So he sat. Eyes on the window. Until he got bored. Then he looked around him. The wall in front of him. The bush. The puzzling stripe of colours at the back of the bush. He edged forward, pushing at the colours with his nose, a smell – alien but intriguing – coming back from them.
A clatter of noise, voices in the courtyard. Tolpuddle, sensing the impropriety of his behaviour, clasped the colourful object in his mouth and turned to slink across the path to the copse of trees at the side of the car park, where he could satisfy his curiosity in peace.
Alice Shepherd was pronounced dead by a sombre Dr Naylor. The finality of the news took the air from the room, and left Samson trying to console a stunned Elaine Bullock as the paramedics packed away their equipment. Ana Stoyanova was still kneeling on the carpet, a hand over her mouth.
‘I’m sorry, Ana,’ Dr Naylor said as he helped her to her feet. ‘But there’s nothing more we can do. I suspect she was already gone when you found her.’
Ana’s jaw clenched, as though the doctor’s words were a physical slap.
‘And I’m also sorry,’ he continued with a contrite look, ‘but I’m going to have to notify the coroner.’
This was enough to make the manager’s cold gaze snap onto the doctor. ‘You’re joking! Why on earth would you put the family through that?’
‘I have to. I haven’t seen Alice since last month when we increased her medication. It’s more than two weeks ago, so I can’t sign the death certificate.’
‘But you were Alice’s doctor. You know she had high blood pressure.’
The doctor gave a tired shrug in the face of the manager’s annoyance. ‘It’s the law.’
‘Will that mean a post-mortem?’ Elaine Bullock’s gaze was worried behind the round lenses of her glasses.
‘Possibly.’
‘No . . .’ She glanced down at her godmother. ‘Oh no . . .’
Ana shook her head in disgust, glaring at the doctor. ‘This is exactly what I meant,’ she snapped. ‘Pointless bureaucracy!’
‘It can’t be helped,’ the doctor said. ‘And besides, only a handful of referrals are subjected to a post-mortem. There’s a good chance this won’t be one of them.’
‘Let’s hope that’s the case,’ retorted Ana. ‘We all know Alice’s death doesn’t merit the coroner’s attention.’
Samson, however, wasn’t sure he shared the manager’s opinion. Because he couldn’t help remembering the conviction with which Alice Shepherd had told him she was going to be killed.
Looking at her lifeless body on the floor in front of him, he wondered if she’d been right.
‘She didn’t seem herself last night. I should have paid more attention.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Arty.’ Edith Hird tempered the brusque words with a gentle tone. ‘She was a bit confused, that’s all. No more than she’d been of late.’
With the grey clouds turning to black beyond the long windows, the subdued pensioners in the lounge of Fellside Court were trying to take in the passing of their friend while, in true Bruncliffe fashion, Delilah served them cups of tea.
After Samson had emerged grim-faced from the apartment to tell her that Alice was dead, she had felt useless in the ensuing activity; Ana and Vicky had begun to contact the necessary authorities and a tearful Elaine was on the phone to Alice’s family. So Delilah had come downstairs, where the sad news had already been received, and at Joseph O’Brien’s suggestion, she’d helped him settle the residents in the lounge so they could absorb the shock. But as she’d handed out hot drinks to the groups scattered around the room, her thoughts had remained with Alice Shepherd.
What had the old lady been so afraid of that she’d called in on Samson yesterday? And did those fears have anything to do with her death?
In the context of the comfortable surroundings of Fellside Court, the idea seemed ludicrous.
‘Is there any coffee left?’ Samson was by her side, his features showing the strain of the morning.
‘Sorry, I’ve just given the last one out.’ Delilah pointed to the teapot. ‘I can offer you a tea?’ She began pouring, but he shook his head at the thick, brown liquid issuing from the spout.
‘Thanks, but I’ll pass.’
‘Here, son. Take mine. I was only having it to be sociable.’ Joseph gave Samson his cup of coffee before any protest could be made, laying a hand on his shoulder at the same time. ‘I don’t know what brought you here today, but it’s a good thing you came.’
