by P A Nash
“How did you find where we lived?”
“I saw your card on the telephone table yesterday and copied down the numbers. I did a Google search and found out how to do a reverse lookup. If you’d given Dudley your mobile number I’d never have found your address.”
“Very clever!”
Frank made a mental note to never give out his land—line phone number ever again! In fact, it might be a good idea to just get rid of it.
“Why do you think he might have gone?”
“He was upset. Something happened. He was so much happier these past few weeks. He went to that funeral with his friends and then it was if a black cloud had been lifted off his shoulders.”
“Mr Buckerell’s funeral?”
“I think that was his name? But then yesterday, it was like the black cloud descended again.”
She stared out of the window munching a biscuit.
“Is he out there all on his own? What am I going to do without him?”
“It’s too early to worry like that. There’s must be plenty of reasons why he stayed out the night.” Ella was aware she hadn’t phrased that in a very caring manner. It may have opened up some unwanted trains of thought.
Frank jumped in before Mrs Weston could say anything. “Was he usually a happy personality?”
“Well, he found it hard to express his feelings. I usually could tell how he was. He never really voiced whether he was happy or sad.”
She stared once more out of the window before turning to Ella.
“He never said he loved me, not once, but I know he did. If he doesn’t come back, then… I never got the chance to tell him… but I did love him… I do…”
Tears were rolling down her cheeks.
Frank coughed. “Mrs Weston, we’ll find him for you. Does he have a mobile phone?”
“No, he wouldn’t know how to use one.”
“That might make it more difficult. Look, you go home and make us a list of every friend, every acquaintance of his. Where does he work? Write down his favourite places. Has he got a favourite holiday location? Camping site? Hotel? Write it all down and we’ll do some digging.”
“I’ll speak to the police and voice your concerns. We’ll find him. He’ll soon be home.”
They continued drinking whilst Frank and Ella engaged in some gentle questioning. How long had they lived in East Devon? What job did Dudley do? Did they have any children? The conversation drifted from the mundane to the inane until Mrs Weston gathered herself together and prepared to leave.
“I’ll do what you suggested. I’ll phone you when I’ve gathered my thoughts.”
“You’ve got our number!”
***
As soon as Mrs Weston had calmly left to return home, Frank phoned WPC Knowle.
“We’ve just had a surprising visitor.”
Frank went on to recount the recent encounter and, then, the details of their conversation with Dudley Weston. As usual, he could hear WPC Knowle furiously scribbling in her notebook.
After Frank had finished and WPC Knowle had stopped writing, she said “Doctor Moore is back with us. I spoke to him yesterday. He started off by saying that he knows nothing about why anyone would want to kill Mr Buckerell.”
“Started off saying?”
“Yes, but the end of our brief conversation, he’d implicated all four of the Dudleys in one way or another.”
“Anything new?”
“No. I think we already knew every snippet of gossip that came from his lips.”
“And he definitely left the country?”
“Absolutely. He says he left Budleigh three days before Mr Buckerell died. However, I checked with Heathrow and Dr Moore left for Thailand the day before the death.”
“He could have been visiting friends in London or shopping…”
“True. But it’s worth storing away the information. Just in case.”
“Fair enough. But getting back to Dudley Weston. Mrs Weston says he was troubled all day. Now he’s run away or gone to ground. Can you do anything?”
“I’ll go to talk to her and see if we can get a recent photo. We’ll circulate it and see what we come up with.”
“That would be great.”
“However, in most of these cases, the husband just wants a bit of peace and quiet. He probably wants time to think it through.”
“She didn’t appear to know anything about the blackmail or Vanessa.”
“Good. I’ll try to keep it that way. It’s not my job to stir up unnecessary hurt and pain. I deal with enough of it already without creating any more!”
There was a moment of silence.
“Is that everything? I’ll tell Mrs Weston to give you any ideas she gets about where her husband might be staying. If you find anything, let me know. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“We won’t. We’re learning to go softly, softly in this detective profession.”
“You’re just assisting. If Mrs Weston gives you any leads, make sure you tell me before you follow any of them up. And if you go on any reconnaissance mission, don’t take Mrs Weston with you. She doesn’t seem a very tactful personality! Speak soon.”
Frank put the phone down and was pleased to see that the auto voice recorder had clicked in and had recorded all of the conversation. It even showed the number dialled.
Before Frank could go and share his conversation with Ella, the phone rang again. “I’ll bet she’s forgotten some important piece of info.”
“Hello, what did you forget to…”
“Shut up and listen.”
Frank recognised Dudley Weston’s voice.
“I think I know who murdered Anthony Buckerell.”
“Are you at home?”
“Nah, not likely. Get yourself to Staverton. Find the bus shelter near the pub. TTFN.”
Chapter 10 – A Nice Cup of Tea
“Staverton? Where’s that?”
“I’ve heard of a Staverton Station on the South Devon Railway. Their signal box is a wonderful story!”
“There may be another Staverton?”
Frank turned to Google maps on his iPad. “There’s two. One in Northamptonshire near Daventry and one in Devon.”
