by Gill Mather
Peter sighed. “Because that’s what rich old families were like. They had fabulous wealth but had to keep selling things off as circumstances changed. The family silver and all that. What they tended to be left with would, to us, you and me, seem fantastically opulent, but compared to what they previously had it was paltry. I guess that this old cottage and Gordon’s house in Norwich and everything in it plus his investments were just the tip left over of a formerly massive iceberg.”
“Hmm. So you don't know anything specific about the cottage itself then?”
Peter shrugged. “The Deeds were skimpy as you know.”
Roz, too old a hand at this game, recognised the obfuscation. She nodded.
“Well. Thanks for seeing me Mr. Dalton. If you think of anything else, perhaps you could let me know. Here’s my card.”
She couldn't recall how many times she’d left witnesses and suspects with the same words. Would Peter Dalton know she was a former detective inspector? Quite possibly. And if not he may well make enquiries soon after. She felt sure there was something there. It wouldn't hurt to rattle him a little.
ROZ’S SMARTPHONE told her it would take under an hour to drive to Goosefeering from Norwich. Goddamn it, she told herself. The wretched place had been there over three hundred years. Someone must know something about it and its owners.
The trouble of course was that in this day and age, no-one spoke to strangers. No-one would expect a stranger to strike up a conversation with them in a bar. Groups of old men didn't sit around on the village green reminiscing about their youths. They were stuck indoors all alone watching the TV. Pub managers were rarely kept in place more than a couple of years. If they were any good, they’d be moved on. Traditional pubs were a thing of the past. All you found now were gastro-pubs, manned by young, cheerful people who wouldn't have a clue about a cottage in the back of beyond and who wouldn't even have been born in the seventies, eighties and nineties which was probably the sort of period Roz needed to find out about.
But, there definitely had been a senior citizen sitting on his own near the fire nursing a half pint of some dark brown liquid when Roz and Guy had fallen into the first pub they’d come across after leaving the cottage that Sunday. They’d decided at the time that it wouldn't have been their preferred option. It wasn't terribly modern. Music was provided by a jukebox and the clientele was rather loud. But it was cosy and they needed to thaw out and dry off. The drinks weren’t expensive which was probably a major attraction.
Therefore Roz drove through Goosefeering and made for The Three Parrots at the other end of the village. It was lunchtime and the pub was filling up. Checking the menu, it wasn't exactly haute cuisine. Everything seemed to be a variation on a ploughmans. Not quite her thing.
She asked right out about the old fellow near the fire several Sundays ago about four in the afternoon. That, she was told, would have been old Jim.
“He tends to come in later.”
“Er. How much later?”
“Ooh. Three or something?”
“Every day?”
“Oh yeah. Most days.”
“Oh. Right. Well then could I have a glass of white wine and the traditional ploughmans.” The variations had sounded quite off-putting. Every ingredient had an alternative nickname that some wit had obviously dreamed up as being side-splittingly hilarious: sheeps’ eyes instead of boiled eggs, dog’s breakfast for lamb stew, budgies’ feet for shredded cabbage, and so on.
Glad she’d brought a book and a paper with her, she settled down to read and pick at her lunch for the next two and a half hours. It turned out to be three hours and she was about to give up and leave by the time Jim shambled in. She could hardly pounce on him immediately, but the barmaid or manageress or whatever was pointing over to Roz as soon as Jim approached the bar. Well at least it was something of an introduction and Roz stood up, walked over and offered to buy Jim’s drink. He immediately accepted.
“Actually could I get you a ploughmans? I haven't really finished my own yet.”
She might have offered Jim a round-the-world, all-inclusive cruise for his reaction.
They sat together at his table near the fire and Roz hesitated to ask straight out about the cottage. Instead she feigned interest in the village and its environs and asked about Jim’s history viz-a-viz the village.
“Lived here all me loife, man and boy. I was lucky to get an alms house. It’s oonly small but they look afta ya. Worked on the land all me workin’ loife. Oonly retired ten yair agoo. How oold d’ya think I am then?”
