by Gwen Moffat
‘You’re saying he took her up there on a horse and buried her in the peat? Harald?’
‘Mister Harald. Don’t talk daft.’ Suddenly he was hostile. ‘I got work to attend to.’ He picked up his box of staples.
‘What’s all this got to do with Isaac’s death?’ she asked desperately.
He stared ahead, his face set. ‘Nowt. Who said it did? Isaac ran off t’road.’ But she had seen his eyes flicker.
‘And his sister was Joannie’s friend.’
He glared at her. ‘I don’t know who you are nor what you’re up to, but I’ll tell you this: you know too much and if you take my advice you’ll leave it there. Forget it. Joannie were killed nigh on fifty year since and whoever done it, it were just the once, never again. No one else been murdered in Orrdale. I’m warning you, folks don’t like incomers what accuse the innocent: folks as had been minding their own business all these years.’
She regarded him with interest. ‘Who frightened you, Mr Bainbridge?’ She didn’t expect an answer and she didn’t get one. He set off as if he’d been kicked, lumbering across the pasture as fast as he could go without actually running.
She became aware of the sound of water and now she noticed rock among trees lining a beck at the far side of the pasture. She strolled over and found the remains of a fence that would once have kept animals from plunging into a gorge. She wondered how many sheep Isaac had lost there since he took over the farm.
Above the gorge was a waterfall and a pool, then the rock walls closed in to form a chasm with black water in the bottom that looked very deep, and fast and powerful even now. When the beck was in spate an animal wouldn’t stand much chance if it fell in. She walked downstream to find more falls — cascades, rather — but it was still a nasty place, a drowning place. She was astonished that Anne hadn’t forced Isaac to repair the fence.
Albert wasn’t in the yard when she reached it but his Land Rover was still there so he’d be keeping out of sight in the buildings. She drove off thinking that she’d come a long way from Rick Harlow who, along with Perry, hadn’t been mentioned, but then Albert knew neither — presumably — and his sole reference to current events was that Isaac had run off the road. What would he have said had he known that there were two shotgun wounds in the body? That it was suicide? He might have said that but what would he have thought?
She reached the lane and drove at a snail’s pace. A baby rabbit ran out from the bank and crouched, immobile, the sun in its shell-pink ears. Second brood, she thought, braking and easing to a halt. The rabbit didn’t stir. She thought of Perry, ‘like something peeping out of a hedge bottom’, as Dave in the bookshop had said. Perry, the hunted animal tracked down to her hole in Whelp Yard by Isaac: cornered and fighting, the gun going off, once, twice — and Rick called in to take over and set up the ‘accident’. She might go along with the basic scenario but that second wound didn’t fit. It was a close contact wound: like an execution, and cold-blooded. She couldn’t reconcile it with a desperate Perry or with Rick, raging and beside himself. She thought, most unhappily, of Harald who was unpredictable, of Anne who was concerned to protect him. But what could have taken Harald or Anne, or both, to Whelp Yard at the same time as Isaac? And what did the attack on Isaac have to do with Joan Gardner? ‘Ah!’
She spoke aloud and her eyes focused as she let in the clutch, forgetting why she’d stopped. The tarmac was clear except for the strip of grass in the centre. She drove back to Kelleth.
*
‘The point is, both Rick and Perry are suspects, and yet I don’t see either of them killing Isaac deliberately. There’s a lot going on behind the scenes that appears to have no direct link with them, and yet there are tenuous links. People are hiding secrets; they’re cagey and very, very prickly. One question from me and I’ll be out on my ear. I’m desperate so I’ve come to you to see if you can help. I think Rick is innocent; Tyndale thinks he’s obsessed with Perry, and mad enough to kill. Not so: not to execute.’
She had persuaded Dave Murray to put a ‘Back in 20 Mins’ notice on the bookshop door and bullied him into coming upstairs to her living-room. Over mugs of tea she had given him the gist of the morning’s events. He had listened intelligently but then he was a writer too. At the end he said, ‘So you came to me because I’m the only person who can’t be involved.’
She blinked at him. ‘Ye-es, but how do you arrive at that?’ He was involved; he knew the Fawcetts and Rick, Edith, everyone.
‘I’m too young,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t born forty-five years ago.’
Strange, he’d fastened immediately on that ancient crime rather than current events. Her mind adjusted. ‘Neither were Rick and Perry,’ she murmured.
He hesitated, eyeing her, his face expressionless. ‘You’re right,’ he admitted. ‘But then why did you think of me as uninvolved?’ She looked away, aware of an ebbing of energy. ‘I see,’ he said gently. ‘By imparting information, you’re expecting to gain some: a quid pro quo?’
