Malice On The Moors

by Graham Thomas

  “Brilliant work, you two,” Powell pronounced. “This calls for another drink, I think.” He went up to the bar and returned with a pint for himself, a hot buttered rum for Sir Reggie, and a tonic-and-lime for Sarah, who had volunteered to be their designated driver for the evening.

  “Let's say, just for the sake of argument,” Powell mused aloud, “that our hypothetical murderer managed somehow to capture an adder and keep it imprisoned in the wall of the butt until the day of the farmers' shoot. At some point during the proceedings, he or she slips some poison to Dinsdale; when he collapses in his butt, the villain lets the snake out to nip poor Dickie as a diversionary tactic.” He looked questioningly at Sarah.

  “Or perhaps he forced Dinsdale's hand into the hole in the wall where the snake was? That would explain the bloodstains,” Sarah suggested.

  Sir Reggie sniffed indignantly. “I think this is all highly speculative and furthermore—” His face suddenly turned an alarming shade of purple. “Ah-ah-c/ioo!” he bellowed.

  “Bless you,” Powell and Sarah said in unison.

  “When we get the results of the toxicological tests tomorrow,” Sir Reggie continued as if nothing had happened, oblivious of the startled reaction his latest sternutation had caused in the bar, “we'll know for certain what we're dealing with.” He looked first at Powell and then at Sarah. “The truth, as they say, is in the crumble.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Powell and Detective-Sergeant Evans took advantage of the hiatus afforded by Sir Reggie's departure for the gents to continue down the same speculative road.

  “Assuming that Dinsdale was in fact poisoned,” Sarah ventured, “and assuming that the adder was part of the plan, how could the killer have known that Dinsdale would end up in the right butt? Don't they draw lots or something?”

  “That's the normal drill. However, according to Harry Settle, it was no secret that Dinsdale preferred that particular butt because it generally provided the best shooting. And since there weren't any paying guests to offend, he evidently just commandeered it. We should confirm that with Mick Curtis, however.”

  Sarah frowned, obviously not satisfied. “I keep coming back to that damned snake. It just seems too clever by half. Why not just poison him and be done with it?”

  Powell's reply was interrupted by the pathologist's clamorous return. Time to change gears, he decided. Sir Reggie was right. Idle speculation was getting them nowhere fast. “Apart from showing up my shoddy detective work, did you manage to accomplish anything else today?”he asked.

  Sarah nodded eagerly. “I managed to dig up some dirt on Mick Curtis.”

  Powell put down his glass, his interest piqued. “What do you mean?”

  “After we finished up on the moor, we paid a visit to Blackamoor Hall. I wanted to have a word with Francesca Aguirre. I left Reggie in Mrs. Dinsdale's charge to dry off in front of the fire then—”

  “Perfectly charming woman,” Sir Reggie volunteered.

  “Anyway, Francesca and I had an interesting chat. She was obviously upset about something and it was a bit of a struggle getting her to open up. She and her husband, Luis, have only been over here from Spain a couple of years,” she added parenthetically. “To make a long story short, it seems that she and Mick Curtis had a relationship.”

  “A relationship?”

  “Well, sort of. I mean, on one occasion, anyway.”

  Powell affected an air of shocked amazement. “You mean he shagged her in the scullery?”

  “You could put it that way,” she said frostily.

  “Why is this relevant, Evans?”

  “Francesca claims that he took advantage of her.”

  “What do you mean,'took advantage'?”

  “Forced himself on her, like.”

  “Sexually assaulted her, you mean?”

  “She implied as much but refused to go into details. They'd both been drinking, apparently.”

  “Come to the point, Evans,” Powell said impatiently.

  “The thing is, sir, according to Francesca, Curtis threatened her, told her if she said anything to anyone, he'd accuse her of stealing and have her thrown in prison or deported or something. I think the poor woman is more afraid of her husband finding out and blaming her for what happened. Isn't it bloody typical?”

  Powell sighed. “Spare me the speech, Evans. Is she willing to bring a complaint against him?”

