Malice On The Moors

by Graham Thomas

  “I understand that he was seen in the neighborhood around the critical time.”

  “It's all in the file.”

  “What do you have on him?” Powell persisted.

  “Not enough to bring him in,” Cartwright admitted. “But he's involved in this, all right.”

  “What's the name of the officer Macfarlane has brought charges against?”

  “Inspector Braughton. He's in charge here.”

  “I'd like to talk to him.”

  “He's not involved in the present investigation, for obvious reasons.”

  “I'd still like to talk to him.”

  “If you insist.”

  Cartwright's attitude was beginning to wear a bit thin. “What can you tell me about Dinsdale?” Powell asked.

  “What do you want to know?”

  Powell was a great one for verbal dueling, but he could hardly be bothered with somebody as predictable as the dull superintendent. “Get on with it, Cartwright,” he said wearily.

  Cartwright looked at Powell, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. “He was one of the largest landholders in the Moors, a prominent businessman, and a Rotarian, I might add. Very different than that scum, Macfarlane. Now, if there's nothing else, I really must be getting back to Northallerton.”

  Powell had had about all he could take. “Just so we understand each other, Cartwright,” he said evenly, “I like this even less than you do. But if you have a problem, I suggest you talk to the chief constable about it.” He got to his feet.

  Cartwright shrugged. “I do as I'm told, but we could have handled this one ourselves, no problem.” He paused for effect. “After all, we caught our Ripper; you're still looking for yours.”

  “Touche,” Sarah Evans remarked, smiling for the first time as they made their way back to the public reception area.

  “It's early innings yet,” Powell muttered.

  Sergeant Evans got the distinct impression that her superior was the type to carry a grudge.

  At the desk, Powell signed out the Dinsdale file and inquired about the whereabouts of Inspector Braughton.

  “Day off today, sir,” the portly sergeant replied cheerily. “Back tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. I'll pop back then.”

  “Very good, sir. Cheerio!”

  Nothing like the civilized cliches to lubricate the social machinery, Powell thought as they walked out the door. He turned to Sarah Evans. “Why don't we meet in Pickering?” He opened the file folder and riffled through the contents. “I'd like to talk to the pathologist first. Let's see…Dr. Alan Harvey. Number Eleven, Birdgate Mews.”

  “Right.”

  “By the way,” Powell said, “I've booked you into the Lion and Hippo in Brackendale.”

  “The Lion and Hippo?” she said doubtfully.

  Powell smiled. “It's a long story. I'll give you the, er, bare bones over a drink later in the pub.”

  “The pub.”

  “Yes, Evans, the pub. Still the wellspring of local information in our increasingly complex and mobile society.”

  She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I see.”

  Powell hopped into his Triumph. “Cheerio.”

  Powell arrived in Pickering ahead of his colleague. He managed to find a parking spot in the marketplace, lit a cigarette, and waited. The blue dome of heaven above, the imposing Norman tower of the church overlooking the red-roofed houses, and Van the Man on the tape player. He was supposed to be on holiday, but it could be worse, he thought expansively. Despite his earlier reservations, his instincts told him that Sarah Evans was all right. And best of all, at the end of each day—however bright or dreary, bountiful or fruitless—a pint of best Yorkshire bitter awaited him at the Lion and Hippo. He bobbed his head to the beat and drummed on the steering wheel. “I'm a working man in my prime, when I'm cleaning windows—”

  “Sir?” It was Sarah Evans.

  “Er, hello, Evans,” he said, fumbling with the ignition switch. He scrambled out of the car.

  She grinned. “I quite like Van Morrison, sir.”

  He smiled sheepishly. “Yes, well, it must be nice to have talent.”

  “I think the street we want is just back there,” she said, all businesslike again.

  “Right.”

  They soon located the tidy stone house in a narrow mews near the church. The door and the window trim were painted royal blue. On the side of the step, keeping guard over two empty milk bottles, sat an orange cat. A small brass plaque beside the door discreetly proclaimed A. s. HARVEY, M.D., M.R.c.p., D.P.H. Powell tapped on the door with the polished knocker. A riot of barking erupted in the house followed by the sound of animals hurtling themselves against the door and a raised voice vainly trying to restore order. “Quiet, you mangy lot, quiet!”