“Well it’s always hard to tell with people. I’m hopeless at guessing people’s ages. Maybe, say….”
“Oi’m eighty-noine.” He beamed at her and she expressed what seemed to be the necessary surprise.
“Gosh. That’s remarkable. So where was the farm you worked on? Presumably near here.”
“Dif’r’t places. Dif’r’t jobs but mainly stock. Sheep. We ran some sheep oover some rough land. Noo-one knew who oowned it. Course, that were stopped a good twenty yar agoo and it’s all groown up with scrub and trees now.”
“Gosh,” said Roz again; this time her interest wasn't feigned. “My partner and I got lost when we went for a walk in the area a few weeks ago. There was this funny little cottage in the middle of a wood. Odd to find it there but it was getting dark so we had to go back to the car and we came in here. The weather was appalling anyway.”
“Noo. You doon’t want to be staying round near that place after dark.”
“Oh. Why is that?”
“Tha’s got a quair history. Noo-one’s really sure about it and o’ course noo-one cares n’more now. It’s all them smart phoones and reality TV shoows and that. The young uns doon’t stay around here n’more. Or they work in one of them flash places that sell grub to them on holiday that’d cost yar a week’s wages for a single spud. Noo-one wants a noice leg o’ lamb or a noice wool jumper. A few scraps of lettuce and some vegetarian muck and that’s your lot. They kept me on to do odd jobs after the sheep went, gard’ning and that but it were never the same agin. Why….”
“Why shouldn't anyone be around the cottage after dark?”
“Well I heard some things about it. Folks used to say it was haunted. O’course Oi doon’t believe that nonsense. Nonsense it is. But people do still believe all that. TV proogrammes about ghoosts and aliens and that.”
“Why did people say it was haunted?”
“Courting couples and that, kids’d goo there to play. Dog walkers. They used to say they heard screams and saw black shapes running about in the dark and sometimes during the day. Oi never heard nor seen nothin’ meeself in all thoose years Oi herded the sheep there. People loike ter tell a tale. Kids used to dare each other ter goo there. Oi did hear one girl once never came back but Oi reckon that was just a story put about. She prob’ly wanted to git away. In the family way or sommat. Oi’m goo’n back a good few years now.”
“How far back?”
“Well….ages….Oi s’poose back to when I was a boy meeself. And then just oover the years. But there were more stories about….Oi reckon….thirty or summat years agoo? Summat like that.”
“You mean the nineteen-eighties?”
“About that yeah. Bangs, screams, noises, lights, runnin’ around. Some even said they heard helicopters landing in the middle of the night. ’Course, they were prob’ly just flyin’ oover. There’s short cuts you can take around there but noo-one wanted to take them at night especially.”
Helicopters!
“Do you know anyone who actually did see or hear anything? Or says they did?”
“Moi mum did.”
“Your mother. Er….she’d be very old now.”
“Coo ter hell, gal! She’s bin dead these twenty yar.”
“Yes. Right. Anyone else?”
Jim scratched his head and looked at his empty beer glass.
“I’ll get you another shall I?” offered Roz.
“Well that’d be damne
d good on yer.”
Roz bought him a pint this time and plonked it down in front of him.
“I’m afraid I can't join you. I’ve got to drive home soon.”
“Oi thought about it and the farmer’s son Emrys, he were another one that heard voices and things. But then he said he didn’t so I don’t know.”
“Oh. Where’s the farm?”
“Noo. The family sold up and went back to Wales some time ago.”
“Oh, I see. So Emrys lives in Wales now does he?”
“Ooh noo. He married a loocal gal and they live somewhere near Kings Lynn I reckon at last hearing. He….”
“Sorry to interrupt but could you tell me his surname.”
“Oi reckon Oi ought ter be able to. Oi worked fer his dad fer sixty yar.”
“And it was….?”
“Joones.”
“Can you remember his wife’s name?”
