The Missing Earring

by David Beard

  The gate was neither up nor down, open or shut, but just a shambles of planks that couldn’t be pulled to one side, so they stumbled over it out onto the moors.

  The soft turf beneath them made walking much easier and a vista had opened up. Away to their right they could see the Dart down in the valley and just above them on the other side a tributary rushed headlong towards it. The Smalacombes turned and followed the brook upstream. As always, when walking on Dartmoor, the rolling hills hid the distant view as they walked to gain height, but just as they reached the crest that had been their goal for the past half an hour, so they were confronted with yet another rounded hillside, deceptive in size and contour. It seemed to be a never-ending, sometimes frustrating process.

  Fortunately for Dexter, Freda’s spirits had risen as soon as they left the lane and she was happy to smell the gentle fragrance of the gorse and noted just a hint of purple heather that would soon proliferate across the heath land. Above she could hear the ubiquitous skylark, invisible in the clear blue evening sky, singing to the world about the beauty that surrounded it. Rabbits, ears up and alert, continued to chew and held their counsel until the walkers came too near, then they darted silently into the undergrowth, beneath the gorse.

  Eventually, after they had reached the highest point, the moor opened up into a wide valley and up ahead resting just off the right hand bank of the stream was a derelict cottage. The roof had long since caved in but its granite walls were built to withstand the test of time and Dartmoor storms but even in its heyday it had never been more than a simple dwelling. To its side, were the remains of a platt, the Dartmoor name for a small paddock, still roughly marked out with the remains of a dry stone wall, which had succeeded to a considerable degree in holding back the relentless encroachment of gorse, heather and bracken.

  Dexter found a narrow part of the stream with a stone positioned in the middle, not by accident he conjectured, and the two stepped across and made their way to the deserted building.

  ‘This place,’ Dexter began, pointing with his stick, ‘was one of those places that were built in a day.’

  ‘That’s impossible, Dex.’

  ‘No. The law was, if you could build a house and have the fire going between sunup and sundown, then it belonged to you. There are lots of houses on Dartmoor like that and this is one of them. Of course, I expect it just started out as one room and a fireplace and then they added to it over the years.’

  ‘Listen,’ she said. The silence was only broken by the sound of the water hurrying down to the Dart. ‘It’s beautiful isn’t it?’ Dexter nodded. It certainly was and he knew of nowhere on earth that could give him greater pleasure.

  The two picked their way through a gap in the dry stone wall and crossed the platt to the cottage. A closer inspection showed them that the grass was beginning to lose the battle with the ferns but a few black-faced sheep, that knew where to find the best food, had wandered in to graze contentedly in the grassy areas.

  ‘The last person to live here was Walter: I can’t remember his last name. I knew him, you know. He was the water bailiff and a drunk. I doubt he was sober for the last twenty years of his life.’

  ‘What became of him?’

  ‘Need you ask? He fell in the Dart and drowned.’

  Freda smiled and shook her head. ‘River Dart, River Dart. Every year you take a heart,’ she recited.

  They ventured inside the front door but Smalacombe looked up and sensed the danger of a collapsing roof. ‘Not safe in here love, but I’ll show you something else. I remember this place when Walter was still around.’

  He took her around the back of the building and pointed out some derelict outhouses and a small privy attached to the cottage’s gable end. It had remained fairly intact; there was even a roof of galvanised iron sheets, now rust red. Ivy was growing over its entrance and a rotting door remained wide open, hanging lopsided on one rusted, immovable hinge.

  ‘I’ll show you something,’ he said, as he walked towards it. Smalacombe looked inside and beckoned to his wife. ‘Look here, a two holer,’ he exclaimed.

  Freda came across and peered in. She hadn’t expected to have been brought out to the middle of nowhere to inspect a disused toilet. She eyed the long wooden seat with two holes, strategically placed.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking Dex? You mean, they sat there and did it together?’ Dexter smiled and said nothing. ‘That’s just horrible.’ She thought for a moment as she realised the sewage system must have been pretty basic too. ‘How did they get rid of the stuff?’

