by Will North
“Do sit,” she said to them, pointing to a large round scrubbed pine table.
The table stood almost out of reach of the direct warmth of the fire. Four unwelcoming ladder-back chairs ringed it. The seats had brightly colored cushions covered in an abstract floral pattern of ivory, gold, rust red, and royal blue. They looked like they’d seldom been sat upon and it occurred to Terry that she could not imagine a family dining comfortably at this table so far from the hearth. The whole seating arrangement looked like something a decorator thought should be there to complete the scene.
While Ms. Cuthbertson switched on an electric kettle and busied with the tea, Terry looked around the room. The floor was surfaced in storm-gray slate flagstones that were all of a size, roughly a foot square, and it was hard to say if they were original to the house or laid down to look old. The low wood plank ceiling was supported by thick oak beams, lime washed nearly white like the ceiling. Modern raised panel wood cabinets, lime-washed to match the old beams, were arrayed along two walls. The counters were topped with polished granite that held within it the colors of tiny beach pebbles. In place of the big cast-iron AGA cooker Terry had come to expect in grand houses like this one, there stood instead an even more imposing six-burner La Cornue French cooker with two ovens. It was faced in dark blue enamel with stainless steel trim and gleaming brass handles and knobs. She’d seen them in the fancy decorating magazines she loved to thumb through in her hairdresser’s waiting area. As if it embarrassed the editors, the cooker’s price was never shown.
Adam moved from the hearth to carry the tea tray to the table, earning a nod from the Cuthbertson woman, as if he were staff.
Their hostess apparently uninterested in serving, Terry poured two cups of tea, picked up her mug, and sniffed. Earl Grey. Not her favorite; too much bergamot. She added extra milk and sugar. The young woman settled into the chair closest to the fire. An open bottle of Talisker, a single malt whisky, stood next to a nearly empty squat glass tumbler.
“Artie called to say you were coming…” she said.
“Artie?”
“Your superior, I assume: Arthur Penwarren? He’s family—well, used to be anyway.”
Bates was instantly wary. Her boss had said nothing about a connection. Maybe it was a test.
“He was married to my aunt Rebecca, you see. They often came up from Penzance to visit back when he was posted there. My aunt has a designer clothing shop on that pedestrian street, Causewayhead.
“Mount’s Bay Trading?” Terry asked. It was a shop she’d always admired but could never afford.
“That’s it. They divorced though, some years ago, but he still came by on occasion…as if it were his duty. We haven’t seen him for a while, though. Handsome devil, is he still?”
Terry smiled. She could imagine her boss charming any woman of any age, but always at a gentlemanly remove.
“If you came to see my parents, I’m sorry. They’re out tonight,” she said, turning her attention again to Novak who had opened a small black notebook.
“Was that them we saw leaving your drive just now?” Bates asked.
The woman blinked and scanned the room as if searching for an answer. “Um, must have been. It’s the Landowners’ Association monthly meeting at the Old Inn at St. Breward and my father is the chairman. Has been for years, actually. Members of the Commoners Association also attend. It’s important. They all share the Bodmin Commons, of course, and work out issues at these meetings.”
Terry tried to think how a meeting could be more important than a dead body on your property and wondered if the girl had even called them.
“Share? What does that mean?” Novak asked.
“Oh, I thought everyone knew…”
“We’re fairly new to this part of Cornwall,” Terry explained, failing to deflect the young woman’s focus on Novak. “We each hail from West Penwith, originally.”
“I see,” she said and clearly bored with the need to explain, began: “So the estates on and around Bodmin Moor are held by several large landowners. They’re called Lords of the Manor. It’s not a royal title or anything, just what estate owners have been called here for centuries. Each manor has its own in-bye land but it also owns and is responsible for managing a part of the commons.”
Novak looked up from his note-taking. “I’m sorry, ‘in-bye’?”
