Dead Man's Bluff

by Roderic Jeffries

  Meg wanted something special for the meal tomorrow, so she must have pheasant. The season for pheasants was a long way from starting, but only the rich worried about such things: a nice young cock bird — so long as it had almost matured to full plumage — tasted just as good in August as it would in October.

  He had five feeding places in the southern end of Parson’s Wood and he kept these going throughout the year so that pheasants were always using them. An experienced keeper would soon have discovered them and known what they were, but others would not even notice them. He baited the first four feeding places.

  He reached the fifth feeding place and took a handful of crushed barley from his pocket — part of the cows’ ration for the morning — and was just about to scatter it when he heard a shot from relatively close by. He stood still and waited, fear twisting his stomach. There were often distant shots and the regular explosions of bird scarers when these were in use, but this shot had surely been fired on the estate. Poachers were never punished very hard, but he had an irrational fear of the law that was close to being terror. He took a battered five-shilling watch from his pocket and saw the time was five past three. Knott must be out with a gun and wandering round.

  Instinct urged him to run, but Meg wanted a pheasant for the next day and if she’d asked for a slice of the moon he’d have done his best to get it for her. He waited a while, then scattered the corn. He moved slowly and carefully a hundred yards to the right and cut some finger-thick twigs from a hornbeam, using earth to darken the stubs on the tree. He stripped off all the leaves from the branches and pushed these down rabbit holes, cut the twigs into lengths ranging from eighteen inches to six, and with the aid of string fashioned a pyramid-shaped trap. As he worked, he listened carefully, fearing the sound that would send him bolting for safety.

  He returned home and grinned at his wife, by which she knew they would have a celebration meal tomorrow.

  *

  Browland left his house and began to cycle towards the farm. The lane was narrow and by the entrance to the twelve-acre field it rose in a twisting hundred-foot climb which always brought him off his bicycle. When he reached the top he remounted and continued past the keeper’s cottage, now empty and almost derelict. From here, he could see the farm buildings. Smoke was rising from the wing nearest the road and he wondered, without much real curiosity, what was burning.

  Chapter 3

  Detective-Inspector Jim Clayton leaned back in his chair and sighed. Who was it who dreamed up all the unnecessary paper-work that had to be dealt with day after day? He had the quick vision of a little man with a large head and horn-rimmed spectacles, racking his brain to think up new forms.

  The telephone rang. ‘You’re not forgetting we’re going out this evening, are you, Jim?’ his wife asked.

  ‘No, dear.’

  ‘And you’ll soon be coming home — it’s quite a long drive?’

  ‘I’m practically on my way.’

  She sounded suspicious. ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘I’ve never been more positive in my life.’

  ‘Humph!’ she said, and rang off.

  He looked at his watch, then at the pile of forms still to be completed. They would have to wait for another day.

  As he stood up, there was a quick knock on the door and Detective-Sergeant Morris came in. ‘A report’s just through of a bad fire at a farm at Endley Cross, sir.’

  ‘How’s that our pigeon?’

  ‘There are two bodies involved.’

  Only Morris would talk about bodies being involved in a fire, thought Clayton. ‘Do we know anything more than that?’

  ‘Nothing, sir, except that the fire became very fierce, very quickly. I’ve checked and there’s no apparent reason for this.’

  Morris never missed a chance, Clayton knew from experience, of pointing out how efficient he was. Tall, well-built, sharply featured, with a mouth that held a slightly bitter twist, he looked what he was — a man who admired only success and was determined to succeed at all costs. He had a dedicated ambition. Clayton had an inborn distrust of dedicated ambitions. ‘I guess we’d better go and have a look.’ He remembered the very recent call from his wife. ‘I’ll meet you down at my car.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Morris left and Clayton asked the switchboard operator for an outside line. He telephoned his wife. ‘Margery, what time is the invitation …’

  ‘Jim Clayton, are you about to try and cry off?’

  ‘Something’s turned up and I’ve got to slip out to Endley Cross and see what’s what.’

  ‘So help me, if you’re not back here in time to drive over to Dawn’s by six-thirty, I’ll … ’

  He hastily interrupted. ‘I’ll be with you long before you can start to get fussed.’ He rang off before she could point out that if he had to drive to Endley Cross, deal with the matter, and return to Gertfinden, he was hardly likely to be with her in time. Still, he tried to comfort himself, by now she was used to sudden upsets in plans.

  His car, a rather battered Hillman on which he was given a poor mileage allowance when on police work, was parked in the courtyard at the back of the police station. Morris already sat in the front passenger seat. He started the engine, backed, and drove out on to the road, turning right.

  ‘Who’s out at the farm?’ he asked, as he braked for Station Road.

  ‘The local PC.’

  ‘And who’s he?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Morris, in a tone of voice which suggested that names of local PCs were unimportant.

  Times had changed in the force, mused Clayton. Perhaps this was good as well as inevitable, but that didn’t mean he welcomed it any the more — a sentiment that would have aroused Morris’s scorn. Yet surely there must be something to be said for the time when there had been considerably more contact between all ranks because communications had been so much more primitive … Nor, he thought with a quick grin, was he talking about fifty years ago, as some of the youngsters might like to suggest.