  ‘They had buckets, which they had to empty every so often, on the potato patch no doubt.’

  ‘Ughhh. That’s disgusting.’

  ‘Well, life has moved on, but you’re right it must have been pretty unpleasant. The New Zealanders have a better solution.’

  ‘And what’s that? I don’t know why I’m asking because I really don’t want to know.’

  ‘They call it the “long drop”. If you have a wee, you can finish before you hear it tinkle at the bottom. It’s better, but you need a mechanical digger; the long handled shovel of days gone by just wasn’t up to that.’

  Dexter got down on his knees and studied things a little more closely. He leant forward and looked down the holes.

  ‘I wish I had a camera,’ said Freda. ‘Who’d have thought that a chief inspector would be sticking his head down a lavatory pan?’

  Smalacombe never heard her remark as something caught his eye. On the right was a board, a plywood sheet with a finger hole at the top. Its position alerted him because if it was part of the original arrangement it would have left no room for a bucket. It was not unusual for isolated homes to have hidey-holes and where better than in the privy, but this was definitely not original. He inserted his index finger and pulled. The sheet came away easily and fell to the floor. With his other hand he beckoned to Freda waving it behind his back. ‘Can I have the torch love?’ he asked. Freda searched in the small rucksack that was still on his back and then handed the torch to him. Nestling along the wall was a long thin metal case, which was attached to a chain, which in turn was padlocked and attached to a ring cemented into the granite.

  Smalacombe stood up with a great smile on his face and wandered outside. He returned with a rusted and bent wrought iron bar that was lying amongst a pile of rotten timber and some remnants of farm machinery. He lifted up the wooden seat and handed it to his wife. ‘Here, take this outside for a moment,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t want it, I haven’t got gloves on or anything,’ she protested. ‘Have you brought me all the way up here just to find a lavatory?’

  With a sigh, Dexter roughly pushed the seat out into the paddock and then stepped into the privy well. It took him some time but eventually he prized the ring from the wall.

  He stood outside with the case with the chain, padlock, and wall ring still attached. ‘Hey presto,’ he exclaimed with a broad grin.

  ‘It’s a gun isn’t it?’ Freda asked rhetorically. Smalacombe nodded. ‘It’s the one that killed Rebecca Winsom isn’t it?’ she asked, this time with less assurance.

  ‘If it isn’t, then I’m a Dutchman,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t speak Dutch.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you won’t have to,’ Dexter answered with a note of great satisfaction.

  ‘So, it’s back to the car now is it?’ she asked irritably.

  ‘Well I can’t walk around with this thing, can I? I might get arrested.’ To his dismay, Freda didn’t see the joke and harrumphed as she replaced the torch into his rucksack.

  ‘Oh, come on love, look around, it’s been a beautiful walk.’

  ‘Have we got to go back down that damn lane again?’

  ‘No,’ he reassured her. ‘I know of another way now that I’ve got my bearings but I don’t really want to be seen on the road with this parcel. We can cross through Hempson’s fields and it will bring us out to Longtor Manor.’

  Freda’s attitude upset him g
reatly because he knew that she loved nothing better than a walk on Dartmoor, especially to places he knew, where his local knowledge enhanced the interest. He also reminisced about their hikes in the early days of their marriage, before Laura came along. ‘We used to have great times up here,’ he said, looking all around as he spoke.

  Freda knew what he was getting at and her attitude softened; after all she was in the midst of some of the most stunning scenery in England. ‘We did too,’ she said, but as an afterthought added, ‘but I wasn’t expected to trail along to disused lavatories in those days. I mean, whenever you take me out now there’s always an ulterior motive.’

  ‘Ah, but there always was one, even then,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye, ‘and I usually got what I wanted.’