Cuthbertson sighed. “Yes, in-bye. That’s the improved private pastureland, hedged fields and so forth, at lower elevations. Soil’s too thin here for proper arable farming, so we grow a lot of clover. We sell a lot of it; the rest’s for our own sheep. The commons is the open upland moor. It’s less fertile but the lords must provide rights of use of the moor to the commoners in the area.”
“Sounds feudal,” Terry said.
“In a sense it is; our family has owned the Manor of Poldue for centuries.”
Bates wondered whether she was supposed to stand and curtsy.
“So these ‘commoners’ who share the moor…help me out here: who are they?” she said.
“They’re mostly just farmers whose land adjoins one of the manor estates and moorland. Some lease their land from the manor, some own freeholds. We have to provide access to them for grazing, cutting peat—though no one does that anymore—gathering wood, and the like. Mostly these days it’s grazing rights: sheep and some cows. There’s a big dairy operation just west of here. Anyway, the Lords have the right to the residue—whatever is left—for their own livestock.”
“You said meetings like the one tonight are to resolve issues. Are there conflicts?”
The woman stiffened: “For the most part, my father’s relationships with our neighbors and commoners have been friendly and cooperative.”
“For the most part? I should think that the ‘Lords’—is that really what they’re called?—would have disagreements with the commoners now and again about the use of the commons, no? Perhaps someone who’s abusing grazing rights?”
Cuthbertson made a face, as if she’d suddenly smelled something rank, then shook her head. “It happens, of course, but rarely. There’s a lot of peer pressure for everyone to act responsibly. Pretty much everyone wants the best for the moor, its habitat and wildlife and, of course, the grazing animals.”
“Would your father agree?”
“Oh yes, I should think so. He works hard to be fair to all. It’s all about consensus.”
Terry somehow doubted this: competitors for the use of the same land? She pushed her tea aside. “Let’s focus on late this afternoon, now, shall we?”
Cuthbertson drained what was left in her whisky tumbler and poured another inch.
“According to your phone report to Devon and Cornwall Police, you were on Rough Tor this afternoon when you heard birds fighting, am I right?”
Cuthbertson nodded. “Yes: carrion crows and a hawk.”
“And you were on the moor because…?”
The girl tossed her head. “Because it’s my job, detective; I survey the commons for my father. I make sure it’s not being overgrazed.”
“And is it?”
“Sometimes and in some places, but not at this moment.”
“And how do you do these surveys?”
“I walk sections of the estate.”
“Taking samples or something?”
“No need. I can just tell. I studied countryside management at school.”
“And today?”
“Today I went south, following the footpath along our stream—it’s a tributary of the Camel River. I went as far as Gorgelly Farm, which is our land but is leased by one of our tenants, the Rosthwaites.”
Novak took the name.
“From there, a rough farm track runs northeast to the foot of Brown Willy. It passes the remains of a Bronze Age field system and two Neolithic stone circles—not as big as Stonehenge, of course, but they’ve been there more than four thousand years.” It was as if she were their proud personal guardian.
“Then what?”
&
nbsp; “I climbed up to the summit of Rough Tor.”
“Gosh. All the way up?”
Cuthbertson laughed. “You make it sound like Everest! It’s only about 1,300 feet above sea level, but our house is already at about 600 feet, so ‘all the way up,’ as you put it, is hardly a climb. I go up there for the view. From the summit I can see much of our land and I can tell, even though autumn’s coming on, how the moor is faring, just by its color.”
Novak looked up. “Its color?”
“We’ve had a few early frosts and the bracken ferns are already turning rust brown, as they do. Higher up, around Rough Tor, the grasses have begun to yellow. The autumn rains turn the bogs deep green and there are still bits of purple heather and yellow tormentil blooming here and there. If you know the moor, these color changes can be beautiful.”
For a moment, the woman’s eyes drifted, as if to that view.
Bates interrupted her reverie: “And then there was this noise?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t see from where I was; I had to cross the ridge to Showery Tor. From there I could see the birds fighting down in Rough Tor Mire. It’s rare for carrion crows to attack a hawk on the ground but they were clearly after something. I wondered whether it was one of my mother’s beloved ponies trapped in the mire.”
