by Ann Granger
MURDER AMOMG U5 117
pulled on her thickest pullover and two pairs of socks. In the middle of all this, she thought she heard her sister Vicky call out from the room next door and there was a breath-holding few moments while Emma waited to see if either her father or mother would come upstairs. But Vicky didn't call again and all remained quiet. She had contemplated waiting until her parents had gone to bed. But the trouble with that was that they tended to go to bed late and there was a real risk that by the time they came upstairs, she would have fallen asleep and the whole careftilly planned mission would be brought to nought at the outset.
The mission was simple. It was to save Maud. No matter what assurances either the vet or Zoe had given her, Emma feared that Maud's days were numbered. The vet had said Maud couldn't see the winter out in present stabling. Zoe had said, more than once, that she couldn't find anywhere else for the animals. Cogito ergo sum would have meant nothing to Emma, but her own busy little brain had worked out a similar logical progression. No expensive new stabling: no Maud.
Time too was of the essence. She had to move quickly. If she didn't, she might arrive at the stables any morning now and find the horrid deed done and Maud no more. Nevertheless she paused to fold her pyjamas and straighten her bed because she didn't wish to be unfair to her mother.
She managed to negotiate the squeaky floorboard outside her brother's room and strained her ears for the sounds of his radio. Sometimes he lay in bed in the dark listening to the music from his Walkman on the pillow beside him. But tonight all she could distinguish through the door panels was a faint rhythmic tickety-tic, click-click which meant he was listening through his headphones and only the loudest efforts of the rock band concerned penetrated.
Emma crept downstairs. But just as she reached the hall she heard to her dismay her father's voice coming nearer and just had time to dive into the cloaks cup-
board to hide among the welter of raincoats and Wellington boots, golf clubs and folded pushchair which it housed. Any or all of these things might have fallen causing a clatter which would betray her, but luck was on her side. She heard her father pass the door and then the noise of a kettle whistling in the kitchen and, in due course, her father repassing the door on his way back to the sitting room bearing a tea-tray. There was a sudden gust of sound—the chiming of Big Ben signifying News at Ten on the TV. Then it was cut off and all quiet again.
Emma let herself out of the back door and undertook the next part of her plan, the only part about which she had any misgivings. It involved "borrowing" Matthew's bicycle. It was too far to walk all the way to the Alice Batt Rest Home, especially by night. To take the bus, even if it was running so late which she was not sure it was, might give rise to questions from the driver, seeing her alone at this time of day. The only way to get there was by taking Matthew's bicycle, her own bike having been written off six months ago whilst practising scrambling and not a hope of a new one before Christmas. Matthew cherished his bike. Emma meant to take the greatest care of it and leave it where it could be found.
She fetched it from the shed with many a guilty glance at the curtained windows of the house, pushed it tentatively round to the front, mounted it with some difficulty, it being a boy's bike, and set off, wobbling slightly.
The journey took her longer than she had supposed and was more scary than she had imagined. The country road was lonely but twice cars roared past, picking her up in their glaring headlights and almost forcing her into the ditch. Neither driver stopped, however, and she reached the gates of the stableyard in safety, unchallenged.
Security at the yard was lax. The general state of the animals meant that no one would be likely to steal them.
They'd even gone past the horsemeat stage. Zoe lived in the caravan beyond the yard, but she went to bed early as she rose at first light to see to her chores, and the caravan was in darkness.
Emma withdrew the bar-latch on the barn door and dragged it open. The hinges creaked, the noise sounding like a gunshot in the night stillness, and warm air smelling of horses and manure filled her nose. To Schuh-macher it might be a highly objectionable odour, but to Emma it was the most beautiful perfume in the world. She slipped inside and switched on her torch. Straw rustled. Heads turned in the stalls into which the barn was subdivided and surprised eyes gazed at her. One or two animals snickered their welcome.
Emma returned outside to fetch the bicycle which she wheeled in and propped carefully against the wall. There it would be safe, found first thing and returned to the furious Matthew. She'd make it up to him sometime, buy him a six-pack of Coca-Cola or something equally lavish.