‘And you’re a friend of Clive’s.’ His eyebrows rose. ‘I’m not thick,’ she said.
‘Oh no, although I’ve no doubt you can play the part like a pro when necessary. Yes, Clive and I are old friends, and we keep in touch even though we’ve run our course, as it were. I wouldn’t want to see the guy hurt — and he’s very attached to Harald.’
‘And to Anne.’
‘Naturally, she’s his mother; it’s less natural to be fond of your stepfather. However, Harald is a dear, don’t you think? And another thing: he accepts gays without reservations.’
That reminded her of a similar comment. ‘Did I say that Bainbridge implied Anne’s first husband was gay?’
‘I missed that. You’re suggesting it’s genetic?’ He was surprised. ‘I could understand it if Walter had lived — nurture, you know, not nature — but he died before Clive was born. What am I saying? I mean, he disappeared; he never knew his son. Genetic? Now there’s a thought. I wonder if Anne...’ He trailed off, following the thought.
‘Bainbridge suggested Harald was something of a lad when he was young,’ she mused.
‘Oh really! Eliminate Walter as a child killer because he’s gay, and you substitute Harald because he’s a Don Juan!’
‘Not me. Bainbridge.’
‘Harald’s a pussycat. Same as Rick — and Clive.’
‘But passionate pussycats.’
‘Not Harald.’
He was right. If Harald did feel things deeply he had himself on a tight rein. Eccentric, yes, but not mad. Well, not to show it. She shuddered, thinking of psychopaths.
He was watching her. She swallowed, casting about, needing to divert that intense scrutiny. ‘You said you keep in touch with Clive,’ she blurted. ‘He came home very suddenly —’ She broke off; what was she thinking of?
‘As soon as the bone was found,’ he supplied, and she sighed, deflated. ‘That’s right; I called him in California. Anne had been in contact with him already and yes, the reason he came was that finding the bone suggested that the skeleton was about to come to light. But he didn’t come back because Harald was about to be unmasked as Joan’s killer. Think about it. Walter was the suspect: Clive’s father, but Anne’s husband — once. Clive came home to support his mum.’
‘Of course.’ She nodded earnest agreement. ‘Poor Clive.’
‘He’ll survive. Think how many children there must be who have carved out decent lives for themselves despite having a parent who was a murderer.’
‘It must be hard when the parent is still alive.’
‘Most of them are nowadays.’ But he pondered this. ‘One had always assumed Walter was dead,’ he said slowly. ‘He’d be very old, you know; I have the impression — maybe Clive told me — that he was quite a bit older than Anne, like — ten years or so. She’s in her mid-sixties.’ Blithely disregarding the fact that his host might well be in her mid-seventies.
‘He could still be alive then. And now that there’s proof that Joan was murdered, the police w
ill trace him. That’s going to be hard on all the Fawcetts.’
A breeze lifted the net curtain, floating it inwards like a daytime ghost. Dave looked past it to the tops of the tombstones. ‘He’ll have changed his name,’ he mused, ‘that is, if he’s guilty. He’ll have covered his tracks so they’ll never find him, dead or alive. On the other hand, if he was innocent, if it was just that he was walking out on Anne and the baby, they’ll find him soon enough.’
‘Not necessarily. He could still want to cover his tracks in order not to have to pay maintenance. She needn’t have married again. But he did send a postcard.’
‘He could have changed his mind,’ Dave pointed out. ‘Or maybe there never was a postcard. Anne could have felt humiliated because he deserted her, so she told everyone the intention was that she should follow once the baby was born and he’d found work, and here was the postcard to prove there was no rift... Don’t you think?’
‘If they’d intended to go to Canada why were they allocated a farm here? They were to have taken Blondel.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Bainbridge.’
‘But Blondel is — was Isaac’s place.’
‘Evidently Anne transferred it to him.’
‘I don’t believe it. There’s no love lost between those two: well, three; Edith hasn’t a good word to say for Anne. If Anne allowed someone to take over the farm it would have to be a friend of hers.’
‘All the same, it was Isaac who got the tenancy.’
‘You ask Anne. She never transferred willingly, I can tell you that.’
‘And there’s Plumtree —’ The telephone rang. Miss Pink reached wearily over the back of her chair.
‘Oh, hi!’ came a voice so breathless that for a moment she didn’t recognise it as Rick’s. ‘Do me a favour, will you, love?’
‘Of course.’ Rick calling her ‘love’?
