by Jean Rowden
While Harry threaded his way across to the fire, Deepbriar went to join Jenkins, the farm machinery salesman. ‘Can I buy you another?’ he offered.
‘That’s very civil of you constable,’ Jenkins said, draining his glass. ‘Thank you. Mustn’t stay too long, though, I’ve got to put a telephone call through to my boss. He’s already gone back to Manchester.’
‘About done here are you then?’
‘Yes, I’ll be catching the early bus in the morning, we’re packing up at lunch time.’
‘Been a good trip, has it?’
‘Not bad. Made a few sales. Our new tractor’s doing really well. It’s very interesting the way they’ve designed the gearing …’ he launched into a sales pitch, of which Deepbriar only understood about two words in twenty. When the man paused for breath the constable chipped in quickly.
‘Not mechanically minded myself,’ he said. ‘Understand how my old bike works, and that’s about it. I was interested in what you were saying about those lights though. It’s my job to investigate anything strange that goes on around my patch, so if there’s any more you can tell me I’d be grateful.’
‘Really?’ Jenkins’s face flushed a deeper red. ‘So many people scoff at this business, but we ought to be taking these flying saucers seriously. What we’ve seen so far is probably just the scouts, studying the lie of the land so to speak. There’ll be more to come, you mark my words, and we ought to be ready for them.’
‘You could be right,’ Deepbriar agreed. ‘Tell me, your boss, he was driving the car wasn’t he? Did he see these lights?’
‘He says he didn’t,’ Jenkins replied. ‘Reckons he was busy driving the car, but I’m not so sure. He’s the kind of man who wouldn’t risk saying he’d seen anything out of the ordinary; he wouldn’t like anyone telling his boss that he believed in flying saucers.’
‘I see. Exactly where were they, these lights you saw? You reckon you could point out the place?’
‘Indeed I could.’ The salesman was enthusiastic. ‘If only I wasn’t leaving tomorrow! I’d really like to scout round and see if there’s anything to find, they say sometimes there’s signs of burning, or patterns left in the mud. Just think of it, being the one to find footprints left by misshapen little feet!’
More likely left by large wellies if he was right about Quinn’s night-time visitor, Deepbriar thought, but he kept his doubts to himself. ‘Tell me where you were when you first saw the lights,’ he suggested. ‘Maybe I’ll be able to work out where it was and have a look.’
Half an hour later, having heard a long and impassioned lecture about the threat from outer space, Deepbriar finally reminded Jenkins of the time. Reluctantly the salesman left, pressing a business card into his hand.
‘Call me if there’s anything more you want to ask me,’ he said. ‘And I’d be very much obliged if you’d let me know if you find any evidence when you go looking for the spot where I saw those lights. I could come back one weekend if you like, so we could make a proper job of searching for them.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Deepbriar promised. ‘One more thing. That night, you didn’t happen to see any other cars?’
‘No, it was very late. As far as I recall we never saw a soul after we left town.’
When Jenkins had gone Deepbriar made his way across to the fire. Bert Bunyard was leaving too, making much of heaving himself and his plastered leg from the bench, his voice raised in complaint. Harry Bartle went to help by moving a stool out of the way, receiving nothing but an insult for his pains.
‘Going home already, Bert?’ Deepbriar asked. ‘Bit early for you, isn’t it?’
‘I’m goin’ home to mind my own bliddy business, Thorny Deepbriar,’ Bunyard retorted, ‘reckon you’d be best off doin’ the same.’
‘Just as long as you weren’t thinking of taking any little detours,’ the constable replied. ‘You’re pretty nimble, broken leg or no.’
‘Nimble!’ The old farmer swung round, his face red as his neckerchief. ‘Call this nimble? Think I’m goin’ off to visit that carrot-noddled neighbour of mine do you? Don’t be more of a fule than you can ’elp, constable, an’ keep a civil tongue in your ’ead. Defamation of character, that’s what that is.’
‘Mr Bunyard doesn’t change,’ Peter Brook said cheerfully after the door had slammed shut behind the hobbling farmer, moving over companionably to make room for the constable to join him. ‘Thanks for the drink, Mr Deepbriar, it’s Joe’s round, if you’d care for another.’
