“Nice, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Ritchie, pausing for a moment on the way through. The kitchen was obviously something she prized. “We have our own electricity at Stanestede, you see. There’s a stream,” she added vaguely.
Crosby could pick out the stream on the map of the farm. On the fields on the map was pencilled in the current crop, and the date of sowing, and where the cows were now pastured and where they had been.
“We’re not allowed to grow too many potatoes,” said Mrs. Ritchie. “I do know that.”
Crosby wondered what else this fashionably dressed creature knew about running a farm.
“Just our share,” she said.
Against one field on the map Crosby saw written a word that he had not expected to see.
“Beg pardon, madam,” he said pointing.
“What?”
“There.”
“Rape,” she said.
“That’s what I thought it was,” said Crosby.
“Oil-seed rape,” she said.
“Ah,” he said delicately. “And what—er—sort of rape is oilseed?” Back at the police station they just had the one variety of rape on the books. Not that that saved any trouble. Hard to prove and even harder to defend: that was the problem with a charge of rape. Experienced police officers suddenly found themselves urgently needed elsewhere when one was in the offing.
“For the cows to eat,” added Mrs. Ritchie.
His face cleared.
She gave him an appraising glance. “Thought fields of rape were just another of our little country ways, did you?” she said. “Like a maypole.”
“It’s a difficult subject,” said Crosby, discomfitted. That was one thing that was dinned into all police constables at their training school. It wasn’t so much the “heads I win, tails you lose” odds that went with getting involved with the charge of rape as the “Stop it, I like it” dialogue invariably reported by the defence and advanced in amelioration. Even when the victim was as badly mauled as a mating mink. The dialogue reported by the prosecution was usually as totally disconnected as the “And he said” and then the “And she said” sequence when the paper was turned over in a game of Consequences.
“I wouldn’t know anything about rape,” said Mrs. Ritchie drily. “All I can tell you, Officer, is that now I know what that person meant who said something about hell having no fury like a woman scorned.”
“That’s the other side of the coin, madam, isn’t it?” said Crosby gravely. “How are you managing on your own?”
“Everyone is being very kind,” she replied. “I don’t know where I would have been without my neighbours. Paul and George have both been very good to me.”
“That’ll be Mr. Hucham and Mr. Mellot, won’t it?”
“I don’t know where I would have been without them,” she said, nodding, “and even old Mr. Bailey said if I needed any advice I wasn’t to hesitate to ask him.”
“A bit set in his ways, isn’t he?” ventured Crosby. That much had been evident on one visit to Lowercombe Farm.
“You can say that again,” said Mrs. Ritchie wryly. “Things haven’t changed at Lowercombe since Nelson lost his eye. No wonder Luke couldn’t stand it.”
“Luke?” That was a new name to Crosby.
“His son. Luke Bailey. His father drove him too hard.” Andrina Ritchie gave a brittle laugh. “And he drove him to drink in the end.”
“Did he, madam?” That explained an old man working long after he should have been sitting by the fireside in his slippers.
“So they say.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I haven’t seen him in years. I shan’t be taking his father’s advice but it was nice of him to offer, wasn’t it?” She favoured the constable with a tight smile. “Anyway, I’ve got a good man working for me and that makes a difference.”
Crosby agreed warmly that it did and finished his survey of the wall map.
“I think that’s all I need to see for the time being, madam, thank you, before we begin our search. We’ll let you know if we should find anything at Stanestede.”
Mrs. Andrina Ritchie shuddered delicately.
If the state of his temper was anything to go by, Superintendent Leeyes had not won his golf match.
“Nothing?” he barked down the telephone from the clubhouse.
“Nothing, sir,” reported Detective Inspector Sloan. “We’ve searched two of the farms within our radius now and there are two more to go.”
“Dormy.”
“Pardon, sir?”
“Nothing.” Leeyes grunted. “A crow doesn’t fly all that far, surely?”
“No, sir.” How far crows flew had been one of the things that Sloan had had to find out the evening before.
“And a human skeleton is a big thing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It must be somewhere,” insisted Leeyes. He was not at his postprandial best. He rarely was after a luncheon taken at the nineteenth hole of the golf-course.
“Sir.” Sloan went off at a tangent. “Constable Mason has reported that one of the men out here had a bust-up with a stranger—”
“Hasn’t made an arrest in years, hasn’t Mason,” complained Superintendent Leeyes in an aggrieved tone of voice.
“It was in the local pub,” persisted Sloan. “It’s called the Lamb and Flag.”
“Trust Mason not to—”
“It happened about a month ago,” went on Sloan valiantly. “The man was all cherried up at the time, he says.”
“What man?” asked Leeyes, his wayward attention engaged at last.
“Leonard Hodge,” replied Sloan. “He’s George Mellot’s farm bailiff. Big fellow,” he added. It was something worthy of note. Most criminals were smaller than most policemen. Sloan didn’t know if this was because policemen had to be tall to be policemen or that criminals came up particularly small, but as a rule they did. A rule of thumb, that is. A rule of Tom Thumb, you might say.
Leeyes groaned. “You’d better look into that, Sloan, hadn’t you? And, Sloan …”
“Sir?”