  “I wouldn't hold my breath.”

  Powell lapsed into silence. “I can't help wondering why she decided to tell someone about it now,” he said eventually.

  Sarah shrugged. “Maybe she just wanted to get it off her chest.”

  “Or maybe she wants to stick it to her former boyfriend for taking up with Felicity. But, giving her the benefit of the doubt, I can understand why Curtis, the fair-haired boy, would want to keep it from his employer.”

  “I don't imagine Felicity would be too thrilled about it either,” she commented.

  There was a sudden sonorous clang as the landlord struck a bell hanging over the bar. “Time, ladies and gentlemen!” he sang out.

  Powell gulped down the last of his bitter. “It's probably a side issue,” he concluded.

  The next morning, Powell set out for Blackamoor Hall, leaving Sarah Evans and Sir Reggie behind to await the results of the toxicology tests. The sky was the color of gunmetal and hardly a breath of air stirred. As he climbed the steep incline of Blackamoor Bank Road through the thickening mist, he had the nagging sense that he was overlooking some small but crucial piece of evidence. He tried once again to sort out the Gordian knot of facts and speculation that threatened to bring his mental process to a grinding halt. Dickie Dinsdale, the unpopular heir to the Blackamoor estate, was found near death in his shooting butt during a grouse shoot, having been bitten by an adder. He died a short time later, but the precise cause of death remained unknown. It subsequently came to light that a shed where deadly pesticides are stored was broken into a few days before Dinsdale's death, raising the suspicion that he may have been poisoned.

  If this was confirmed by the toxicological analysis, the next obvious question was, Who stood to benefit? His stepmother, Marjorie, came immediately to mind. With Dinsdale out of the way, she stood to inherit her husband's fortune, enabling her to maintain her lifestyle at Blackamoor Hall. One would have to include her daughter, Felicity, in the same category. However, it didn't appear that either of them had the opportunity—if Powell's idea of how the poisoning was carried out proved to be correct.

  There were, of course, other potential motives for murder besides financial gain. Revenge, for instance. Harry Settle, the former head keeper, had a very large ax to grind—sacked, for all intents and purposes, after forty years of loyal service to the estate. Both he and his wife were present at the farmers' shoot. Mrs. Settle had been in charge of the meal at the shooting box and would undoubtedly have had an opportunity to slip something into Dinsdale's food or drink. And what about the Settles' daughter, the elusive Emma Walker? It was understandable that she would resent the way Dinsdale had treated her father. She, too, had been present at the shooting box and had even provided a dessert that was ideally suited to adulteration by one of the more deadly poisons stored in Harry Settle's shed.

  The most intriguing possibility was that Dinsdale's death was related to the proposed scheme by the Hull Water Corporation to flood Brackendale for a reservoir. Dinsdale's negotiations with the company might well have remained secret if Stumpy Macfarlane had not been tipped off by his former girlfriend, Chloe Aldershot. After the events of August twelfth, there had obviously been no love lost between Macfarlane and Dinsdale, and Powell was convinced that Macfarlane was prepared to do whatever it took to stop the project. Powell sighed inwardly. He imagined that just about everyone in Brackendale had a stake in preventing Dinsdale doing a deal with the water company, including the beaters and the other guns who were on the moor that afternoon while Dinsdale lay dying in his shooting butt. Dinsdale had recently
raised the rents, causing hardship for tenant farmers such as Frank Elger and Albert Turner—a tactic that was intended, Powell now surmised, to force them off their farms so that the landlord wouldn't have to buy out their leases before selling the land to the water company.

  As the little Triumph climbed onto Blackamoor Rigg, Powell switched on the windscreen wipers as if to sweep away the clutter from his mind. The moor was completely obliterated by fog and he could barely make out the narrow swath of road illuminated by his headlamps. Off to his left, a dark shape suddenly loomed. He slowed the car to a crawl and turned into the graveled drive.

  The massive oak door opened to reveal the forlorn figure of Francesca Aguirre. Her face was unnaturally pale and devoid of any expression or emotion, like the brittle image of someone long forgotten in a faded, sepia photograph.