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Deepbriar nodded, giving Spraggs his glass. ‘Funny, rogues like Bunyard never mellow with age.’
‘No,’ Spraggs said. ‘The local lads won’t risk scrumping in his orchard. He was always a bit too ready to use that old shotgun of his. Now he’s laid up he’d be shouting for you to get out there and chase them instead.’
‘The worst villains are always the loudest to shout about their own rights,’ Deepbriar agreed thoughtfully; Bunyard’s reaction had been a little too extreme. Somehow, no matter how impossible it seemed, he had to be involved with the raids on Quinn’s farm.
‘How’s life in Cambridge?’ He asked, turning back to face the young student once Joe had gone to the bar.
‘Fairly dull most of the time,’ Brook replied. ‘I keep my head down and get on with my work. Reckon I’m lucky to get the chance, I’m not going to waste it living the high life, I’ll be doing my finals in a few months. It sounds as if Minecliff’s been having a bit of excitement, though, what with kidnappings and rustling and midnight bonfires.’
Deepbriar sighed. ‘As long as I don’t have to start hunting for little green men from Mars, I can stand the rest, even Mrs Emerson leaving the door unlocked at the village hall then claiming it’s been robbed.’
‘I didn’t hear about that,’ Brook said. ‘I suppose you’re not allowed to tell me any more.’
‘It’s no secret, the whole village is sick of her talking about it. She was in the props store looking through the costumes and she reckoned somebody came in and pushed her over. A burglar she said, but by the time she’d picked herself up he’d gone. Calling him a burglar may not be fair to my way of thinking, seeing as he forgot to steal anything.’ Deepbriar shook his head. ‘As far as I’m concerned that’s an end of it. I’ve got my hands full looking for Ferdy Quinn’s unwanted caller; at least when Bunyard was mobile I knew where to look when Quinn started complaining.’
‘Yes,’ Brook said thoughtfully, ‘opening gates and setting barns on fire, they really sound like the sort of things Bert would do. What about Joe though?’ he looked at his friend who was standing at the bar. ‘Are you in charge of the investigation or have the CID taken over? It’s really odd, I mean, he’s such a peaceable soul, he’s got no enemies. Imagine how he felt, coming round to find himself locked up in the dark like that. It must have been terrifying.’
‘Reckon it was,’ Deepbriar agreed. But there won’t be any further investigation, not even by me, let alone the plain clothes boys. I’ve been told it’s not a case for the police.’
‘Never!’ Brook said indignantly.
‘Some think you might be behind it,’ Deepbriar said, watching the young man’s face.
‘You don’t, though.’ The young man grinned. ‘There’s a bloke in our hall who could do with taking down a peg, one of those arrogant types who thinks he’s better than me because he went to a posh public school. Locking him up wouldn’t be a bad idea, but I’d never do anything like that to Joe. I can’t imagine anyone doing that to him, he’s always been such a sobersides. We never even got him drunk before his wedding. So, apart from me, you don’t have any suspects.’
Deepbriar sighed. ‘No, but there were a few juicy clues. It’s a shame there won’t be any fingerprinting, because I had high hopes of the cup that was left on the bonnet of the lorry. Then there’s the tyre tracks, they might have been useful. I’ve got drawings but no photographs, and I don’t know where to go from here. As a matter of
fact I was wondering whether that brilliant brain of yours might come up with anything I missed.’
‘You’re the professional,’ Brook protested. Then he grinned. ‘Actually I do have a couple of thoughts. Did it occur to you that it might be a case of mistaken identity?’
‘Yes, but it would have to have been a fairly stupid mistake. The only other person who’d be driving Wriggle’s lorry into his yard is the old man himself, and he’s sixty if he’s a day, you couldn’t get the two of them mixed up. I wondered if the motive might be robbery, but nothing was taken.’
‘Just like the break-in at the village hall,’ Brook pointed out. ‘You don’t think the two things are connected?’
‘Mrs Emerson getting knocked over doesn’t seem in the same league as Joe getting drugged and whisked off unconscious, not to mention being locked up overnight.’ Deepbriar said. ‘I reckon it was just a couple of kids larking about in the village hall.’