“Beloved ponies?” Bates asked.
The woman shrugged: “Oh yes, my mother fashions herself as the savior of the wild ponies of Bodmin Moor. There are hundreds of them.”
“You do not approve of her affection for them?”
Cuthbertson took another sip from her tumbler. To Bates it seemed like she was buying time.
“Look, I love my mother and I love horses, okay? But these so-called ‘wild ponies’ are not native. They’re feral. People haul them here from God knows where and simply let them go free on the moor. They breed like crazy and their numbers grow. They overgraze the moor, compete with our livestock, and their hooves rip up the thin turf. There are winters when the moor just can’t sustain them all. Landowners and commoners are expected to provide supplemental feed during hard times. Most do. Some don’t. So horses die. There’s always a lot of media coverage when they do. People only think ‘Oh, the poor cute ponies!’ They don’t understand how destructive they can be.”
“And your mother?”
She raised a dismissive hand: “It’s like she’s deaf, dumb, and blind. I see the damage every time I am out there on the moor. My tutor at school tried to explain it to her. She ignored him. She’s even set up and got funding for a pony rescue charity. As far as I’m concerned, I think an annual hunt should be organized to cull the herds and protect the moor.”
Terry blinked. She looked at Adam and saw his eyebrows lift. She was glad when he changed the subject.
“So this mire. That’s like, what, ma’am: a swamp?”
“Yes and no; it is a mix of open water and saturated peat. It’s also called a ‘quaking bog’ because its surface is so unstable. The ground looks harmless enough, but stray onto it and you sink and the more you struggle to get out the more stuck you become. The bog builds over centuries because there is a granite plateau beneath it that keeps the rain from draining off. Vegetation grows and dies and eventually forms peat. Usually the bedrock is only a foot or two beneath the surface so when your feet get down and hit it you can wade or crawl out. But not Rough Tor Mire. It’s deep. No one local would ever go near it.”
“And yet you did.” Terry said.
“I was worried. I can’t explain it. Something there was just not right. But I did not go far.”
“So this mire is known to be dangerous?”
“Absolutely, and it is well marked on the Ordnance Survey map most walkers use.”
“When you were up there this afternoon did you see other walkers?”
“No. It’s late in the season and it was also late in the day. The weather was closing in. No one wants to be up on the moor when the weather gets filthy. It’s rain, mostly, but you can also get closed in by mist and lose your bearings. The mist slips in from the west and soon you can only see a few feet ahead of you. All the other landscape features dissolve into gray. That’s what happened yesterday. If you don’t know how to read the land, you can get lost.”
“So do you think this body—this person—was someone who got lost in the mist?”
“No, the day had been dry, the day before as well. The mist only rolled in after I found…whoever that is out there tonight. All I saw were the birds. And that head.”
She poured herself another small measure of Talisker.
“Male or female? Did you recognize the face?”
“There was no face!” she said, her voice rising. “The hawk was tearing at it! No eyes, no flesh!”
“Long hair or short? Color?”
Cuthbertson stood. “Good lord, what do you want from me?!”
Terry wondered if the woman were expressing shock or just annoyance. It wasn’t clear. She looked at her watch. It was past ten. She wanted to press the woman more, as she was sure Morgan would have regardless of the hour, but she didn’t know how.
“Yes, of course; it must have been awful for you, Ms. Cuthbertson. As I am sure you can appreciate, we will not be able to investigate the scene until daylight. You have been through a lot this evening; will you be all right until your parents return?”
The woman’s eyes flashed. “I am not a child, detective.”
“I did not mean to suggest you were, Ms. Cuthbertson. However, it is not every day one discovers a dead body.”
Three
“OH! HELLO.”