His father’s misplaced gratitude did nothing to ease the remorse Samson was feeling. He’d come to talk to Alice. But he’d been too late. ‘Cheers, Dad.’ He took his coffee and followed Delilah and Joseph across the room to where Arty was sitting with Edith, Eric Bradley and Edith’s sister, Clarissa.
‘Was it peaceful, Samson?’ asked Arty, his face forlorn as Samson took a seat. ‘Did she suffer?’
‘Arty!’ Edith Hird frowned. ‘Let the lad have a minute’s break, at least.’
‘Sorry. It’s just . . .’ Tears formed in the bookmaker’s eyes and he wiped a plump hand across his cheeks. ‘Damn it.’
For once, Edith didn’t reprimand him for his language. Instead she leaned across and took his hand in hers.
‘Alice was happy here,’ said Clarissa, her light voice filling the heavy silence. ‘And you were a large factor in that, Arty. That’s what you need to remember.’
Arty nodded, head down, staring into his tea. ‘I know – it’s just yesterday . . . I should have asked her what was wrong.’
‘He’s right.’ Eric Bradley’s wheezing tones cut across Clarissa’s demurrals. ‘Alice was a bit more anxious than usual. That incident at lunchtime wasn’t like her.’
‘What incident?’ asked Samson.
‘It was over her pills,’ said Joseph. ‘Ana found Alice’s pillbox and realised Alice hadn’t taken her medication that morning. When Ana raised the matter, Alice became really agitated. Said she’d already taken them.’ He shrugged. ‘It was out of character. Alice Shepherd was never a woman prone to overreacting.’
A woman who didn’t overreact. Yet, thought Delilah, twenty-four hours ago the same woman had claimed someone was trying to kill her. And now she was dead. From his creased brow, Delilah could tell that Samson was thinking along the same lines.
‘Did she get on with everyone here?’ he asked casually.
‘Yes.’ Edith’s unequivocal response was qualified by a dissenting murmur from Arty.
‘You don’t agree?’ Samson turned back to the bookmaker.
‘It’s a brave man that disagrees with Edith.’ Arty gave a small smile and Edith patted his hand. ‘But there was something bothering Alice, I’m sure of it. She’s been – she was – more anxious than normal. She had to have her medication increased because of her high blood pressure. And then there was her visit to see you.’ He lifted his head and looked straight at Samson. ‘She told me she’d been, but wouldn’t say why.’
‘It was nothing.’ Samson accompanied his reply with an easy smile and Delilah noted, somewhat warily, the proficiency with which he could fall into role. No doubt it had been a useful trait when he was undercover. Now it was serving to calm the suspicions of Arty Robinson. ‘Just something about a theft,’ he continued. ‘She mentioned something about cufflinks?’
‘Oh, that!’ Arty gave a half-hearted chuckle. ‘I lost a cufflink, one of a pair of gaming dice. Never did find it. But Alice was convinced it had been stolen.’
‘Did you think that too?’
‘No. Why on earth would someone have taken just the one? It’s probably down the back of a cupboard somewhere.’
‘There was my scarf as well,’ added Clarissa. ‘I couldn’t find it. Still can’t. But Alice kept saying someone had taken it.’
Edith snorted. ‘As if! It was over twenty years old and as faded as my looks!’ Her blunt retort brought a smile to Arty’s face. ‘It was just Alice. Lately she’d begun to get worked up over things. Mostly because she was starting to
forget.’
‘Forget what?’
‘Everything, my lad. Everything. Alice knew she was beginning to lose her mind. And when that’s gone, what do you have left? It’s what we all fear, far more than death.’
This time it was Arty who offered comfort, squeezing Edith’s hand, which was still resting in his.
‘But what about your watch?’ Samson asked the headmistress. ‘Didn’t that go missing too?’
Arty was already shaking his head. ‘It was Alice who lost a watch, not Edith.’
‘Alice? But she said . . .’ Samson paused, remembering Alice’s muddled accusations from the day before, and her heated response when he’d queried them.
‘Her watch went missing and she claimed it had been stolen,’ explained Edith. ‘Then she found it in her handbag a few days later.’