‘Joe being kidnapped could still be something to do with Wriggle.’ The younger man looked thoughtful. ‘He’s a mean old beggar, and there’s a lot of bad feeling in the building trade at the moment. Or maybe he’s trodden on Sylvester Rudge’s toes somehow, and this was by way of a warning. Bit drastic though, drugs and kidnapping.’ He looked up as his friend returned. ‘You know Joe, we can’t help wondering if you really were carried off by those little green Martians.’
Joe didn’t return the smile. He shook his head. ‘They were human right enough,’ he said.
Chapter Seven
* * *
‘What makes you so sure the people who locked you up were human?’ Peter Brook asked. ‘No, seriously,’ he went on, as Joe began to protest, ‘I don’t believe the flying saucer story, I can’t see little green men putting something in your cup of tea, but your reasons could help us work out who these men were.’
Deepbriar looked at Brook with new respect. He’d always known the young man was bright, and winning a scholarship to Cambridge had proved it; that was just the sort of thing Mitch O’Hara or Dick Bland came up with.
‘I don’t remember much,’ Joe said. ‘Though I can’t stop thinking about it.’ He stared down into his glass, shamefaced. ‘I never thought I’d be so scared, you know, not of anything. To tell the truth I’ve been having nightmares, and I’d far rather forget the whole thing.’
‘That’s not surprising,’ Deepbriar said. ‘It was enough to give anybody bad dreams, and that’s a fact. Still, finding out who did it and why, well, I’m sure that would make you feel better.’
‘But it’s all over isn’t it? It’s not likely to happen again?’ Spraggs’s face looked drawn, and suddenly much older than his twenty two years.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ Deepbriar said. ‘Because we’ve no idea what’s behind it. I’d rather get the case solved and make sure. I don’t like to think we’ve got villains getting away with a thing like that in Minecliff.’
‘You said your bosses weren’t interested.’ Spraggs protested.
‘No, but I am.’ It was frustrating, having no official backup. For some reason the snatch of conversation he’d overheard at Falbrough police station that morning came to his mind. Like Emily another woman had been driven to report her husband missing. Then a thought struck him. The man’s name was the same as Joe’s. ‘My Joseph’, she’d said. He immediately dismissed the wild idea that the man’s disappearance might be somehow connected to young Spraggs, Joe was a very common name. They were dealing with fact, not fiction.
Deepbriar sighed. ‘I don’t know, Joe, I suppose we could just let the matter drop. The trouble is, if something similar does happen again, maybe the victim won’t just turn up unhurt. Suppose the person who did it has a grudge against you? It could be your Emily they pick on next time.’
At that Joe straightened his shoulders. ‘You’ve got me there.’ He was silent for a moment, staring at nothing, looking back into the past, then he seemed to shake himself and he nodded decisively, meeting Deepbriar’s eyes. ‘All right then, I did see one of the men, though not very well. He looked tall, and broad too. Big all over. And I could see a sort of outline of hair around his head. I think it was a bit long, as if he was overdue to get it cut.’
‘Not bald then,’ Peter Brook put in. He aimed a sidelong glance at Deepbriar. ‘And nothing like wireless aerials sticking out of his skull.’
With a grin, Joe Spraggs punched Brook lightly on the shoulder. ‘No, and before you ask, he only had one head.’
‘Did you see anything else? What he was wearing?’
Joe shook his head. ‘No. I told you, he was just a dark shadow. It was really dim.’
Brook pushed his spectacles up his nose. ‘It’s a start. If your eyes didn’t tell you anything more, what about your sense of smell?’
‘Hey, there was something.’ Joe’s eyes widened as he turned to stare at his friend. ‘Yes. When the man came in it made me think of the cottage hospital.’
‘Chloroform’s got a sweet smell,’ Deepbriar said.
‘This wasn’t sweet. I do remember something sort of sickly, but that was later, just before I passed out. The stuff this man smelt of was strong, not unpleasant but not nice. I don’t know, how do you describe a smell? It was just different, and it made me think of hospitals, that’s all.’
‘Disinfectant,’ his friend suggested. ‘Was that it?’