  Powell and Detective-Sergeant Evans looked at each other. The cat blinked impassively. Eventually the barking stopped and the door opened to reveal a short, balding man with bushy white eyebrows. He held a squirming terrier in each arm and a pack of assorted retrievers and spaniels swarmed around his legs, whining excitedly with tongues lolling. “They haven't had their w-a-l-k today,” he explained, spelling the word so as not to incite another orgy of canine frenzy.

  Powell introduced Sergeant Evans and himself, explained the purpose of their visit, and apologized for not calling ahead.

  “That's quite all right. Please, come in.”

  Fending off his dogs, Dr. Harvey ushered them down a hallway into a study at the back of the house that had a window looking out on the churchyard. He quickly closed the door behind him. Undeterred, the dogs began to run up and down the hall, slipping and sliding on the hardwood floor. “My wife will be home soon,” he said hopefully.

  There was a desk beneath the window and on the adjoining walls were tall shelves filled with books. Opposite, against the wall to the right of the door, was a small settee and coffee table. Dr. Harvey gestured towards the settee. “Please,” he said.

  Powell and Sarah Evans sat down beside each other about as far apart as was physically possible without straddling the arms of the seat. Nonetheless, their legs almost touched.

  Dr. Harvey pulled out the chair from his desk, swiveled it around, and sat down himself. “Now then,” he said, “what do you want to know?”

  “I understand that you conducted the postmortem on Richard Dinsdale,” Powell began.

  “Yes, an interesting one, that.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, to start with, we don't get many snakebites around these parts. And fatalities are even rarer.”

  “You're referring to adders, I take it?”

  “Right. Vipera berus. Quite common on the moors, I'm told, but it's a shy and retiring beast, rarely encountered by people. Dinsdale apparently was one of the unlucky ones.”

  “He was definitely bitten, then?”

  “Unquestionably. There were two puncture marks on the back of his right hand, as would be made by a snake's fangs. In addition, there were external indications of a reaction to the venom—localized inflammation around the puncture wounds, swelling, and so forth. And then of course there was the proverbial smoking gun: one dead male adder found at the scene.”

  “Dead?”

  “Dinsdale's gamekeeper blew its head off.”

  “Did you attend the scene yourself?”

  “No. I was brought in after the fact by the coroner. I'm retired, Chief Superintendent. Used to teach pathology at the University of Leeds. But I still like to keep my hand in.”

  Powell frowned distractedly. “I'm just wondering how someone could get bitten on the hand? I can see how one might step on a snake …”

  Harvey shrugged. “Who knows? Strange things happen sometimes. However, you're quite right. The majority of snakebites occur on the foot or lower leg.”

  “Do you know exactly how it's supposed to have happened?”

  Harvey rubbed the top of his head, as if he were trying to stimulate some cranial activity. “Dinsdale was grouse
shooting on his estate at the time. A heavy fog set in and the party was up on the moor waiting for conditions to improve. One of Dinsdale's gamekeepers was doing the rounds, checking up on the guns, when he thought he heard a strange sound coming from his employer's shooting butt. By the time he got there, Dinsdale was in pretty rough shape, apparently. The gamekeeper spotted the snake and shot it. That's about it. Dinsdale died a short time later of cardiorespiratory arrest en route to hospital.”

  “You mentioned before that fatalities in such cases are uncommon. Would you care to elaborate?”

  “Adder bites can be potentially fatal for persons with heart conditions or severe allergies, but such instances are exceedingly rare.”

  “Did Dinsdale suffer from either of these conditions?”

  “There was no indication of cardiac disease. There was, however, some pathology of the lungs, which is suggestive.”

  “How so?”

  “The lungs appeared to be overexpanded and there was some edema present. Microscopic examination of the tissue revealed bronchial abnormalities characteristic of chronic asthma. And as you may know, asthmatics are often prone to various allergies.”