  “Is Mrs. Dinsdale in?” Powell inquired.

  Francesca shook her head. “She's taken Mr. Dinsdale to see the doctor.”

  “How about Ms. Felicity?”

  She averted her eyes and stepped aside.

  Felicity was in the sitting room, still in her dressing gown, flipping through a fashion magazine. She looked up as Powell entered the room. “Chief Superintendent, this is a surprise.” She crossed her long legs and smiled. “I must look a fright.”

  “I apologize for barging in unannounced like this, but I was wondering if I might ask you a few more questions?”

  She affected an expression of mock concern. “It sounds serious. You'd better sit down.”

  “Felicity, I have reason to believe that your stepbrother was murdered,” he said solemnly.

  There was no visible reaction. “What's it got to do with me?”

  How touching. “I'd like to take you back to September thirteenth, the day your stepbrother died,” he began. “As I understand it, the farmers' shoot got going in the morning, but Dickie didn't turn up at the shooting box until around noon. Do you have any idea where he was?”

  She appeared to give the question some thought. “I'm afraid I can't help you,” she said.

  A somewhat ambiguous answer, Powell thought. He tried again. “Do you remember seeing him at all that morning?”

  “I can hardly remember what happened yesterday, let alone two weeks ago. Now that I think about it, I think he might have gone into the village that morning. Maybe you should ask Mummy?”

  “I'll do that. By the way, what do you think of this resort scheme your stepbrother was promoting?”

  She shrugged. “At least it would have livened up the bloody place.”

  “I see. I won't take up much more of your time, Felicity, but there is one more thing …”

  “Yes?”

  “I understand that you've been seeing Mick Curtis?”

  She looked at him, her blue eyes cool and appraising. “I think that's between me and Mick, don't you?”

  Powell didn't answer.

  She sighed. “After the protest. Mick started coming round the Hall more and, well, one thing led to another.”

  “Did Dickie know about your relationship?”

  “You make it sound so serious. Look, Chief Superintendent, Mick is extremely good looking and he amuses me. That's all there is to it.”

  He didn't believe her somehow. “Does Mick feel the same way?”

  “You'd have to ask him about that.”

  “You didn't answer my original question, Felicity. Did Dickie know about you and Mick?”

  “Like I told you before, he got off on prying into my personal affairs.”

  “What do you mean exactly?”

  “Whenever I took my boyfriends up to my room at night, Dickie would listen at the door, and I'd try to catch the little wanker in the act. It was a little game we played.”

  “Was Mick involved in this game, as you put it?”

  She smiled without humor. “It's not like I told him my perverted stepbrother was going to listen in while we were doing it. Anyway, Dickie must have recognized Mick's voice one night. He was absolutely furious. I think it was the idea of his stepsister being screwed by a member of the working class that bothered him.” She smiled bitterly. “It must have upset his sense of social order. He certainly didn't give a damn about me.”

  “Did Dickie say anything to Mick?”

  Her sudden laughter struck a harsh note. “Dickie always considered his own interests above everything else. He'd just sacked one head keeper; he couldn't afford to lose another one with the shooting season just starting. But he told me that he was going to get rid of Mick at the end of the season. I tried to reason with him, but it was useless.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “I can't remember exactly—around the end of August, I think.”

  “And Mick didn't know anything about it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why didn't you tell him?”

  “It would've upset him, wouldn't it? Besides, I still hoped that Dickie would change his mind.”

  “Does your mother know about any of this?”

  “I don't discuss my love life with my mother, Chief Superintendent. Do you with yours?”

  “I'm afraid she'd be bored to tears. Are you and Mick still seeing each other?”

  She frowned. “Mick hasn't been himself since Dickie died. It really hit him hard. I think he just needs some time.”

  Despite what she'd said previously, it sounded like Mick was more than just her boy toy. What was it that Rashid had said about love that day in the restaurant?

  CHAPTER 19

  As he drove into the village, his mobile phone began to beep insistently. He fumbled for it in his jacket pocket as he pulled over to the side of the road. “Powell.”

