Date with Malice

by Julia Chapman

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Edith. ‘It’s Alice’s pillbox. We all saw Elaine with it the day her godmother died.’

  ‘No we didn’t. We saw her with a rainbow-coloured box, but it wasn’t this one. The one Elaine was given doesn’t have the initials on the bottom.’

  Delilah had reappeared in the doorway, putting her mobile back in her pocket.

  ‘Well?’ asked Samson.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Elaine. She’s got hers with her.’

  ‘There are two boxes?’ asked Edith, confused. She stared at the object on her coffee table and then at Arty, who was frowning.

  ‘Why would Alice have two pillboxes?’ he asked. ‘It’s hard enough keeping track of our daily medication, without complicating things.’

  ‘Perhaps Alice only had one.’ Samson stood up and began pacing across the thick carpet. ‘This was hers. The one with the initials.’

  ‘And someone else had a second one made?’ Arty was tracking the detective’s movements as well as his train of thought.

  Samson nodded. ‘Identical in all but one aspect. They forgot to get it engraved.’

  ‘But why would someone want a replica?’ asked Clarissa.

  ‘Her pills,’ whispered Arty. ‘The day she died, Ana told Alice to take her pills. And Alice was so insistent she’d already taken them . . .’

  ‘But the box Ana had in the cafe had Alice’s pills for that day still in it. Ana was right. Alice hadn’t taken them,’ said Clarissa.

  ‘What if she had?’ Arty’s question was followed by the solemn tick of the school clock.

  Samson paused. ‘Yes. What if she had? What if Alice had taken her tablets, but was then presented with irrefutable proof that she hadn’t?’

  ‘Tablets in a rainbow pillbox. She couldn’t argue with that,’ said Delilah.

  ‘Did she take the pills in the box Ana presented to her?’ Samson asked Arty.

  ‘Yes.’ Arty swallowed. ‘She took them.’

  ‘Goodness!’ Edith’s hands were covering her mouth. ‘You’re suggesting Alice might have inadvertently taken an overdose?’

  ‘What he’s suggesting,’ said Arty, his expression grim, ‘is that Alice was murdered.’

  Murdered.

  The word dropped into the already strained atmosphere like an axe onto a chopping block. Brutal. Uncompromising. Clarissa let out a small cry, her tiny hands clasped together, Tolpuddle looking unsettled next to her.

  ‘Could you clear the plates, Clarissa dear,’ said Edith, releasing her sister from the tension.

  Clarissa was quick to comply, happy to get away, even if it was only to the far corner of the room where the kitchen was. Like a guardian angel, Tolpuddle trotted after her.

  ‘Murdered?’ Joseph wasn’t having it. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Is it?’ Arty sat forward in his chair, looking more alert than he had for days, as though the vindication of his suspicions had rejuvenated him. ‘Then come up with another explanation for all the bad fortune that’s been besetting this place.’

  Samson resumed his pacing. Had Alice Shepherd’s death really been premeditated, like the old lady herself had predicted when she visited his office?

  It would be so difficult to prove, and yet he could feel it now. That niggle which had beset him since the morning of her death. The niggle he’d failed to act upon. But how to unearth the truth?

  ‘We’d need an autopsy to determine the true cause of Alice’s death,’ said Edith.

  ‘An autopsy will take too long,’ said Samson. ‘They’ll have to exhume Alice’s body and the paperwork alone will take a while. That’s if we can convince the police and the authorities that it’s worth doing.’

  ‘What about fingerprints?’ asked Edith, pointing at the box.

  Samson shook his head. ‘Don’t bank on it. Apart from the fact that we’ve all handled it, it was buried in snow for the best part of a day.’

  ‘And in soil,’ muttered Arty, red-faced. Seeing the questioning glances, he elaborated. ‘I hid it beneath the rose on my balcony for safe-keeping when I thought someone might be after it.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,’ said Samson. ‘Finding fingerprints on that box wouldn’t prove anything anyway.’

  ‘So we have nothing to go on, apart from our suspicions.’ Edith sighed.

  ‘We could change that,’ said Arty. ‘Go on the offensive instead of always being on the back foot.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Joseph.