Calum West blinked. He’d been dozing in his bed that Monday evening after dinner. Ever since the pacemaker operation to reset his faltering heart, he slept a lot. It was partly the painkillers, but also post-operative exhaustion. The surgery had been more difficult than his NHS doctor had anticipated and there had been an artery blockage to repair as well. He was mending, yes, but his chest still felt bludgeoned. He felt suddenly older and strangely mortal. He didn’t like either feeling. He lifted his head and blinked again.
“Be still,” Detective Inspector Morgan Davies ordered as she gently pushed his head back onto the pillows.
“Okay. But why are you here—you know, actually here in my bed?”
“Because the surgeon said I was to keep you calm and comfortable until you could be up and about again. And anyway, I’m not in the bed; I’m on it,” she said, pointing to the duvet upon which she lay, propped on one elbow. He rolled away to his side.
“This is not making me calm.”
“Shut up, you randy devil.”
Though fully dressed, Morgan spooned up against his back. “You scared me to death, you bastard. Don’t do that again, okay?”
“It wasn’t deliberate.”
“Like that matters?”
“You smell nice.”
“I do occasionally bathe.”
“No, something else.”
“Oh, that…that’s Eau de Lust perfume. It was on special offer at the Boots chemists in Bodmin if you must know. Very popular, it is.”
“It isn’t and you didn’t.”
“Okay, guilty as charged, it’s just lavender soap. How about you keep quiet for a while and rest?” She pulled him closer, careful not to touch the still-angry scar and stitches just below his left collarbone. He relaxed into her.
“This is nice,” he said. “Why didn’t we do this long ago?”
“Because, Detective Sergeant West, we are both dim as posts, that’s why: two stubborn, stupid, scared, middle-aged fools. Plus, there’s the fraternization issue…”
“Is there one?”
“I haven’t asked. You know my motto: It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”
“How’s that worked for you, detective?” he asked, knowing the answer.
“I still have my job.”
“Miracle, that is. So this, you know, bed thing? And looking after me and the girls…why now?
“Be
cause I thought I was losing you.”
“Just your luck you didn’t.”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what? I’m just…”
“Shut up.”
“Okay. But how’re my girls?”
Calum was the single father of two sharp-witted daughters: Megan, eight, and Kaitlin, eleven. Their mother had died three years earlier. Cancer.
“Not to worry: they’re fast asleep. I read to them…from the manual of police procedure.”
“No wonder they’re asleep.”
“They loved it.”
“They like you, you know,” Calum mumbled. He was struggling to stay awake and failing.
“Yeah. Go figure…”
She held him until his breathing slowed again and then slipped away to the guest room where Calum’s aging mother-in-law Ruth usually stayed while looking after the girls. Given West’s unpredictable hours as the head of the force’s Scene of Crimes Office, she was a frequent visitor. Sitting on the edge of the guest bed she admitted to herself that she was enjoying simply being with him, looking after him. They’d worked on cases together for more than a decade. He was brilliant at a crime scene: utterly focused, relentless, and a perfectionist. Their relationship had only ever been professional, and was often adversarial—though warmly so, as if they were pugilists sparring with pillows instead of fists. But the respect and affection were there, just beneath the verbal barbs. Neither admitted it of course—to themselves or to each other. Morgan especially. Acknowledging would suggest vulnerability. And need. Morgan had never shown either. Until now. Until Calum’s heart had faltered. Until she thought she’d lose him.
The curtains and duvet cover in Ruth’s room were in a traditional English cabbage rose print, no doubt from Liberty of London. And of course there were photos of Calum’s late wife Catherine and their daughters in small silver frames on the beige mid-century-modern dresser that clashed with the timeless drapery. Both little girls, she saw, had their mother’s bright blond hair. But in the years since, Kaitlin’s shoulder length hair had darkened to a light brown. Looking at the images she wondered if Catherine had dyed her hair to keep it blond. Morgan wasn’t judging; she admired Catherine and the life she’d made for Calum and the girls. Catherine was petite next to Calum, and trim, almost athletic despite having two children. Morgan envied that, too.