“Maggie Oi think she were called. But it were a while ago.”
Roz stuck it out a little longer extracting the farm’s name and whereabouts, who owned it now, what Emrys had done for a living, whether he had children himself and other sundry information. She said her goodbye to Jim and found she had quite a headache by the time she started up her car. She texted Guy that she’d be home about eight and set off to battle the East Anglian commuter traffic.
Chapter 4 Injudicious Delving
THE PUB WAS full to busting. Mostly with members of the Hertfordshire constabulary. Roz was more than pleased to have been invited to this leaving do for one of her contemporaries. She missed the camaraderie of the force and, although essentially happy in relaxed retirement with Guy in suburban Lincoln, she frequently reflected on what life would still be like for her had she not been forced to retire prematurely.
You’re better off out of it was the general attitude, but Roz felt nostalgic for her old life at this particular moment as she sank her third glass of wine. Since it was an evening do, she was spending the night at a cheap chain hotel, from whence she’d taken a taxi to the pub earlier.
The bar was down near the canal. It seemed that this area of the thriving Hertfordshire town always pulled her back at intervals. It was the first place she’d been with Guy after meeting him again.
Len, her DCI from before, put his drink on the table and sat down next to her. Some of the younger members of the force were making a lot of noise a few feet away.
“I wish I still had their energy and enthusiasm,” Len looked over at them.
“Aren’t you likely to retire soon?”
Len sighed. “I wouldn't mind. But what’d be left for me?”
Thrice married and divorced, Roz knew, kids grown up and moved away, the force had been his life for so long, as it had been Roz’s before she met Guy.
“You’d have to make some new interests. I suppose like I’m trying to.”
“Aren’t you bored?”
“No not really. Very content actually. You could write your memoirs.”
“Huh,” was Len’s wry reply.
Roz wondered briefly whether to ask a favour of him and check if there was any information readily available about Alice Bingham’s husband. Instead, she told him about Gordon and Little Avail.
“Blimey! Must be worth quite a bit.”
She told him how much.
“A bit odd, isn't it?”
“That’s what I’ve begun to think. Actually, frankly, I’ve been wondering whether to try to give it back.” She poured out to him all her doubts.
“If you want, I could see if I could dig up anything on Gordon. If that solicitor you said is a criminal brief, perhaps Gordon was a master criminal.” He chuckled.
“That had occurred to me. Although I’ve got this feeling it might be something else. You don't mind do you? I didn't like to ask.”
“Email me his details and I’ll have a go.”
“Er, you couldn't include the solicitor Peter Dalton too could you? They were both in the military together supposedly.”
“Yeah. Fine. I will.”
“Thanks. OK. Come on. Let me get you another drink and perhaps us old codgers can try to enter into the spirit of the thing a bit better.”
SEVERAL DAYS LATER Roz sat in the sitting room of her neighbour and friend Kate Sampson. Another neighbour Harriet was also there and together they had been discussing the residents’ proposed murder mystery party. It seemed mundane to Roz given what was on her mind but they’d just about covered everything by now. Kate finished off her notes and offered Roz and Harriet a glass of wine.
“Sorry I’d love one but I have to go and get the grand-kids,” pleaded Harriet.
“Well I wouldn't mind,” Roz said to Kate, “if you’re not busy.” She liked Kate, a down-to-earth retired accountant and enjoyed spending time with her.
“No, course not. I’ll go and get the bottle out of the fridge.” She knew Roz liked white wine.
They said their goodbyes to Harriet and settled back round the coffee table.
“Did you know Alice Bingham’s left the rented house at the top of the close?” said Kate. “She left yesterday. I don’t know if she gave any notice or not.”
“Perhaps the tenancy was in her husband’s name. Any liability would fall on him then. ”
“Oh, yeah. I suppose it would.”
“Well, it’ll get her off my back.”
“Anyway. How are you getting on with that cottage in North Norfolk? You haven’t been to stay yet have you?”
“No. I’ve kind of been putting it off.”