  ‘Find out more about Ana Stoyanova. Because like I’ve been saying all morning, she’s behind this.’

  Edith looked over at Samson. ‘What do you think?’

  The detective shrugged. ‘Ana was the one who was pressurising Alice to take her tablets. You all witnessed that. So it’s a good place to start. A motive can lead to a conviction, just as much as evidence.’

  ‘How, though? How can we find out more about her?’

  ‘Break into her office,’ said Arty without a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘No way!’ Joseph shook his head in disgust. ‘That would be crossing the line. We can’t just invade the woman’s privacy because you suspect her of something we have no grounds for.’

  ‘I think the time for adhering to a code of conduct has passed,’ said Arty. ‘It’s time for action. And I, for one, propose that we hire a detective to help us out.’

  Edith nodded. ‘Seconded. Clarissa? Are you in agreement?’

  ‘Whatever you say, Edith,’ came a voice from the kitchen.

  ‘Joseph?’ Edith turned to the older O’Brien. ‘Speak up if you disagree. Because I think it’s important that we’re united on this.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t like the idea of targeting Ana just because of a hunch. But then again, if I’m wrong . . .’ He thought about Rita Wilson and the fall that had put her in hospital. About the feeling he’d had in her apartment that something was amiss. Could he have averted her accident?

  ‘How about if we were able to rule Ana out through this?’ said Edith.

  Joseph nodded cautiously. ‘I suppose that would make it more acceptable.’

  ‘So we’re agreed, then?’ asked Edith, looking around her fellow residents. ‘In that case,’ she continued, addressing Samson, ‘consider yourself hired – effective immediately. Find out what’s going on and set our minds at rest.’

  She rose and held out her hand, offering a formal binding of a contract that was unwritten. Samson stepped towards her and shook it.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said.

  ‘Aye,’ said Arty. ‘See that you do. And quickly, before anyone else round here is targeted.’

  19

  With the wind howling in his face, Samson rode north out of Bruncliffe, feeling the bite of the winter morning in the absence of his usual pillion passenger. Unable to leave Tolpuddle alone without the dog getting anxious – despite the fuss Clarissa was making of the hound – Delilah had had no choice but to remain at Fellside Court until Samson returned. Much to her frustration. So it was with a chilled back and cold legs that Samson turned off the tarmac onto the rough track that led to Thorpdale.

  One of the lesser-known dales, Thorpdale was no more than a dark, narrow gouge in the fells, which culminated in the steep slopes of the hills and attracted few visitors. It had very few residents, too. Ida and George Capstick lived in a small cottage at the entrance, brother and sister never having moved away from the home they were raised in. Further up, at the head of the dale, was the only other residence: a lone farmhouse, two streams running either side of it, the mass of the fells rising right behind it. Twistleton Farm. His home. Until his drunken father sold it to Rick Procter. Now it lay empty, awaiting whatever development Procter Properties had in mind.

  Samson eased off the throttle to edge the motorbike around a particularly large pothole and let his eyes drift to the distant farmhouse where he’d grown up. A white rectangle against winter-brown hills, it looked remote. Unlived in. Unca
red for.

  With emotions as ragged as the clouds being whipped across the sky by the strengthening wind, he turned off the road into the Capsticks’ yard.

  To one side, with views down the dale towards Twistleton Farm, was a small, stone cottage, windows gleaming, paths swept free of leaves and two tubs of purple pansies either side of the back door. Next to it, a well-tended vegetable patch lay dormant, apart from a few cabbages and some Brussels sprouts. Strung out above the bare soil, a line of washing tugged and snapped against brightly coloured pegs.

  In contrast, the yard was chaotic. Bits of machinery littered the oil-stained concrete, hens strutted amongst discarded tools, and a vintage tractor in the process of being dismantled stood before an old stone barn. The noise of the motorbike brought a figure to the arched barn doorway.

  ‘Morning, George.’ Samson turned the engine off and nodded towards the man who shuffled in the half-light, neck craning to see the bike. ‘Is Ida in?’

  George Capstick, eyes fixed on the gleaming scarlet-and-chrome Royal Enfield, slowly inched forward. ‘Overhead valve single-cylinder four-stroke Ida’s inside,’ he said, pointing towards the cottage.

