Malice On The Moors

by Graham Thomas

  “You don't think there's anything to Stumpy's charge of police brutality, do you?”

  Powell shrugged. “It happens.”

  She tossed him a strange look. “In my experience, people who break the law tend to be the authors of their own misfortune.”

  “Perhaps. But, in my experience, it's generally best to leave matters of retribution to the courts, God, or the wheel of karma—take your pick.”

  She colored. “Of course, sir, I didn't mean …” She trailed off lamely.

  Powell smiled to put her at ease. “I'll try to get to the bottom of it when I talk to Braughton. I need to know where we stand when I eventually talk to old Stumpy.” He emptied his glass with a prodigious gulp. “Now, then, it's time to start dinner. Roll up your sleeves, woman.”

  She looked wary. “I thought you were making me dinner.”

  He laughed. “Nonsense! It's never any fun just watching. You're going to have a hands-on experience, as they say. Now drink up.”

  Powell bustled purposefully about the spacious kitchen of the Lion and Hippo. “Right, we're almost ready,” he said cheerily. “Chop the garlic and ginger as finely as you can.”

  A mock salute from Sergeant Evans. “Aye, aye, sir!”

  “It's bloody marvelous being able to work in a kitchen like this,” he added as an aside, surveying the gleaming gas cooker and the assortment of copper saucepans hanging from the old beams.

  “Here you are,” said Sarah. “One tablespoon fresh garlic, two tablespoons ginger root, finely chopped.”

  “Now, I want you to pay close attention; I'm only going to do this once.” He gestured towards a cast-iron pot sitting on the flaming cooker. “I'm heating a quarter cup of cooking oil on high heat. By rights, I should be using a karai, which is a sort of Indian wok, but any heavy pot will do. Before we get started, I'll run through the ingredients.”

  These were arrayed on a large butcher's block beside the range. He pointed to each item in turn: “Garlic and ginger; one pound of fresh leg of lamb, cut into one-inch cubes; one medium onion, sliced; a green bell pepper, chopped into one-inch pieces; a small tomato, coarsely chopped; half a cup of canned crushed tomatoes; half a teaspoon of ground red chilies, more if you like—”

  “I like it hot,” she interjected.

  He raised an eyebrow. 'All right, one teaspoon of chili powder. A teaspoon of paprika and half a teaspoon or so of salt.”

  Sarah had produced her notebook and was scribbling madly.

  “Before I begin, I should point out that the karai style of cooking originated in northwest Pakistan and—”

  “Could you get on with it?” Sarah prompted. “I'm bloody famished.”

  “Right. We start off with our garlic and ginger—” a loud sizzle as the ingredients hit the hot oil “—and stir-fry for about thirty seconds. Now we add everything else except the green pepper and fresh tomato. The trick is to keep stirring and shaking the pot like this so that nothing will stick.” A rhythmic clattering as Powell worked both hands. “This should take about twenty minutes. I'll add the green pepper and fresh tomato near the end.” An intoxicating aroma began to fill the kitchen. Bloody marvelous, Sarah thought. He cooks, too…

  While Powell presided over the karai lamb, Sarah busied herself with the rice.

  “Voila!” Powell announced, setting the fragrant pot on a small table set in the corner of the kitchen.

  Sarah nearly muscled him aside, trying to get her nose over the pot. She sniffed ecstatically. Tender morsels of lamb glazed with spices and tomato amidst a garnish of green pepper.

  “You won't be served until you sit down,” Powell said sternly.

  She didn't argue.

  Half an hour later, Sarah stuck out her tongue and began to fan it with her hand. Then she leaned back and sighed contentedly. “Can we do that again some time?” she asked.

  “I always like to smoke afterward,” he said, feeling for his cigarettes.

  She smiled tolerantly. “Where did you learn to cook like that?”

  “From a master. Do you know the K2 Tandoori in Charlotte Street?”

  She shook her head.

  “The proprietor, Rashid Jamal, is an old friend of mine. The K2 is a fertile oasis in my otherwise arid existence.”

  She smiled and took a sip of her lager. “You don't seem like the arid type to me.”

  “You'd be surprised.”