“Mellot’s Furnishings. You said it rang a bell.”
“I thought,” said Sloan cautiously, “that I remembered having seen something about them in the papers recently.”
“You had,” said Leeyes.
“Because they’re so well known, I suppose.”
“They’ve been in the news all right, Sloan.” He sounded grim.
“I thought I’d read—”
“This,” said Leeyes meaningfully, “had spilled over from the financial pages.”
“That explains it then, sir,” said Sloan with some satisfaction. “What was it, do you know?”
“An attempt to take over the firm.”
“So it was,” said Sloan, metaphorically slapping his thigh. “I remember now. I knew I’d seen the name lately.”
“An attempt to take over the firm,” reiterated Leeyes, “and oust Tom Mellot as chairman.”
“The brother?”
“Precisely, Sloan,” said Leeyes. “It began,” he informed him, “with the usual thing.”
“What was that, sir?” Sloan did not pretend to be a financier.
“Buying up Mellot’s shares quietly and then not so quietly.”
“I see.”
“And then a cash offer,” said Leeyes, “at an offer price in excess of the market price of the shares.”
“Sounds fair enough,” said Detective Inspector Sloan, simple policeman.
“Or rather,” qualified Leeyes, “a cash adjustment and loan stock in the acquiring company.”
“I suppose that depends on how good a proposition the acquiring company is,” responded Detective Inspector Sloan, not-so-simple policeman.
“Very probably,” said Leeyes. “Anyway, in theory they only need to get the consent of fifty-one percent of the shareholders—it’s usually less in practice—and Bob’s your uncle.”
Sloan translated this. “New management.”
“It would have been
the end of Tom Mellot as chairman anyway.”
“Would have been, sir?” he queried.
“Didn’t you hear the end of the story, Sloan?”
“Can’t say that I did, sir.” Something else must have become a nine days’ wonder in the newspaper instead. “Not that I noticed anyway.”
“The company doing the taking over …” Leeyes paused impressively.
“Yes?”
“They were called Conway’s Covers.”
“Were they, sir?” Sloan had forgotten the details. “Was that important?”
“It belonged to Ivor Harbeton, the financier.”
“But, sir,” said Sloan involuntarily, “he’s disappeared. Everyone knows that.”
The disappearance of Ivor Harbeton wasn’t a nine days’ wonder. That had been a big news story. The Harbeton financial empire touched commercial life at many points. Ivor Harbeton’s interests spread out through industry like the threadlike filaments of honey fungus. The City had been shaken by his sudden absence from the helm, and the ominous word “Levanter” had been hinted at in some suspicious-minded quarters. A deputy chairman was in the saddle, making prevaricating noises. Of Harbeton himself there was no sign.
“Precisely, Sloan,” said Leeyes. “I’m having them gather all the newspaper cuttings together for you now at the station.”
“For me, sir?”
“For you, Sloan,” said Leeyes heavily. “Just in case.”
Sam Bailey waved his stick. “I’m sorry I can’t come with you, Inspector. I’m not the man I was.”
“That’s all right, sir.”
“Once upon a time I’d have got to the top of the combe before any of you young chaps.”
“I’m sure you would, sir.”
“My wife’ll set you on your way, though.” He trundled off down the hallway shouting, “Elsie, where are you? Elsie, I want you!” When there was no response to this cavalier summons he grumbled, “She’s never around these days. Spends all her time messing about in the kitchen.” He stumped back up the hall to the policemen, chuckling grimly. “I never missed a hunt if I could help it.”
“No, sir.”
“Of any sort.” He waved his stick again. “This is Tuesday country.”
“Tuesday country, sir?” echoed Sloan blankly.
“The South Calleshire Fox Hunt, Inspector.”
“Ah.” Sloan’s brow cleared.
“They meet at Great Rooden on Tuesdays.”
“Really, sir?” The police hunt met on Saturdays usually.
“Outside the Lamb and Flag at eleven,” said the old farmer. “I must say they used to do a very good stirrup-cup in Rodgers’ day. I don’t know what the new man there is like.”
With the police it was under the railway arches at Berebury in the evening. That was where their quarry was most often to be found. And they didn’t have a stirrup-cup beforehand. All they ran to was a pint or two of beer afterwards.
“They usually find quite quickly,” said Bailey.
So did the police.
“Good hunting country, Inspector, this.”
“Yoicks, tally-ho,” said Detective Constable Crosby to nobody in particular.
The rallying call of the police was “Calling all cars.”
“From a find to a check,” wheezed Bailey.
With the police from a find to a check meant the plaintive call sign “I am in need of assistance.”
“From a check to a view,” said Bailey neatly. “That’s what you want, isn’t it, Inspector? A view …”
“It would be a great help.”
“I saw you on the hill.” He grunted. “Nothing wrong with my eyesight.”
“We drew a blank.” Sloan found himself lapsing into the vernacular.
“I knew you hadn’t found at Uppercombe or Stanestede,” said the farmer, “or you wouldn’t be here at Lowercombe.”
“No, sir.”
“From a view to a death.” He looked at the policeman abruptly. “I take it you know your ‘John Peel,’ don’t you, Inspector?”