“Is the one in Devon nearby?
“Between Buckfast and Totnes. South Devon. Here you are. Staverton Station is on the South Devon Railway. There must be a pub and a bus shelter there.”
“Let’s go, then.”
“No, wait. There’s no bus shelter that I can see. Or pub.”
“How can you see that on a map?”
“I’m using Street View.” Ella moved alongside him, so she could see the screen. “There’s the station. Level crossing gates then a bridge over the river.”
“If that’s near Totnes, that must be the River Dart,” Ella added.
“Looks like it. If I turn the Street View man around the other way. Aah, yes, there’s a signpost. Staverton – half a mile.”
“The village is quite a long way from the station?”
“Yes, that often happened. The railway needed level land. The village was there before the railway and if the village wasn’t in the valley but nestled amongst higher ground, then the railway could only get so near. I know one village in Herefordshire where the old village died when the railway came. They put the station a mile and a half away. The villagers wanted the railway so much they built houses around the station. The church was left on its own in the old village.”
“Whatever, the reason, we need the village and not the station.”
“True. I’m going to phone WPC Knowle and let her know what we’re doing. I’ll leave the iPad to charge up whilst we’re out and then I’m ready to go.”
Frank phoned WPC Knowle. There was no reply so he left a quick message. “We’re after Dudley Weston. He contacted us and told us to meet him at the bus shelter by the pub. We’ll update later.”
They set off from Otterbury towards Exeter. They would join the motorway before t
aking the Plymouth road up Haldon Hill and past the racecourse. Ella drove and Frank navigated. The drive was more hectic than usual. The M5 around Exeter was crowded even though it was nowhere near the tourist season. They chugged up Haldon Hill. When they reached the summit, they waved at Exeter racecourse on their left and kept in the left—hand lane down the A38 dual carriageway. Bovey Tracey and Trago Mills were soon bypassed. Then they were careering down the long straight downhill stretch towards Ashburton. After Ashburton, the road swept around flowing corners until the signpost appeared for the A384 towards Totnes. Ella was glad to get off the main road. She was a good competent driver but she was always aware that lorries and vans paid scant attention to small cars like hers. They were only concerned with getting from A to B in the quickest possible time.
“What’s he doing in Staverton? It’s a long way from Budleigh Salterton.”
Through the trees, Frank could see the River Dart flowing over rocks in the valley to their right.
“Perhaps he just wanted to get away from his wife.”
“Don’t you get any ideas!”
“I love my wife. I don’t think he loves his!”
The South Devon Railway appeared on their right. For a short while, road and railway ran side by side. Ella saw a bus stop on the left as Frank said, “After the bus stop, turn left for Staverton.”
There was no signpost but Ella indicated and branched off to the left. The road became narrower, passing a farm shop, and winding its way through tall hedges and bare trees towards Staverton. There were few houses but plenty of leafless trees. All at once, they reached Staverton Station. Frank recognised it from Street View. There was no bus shelter or pub. There was a signpost guiding them towards either Staverton or Staverton Bridge.
“Turn left,” said Frank. “This way to the village.” They left the old station and a well—presented business area behind them, passed a grassed area with a football pitch before reaching the village of Staverton. They ignored a small car park on their right because they could see in front of them the whitewashed walls of a pub.
“There’s a bus shelter!” cried Ella. She slowed down and stopped outside the pub. On the apex of the junction was an old wooden bus shelter. The front of it was festooned by posters and adverts.
“Just as he said. Now, where is he?”
Frank and Ella got out of the car and looked around them. There was no—one in sight. The pub looked deserted. It was so quiet that they could hear the train whistle far away in the distance.
“South Devon Railway,” murmured Frank.
They crossed the road and went to inspect the bus shelter. Inside the shelter, there were just as many posters and leaflets. One, in particular, jumped out at them. It was a square of bright pink fluorescent paper. On it, in large capital letters were their names.
“Frank and Ella. Your next clue is at the station.”
“Is this some kind of a joke?” voiced Ella.
“Someone is playing a game of Treasure Hunt.” Frank smiled, “Let’s play along.”
He headed back to the car. Ella followed and she drove them back towards the station. This time, they passed over the level crossing and parked the car under some trees. They got out and looked around for a notice board. To their left was a small compact Great Western Railway signal box. It was a single–story building with no outside stairs.
“There’s the signal box I was telling you about. It’s a wonderful story! The line opened in 1872 but it only lasted 90 years before it closed for good. The Dart Valley Light Railway Company took ownership of the line in 1965. As they were preparing to re—open it, they couldn’t find the signal box. They located it eventually in the local vicar’s back garden. He’d bought it when the original railway closed down and was using the signal box as a greenhouse.”
“With those windows, I could see how it might be mistaken for a greenhouse,” laughed Ella.
“Anyway, they bought him a suitable replacement and restored the signal box back in its original place performing its original task.”
“A greenhouse,” smiled Ella, “now where’s our next clue?”