  “What does the venom actually do to the system?”

  “It basically has two modes of action. Firstly, there is a hemorrhagic effect—that is, it causes the red blood cells to break down, which can lead to an impairment of kidney function due to the accumulation of hemoglobin.”

  Powell noticed with some relief that Sarah Evans was scribbling madly.

  “Secondly,” Dr. Harvey continued, “the toxin has a depressant action on the central nervous system.”

  “What are the symptoms?”

  “In addition to localized pain and swelling? Nausea and vomiting, disturbed vision, labored breathing. In extreme cases, breathing can stop altogether.”

  “Do you think Dinsdale's asthma could have been a factor?”

  Harvey shrugged. “It's possible.”

  “You don't sound entirely convinced,” Powell observed.

  The pathologist looked at Powell. “I'm not,” he said, in a careful voice. “And that is why I stated my opinion at the inquest that the cause of death remains unknown.”

  Powell nodded. “I assume you conducted the usual blood tests?”

  “We ran a routine drug screen. His blood alcohol level was high enough to render him intoxicated at the time of his death.”

  “Is that relevant?”

  “Well, alcohol is another depressant, so it could have been a contributing factor but probably not a significant one.”

  At that moment there was a great commotion of barking and scrabbling feet outside the door, and they heard a woman's voice call out cheerily, “Walkies, babies, walkies!”

  “Would you care for a cup of tea?” Dr. Harvey asked hopefully.

  Powell smiled and rose from the settee. “Another time, perhaps. I do appreciate your help, Dr. Harvey. If you happen to think of anything else, you can reach us in Brackendale.” He handed Harvey one of the business cards he had picked up at the inn.

  There was the faint sound of a door slamming and then golden silence. Dr. Harvey sighed. “I'll see you out.”

  Outside, Sergeant Evans looked disappointed. “I'm dying for a cup of tea,” she said.

  CHAPTER 5

  Marjorie Dinsdale hung up the telephone and looked at her daughter, Felicity. “That was Jim Braughton,” she said.

  “What did he want?' Felicity, brushing her long hair, was sitting with her feet up in a large Queen Anne chair. She sounded bored.

  Her mother frowned. “He said they've brought up a detective from London to look into Dickie's death.”

  “So?”

  “Pour me a sherry, would you, dear?” She picked up a copy of Country Life from the coffee table and began to flip through it.

  Felicity groaned. “Where's that bloody Francesca?”

  “Felicity!” Her mother's voice was cross now.

  “Oh, all right.” The young woman slid out of her chair and slouched over to the low chiffonier that served as the drink cabinet. She filled a glass from a crystal decanter and delivered it to her mother. “Will there be anything else?” she asked resentfully.

  Her mother stared at her. “Felicity, I really think you—” She was interrupted by a loud sputtering sound. She turned to look behind her. An elderly man in a wheelchair was gesturing at her in an animated manner from the corner of the room. “What is it, Ronnie?” she asked, a note of concern in her voice.

  Felicity yawned.

  Marjorie Dinsdale put aside her magazine and hurried over to her husband. She gently stroked his head. “It's all right, Ronnie,” she murmured.

  He smiled slack mouthed, drooling slightly, his eyes opaque.

  “The poor dear, it's a blessing really,” she said to no one in particular. “He doesn't have a clue about Dickie.”

  “That's an understatement,” Felicity rejoined. “If you ask me, I think the little perv got off lucky—he might have ended up like that.”

  Her mother turned to face her. “Get out!” she hissed.

  Felicity stared back with cold blue eyes. “Don't get your knickers in a twist, Mother. You got what you wanted, after all.”

  “I don't know what you mean.”

  Felicity smiled. “I'm going out. Don't bother to wait up.”

  “Felicity, I—”

  Ronnie Dinsdale began to mutter something as Felicity slipped out the door. “What's that, dear?” his wife asked, startled. It sounded like “bitch.”

  The Lion and Hippo was doing a respectable business that night. Powell and Sarah Evans sat at a table in front of the peat fire, which, according to the landlord, had burned continuously for over a hundred years.