Maud was in the stall at the end, snoozing on three legs and one propped hoof. She lifted her head and stared at Emma in a slightly grumpy fashion, as would any elderly lady rudely awoken in the middle of the night. Emma took the halter from the hook on the wall and slipped it over Maud's head, whispering encouragement and hoping Maud didn't signify her disapproval by uttering one of her ear-splitting brays. Emma tugged at the rope. Maud, resigned to the disruption in her routine, followed her, lurching along in her rheumaticky fashion, probably wondering where they were going but trusting her human friend.
Outside, Emma refastened the barn door and set off with Maud down the lane. At the bottom there was a hiding place in the hedge where she had secreted her purloined store of apples—for Maud—and tins of baked beans—for herself—in an old haversack. It was very heavy, but she managed to hoist it on to Maud's back and balance it there, then they set off again.
The idea was to take to the nearest farmland, make their way across the fields and find refuge in the woods. It should not be diffcult to hide Maud there and so far away, even if she did bray, the noise would be faint.
The woods hereabouts covered a considerable area, part native woodland and part Forestry Commission plantation. The former area was a delight to wander in, full of bluebells and primroses in springtime. It was an untidy place where trees jostled for space and curious fungi sprouted. Beyond this wood, a relatively small area, began the regimented close-packed pines, growing dark and tall, blotting out the sky and full of mystery. Here it was exciting to wander too, provided one had a friend to help keep fears away and didn't get lost, which was all too easy. But where it was easy to become lost, it was correspondingly diffcult to be found and thus it was to this rustling cathedral of dark pillars that Emma headed.
She had reconnoitred earlier in the week and discovered a path made by deer. It twisted between the pine-trunks. Following it, Emma had come upon the very place. It was near the stream which ran through the plantation (Maud would need water), and it was a sort of den. Emma supposed it was built by children during the holidays. It was quite roomy, made of interwoven branches dragged in here from the outer ring of wild wood and covered over with an old tarpaulin. She had inspected it carefully and, although a little smelly, it was dry and Maud could just be squeezed inside.
Quite what was going to happen after this, how long they were going to have to remain hidden, Emma wasn't sure. But the plan was working excellently so far and, like Mr. Micawber, Emma had every confidence that something would turn up to solve her problems.
The woods lay at the bottom of a steep hillside. Maud found the descent difficult and so, with nothing but the fitful light of the moon and her torch to guide her, did Emma. They stumbled along together, the child gasping
and urging the donkey on, Maud uttering occasional disgruntled snorts.
The treeline rose up in front of them, dark, rustling, sinister. Without warning something flew out, straight at them. Emma gave a small shriek and ducked down. Wide wings swept by, almost brushing her cheek and a ghostly form soared up and disappeared.
Only an owl. Emma breathed again. "Come on!" she encouraged Maud.
But Maud was having second thoughts. She'd gone along with this midnight jape so far but the night was chilly and she missed the warmth of her barn and the companionship of her fellow equines. Bes
ides, she wanted to go to sleep. She stopped.
Emma tugged at the halter. "Don't give up, Maud! You've got to come on! You don't know what they're going to do to you!"
Maud clearly thought that whatever it was, this was worse. She jerked her head, dragged the rope from Emma's fingers and wheeling round on her sound hind legs, set off determinedly back the way they'd come. Emma plunged after her in the darkness and managed to catch her up. But the haversack of provisions had fallen off the donkey's back in the brief escape and although Emma flashed the torch around, she couldn't see where it lay. It would have to be retrieved by daylight.
A battle of wills ensued. Emma tugged at the headstall. Maud, four hooves planted obstinately, just refused to budge. Even worse, she attempted to give voice to her displeasure but at the first "hee" Emma grabbed her soft muzzle and the "haw" turned into a cross groan.