‘I don’t know. If it was, it’s not the stuff my Mum uses for the drains.’ Joe was despondent. ‘I told you I wouldn’t be able to tell you anything useful.’
‘It’s more than you told me before, and it could be a help,’ Deepbriar said encouragingly. ‘We’re really getting somewhere. What about this place you were in? You said it was big. How big? Like a barn?’
‘It wasn’t a barn,’ Joe said at once, then appeared to be surprised by his own certainty.
‘Why not?’ Brook asked.
‘Barns smell of hay, or animals, even when they’re empty. And they’re draughty. There was no air moving about at all. And it was really quiet. Every move I made set up a sort of echo.’
‘A cellar,’ said Deepbriar, looking triumphantly across at Harry Bartle. The young man was supposed to be collecting empties, but he’d come to hover at Joe’s elbow, listening with obvious interest. He nodded now, obviously impressed. And so he should be, Deepbriar thought, pleased with himself; his idea was paying off. Joe’s friend had persuaded him to open up, and they were getting some answers.
‘That’s it,’ Peter Brook said, laughing. ‘You’ve been rumbled Harry, you’re the one who did it, he was locked in downstairs with your barrels.’
‘Our cellar’s not quiet, and it’s not empty either, there’s barely room to turn round without knocking yourself out on a heap of crates. Not to mention the creaking floors, even when we’re closed there’s people walking about over your head.’ Harry shook his head. ‘The boards are so old, it’s a wonder we don’t all end up falling through from the kitchen.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Joe mused. ‘It was all sort of solid and dead quiet.’ He shivered. ‘I felt like I was shut up in a tomb.’
‘That suggests it was dug out of solid rock or built of stone then, which means it’s probably underneath a big house,’ Deepbriar said. ‘That’s got to narrow things down a bit. I think I’ve got a sort of lead on how they took you there, too. Old Bronc claimed he was knocked down by a big black car, though so far I’ve not found anyone else who saw it, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same vehicle that made the tracks I discovered in Wriggle’s yard. If only we knew where it went.’
‘So that’s why you’ve been looking for Bronc,’ Joe said. ‘The whole village has been trying to work out what he’s done.’
‘I just want a word, that’s all. Trouble is, he got all confused with a time he got knocked into the midden in the middle of Falbrough, but that was before the War. I’m sure we could jog his memory, given the chance.’
‘So, we find Bronc and get some answers,’ Brook said. ‘If o
nly you hadn’t been out cold when you were in this car, we might have been able to work out how far they took you. Have you got any idea how long you were locked up?’
‘It felt like a week at least,’ Joe said sombrely.
A sudden gust of wind blew a spatter of rain into Deepbriar’s face and he lowered his head, leaning hard on the pedals to propel his bicycle up to the top of the rise. According to Jenkins the lights of the ‘flying saucer’ had been visible from the crest of the hill as his boss drove him back to Minecliff from Falbrough. He had claimed the strange phenomenon appeared high above the horizon, but Deepbriar was sceptical; the lie of the land, with Ferdy Quinn’s fields rising steeply to the side of the village, might easily have deceived a stranger.
The salesman had given an expressive shudder as he described the lights, insisting that they had moved continually in a most unsettling and unnatural way, sometimes looking bright white then turning an unearthly blue. Only towards the end of their conversation had Jenkins admitted that he needed glasses to see anything that was further than ten yards from the end of his nose, but that drawback hadn’t shaken his certainty that he’d witnessed the flight of an enormous space-ship, hovering menacingly over the slumbering citizens of Minecliff for several minutes before it vanished. Deepbriar, in his turn, was convinced that the light was clear evidence of the presence of Quinn’s midnight intruder, a man not green but of the normal flesh colour, carrying a torch or lantern while he drove the heifers to their illicit date with the bull.
Warmed by his exertions, Deepbriar reached the summit and paused for a moment, looking down at the lights of Falbrough, blurred through the rain. Then he turned, freewheeling into the shelter offered by a large oak tree beside the road, leaning his bike there and turning off the battery headlamp he’d been using to supplement the dynamo. After the bright lights of the town, back the way he’d come the darkness seemed absolute, rain-clouds obscuring the sky so no glimmer of stars or moon showed.
