society.’

  There was no response. Judith-Marianne just stared.

  ‘That’s right,’ I pitched in recklessly. ‘April is playing a fairy in their production of Iolanthe.’

  April then proceeded to warble a snatch of some tune about fairies tripping lightly hither and thither. The effect on Judith-M
arianne was extraordinary. It was as if the fog in which she wandered like a lost child miraculously lifted. Suddenly she was with us, present in the moment. She joined in with April’s warbling. She knew every note and every word. She had become the person that she used to be. As they chirruped and trilled ecstatically together, Olly rolled his eyes at me in alarm. ‘They’re getting on too well,’ he hissed at me in a whisper. ‘She,’ he jerked his head in April’s direction, ‘will want to come back.’

  He needn’t have worried. Judith-Marianne then tried to accompany them both on the piano, but it was so badly out of tune that after a few faltering notes, she stopped, screaming in vexation and began banging the lid up and down. She burst into tears and April backed away, horrified.

  ‘It’s all right, Ju … Dolly.’ I took her by the shoulders and steered her, still sobbing, from the piano stool to the armchair. ‘We’re going to have a cup of tea. Look, Olly’s made a cake.’

  ‘It’s your favourite, Nan,’ Olly told her bravely. ‘Victoria sponge.’

  ‘Do sit down, April.’ I indicated a chair. ‘And afterwards,’ I promised, ‘Olly can play us a tune on his bassoon.’

  He began shaking his head.

  ‘Now, don’t be shy, Olly.’ I directed him a warning glance. ‘You know how much your nan loves to hear you play.’

  ‘I’ll fetch the teapot,’ he muttered furiously and stomped off into the kitchen. By the time he came back, order had been restored. Judith-Marianne was silently contemplating the sponge cake, lost in the fog once again and ignoring April’s attempts at making polite conversation. I poured the tea while Olly cut the sponge, handing slices around and for the next few minutes we all nibbled politely.

  ‘Your garden is looking very pretty, Mrs Hardiman,’ I commented, by way of filling the void, ‘especially for this time of year.’

  ‘Not for much longer,’ she sighed. ‘The dahlias are almost over now.’

  ‘Bishop of Llandaff,’ Judith-Marianne crumbled a morsel of sponge between restless fingers.

  ‘What’s that, Nan?’ Olly asked apprehensively.