  Well used to his former neighbour’s unorthodox way with language, Samson got off the Enfield and stepped back, giving George the space to come closer.

  ‘Four-speed right-shift long stroke,’ continued George, his gaze roaming lovingly over the classic bike.

  ‘You fixing up the old Ferguson?’ asked Samson, gesturing towards the grey tractor by the barn. It had been given to the detective by a farmer over towards Hawes, in gratitude for his services after the spate of murders that had assailed Bruncliffe had been solved. Not having anywhere to keep it, Samson had passed it on to George, who already had a collection of ancient farm machinery. George had been ecstatic. His sister, Ida, less so.

  ‘Little Grey,’ said George, turning to smile at the machine. ‘A beauty.’

  ‘She’s a beauty all right. I look forward to seeing her running.’

  George grinned. Then he glanced at his idle hands and hurried back over to the barn to resume work on the tractor. Samson was left to pick his way through spare parts and pecking hens to the cottage.

  ‘Ida? You home?’ he called out as he opened the door and entered the kitchen.

  It was a room untouched since the 1950s: free-standing wooden units, a deep porcelain sink, a table spread with an oilcloth providing the main work surface and a large dresser against the back wall. By the door into the hall, a grandfather clock marked time in deep ticks and tocks.

  ‘I hear tha’s been snooping round Fellside Court.’

  Samson spun round to see Ida standing by the range, poker in hand and a stern look on her face. ‘How did you—?’

  ‘Is it true?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’m thinking it’s connected to what tha told me about Alice Shepherd.’

  ‘It could be.’

  ‘And now poor Rita Wilson, too?’

  ‘I think so.’

  She shook her head. ‘Tha’ll get thyself in trouble,’ she said, already placing the kettle on a hotplate and reaching for the tea caddy off a shelf. It was Bruncliffe. She didn’t need to ask if he wanted a cup of tea. ‘And give that bugger Rick Procter a heart attack in the process.’ She turned to put mugs on the table and he caught the trace of a smile.

  ‘Take a seat if tha’s staying,’ she said, gesturing at one of the twin chairs next to the range, the upholstery faded, the wooden arms worn thin from generations of Capsticks resting their weary bones. She took the Yorkshire tea loaf that was on the dresser and cut three thick slices, smothered them in butter and then poured the tea which had been stewing on the range.

  A dark mahogany stream fell into the mugs and Samson’s stomach recoiled. A good slosh of milk followed and the mug was placed on the windowsill next to his chair, a plate of cake thrust in his hand.

  ‘George, tea,’ she called out of the back door. Then she sat at the table, pulled her mug towards her and turned to Samson with an expectant look.

  ‘Tha’s not one for social visits,’ she said, pointedly.

  ‘No,’ he said. He’d taken a gamble on Ida being at the house, banking on the fact that her work was already winding down for Christmas. Now that he was here though, he wasn’t comfortable with what he was about to ask of her. But the discovery that someone had made a duplicate of Alice Shepherd’s pillbox meant he had no choice. ‘It’s about Fellside Court.’

  ‘I thought it might be.’ She offered no openings; no opportunity for him to broach the subject tactfully.

  ‘The residents have hired me,’ he began. ‘To investigate.’

  She sat there, her gaze fixed on his face, unreadable as ever.

  ‘Thing is,’ he continued, ‘they think something is going on.’

  ‘Like Alice Shepherd did?’

  ‘Yes. They don’t believe all these incidents have been accidental.’

  Her lips compressed into a straight line and she tipped her head in a brief nod. Concurring or contradicting, it was impossible to tell. ‘And what’s that to do with me?’

  ‘I need to ask you some questions. It’s about Eric Bradley’s flat.’

  ‘Thought tha’d had a good look round it last week,’ she retorted.

  He laughed. ‘I did. That’s why I need to talk to you. Do you clean for Eric?’

  ‘Now and then.’

  ‘Is it part of your contract?’

  ‘Not really. My contract is for the communal areas, but the residents can ask for cleaning services if they want. Mr Bradley’s one of them that does.’

  ‘When was the last time you cleaned for him?’