‘Luckily she hadn’t told anyone,’ added Clarissa. ‘No one on the staff, anyway.’
‘And you think this was just confusion?’ Samson looked around the group.
‘What else could it be?’ asked Joseph.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps someone playing a trick on her? Maybe she didn’t get on with someone?’
‘This is Fellside Court,’ said Clarissa, looking at him with surprise. ‘Things like that don’t happen here. And besides, Alice got on with everyone, didn’t she?’ She turned to the group for confirmation and the others nodded and expressed agreement. Except for Arty. He was staring back into his empty cup with a frown.
‘Arty?’ Delilah asked. ‘What’s troubling you?’
‘Yesterday.’ He glanced up at her. ‘When Alice got het up about the pills.’
‘What about it?’
He shook his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m being daft, but it looked . . . it looked as though she was scared.’
‘Scared of what?’ Samson kept his tone light.
But Arty simply shook his head again. ‘I . . . I couldn’t say. It was just a feeling.’
Before Samson could press him further, he saw Elaine Bullock approaching, her cheeks tear-stained, her nose red below her glasses. In her hand she was holding the rainbow-coloured pillbox he’d last seen on his desk.
‘Elaine . . .’ He stood, awkward in the face of her grief. Delilah, as always, had no such constraints. She put her arms around her friend and hugged her. Then she led her to a chair and produced a packet of tissues.
‘The undertakers have just been,’ mumbled Elaine, drying the fresh tears that were forming. ‘So I just want to say thanks for everything, before I go.’
‘I’m not sure we deserve it,’ said Samson, looking contrite. ‘We were too late.’
‘We all were,’ said Joseph. ‘No one’s to blame.’
‘It’s just a shock. Alice was so excited about me coming in to talk today, and instead . . .’ Elaine’s voice broke and she gestured at the pillbox in her hand. ‘Ana said it would be all right for me to have this. Feels strange to be taking back a Christmas present.’
‘Alice really loved it, you know,’ said Clarissa. ‘She could name every stone on the lid and was always telling us interesting facts about them. It was such a thoughtful gift, Elaine.’
A patter of rain fell against the long windows.
‘Come on,’ said Delilah, getting to her feet. ‘I’ll walk back into town with you before it gets really wet. You coming, Samson?’
Samson stood, knowing the time wasn’t right to probe any further into the background to Alice Shepherd’s death. Hopefully the coroner would order a post-mortem and Samson’s unease at having made light of his client’s fears could be laid to rest, along with Elaine’s godmother.
Tolpuddle heard the door opening from across the car park. Despite a concerted effort, he’d been unable to find the source of the persistent rattle that came from inside his new toy. So he’d dug a shallow hole and was in the process of covering up the rainbow colours when the door opened and familiar voices interrupted his progress.
Leaving his labour unfinished, he raced across the grass, skittered around the tumbled chair and bounded over to the three figures in the courtyard, jumping up at them.
‘Tolpuddle! Get down! Sorry, Elaine, I don’t know what he’s been doing . . .’ Delilah brushed at the mud on her coat and the paw prints on Elaine’s trousers, but Elaine was laughing.
‘Don’t apologise. He’s just showing his love and after this morning, that’s not a bad thing.’
‘Huh!’ Delilah stared at her dog, who was now sitting, head tipped to one side, an ear cocked and his face wearing its most mournful look. ‘Butter wouldn’t melt,’ she muttered.
‘What do you expect when you leave him alone all morning? Digging the odd hole is no sin, is it, old boy?’ Samson scratched behind Tolpuddle’s ears and the dog’s expression became ecstatic.
Delilah sighed. As if the hound needed any more encouragement to adore the new man in his life. ‘Let’s get a move on,’ she said, turning to go as the rain became heavy, fat drops splattering on the paving.
Tolpuddle followed the three of them across the courtyard, around the corner and away from the building. He didn’t spare a thought for the object that had kept him amused all morning.
Arty Robinson watched them leave through the rain-smeared windows of the lounge and wondered if he’d done the right thing. Should he have said? Even when it was a half-formed suspicion?