  “Be honest with me, why did I get this assignment?” Sarah asked.

  Powell sipped his beer. “That,” he said, “is a long story. Suffice it to say you have friends in high places.”

  She looked skeptical. “Really? What about Bill Black? I thought you two always worked together.”

  “Let's put it this way, Evans: We drew straws and you lost.”

  She smiled. “Oh, I don't know; I tend to view it as an opportunity.”

  Powell raised an eyebrow. “Do you now?” He drained his glass and motioned to Robert Walker for another round.

  Sarah looked slightly alarmed. “It's getting late, I think perhaps I should turn in—”

  “Nonsense, Sergeant, you're in the Murder Squad now. Dulce est desipere in loco.“

  She regarded him warily. “Pardon?”

  Powell smiled innocently. “The evening's just begun— time to relax and reflect on the day's work. It's standard procedure.”

  “Standard procedure,” she repeated doubtfully.

  Robert Walker arrived at their table with another pint for Powell and a glass of white wine for Sarah.

  When they were alone again, they sat without speaking for a few moments. Then out of the blue she blurted, “Would it be all right if I interviewed the gamekeeper who discovered Dinsdale and the adder?”

  Powell regarded her speculatively. Inexperienced, but obviously keen, she exuded an air of competence that he found reassuring. And there was something else about her that he was finding increasingly stimulating as the evening wore on. “Why not?” he said eventually. He reached for his notebook and flipped it open. “I've reviewed the file and made a list of the people we need to talk to.” He ran through the list. “Between the two of us, it shouldn't take long to get through it.”

  Sarah could hardly stop grinning. “Right. I better get started on a list of questions for Mick Curtis. I'll see you at breakfast. Eight-thirty all right?”

  Before Powell could protest, Sergeant Evans was making a beeline for the door. Feeling slightly cheated, he caught Walker's eye and ordered another pint.

  Putting Sarah Evans out of his mind, he began to analyze his initial impressions of the case. Despite Superintendent Cartwright's glowing description of t
he late Richard Dinsdale, from what limited information he had been able to pick up in the pub, Powell had come to the conclusion that Dickie hadn't exactly been an endearing character. And the manner of his death was curious at the very least, if not actually suspicious. Fantastic might be a better description. He looked again at his notebook. He decided that he would start by having a word with Katie Elger, supposedly the second person to see Dins-dale immediately before his death. He pulled thoughtfully on his beer.

  The next morning in the dining room of the Lion and Hippo, a promising blue sky peeking through chintz curtains boded well for the day ahead. Over breakfast, Powell and Sarah divvied up the names on Powell's list amidst solicitous service from the Walkers (he had to resist the impression that they were trying to eavesdrop). Powell was having the full English, which came complete with a slice of that northern delicacy he tended to regard with a curious mixture of revulsion and relish: black pudding. Sarah, for her part, crunched away with a superior air on a granolalike substance with a Swiss name that sounded like a body secretion. As Mick Curtis lived in Farnmoor and the Elgers up at Dale End Farm, they agreed that it would be best to go their separate ways and meet back at the inn later.

  Powell drove the now familiar route to upper Brack-endale and took the turning to Dale End Farm. The morning sunlight, filtering through the alders that lined the stream, warmed his face. The leaves were just beginning to take on the bronze hues of autumn, but the fields beside the road were still lush and green. Ahead, the rocky fell that demarcated the head of the dale was dissected by two deep ravines cut by tumbling gills that nourished the infant Merlin, which at this point was no more than a few feet wide. Perched on the high top, overlooking the dale, was the austere facade of Blackamoor Hall.

  He pulled up to a large gritstone farmhouse and a young woman emerged from one of the outbuildings, watching him. He waved.

  “Ms. Elger?” he called out.

  She walked across the muddy farmyard and stood at the gate. Twentyish with frizzy red hair tied loosely at the back and direct blue eyes, she was wearing a University of York sweatshirt. Powell got out of his car.

  “Yes?” she said.