  ‘The afternoon before he took ill.’

  ‘Last Monday?’

  ‘That’d be right.’

  ‘Is that when you usually clean his flat?’

  She shook her head. ‘Normally it’s first thing, but I was running late that day as the lounge was in a bit of a state, so I didn’t get up to Mr Bradley’s until after lunch. Why? Is this connected to his collapse?’

  ‘Could be. I’m just doing a bit of checking up.’ Samson broke off to take a bite of tea loaf, starting as the combination of moist fruit and a hint of mixed spice triggered memories. He glanced at Ida in surprise.

  ‘Aye,’ she said, face softening. ‘Tha mother gave me that recipe. She used to win prizes at the show with this loaf.’ She shook her head, still lamenting the loss of her young neighbour all those years ago. ‘Such a shame.’

  Throat thickening, Samson took a swig of tea and for the first time since his return to Bruncliffe, he was glad of the harsh flavour as it cut through the nostalgia and made him cough.

  Ida laughed, a brash bark of sound. ‘Tha’s not toughened up yet, then, lad?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Reckon it’ll take a while.’

  ‘A couple of years at least,’ she said.

  He nodded, not wanting to tell her that he wouldn’t be around that long. He’d be back in London before his taste buds had been damaged forever by the local brew. Feeling another wave of sadness at the thought, he took refuge in the questions he’d come to ask.

  ‘So did you notice anything unusual in Eric’s flat?’ he continued.

  ‘Like what?’ Ida’s arms folded across her chest and he sensed the barriers coming down.

  ‘Something out of place? Something there that wasn’t normally there?’

  She stared out of the window for a moment, thinking, lips pursed. ‘Nothing. I wiped the kitchen down, cleaned the bathroom and ran the vacuum over the carpets.’

  ‘In the master bedroom, too?’

  He got a look of derision in return for querying her thoroughness. ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘Was everything as it should be in there?’

  ‘Apart from a bit of sloshed water where the bedside table had been pulled out—’ She paused, sensing his sudden interest. ‘Tha’s wanting to know about that?’

  He nodded
.

  ‘It was nowt but a bit of spilled water from the glass he has next to his bed. Must’ve happened when that timer were fitted.’

  Samson felt the familiar tingle of excitement at encountering something significant. Because he sensed that what Ida was telling him was significant. ‘What timer?’ he asked.

  ‘The one plugged in behind the bedside table. The unit had to be pulled out to get to the plug. That’s when the water spilled, I reckon.’ She gave a sharp nod as if to say he wasn’t the only one with powers of detection.

  ‘This timer,’ asked Samson, his mind racing. ‘Had you seen it before?’

  ‘Not as I can remember. But then I don’t make a habit of prying. It was just that I mopped up the water and noticed how far out the unit was from the wall. I went to push it back in and couldn’t. That’s when I saw the timer. A plastic thing, about so big.’ She spanned her fingers to give an idea of the dimensions.

  ‘Was anything plugged into it?’

  ‘Aye. Mr Bradley’s oxygen machine.’

  That snaking flex winding across the bedroom floor and disappearing behind the bedside unit. The flex that ended in a plug which hadn’t been fully inserted into the socket when Samson had visited the flat. According to Ida, the afternoon before Eric Bradley’s collapse that very same flex had been connected to a timer. A timer which had miraculously disappeared when Samson arrived on the scene a few hours later, leaving nothing behind but a telltale splash of water and some indentations in the carpet.

  Was it possible Eric had plugged his oxygen concentrator into a timer? And then removed it?

  ‘He couldn’t have shifted it.’ Ida cut through his thoughts, her eyes narrowed. ‘It that’s what tha’s thinking, I’m telling thee now, Mr Bradley couldn’t have moved that unit. It weighs a ton.’

  She was right. The elderly man was frail, weakened by years of lung problems. He had trouble wheeling his small oxygen canister after him. There was no way he could move the marble-topped bedside table.

  ‘So you’re saying someone else put the timer there?’

  Ida nodded. ‘There’s no other explanation. As to why they did it, tha needs to ask them.’

  Samson had a horrible feeling he knew why they did it. Only trouble was, he didn’t know who ‘they’ were.