On the brick wall of a large station building was a series of bygone adverts. Stuck to the yellow Woodbine advert was another bright pink piece of paper.
Frank reached up and prized it off the metal advert.
“No writing. Just a map.”
It was a hand—drawn map with a couple of direction arrows on it. They recognised the railway, the river and a bridge. They headed back to the car to find another bright pink note attached to the windscreen.
Frank read. “Leave your car here. It’s perfectly safe. Time for a walk.”
Frank looked around to see if the note placer was still around. Apart from the odd four–wheel–drive passing by, the place looked deserted.
Ella was not happy. “This is getting silly. I don’t like it one bit.”
Frank smiled. “We’ve got our walking shoes and stuff in the boot. Let’s kit ourselves out and follow the map. What have we got to lose?”
“OK. I hope I don’t need to remind you of what you just said.” Ella laughed and opened the boot.
They equipped themselves for a short walk. Frank left his rucksack behind. It didn’t look like a day for waterproofs.
They could see the sense in leaving the car at the station. They crossed the bridge over the Dart and were soon on a winding footpath which took them through the trees into very dense woodland. They could hear the river somewhere to their left.
Eventually, after fifteen minutes of steady walking, they emerged alongside an old cottage. It was remote, unpainted with moss covering most of the slate roof. The walls were half–covered with ivy. The whole place had the air of being unkempt and uncared for. They were well away from any road, just a muddy track hemmed in by overhanging hedges leading away from the tumbledown building. There was a cramped, empty yard in front of the house. No garden or front gate. Just a wooden, badly painted front door.
On that door was another bright pink square of paper with only one word on it in very large handwritten capitals “Welcome!” The door was slightly ajar.
“I hope this is not an action replay of Sidmouth,” whispered Frank.
He pushed the door open. It creaked just like in an old horror movie. Frank stepped cautiously inside. Ella grabbed his hand and followed.
Everywhere was musty, dusty and about fifty years out of fashion. Pine cladding covered one wall. An old bubble lamp stood on top of a pine cabinet. The room smelled damp. An old armchair dozed in one corner of the room. Frank tried the light switch by the door somehow knowing the lights wouldn’t come on. They didn’t.
The kitchen door was ahead of them. It too was slightly open. There was part of a table in view. Frank and Ella walked slowly towards the room, pushed open the door and saw three mugs of tea on the old wooden table.
“Welcome, come in. I’ve made you a mug of tea. No sugar, I’m afraid.”
They passed through into the kitchen and saw Dudley Weston sitting to one side of the table. He picked up one of the mugs and began drinking.
“You got my messages then?”
“Er, yes,” said Ella in a confused voice.
“Well, sit down. Your tea’s getting cold.”
Both Frank and Ella sat down on old wooden kitchen chairs. They both picked up a china mug and sipped their tea.
“I’m afraid, it’s not Tetley’s. They only had Lipton’s and it was some kind of Indian flavour. It’s not to my taste but beggars can’t be choosers, can they?”
Frank continued to sip the warm tea. The taste was horrible but his English upbringing got the better of him. He did think, however, that he should gain some semblance of control in the situation.
“Mr Weston, er, Dudley, what are you doing here?”
“Escaping from my boring and overbearing wife. Have you met her?”
“Yes, we did,” said Ella.
“Then you’ll understand my actions!”
<
br /> Ella thought the tea was an acquired taste and she hadn’t quite acquired it yet.
“But why here?”
“Staverton? That’s a long story. I’ll give you the abbreviated version. We used to come here when I was a child. Mum and Dad loved the area. I loved the steam trains. But more importantly, Doreen doesn’t know this place even exists. I came here a couple of years ago on my own exploring. It was run–down but habitable. Over the years, I’d been able to sell a few of my more exotic plants for a tidy profit. I kept the money quiet. The house was cheap, very cheap. I bought it. Doreen never knew.”
“Good hideaway,” remarked Frank. He’d never felt less in control of a conversation.
“How are you feeling?” said Dudley.
“A bit tired after our walk,” Ella replied.
“Good. I brought you here for a reason.”
“Brought us here?” Frank was feeling tired as well.
“Yes. You see, I know who murdered Anthony Buckerell. I just need some more evidence and then I’ll be turning the culprits over to the police. I bet there’s a great big fat reward for assisting the police. I need your help to provide the evidence.”
“How?”
“Well, a confession. An explanation of how the murder was done. How the police officers were bribed. Or were they in collusion with the murderers?”
“What are you talking about? I don’t understand?” Ella tried to concentrate on his words.
“Of course you do. Are you feeling sleepy?”
“Yes, I am. Have you put something in our drinks?” Frank knocked the almost empty mug off the table. It smashed on the floor.
“Temper, temper!”
“Have you drugged our drinks?” repeated Frank.
“You’re the supposed detective. You tell me?”
Frank tried to stand up but the effort was too great.
“Wait a moment,” interrupted Ella, “you said something about a confession. Have you got the murderer here in this place?”
“I have now.” Dudley Weston smiled at Ella in a most disturbingly smug manner.
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Who are they?”