‘Arty?’ He turned to see her standing in the doorway, looking immaculate. Hair pulled neatly back into a ponytail, features controlled. Only the creases to her uniform and the darkened skin beneath her eyes betrayed her stressful morning. ‘Have you got a moment?’
He nodded. To himself as much as to her, reassuring himself he’d been mistaken. Alice Shepherd had had no reason to be afraid of Ana Stoyanova.
Relieved that he hadn’t confessed his misgivings to Samson, Arty turned his back on the courtyard where the rain was streaming across the paving slabs. Beyond, across the strip of grass and into the copse of trees beside the car park, Tolpuddle’s toy was left below a cherry tree, half-buried, it’s spectrum of coloured stones getting wet as the rain fell harder still.
6
The rain that began the day Alice Shepherd’s body was discovered was unrelenting. For a full twenty-four hours it fell from leaden skies, filling the becks and streams to overflowing, pooling in the hollows of sodden fields and swelling the river that ran through the middle of Bruncliffe. By Saturday morning, the waterfall at the disused mill to the north of town was a tumbling, dun-coloured torrent, the steps of the fall negated by the volume of water flowing over them. Newly formed white lines snaked down hillsides in the distance, and springs emerged overnight from the already saturated soil. As far as Samson O’Brien could remember, it was a typical Dales December.
‘Now I know why I left this place,’ he muttered as Delilah drove them up out of town on streaming wet, narrow roads, windshield wipers slapping at the misted glass. ‘How can anyone live in this climate?’
‘Oh, stop moaning! It’s not as if London is that much better.’
‘You’re joking?’ He turned to look at her. ‘It’s a paradise compared to here. Don’t think I’ve ever seen so much rain. I’m in danger of getting trench foot.’
Delilah laughed, but kept her concentration on the hill that led out of the back of Bruncliffe, a daunting incline on a road only wide enough for one car. Trying not to be too concerned about the groaning engine, she nursed her newly acquired Nissan Micra upwards.
‘Christ!’ muttered Samson, as the noise from under the bonnet reached an ear-splitting shriek, the load of two adults and a large dog demanding a lot on the steep terrain. ‘Couldn’t you have got something with a bit more oomph?’
‘It’s all I could afford,’ snapped Delilah.
Two days she’d had the car and already she was fed up with the criticism it was provoking, particularly amongst her brothers, who were generally scornful of anything that didn’t have good ground clearance and th
e capacity to carry at least four sheep. But with new recruits to the Dales Dating Agency hitting a bit of a lull and payments for her web-design work not due until after Christmas, even the Micra had been a stretch – a purchase that Uncle Woolly, her bank manager, would probably say was a luxury too far. But then he’d not had to run across the fells to help Samson catch a ruthless killer.
After what had happened in November, Delilah had vowed she would never be in that situation again – stranded without a vehicle when someone’s life was in danger. And because something told her working alongside Samson O’Brien would always involve a bit of adventure, she’d started looking for a car.
Praying that nothing would come over the brow against her and force her to stop, she glared at the strip of tarmac through the rain-spattered windscreen.
‘It was too good a deal to turn down,’ she muttered.
‘You mean you actually paid someone for this?’ Samson grinned.
Delilah glowered at him. ‘Not technically. I got it as part-payment from Barry Dawson for setting up a website for the business. His mother died last month and it was sitting in a garage, doing nothing.’
‘Plastic Fantastic Barry?’ Samson asked, referring to the shop next to their office which sold items of every shape and colour, all in plastic. He flicked the dashboard contemptuously. ‘What was it – out-of-date stock?’
This time she punched him, regardless of the fact she had to take a hand off the steering wheel to do so. Tolpuddle barked in excitement as Samson tried to twist out of reach, but the interior of the red Micra was too small and he felt the impact of her left jab.
‘Any more comments and you can walk the rest of the way. Besides, I don’t see you riding your precious motorbike in this,’ she said, gesturing at the weather. The wind had picked up and as they climbed onto the open fell, she could feel the little car being tugged by the strong gusts. ‘Bad enough that you had to come in from Hellifield on it this morning. You must have got drenched.’
Date with Malice Page 6