“It sounded lovely from what you said.”
“That’s what I thought at first. But now I’m not so sure. Apart from the hassle of just living with nineteenth century amenities, I’ve heard some odd things about it.”
“Oh really. I’m intrigued.”
“Local people apparently think it’s haunted, or they did. This old man I met in a pub even mentioned helicopters landing there.”
“Hmm. You can't believe everything you hear in pubs.”
“Very true. I’m thinking of tracking down this man called Emrys Jones who’s father owned the farmland around there at one time. Supposedly he’s went into the funeral business and now lives somewhere around Kings Lynn. This old boy said he was one of the people who saw or heard things. But there’s something else. I’d prefer it if you didn't mention this to anyone….” Roz looked at her friend.
“No, course not.”
“Well a mate in the police force tried to look up the man who gave me the cottage and his solicitor on the National Police Computer and some other records and was denied access. For both of them. Which is pretty odd.”
Kate shrugged. “Odd. Why?”
Roz sighed. “I shouldn't really be telling you this but it could mean something like the SIS.”
Kate frowned.
“You obviously don't read spy novels. MI6. Covert operations. Dirty tricks. Whatever. Perhaps MI5. That sort of thing.”
“Why did your friend look up the solicitor as well?”
“They were apparently in the military together. That’s what the solicitor said anyway.”
“It sounds incredibly far-fetched to me.”
Roz sighed. “You’re right. It does. As I said, I shouldn't be telling you. I didn't think it’d do much harm. If there’s anything in it, these two probably haven't been active for a couple of decades at least. But still, perhaps you’d better forget I said anything.”
“Water off a duck’s back. Oh,” Kate turned to the open door as a young woman came in. “Hello Polly. You haven't met Roz yet have you. Polly, Roz. Roz, Polly. I forgot to mention Polly’s here for a couple of days while she’s between flats.”
Roz nodded and said hello.
“Hello Roz.” Polly looked at Roz with interest, then addressed her mother. “Could you lend me a pen drive Mum.”
“There’s a couple in the study on the desk.”
“Nice to meet you Roz.” And Polly walked out into the hall.
“She must’ve finished her piece,” said Kate.
“Piece?”
“Article. For her newspaper.”
Only then did Roz recall that’s Kate’s daughter was a journalist on the Eastern Daily Press.
THE MAN BEHIND the desk was curly-haired, fiftyish and well-built but not fat. He looked like a farmer’s son, more suited to hefting straw bales about and subduing livestock than whispering to bereaved relatives in hushed, respectful tones.
It hadn't been difficult to locate him and Roz had come in on the pretext of enquiring about funeral plans. There were a bewildering number of them. Introducing the subject on her mind was going to be difficult but she took the plunge.
“I was recommended to you by an old boy who lives at Goosefeering. Jim. He used to work on your father’s farm I believe.”
“Probably. My dad had a lot of workers at one time. In thoose days there wunt noo minimum wages.”
Emrys obviously hadn't absorbed the Welsh accent from his family.
“Well he remembers you. He said he looked after sheep on some waste ground with a little cottage in the middle of nowhere.”
Emrys swallowed and looked down at the leaflets.
“This is a good one if you’re not loikely to….I mean if you want to spread the cost oover a longer period.”
Roz showed interest in the details, frowning at the table on the reverse side of the leaflet.
“It costs so much,” she said. “I don't know why we can't just get buried in our back gardens. Or in some out of the way place, like that cottage I mentioned.”
Emrys reaction to this off the cuff remark was entirely unexpected. He started to breath heavily, his eyes bulged, his hands on the counter were shaking and sweat broke out on his forehead. Roz recognised it as a panic attack. Hurrying round to the back of the desk, she urged him to sit down.
“Try deep breathing. It’ll all be all right. It’ll go away in a minute.”
“Oi didn't have nuthink to do with it,” he gasped. “It weren’t nuthink to do with me. They oonly paid me a few toimes ter watch out for them.”