  “I'd like to try it some time.”

  “Hmm?” He exhaled a cloud of smoke.

  “The K2.”

  “I'll take you there for lunch when we get back.”

  “I'd like that. My older brother and his mates used to occasionally drag me along on their university pub crawls.

  We always ended up in some curry house about three in the morning.”

  “You'll make some lager lout a fine wife,” Powell observed dryly.

  “Not a chance. I'm going to be commissioner some day,” Sarah asserted, only half jokingly.

  Powell grimaced as he pushed himself away from the table. “I can see that you need to be taught some humility. I'll wash, you dry.”

  The next day dawned dreary and wet. Brackendale was shrouded in low clouds that obscured the high tops, creating an oppressive, slightly claustrophobic atmosphere. Powell was more than happy to escape to Malton to see Inspector Braughton and leave Sarah Evans behind to pursue the locals. He had called the previous afternoon to set up an appointment with Braughton, who had not exactly been enthusiastic about the prospect of a meeting. Powell was certain, however, that the local inspector would be able to provide some useful information.

  As he pulled off the A169 onto the Old Malton Road, the drizzle turned into a downpour, drumming a fierce tattoo on the roadster's convertible top. Rather alarmingly, water had begun to drip onto the passenger seat. A few minutes later, he pulled into the car park at the police station and parked as close to the entrance as he could. He removed the ashtray from the dash, opened his door a crack and dumped the contents outside. Filthy habit, he thought. He carefully placed the ashtray on the seat beside him to catch the drips. Then he bailed out of the car and made a run for it.

  An hour later, Powell was still sitting in Inspector Braughton's office.

  “After Dinsdale hit him, then what?” he asked in an even voice.

  Braughton hesitated. “I cautioned Macfarlane and was about to take him into custody when Dickie—I mean Mr. Dinsdale—pointed his shotgun at the lad—” he swallowed “—then he pulled the trigger.”

  Powell stared at Braughton in disbelief. “He did what!”

  “The gun w-was unloaded, of course,” Braughton stammered, as if this excused everything. “Look, I know it doesn't look good. If I had it to do over again, I'd have done something about it, but it's water under the bridge now, isn't it?”

  “Christ Almighty, Braughton. Leaving aside your duty as a policeman for a moment, didn't it occur to you that Stumpy would crucify you in the media over this? And who could blame him?”

  Braughton said nothing.

  “And bad press is the least of your worries. I hear you've also been charged with assault.”

  “It'll be my word against Macfarlane's, won't it?”

  “You'll be testifying under oath,” Powell reminded him.

  Braughton averted his eyes. “When we arrived on the scene, an unlawful protest was in progress,” he said in a practiced monotone. “Emotions were running high and there may well have been some rough stuff before we were able to intervene and restore order. It's as simple as that.” He ran his hand over the top of his balding head in a nervous gesture and seemed slightly surprised to find little but skin.

  “Who tipped you off to Stumpy's plans?”

  “Mr. Dinsdale.”

  Powell's expression evinced surprise.

  “A few days before the Twelfth,” Braughton explained, “he called to say that he had reason to believe that Macfarlane was planning to disrupt the shoot. After the trouble on Ilkey Moor last year, we to
ok the threat seriously. We arranged to wait at the Hall while the shoot was in progress, then move in when we got the call from one of the gamekeepers.”

  “Mick Curtis?”

  Braughton nodded.

  “Did Dinsdale provide any evidence to support his claim that he'd been targeted by Stumpy?”

  “Evidence? He turned out to be bloody right, didn't he?” Braughton said indignantly.

  “Let's cut to the chase, shall we, Braughton? I understand that Stumpy was seen in the neighborhood around the time of Dinsdale's death. I get the impression that Superintendent Cartwright suspects foul play and considers Stumpy the prime suspect.”

  Braughton looked uncomfortable. “Macfarlane was stopped the day before by a constable in a routine check on Blackamoor Rigg Road, literally in sight of the Hall.”

  “A routine check,” Powell repeated, a skeptical note in his voice.

  “Aye, as it so happens.”

  “Go on.”