  The drive took them through south-east Gertfinden, a shabby area in which were a large number of dilapidated terrace houses that were only gradually being replaced by modem council houses and also two industrial estates, only half full because firms were still reluctant to set up factories in the area.

  Houses gave way to fields in which grass was browning from lack of rain. When they turned by the garage, they left the main road and drove along narrow lanes bordered on both sides by thorn hedges, now uneven from the summer’s growth. Clayton loved the countryside for its air of unhurried peace. He was unashamedly the traditional copper, looking forward to retirement among the hayseeds.

  Knott Farm had lost all air of unhurried peace. Two fire-engines were present, one in the drive, the other in the field between the wing and the road. Between them, they’d managed to contain the fire, but a portion of the wing had been gutted and was now only a smouldering, smoking ruin and wherever the jets from the hoses struck a hot enough patch, a ball of steam briefly rose in sharp contrast to the oily black smoke. Cars had stopped and a number of people were watching. A patrol car had parked in the entrance to the drive and two uniformed PCs were keeping the crowd back and making certain cars were parked safely.

  Clayton stopped by the patrol car, had a quick word with one of the PCs, then walked up the drive. He noticed that the post and rail fencing was in very dilapidated condition and the paddock between the drive and the road was thick with flowered thistles — two obvious signs of a farm in a rundown condition. At the back of his mind was the thought that at some time he’d read something about the owner of this place.

  A uniformed PC came across from the fire-engine in the field to the gateway, the earth of which had been heavily ridged by the traffic of cows. ‘Evening, sir.’

  Clayton recognized the other, a man older than himself and almost on the point of retirement. ‘Hullo, Lincoln — I didn’t know you were out this way.’

  ‘Been here for
the past two years, sir.’

  ‘The last time I saw you, you were doing a stint … ?’

  ‘Great Dering, sir.’

  ‘That’s right. We had a girl who’d disappeared, didn’t we? — and we found her, much to her annoyance!’ Clayton turned and spoke to Morris. ‘OK, George, have a scout round.’ The detective-sergeant walked off and Clayton spoke again to the PC. ‘What have we got here, then?’

  ‘Can’t tell you much more than I reported, sir, on account of not being able to get too near the building yet. The firemen were called, but by the time they got here they couldn’t save the section that’s gone. When things were damped down a bit they could see the bodies inside and that’s when they reported to Gertfinden, who sent me along.’

  ‘What are the bodies like?’

  ‘Pretty far gone, as far as I can tell.’

  ‘Any idea who they are?’

  ‘Not really, unless one of ’em’s the owner.’

  Clayton jerked his thumb in the direction of the farmhouse. ‘No one around to help?’

  ‘No, sir, the place is empty.’

  ‘Who’s the owner?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Knott.’

  ‘Of course!’ No wonder the name of the farm had been familiar. ‘Could one of the bodies be a woman’s?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but it’s impossible to be certain.’

  ‘Who reported the fire?’

  ‘Tom Browland, sir. He does a certain amount of work here. He came along for the afternoon milking, found the place on fire, and for once had the sense to break into the house and ring the fire brigade.’

  ‘Why d’you say “for once”?’

  ‘He’s simple, sir, always has been. They say his father was over seventy when he was born.’

  There was no one like the village PC for giving you all the details, thought Clayton. ‘Where’s he now?’

  ‘Milking. That’s what the humming noise is, if you can hear it over the row of the fire-engines.’

  ‘Did he seem worried?’

  ‘As soon as he was sure the fire was under control he said his cows needed milking so he was going to milk’em.’

  That possessed a simple logic which Clayton found satisfying. A countryman, simple or otherwise, would look after his animals as a first priority. ‘Can he tell us anything useful?’

  ‘I haven’t questioned him, sir. Left that for you.’ Clayton thanked the PC and then walked closer to the building to speak to the station officer who was in charge of the fire-fighting. The station officer led the way along the side of the twelve-foot-high outer brick wall of the building to the collapsed section. Here, the heat engulfed them and Clayton felt the sweat spring out on his face and body.

  The roof had collapsed on to the mass of flaming wreckage and as it had come down part had become wedged in such a way that it formed the top of a space some three feet deep: in this space could be seen the remains of two bodies.

  Clayton stepped back until he was free from the worst of the heat. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his face. ‘What were things like when you arrived?’

  ‘Very fierce.’

  ‘More than you’d expect? After all, these old buildings have a lot of timber in them.’

  ‘This wasn’t just timber — at a guess, I’d say something like paraffin.’

  ‘How long will it be before we can get to the bodies?’

  The station officer pursed his lips. ‘Could be quite a time yet.’

  Clayton watched one of the hoses moved round to enable the jet to be played on to a different part of the smoking rubble. Only one thing was certain, he wouldn’t be going anywhere with Margery tonight, so he must telephone her as soon as he could.