  Freda laughed loudly. ‘Well, it wasn’t exactly a romantic journey this evening was it?’ She walked on ahead and thought of the time she stripped naked in the heather and challenged him to catch her. The problem was, she recalled, that she could run faster than him, which rather defeated the object of the exercise. She feigned a minor injury to her ankle so that the embarrassment of his lack of athleticism was not prolonged. Even after all these years she remembered the moment, the capture, the caresses, and the fulfilment.

  ‘Do you remember when I chased you in the heather?’ he called after her, confirming her suspicions that there was telepathy between them.

  She turned and faced him and waited for him to catch up. ‘I do,’ she said with feeling, ‘and do you remember, after you had your wicked way with me, that we couldn’t find my clothes?’

  ‘Oh, tell me about it, yes. I had visions of waiting till dark and driving you back to Exeter covered in the car rug.’ They sat on a granite rock and surveyed the valley below. ‘Why don’t we do those things now?’ Freda shrugged. ‘Well, you weren’t in the mood were you?’ he said.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t, that’s true, but you know why. And, even if I was, you wouldn’t would you?’ she challenged him.

  He put his arm around her, ‘Of course I would,’ he reassured her.

  ‘You damn well wouldn’t,’ she said assertively. ‘You’re too concerned about the chief inspector being caught with his tackle out. I mean, what would the papers say?’ Freda pushed him away and then poked a finger lightly in his chest. ‘I know you. Only too well! Come on, or we’ll be benighted.’

  Smallacombe slung the gun over his shoulder using the chain as a harness and the two walked hand in hand, breathing in the cool evening air and listening to the rush of the Dart in the distance. ‘Next time we’ll do it,’ he said.

  ‘Promises, promises.’

  ‘I mean it. Remember, my ulterior motives are always satisfied.’

  Freda hugged his arm and rested her head momentarily on his shoulder. ‘Short skirt and no knickers? What do you think?’

  ‘I want to finish the job. I don’t want a bloody heart attack,’ he answered.

  They continued back in relative silence, both lost in their thoughts, which had they bothered to compare would have closely resembled each other’s. A rabbit scuttled across their pathway and disappeared in a clitter. It had not started out as the jolly evening he had hoped for, but at least his mission had been accomplished and Freda had forgiven him his duplicity.

  On the way home he dropped off his precious find at the police station, together with specific instructions to the duty sergeant about what he wanted done with it.

  As he opened the front door and let his wife in before him, he realised that he had forgotten that he had also promised to take her out for a meal. He hoped she wouldn’t remember. Unfortunately for him she had but she decided it wasn’t worth the hassle of bringing up the subject.

  CHAPTER 19

  Thursday July 13th

  When he arrived at work the following morning he found Tiley and Sheldon in exactly the same places he had left them the previous day.

  ‘Have you been here all night?’ he asked.

  ‘Seems like it, sir. We did get home for a few hours but we came in early as we think we are on to something.’ DC Sheldon said without looking away from his computer.

  ‘Good news about the gun, sir,’ Tiley remarked. ‘Forensics have told me they will probably have something for us by the end of today. It’s got fingerprints all over it, too. Did you know the spent cartridges were still in it and look to be the ones missing from Eli’s box?’

  Smalacombe was not surprised. ‘No I didn’t but that’s brilliant. I didn’t have the keys, and anyway, I just wanted to get it back here and fast. So, what else have you found out?’

  ‘Not as much as we had hoped, sir. Ricket and Wright ran a pub in Wiltshire for seven years, in her name of course and during that time he stayed clean. When the lease ran out they decided to come down here it seems.’

  ‘Are you confirming he has turned over a new leaf and is going straight?’

  ‘It would seem so.’

  ‘Then why the false name?’

  ‘We don’t know, but he used the name Constance in Wiltshire, too. Perhaps he didn’t want his old lags to find him?’

  ‘Sergeant, I feel thirsty. Care for a drive out on the moors?’

  It was just after one o’clock when Smalacombe and Tiley walked through the doors of the Dog and Rabbit and into the bar. Some things were not unexpected, Eli’s chair was empty, the first time they had seen it so since the day of Anna Turle’s death. However, some things were different and to their great surprise an attractive woman, who, they estimated, was in her late thirties was working behind the bar.