Eventually, after what seemed like ages, Maud gave up the argument and allowed herself to be turned and led back towards the wood. Emma felt relieved but worried. It was all taking so long, she had lost the haversack and was hot and tired. Maud did not like the woods and the whispering voices which came from
the treetops in the darkness. Neither did Emma, for that matter. Even the wild wood which had been rather pretty and exciting to wander in was now hostile. Things rustled in the undergrowth and fell from the trees. Twigs snapped away between the dark trunks some of which were stunted and twisted and seemed in the poor light uncannily humanoid. Emma stumbled over the exposed roots and trailing shoots. Eyes watched, the owners unseen but there. Occasionally the torch's gleam caught the luminous reflection of them, a rabbit's or stoat's. Emma didn't these days believe in goblins or fairies. She tried not to believe in ghosts. But the woods raised primaeval fears. Here existed things older than Emma, older than the now standing trees, older than the recorded history of the whole area. Shapeless things, timeless things, forgotten things. They stirred amongst the mossy fallen trunks and peeling bark and rippled the layer of fallen leaves.
And now they had reached the edge of the pine plantation. More by good luck than skill Emma came upon the deer track—she hoped it was the same one and not another. She grasped Maud's headstall more firmly and whispering to the donkey to give herself encouragement, plunged them into the forest of alien woodland.
Sheer blackness enveloped them. The moon could not penetrate the overhead canopy and the torch was inadequate. Emma flashed it ahead of them as they plodded together down the narrow path. Their feet sank in the soft needle-strewn soil and sprang back again, their steps silent, their nostrils filled with the musty odour of decay and the acrid all-pervasive scent of resin. It seemed they would stumble on for ever but, at long last, Emma heard the tinkling of running water and knew they were near the brook. She had marked a turning off here with a pile of stones and pinecones. With relief and triumph the beam of the flashlight picked up her private cairn. She tugged at the halter and Maud lurched after her into the trees.
There it was, the bothy! Emma approached it with a feeling of rising exultation. They'd made it! After so much time and trouble they were here! It was all worthwhile.
"We're all right now, Maud!" she gasped into one long drooping ear. Maud stamped her hind hoof, possibly not agreeing.
Emma pulled back the tarpaulin and flashed the light briefly inside. It didn't illuminate the whole interior, just a strip from the doorway but she hoped Maud would realise this was a refuge. She tugged at the halter.
Maud threw up her head and jibbed. Emma struggled to pull her forward. Maud pulled back, snorting. Emma switched off the torch and tucked it into her belt to leave both hands free for the battle. She made a superhuman effort and managed to drag the donkey into the cramped, dark, smelly interior.
The tarpaulin over the door fell down abruptly with a slapping sound, making her jump and cutting off any faint light from outside so that they were in pitch darkness. The stench in here was far worse than Emma had remembered, airless and stale, foul and oppressive at the same time. She began to fear she wouldn't be able to stick it. And then she heard something move in the recess by the entry.
She thought at first it was Maud, stamping a hoof. But pressed against the donkey, she realised that the animal stood stock still. Whatever it was, it moved again. Her heart gave a sickening jolt and her blood seemed to coagulate in her veins. Another animal? Emma ran desperately through a list of comforting possibilities. A badger or fofc? Unlikely. They were outside in the undergrowth. A bird which had flown in here and become trapped? Bats? She hated bats. But one thing was sure. She and Maud were not alone in the bothy.
Emma's fingers scrabbled at her waist for her torch and as they did, whatever it was began to move in earnest, moving towards her. She could smell it, fusty
and sour, sense its warmth and most terrifying of all, bear its hoarse, laboured breathing. Maud snorted a warning, throwing up her hammer head and taking a step forward as if to place her solid body between Emma and It.
Emma's trembling fingertips touched the metal of the torch. She struggled to drag it from her belt and at the same time find the button to switch it on.
But before she could, a hand came out of the darkness and took hold of her wrist.
Ten
Markby had had a tiring day. Whilst Pearce had been interviewing Deirdre, he had obtained a copy of the film shot by the TV company and now he was running it through.
Pearce came back in the middle of it and joined in enthusiastically. As intimated to Deirdre, the sergeant hadn't seen Hope's streak before and regretted missing it. Nevertheless he was well trained enough to keep most of his attention on the background activity on the film. Well, nearly all of it.