  “It's Evans, sir. We just got the results of the blood tests back. We're with Dr. Harvey now.” There was the muffled sound of conversation in the background. She paused as if drawing a deep breath. “Dinsdale died from cyanide poisoning; there's no question about it.”

  It seemed almost anticlimactic. “What about the flask?”

  “Nothing except whisky.”

  “Well, this is it,” Powell said. “Is Reggie handy?”

  “Hold on.”

  A few seconds later he heard the pathologist grumbling on the other end. “Reggie,” Powell said, “is there any way that sodium cyanide could take as long as two hours, or even longer, to act?”

  Sir Reggie launched into a discussion on the factors affecting the rate of decomposition of the sodium salt into hydrocyanic acid in the stomach. He conceded that it would be somewhat unusual for that amount of time to transpire before a lethal dose of sodium cyanide took effect, but it wasn't impossible.

  “So Dinsdale could have been poisoned before he arrived at the shooting box. He got there sometime after twelve and was found in his butt around two-thirty.”

  Sir Reggie grunted in a noncommittal fashion. “If he had a full stomach or achlorhydria—”

  “What's that?” Powell interrupted.

  “An absence of stomach acid secretions. It occurs in about one in twenty normal people without causing symptoms. A reduced concentration of hydrochloric acid in the stomach would tend to retard the release of hydrocyanic acid.”

  Powell thought about this for a moment. “What if he'd taken some bicarb?”

  “An antacid, taken in large enough quantity, would have a similar effect, although it would only be temporary.”

  “Thanks, Reggie. Put Sarah back on again, would you?”

  Powell gathered his thoughts for a moment. “Sarah, I'd like you to track down Stumpy's ex-girlfriend, Chloe Aldershot…” He flipped open his notebook and recited the telephone number. “If necessary, run over to York and interview her. I want to know how tight Stumpy's alibi is. I wouldn't be at all surprised if she weren't just a little disappointed in her old comrade.” In answer to her question, he explained about Stumpy and Katie Elger. “I'm heading back to the inn to see if I can raise Mrs. Walker from her sickbed. I'll see you later.” He disconnected abrupt
ly.

  He found Robert Walker alone in the pub. The landlord looked up from his newspaper. “Morning, Chief Superintendent. What'll it be?”

  “I'd kill for a cup of coffee.”

  He smiled. “No problem. I've got a pot on in the kitchen. White or black?”

  “White, please.” Walker folded his newspaper and went to fetch it. He returned a few minutes later with a steaming mug of coffee. He produced a bowl of sugar and a spoon from behind the bar and set them in front of Powell. “How's the investigation going?” he asked casually.

  “We're making headway,” Powell replied. “As a matter of fact, we've just confirmed this morning that Dickie Dinsdale was poisoned. We think it was a type of rat poison containing sodium cyanide.”

  “You mean an accident, like,” Walker said slowly.

  Powell stared at him. “Not an accident, Mr. Walker. Cold-blooded murder.”

  “Murder? I don't understand.”

  “It appears that he was poisoned a short time before being found in his shooting butt.”

  “But the adder…”

  “If Dinsdale was killed by a snake, Mr. Walker, it was the two-legged variety.”

  Walker swallowed hard but said nothing.

  “I understand that your wife helped prepare the lunch that day.”

  Walker stared blankly at him.

  “She provided the dessert for the occasion,” Powell prompted. “A peach crumble, I believe.”

  The landlord shrugged stiffly. “She helps her mum out every year.”

  “How are Mr. and Mrs. Settle, by the way?”

  “All right. We'll be helping them move into their flat in Scarborough on the weekend.”

  “I imagine it'll be quite a change for them.”

  “You could say that,” Walker said in a flat voice.

  “I take it Mrs. Walker is feeling better, then?”

  He wiped the bar with a towel. “Still under the weather, I'm afraid. Her migraines often last a week or more.”

  “I thought you said she'd be helping you move her parents on the weekend?”

  “Well, I meant only if she feels up to it.”