  ‘What can I get you gentlemen?’ she asked in a manner that showed her experience in these matters.

  ‘I’m looking for Mr. Constance actually,’ Smalacombe advised her.

  ‘You’re police,’ she said in a matter of fact way.

  ‘Yes we are,’ Smalacombe confirmed and showed her his pass.

  ‘Chief Inspector eh!’

  ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Tiley,’ Smalacombe continued. ‘And you are?’

  ‘I’m Mavis Wright, Chief Inspector.’ The two detectives looked at one another and couldn’t conceal their surprise. ‘It seems you’ve heard of me.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Smalacombe began, stumbling for a moment with his articulation. ‘We thought you had disappeared.’

  ‘I wish I could but no such luck, I’m afraid. You want to talk to me about Brian, I take it.’

  ‘Derek,’ he corrected.

  ‘You’ve got to keep with one persona, Mr. Smalacombe, or you don’t know where you are. Derek is the past. As far as I am concerned, I never knew Derek. I only know Brian. I close up at two. If you can wait I can give you all the time you need. There are lots of things I need to know as well.’

  ‘Fine, is the menu running?’

  ‘What a bloody silly question! Cook’s in; have what you want.’ She stared at them, as they clearly questioned whether things were continuing to run smoothly. ‘What? Do you think I can’t run this place on my own?’

  ‘No, not at all, it’s just that with Brian gone we thought there may be some upheaval.’

  ‘Oh, there’s an upheaval all right! Look, sit over by the window and have your meal and we’ll talk later.’

  The two men spent the lunchtime in the convivial atmosphere of an ancient country pub. There was not a hint of the traumas that they assumed the establishment had been through over the last day or so, nor was there any indication that the business was in dire financial straits. The menu had changed; much of what Clive Tiley described as posh nosh had disappeared, there was no fresh venison or local brown trout but a good deal more of the wholesome food they had come to expect from the establishments they frequented.

  They enjoyed a roast beef dinner with apple tart for afters and sat patiently with a cup of filter coffee for the bar to empty. At about two thirty, Mavis Wright came across to them and sat down in the window seat.

  ‘We didn’t expect to see you here. In fact we’ve got half the police force in the
UK looking for you. So, I’m sorry if we looked a little surprised this morning.’

  ‘Not at all. What do you want to know, gentlemen?’

  ‘It’s hard to know where to begin but perhaps you could start by telling us what prompted you to return?’

  ‘Brian phoned me a few days ago to say he’d been working seven days a week and he needed a break. I told him that was his problem and that he should have thought of that six months back. He said he was going, come what may, so, as it’s all in my name I had no option but to come back and run it. For the record, I was in a flat in Torquay. It was no big deal.’

  ‘Are you saying you moved out because the relationship broke down?’

  ‘I suppose I am. He was mixing with the wrong people again and I didn’t like it. He knew the score.’

  ‘We saw a pretty nasty piece of work in here a week or so ago,’ Tiley opined, in order to endorse her comments. ‘A Kelvin Budge, do you know him?’

  ‘Oh I know him, Sergeant,’ she confirmed with a smile, ‘he’s my brother.’

  Tiley found it difficult to hide his embarrassment and wondered if it was possible to retract. To his relief, he saw Mavis wave a hand in front of her and give him a broad smile. ‘I’m well aware of what Kelvin is, Sergeant. You have no need to apologise.’

  Smalacombe gave her a quizzical look. Budge was pale, blond, Scandinavian in appearance. Mavis Wright was dark skinned with deep brown eyes and a full sensuous mouth.

  ‘My step brother,’ she corrected herself as soon as she detected the confusion. ‘He is my mother’s son from a previous relationship. My father is Jamaican.’

  ‘So that’s the connection. We thought Constance knew Budge because they did time together.’

  ‘That’s right also, and I met him through Kelvin during one of his short interludes in the real world. He had nowhere to go on release and Kelvin brought him home for a while.’