  “When the constable checked his driver's licence and realized who it was, he asked him what he was doing in the vicinity of Blackamoor Hall.” He paused before delivering the punch line. “Sightseeing was what he said.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “York. He's a student at the university.”

  “I'll need his address. By the way, has anyone talked to him since Dinsdale's death?”

  Braughton nodded sourly. “He's got an alibi of sorts. His girlfriend claims he was with her. Chloe Aldershot, her name is. Another bloody student. She's one of the protesters charged along with Macfarlane, so I'd take her word with a grain of salt. Daughter of Lord Aider-shot and a flaming anarchist, that one.”

  Powell frowned. “I'll need her address and telephone number, as well.” There was something gnawing away at the back of his brain, but he couldn't quite grab a hold of it. “Did you know Dinsdale, on a personal basis, I mean?”

  Braughton shrugged. “I met him on a few occasions through his stepmother. Mrs. Dinsdale and I are both members of the local horticultural society. We share a passion for orchids.”

  “What was your impression of him?”

  Braughton seemed to consider the question carefully before replying. “He had an abrasive nature, you'd have to say. Bit of a know-it-all. He gave the impression that he enjoyed the trappings of wealth—the shooting and so on—but didn't like to get his hands dirty.”

  “What about Mrs. Dinsdale?”

  “The exact opposite. Although she's originally from London, she fit right into the country life: secretary of the local hunt club, keen gardener and birder—that sort of thing. Much like her husband.”

  “You seem to know her quite well,” Powell observed.

  Braughton rubbed his hand over the top of his head. “Not really.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might have had it in for him?”

  “You're asking the wrong person.”

  Powell scrutinized Braughton closely. “What do you think happened to him?”

  “I think a snake killed him,” the inspector said slowly. “End of story.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Sarah Evans eventually located the gamekeeper's cottage about half a mile north of the village. At the point where the road turned sharply east to cross over the River Merlin, a rough road, made muddy from the recent rain, took off to the left towards a cluster of buildings set on the bank of the river. A small faded sign affixed to the corner of the stone wall at the turning simply stated ROSE COTTAGE. AS Sarah's car lurched along the track, the wheels churning and slipping through the miniature lakes that had formed in the potholes, she had visions of getting stuck and having to get pulled out. Not an auspicious start to an official visit.

  She eventually made it, however, and pulled up in front of the house, a tidy stone cottage with a large garden in front that would have looked bright and cheerful on a good day, she didn't doubt, but today looked rather forlorn and dreary. A black Labrador retriever sat on the step watching her. Behind the cottage was a series of long, low pens constructed of posts and wire mesh, containing hundreds of colorful cock pheasants. The birds milled about and clucked nervously as Sarah got out of her car. The dog began to bark halfheartedly.

  As she walked up to the door of the cottage, she marveled at the bewildering variety of outbuildings, as well as the various bits of machinery, equipment, and containers scattered around the yard, the functions of which were a complete mystery to her. She was a city girl through and through and didn't mind admitting it. She cautiously held her hand out to the dog who snuffled at her with its grizzled muzzle.

  An older woman opened the door. Sarah introduced herself and explained the purpose of her visit.

  “You'd better come in, dear, or you'll catch your death,” Mrs. Settle said.

  She escorted Sarah into a small sitting room overlooking the river. The room was rather starkly furnished with a settee, a matching wing chair, and a small coffee table. It was strangely devoid of the normal bric-a-brac and mementos one would have expected an older couple to have accumulated over the years. A number of cardboard boxes sat on the floor.

  “Please forgive the mess, Miss Evans. The moving van will be here next week,” Mrs. Settle said by way of explanation. “You 'ave a seat and I'll get us a nice cup of tea.”

  Sarah smiled. “I'd like nothing better, Mrs. Settle.” After her hostess left the room, Sarah had a look around. She glanced into one of the open boxes and was surprised to see a photo of a smiling Mr. and Mrs. Walker amongst the other knickknacks. She sat down in the chair and turned to look out the window. Across the river she could make out some red-roofed farm buildings, indistinct in the mist. Dale End Farm? she wondered abstractedly. She knew she should remain emotionally detached, but she felt sorry for the Settles. Mr. Settle losing his job and being forced to leave his home after all these years, because of a silly protest that had been beyond the former gamekeeper's power to prevent. And with Dinsdale dead, the whole thing now seemed so unnecessary. But the die had been cast, she supposed, and—

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the return of Mrs. Settle who was accompanied by a heavyset, stolid-looking man with thinning gray hair.