  He walked back to the drive, then went past the next wing, in which he saw the dairy, to the main shed which he entered. Wooden cubicles lined each wall. Some of the uprights were broken and two of the sleepers which were the kerbs had been knocked out of true. There was slurry in the gangway that was now dried up into a hard mess, obviously there since the cows had been turned out to grass in April. He looked up. The roof was lined with tongue-and-groove boarding and the roof timbers appeared thick enough to support a palace. It really was a case of ‘They don’t build’em like that these days.’

  He walked down between the cubicles and half-way along was the entrance into the collecting yard where a number of cows were milling about in slurry inches deep. He carried on to the far doorway and beyond was a bay about fifteen feet deep and this led out on to a concrete raft on which was a feeding trough and about fifty kow kennels. He turned and studied the building to try and get an idea of the layout. Here was a massively built corn-store and interior Dutch bam, with walls twenty feet high and a tiled roof, which ran at right angles to the main shed so that the whole complex was like an E, but with one extra wing. However much had this lot cost to build — at a time when the pound was truly a pound?

  A green half-ton van was parked on the feed-lot and on its side, in white lettering, was printed Louthy Feedstuffs. Morris, using a handkerchief, had opened the driving door and was peering inside. Clayton went up to him. ‘Bit of an unfortunate name for a firm,’ he said.

  Morris stepped back and stood upright. ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘Very close to lousy, isn’t it?’ Morris did not smile and looked at him as if he had said something very stupid. He sighed. ‘Is there anything inside?’ he asked.

  ‘There are some papers on the front seat and some sacks of something in the back.’

  Clayton peered in through the open doorway. On the passenger seat were several long forms, clearly issued by the Ministry of Agriculture, and a small bundle of invoices. One of the dozen half-hundredweight paper sacks in the rear compartment was on its side and the printing said it contained magnesium-enriched cow cake. The odds must be that the driver of this van was one of the two dead persons. ‘Dabs will have to go over this.’

  ‘I’d already thought of that, sir.’

  Morris would almost be bearable, thought Clayton gloomily, if only he weren’t quite so certain of his own brilliance. He turned away from the van and studied the kow kennels, made from wood and corrugated iron. The two lines were at right angles to him, but through the midway gap of the nearer one he could see that the passageway had not been scraped clear of slurry since last used. This farm was in a far more slovenly state than he had first imagined.

  He turned back. The interior Dutch bam had fifteen-foot-high entrance doors and these were jammed open because the steel overhead runners had partially broken away from the wall: the doors were almost bereft of paint and were badly rotted along the bottoms. He went into the Dutch barn. There was no hay there, but against the far wall were stacked a large number of paper sacks. When he went across to them and lifted down one from the top, he found it contained Louthy’s magnesium-enriched cow cake. There must be quite a few tons there, he thought: at thirty pounds plus a ton, that was a lot of money to have lying idle, especially on a farm that appeared virtually bankrupt. He replaced the bag at the third attempt — his muscles were not as strong as he’d thought them. Ten feet from the nearest bags was a large green stain down the walls to show where water had been running over the years: some of the roof timbers showed obvious signs of rot.

  He heard the crunch of regulation boots and PC Lincoln looked into the Dutch barn, saw him, and came inside. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs Knott has just arrived back home, sir. A friend drove her. She’s in a bit of a state.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Clayton. As always happened, he wished there were someone he could order to go and interview Mrs Knott, even while knowing there could be no one since it was his job to face her newly aroused misery. Because he had too much imagination and sense of compassion, he always immersed himself too deeply in another’s grief.

  He left the Dutch barn and shouted at Morris to have a word with the man who was doing the milking, then followed the PC along the drive
round the side of the buildings, bordered on the other side by woods, past the main shed, the dairy, and the partially burned wing, and down to the house. He paused at the dilapidated wooden garage and looked inside. He saw a large grey car which he identified as a Bentley. Just beyond the garage was parked a blue Mini.

  He went into the garden and knocked on the front door and immediately there was an outbreak of barking from the rear of the house. After a short wait, the door was opened by a heavily built woman whose main facial feature was a square, pugnacious chin, in the centre of which was a mole from which sprouted a large, curly black hair. She was dressed in a flower-patterned cotton frock which highlighted the dumpiness of her figure.

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded in a deep voice.

  ‘I’m Detective-Inspector Clayton. I’d like a word with Mrs Knott.’

  ‘Well you can’t come in. Phyllis is most terribly shocked.’

  ‘May I know who you are?’

  ‘I’m Miss Corrins, but what business of yours is that?’ He spoke pleasantly.

  ‘I always like to know whom I’m talking to. I’m sorry, Miss Corrins, I’m afraid I have to have a word with Mrs Knott.’ He couldn’t name the precise reason, but something about this woman aroused in him an immediate and instinctive dislike and this was nothing to do with her abrupt, almost rude, manner.

  She stared angrily at him, but finally stepped aside. ‘You’re not to forget she’s very upset.’

  He entered the house. ‘I suppose you know there’s no certainty yet that her husband is dead?’