“Yes, sir.” All schoolboys kenned John Peel with his coat so gay. It was about all that most of them did know about hunting, too.
“‘Peel’s view-hallo would waken the dead,’” quoted the old farmer chestily.
“Not this dead, it wouldn’t,” interposed Detective Constable Crosby. “You see—”
“Suppose,” said Sloan swiftly, “we start with those meadows over there and then go on to the wood—”
Sam Bailey waved his stick. “Go where you like, Inspector, but don’t count on too much.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told you that this is good hunting country.”
“So you did, sir.”
“That means,” amplified Bailey, “that there are plenty of foxes about.”
“Well?”
“They don’t mind what they eat.” He sniffed. “Reynard’s not particular at all, if you take my meaning. If they’ve got at your man I can tell you they’ll have made a real mess of him.”
Sloan cast his gaze over the pastoral valley of the Westerbrook and the four comfortable farms within the self-imposed—crow-imposed—ambit of police investigation. Whoever it was had said “Though every prospect pleases, and only man is vile” was wrong. Nature was red in tooth and claw, too. Tooth as well as claw, you might say, if foxes as well as crows were having their way with the body of a man. It was an unattractive thought. At least none of the farmers kept pigs. That was something for an investigating officer to be profoundly thankful for. He braced himself. “Come along, Crosby.”
Crosby squared his shoulders and went off to round up his helpers.
“Make a good whipper-in, that lad,” remarked Sam Bailey appraisingly.
It wasn’t the similarity to the hunt that was to the forefront of Sloan’s mind as he stood on the front doorstep of Lowercombe Farm and watched the searchers fan out over Sam Bailey’s fields. It was the word “dragnet” that he thought about. A trawl over land. Somewhere out here, little foxes notwithstanding, were the remains of a human being. There must be.
“Has he been blooded?” Sam Bailey interrupted his thoughts.
“What—I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Made his first arrest,” said the farmer. “That young fellow with you.”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Making an arrest wasn’t what Sloan would call being blooded. Initiation rites in the police force were more rigorous than that. Breaking bad news called for more courage. So did pacing a lonely beat at two o’clock of a winter’s morning when all was patently not well. To say nothing of attending a raging “domestic” when the man was roaring drunk and the woman a screaming virago, hell bent on exacting vengeance on her man.
On any man.
On the nearest man.
He answered Sam Bailey quite seriously, “He’s been bloodied, too, if it comes to that.”
Sam Bailey nodded.
Perhaps, thought Sloan, that was where the line lay between the new policeman and the seasoned one. After the moment when a member of that very same public whose civil rights you had sworn upon oath to uphold hit you rather hard where it hurt. Most policemen took a different view after that.
“He’s had his brush then, has he?” said Sam Bailey.
“With a villain or two,” replied Sloan.
“Doesn’t look old enough to me.”
“He is,” said Sloan tightly. The master gave the tail of the fox—the brush, that is—to the youngest member of the hunt present, didn’t he? Sloan pursed his lips. It wasn’t like that in the police force. There the greenhorn got the clerical work and the kicks.
“Mind you,” said the old farmer, “I’ve got to the age now when policemen get younger every year.” He looked round irritably. “Where is that wife of mine?” He turned and shouted down the hall again.
“It happens to us all,” responded Sloan more equably. He had noticed that the walls of Lowercombe Farm were peppered with stuffed heads of foxes; w
eren’t they called masks? They had a different set of trophies down at the police station. No more arcane, of course. Some closed files, for instance; a commendation or two from the bench of magistrates; a few kind words from a judge; more satisfying, a menace to society behind bars for a tidy while, and little old ladies able to walk through the streets at night—if that was what they felt like doing.
“You’ll let me know, Inspector, won’t you,” said Bailey, latter-day John Peel, “if you find anything at Lowercombe?”
“You’ll hear all about it, sir, I promise you,” said Sloan, preparing to stride off to join Crosby and the rest of the search-party.
They were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Bailey, who came hurrying down the farmhouse hall all breathless and flustered, taking off her apron as she advanced towards them. “Good afternoon, Inspector Sloan.”
“Ah, there you are, Elsie.” Her husband banged his stick crossly on the floor. “Where have you been?”
“In the larder,” said Mrs. Bailey, putting her apron on a chair and turning to Sloan. “I’m sorry, Inspector, not to have been here when—”
“Didn’t you hear me calling you?” demanded Sam Bailey. “I shouted quite loudly.”
“I’m sure you did, Sam,” Elsie Bailey said drily, “but I had the larder door closed and it was only when I got back to the kitchen and heard you talking that I realised that someone was here.”
“I was just going,” said Sloan, not dissatisfied with his visit to Lowercombe Farm. Hounds followed a trail by scent: policemen followed one compounded of information and observation—and deduction. If Mrs. Bailey had been in the farmhouse larder when her husband had first called her Sloan was prepared to eat his proverbial hat.
Unless, that is, the larder had a carpet of leaf-mould. Because that was undoubtedly what was sticking to Mrs. Elsie Bailey’s shoes.
SEVEN
Harm’s Way Page 7