Back and forth they went over the event. Markby rubbed a hand over his eyes and squinted at the screen. He mumbled, "Go on!"
To an accompanying soft whirring the film moved onward. Bodies leapt and jostled and one, Hope Mapple in the buff, ran. Spectacular as the sight was, however, she was not the one the two policemen sought on the short length of film obtained from the TV company.
"Go on!" Markby ordered again. "No, wait! Back, no that's too far—yes, there!"
He leaned forward and peered intently at the screen again. Pearce came forward and pointed at the face in the crowd close behind Hope. "You're right, sir. There she is, Zoe Foster!"
Markby nodded. "Okay, you can switch that thing off now. I would say that lets Zoe out. She followed the crowd after Hope, as she told us, and could only have arrived in the cellar after the rest of us. She retreated to the far bay and found the body, just as she said. She didn't have time to kill Ellen."
"It was a quick kill," said Pearce doubtfully. "If Ellen was waiting ..."
"Zoe wouldn't kill her with all those potential witnesses in the cellar! Ellen was dead when we all raced down there after our streaker and Zoe found her body. However, I have to say I'm rather glad she was caught on the film like that. It gave me a bit of a shock when she started babbling about Ellen's will. I wouldn't have thought her a likely killer, but she does care about those old nags and people have killed for lesser reasons. So a nice filmed alibi is helpful."
"Gave young Harding a shock too, by all accounts!" said Pearce with a grin.
"Irritating youth! Oh well, time to go home!" Markby hauled himself up with a sigh. "Or rather, you can go home. I've arranged to go and see Grimsby." He glanced at his wristwatch. "I'm to meet him at his house at six-forty-five sharp, he informs me. He's leaving that bookshop of his just after six. That, he also informs me, is solely on my account. Normally he stays there till six-thirty tidying up."
"Couldn't you have called on him there?" Pearce asked.
"He wasn't keen on that idea. The impression I gained was that he thinks a police inspector coming into his shop might lower the tone of the place. Perhaps he's worried I mightn't wipe my police boots or I'd ask in a loud voice if he stocks porn. He hasn't yet addressed me as 'officer,' but I suspect that any moment he will."
&
nbsp; "Daft blighter," said Pearce.
"A member of the public, Pearce, and a pillar of the Chamber of Commerce. Handle with care. I don't mind going to his house. In fact, I'd rather see him on his own ground. You can tell a lot about a person from the contents of his bookcase and the pattern of his carpet. However, between you and me, I have just about had enough of the Society for the Preservation of Historic Bamford for one day. When I've seen
Grimsby I shall have spoken with its entire surviving committee within a twelve-hour period and that's enough for anyone!"
Markby heaved an exasperated sigh. "When I was young we used to gather round pub pianos and sing a musical version of Longfellow's 'Excelsior' with appropriate gestures and a few inappropriate ones. It begins, if you recall, The shades of night were falling fast' and goes on about a youth appearing in an alpine village bearing a 'banner with a strange device.' Well, Hope Mapple's banner bore a strange device all right and Eric's garden is probably the nearest we've got to an alpine village round here, but everything else is as obscure as the purpose of that chap in the poem."
"What happened to him, the bloke in the poem?"
"He got buried in a snowdrift, banner and all. He was lucky. I've got to struggle on with the committee of the historical society. By the way, did you interview that chambermaid?"
"Deirdre," said Pearce, rolling his eyes. "I'd take anything Deirdre has to say about Hope Mapple with a pinch of salt." He told Markby about the gift card on the chocolate box.
"Kindest regards, Charles!" repeated Markby slowly. "So within the committee, Hope was allied with Charles Grimsby and Zoe was allied with Robin Harding, and that left Ellen Bryant out on her own. I wonder if that's significant. Time will tell. Goodnight, off you go."
Grimsby lived in semi-detached respectability with a row of geraniums in pots on his parlour windowsill, volumes of local history and Dickens in his bookcase, three china geese flying up the wall and a faded carpet patterned with swirls on the floor. The whole room dated from the 1930s. There was even a Marconi wireless set in a polished case, pleated satin sofa cushions and em-