  “Now, don't get up, dear,” Mrs. Settle admonished. “This is my husband, Harry. Harry, I'd like you to meet Sergeant Evans. She's a detective from Scotland Yard,” she added significantly.

  Sarah smiled and exchanged greetings with Mr. Settle. She attempted to make small talk as Mrs. Settle arranged the tea things and a plate of homemade shortbread on the coffee table. When everything was to her liking, Mrs. Settle nestled on the settee beside her husband.

  Sarah was wondering how to handle the potentially delicate subject of the Settles' present situation during the interview. Best to get it over with and clear the air, she decided. She took out her notebook and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “Mr. Settle, I understand that you were head keeper at Blackamoor until recently.”

  Settle's expression darkened. “That's so.”

  “I'd like to ask you some questions about what happened on September thirteenth of this year, the day of the farmers' shoot.”

  “Oh, aye?” he rumbled.

  “I understand that you were present on East Moor that day.”

  He grunted in what she took as the affirmative. Mr. Settle was clearly a man of few words.

  “Were you still employed by the estate at that time?”

  “Nay.”

  “When did you leave the employ of the estate, Mr. Settle?”

  “End of August.”

  “Would you mind telling me why you left?”

  “I bloody quit,” Settle said with uncharacteristic emotion in his voice.

  Sarah drew a mental breath. “Why did you quit, Mr. Settle?”

  With obvious reluctance, he recounted what had happened on August twelfth: the protest by the group of antis, how Dickie Dinsdale had blamed him for it and then humiliated him by giving his job to his former assistant, Mick Curtis.

 
“It was worse than sackin' im outright,” Mrs. Settle piped in. “Rubbin' my Harry's nose in it like that.” She shook her head disgustedly. “Mick Curtis, of all people! That one doesn't know which way is up, Miss Evans!”

  Sarah nodded sympathetically. “I'd like to return now to the day of the farmers' shoot, Mr. Settle. Could you tell me what happened, starting from the beginning?”

  Settle didn't speak for a few moments, as if he were organizing his thoughts. “It was right foggy that day,” he began slowly. “Worst I'd seen it this season. There were fifteen of us, sixteen including Mr. Dinsdale. We managed to get one drive in in t' morning. We broke for lunch around noon and returned to t' shootin' box.”

  “Who was there at the shooting box, Mr. Settle?” Sarah asked.

  “Every one that was on t' moor that mornin'. The missus—” he glanced at his wife “—and Katie Elger were servin' lunch.”

  “Katie doesn't like shootin',” Mrs. Settle commented.

  Sarah nodded. “The results of the postmortem indicate that Mr. Dinsdale had been drinking before his death…” She left it open.

  Settle scowled. “T' bugger was always drinkin'.”

  “You shouldn't speak ill of t' dead, Harry!” Mrs. Settle admonished.

  Mr. Settle muttered something under his breath.

  “Did you see him drinking that day?” Sarah persisted.

  “Aye, he had his share of wine at lunch, I reckon.”

  “What about other times—during the shooting, for instance?”

  “I didn't notice, but he usually carried a flask with whisky in it.”

  “Would you say he was drunk?”

  “No more than usual.”

  “Right, then. What happened after lunch?”

  “We went back up on t' East Moor and—”

  Sarah looked up from her notebook. “Sorry, East Moor is to the east of Blackamoor Rigg Road, right?”

  Settle nodded.

  “Please continue.”

  Settle scratched his head thoughtfully. “T' fog was showin' no sign of lettin' up, so we just stayed in t' butts waitin' for a break. It must of been about a half hour or so when I 'eard two gunshots and then a great bloody kerfuffle comin' from t' far end of t' line of butts. I got down there as fast as I could and found everyone standin' around Mr. Dinsdale.” He paused. “It weren't a pleasant sight,” he said simply.