‘Bags. He’s with you.’ Without giving her time to respond he rushed on: ‘His anaemia. Yeast tablets. By the telephone: two in the morning, two at night —’
‘Wait a minute. I haven’t got a key —’
‘Anne has a spare. I’m fine but I have to stay down here for a bit —’ He broke off as if ordered to do so. ‘Now, you got that straight?’ he went on, breathless again, as if it were of dire importance. ‘A blue tin by the telephone, right, love? Ciao!’
‘What was all that?’ Dave asked. ‘You look gobsmacked.’
‘Rick. Trying to tell me something. Something to do with the telephone? Can it be Perry? Expecting her to ring and I’m to tell her to keep her head down? Poor Rick, he’s desperate. It’s not going to work. I can’t go and stay there, Tyndale would guess the reason. It was obvious that call was being listened to.’
‘He’s making you an accessory.’
‘Nonsense. I can’t be an accessory if he’s done nothing wrong. I shall do what he asks: go and find the dog’s yeast tablets.’
‘And borrow the key from Nichol House.’
He was sharp as a knife. It was just what she was thinking: now she had a genuine excuse to talk to Anne again.
12
Anne was as suspicious as anticipated: polite enough but, as she pointed out, the yeast tablets were only a ploy; what did Rick really intend Miss Pink to do?
‘Of course it was a ploy.’ Miss Pink smiled and nodded as Clive paused on his way through the hall. ‘Rick’s desperate to know where Perry is, and he expects her to phone.’
Clive took a step forward. ‘Why should he expect her to phone at the moment you’re in the flat?’
‘Unlikely,’ she agreed. ‘Unless they had an arrangement: that she should ring, say, every hour, on the hour. But he gave me no hint as to timing. I think he wants me to stay there.’
Anne inhaled sharply. Clive said, ‘He can’t expect you to give up your nice flat for that poky hole in Plumtree.’ He grimaced and glanced at his mother. ‘Well, it is, Mum,’ he protested, although she hadn’t reacted.
‘I’ve no intention of staying there,’ Miss Pink said. ‘I’ll pick up the tablets, see if by any chance he’s left a message by the phone — although how he could have known he’d be taken to the police station again —’ She stopped, stared at them for a second, and looked away.
‘He’d have a contingency plan,’ Clive said calmly. ‘Particularly if he knew that your trip up the dale could lead to the discovery of Isaac’s body.’
‘In that case,’ came Harald’s voice, ‘he wouldn’t have come with us this morning. He’d have stayed in, waiting for Perry to telephone.’ He must have been listening on the landing. Now he descended the stairs.
Miss Pink studied him in silence. Evidently the others were thinking too. Only Harald voiced his thoughts. ‘But if they were co-conspirators,’ he said, ‘he’d know where Perry is. And if he killed Isaac, he wouldn’t have hung around; he’d have fled with Perry. He’s not a nincompoop; he knows he couldn’t simulate innocence, could never hope to stand up to Tyndale’s inquisition. No, Rick didn’t know the body was in the reservoir. So he isn’t the murderer.’ He beamed at them.
‘Of course he isn’t.’ Anne’s tone was indulgent. ‘However, there might be something else to find beside yeast tablets?’ Her smile at Miss Pink was artificial. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No,’ Harald said. ‘You stay here.’
They turned astonished faces to him. ‘The police could be watching,’ he explained. ‘It’s better for Mel to be seen to obey the letter of the message, not to take you with her, my dear. Tyndale would smell a rat.’
‘Rubbish!’ Clive was incredulous. He moved to the window beside the front door and peered out at the churchyard. ‘Where could they be watching from?’
‘The church tower,’ Harald said promptly.
‘Harald! However’ — Clive relented — ‘someone might tell Tyndale. It doesn’t need two people to pick up the dog’s yeast tablets.’
Harald said, ‘When you return the key, Mel, we’ll take Bags down to the river. Don’t be long.’
Miss Pink saw that if the family couldn’t keep her under surveillance they were going to make sure she wasn’t out of their sight for long. She wondered what secrets Plumtree Yard might be hiding that they didn’t want her to hang around there.
She looked for Edith as she entered the yard but the woman’s door was closed and there was no sign of life at the upper windows. She let herself into Rick’s flat, glanced at the flimsy partition and pursed her lips. She walked into the living-room and crossed to the telephone on the cheap sideboard. Besides the phone there were files and books, a torch, a hideous vase that looked as if it had been won at a fair, and two rather nice brass candlesticks. There was no tin of yeast tablets and no message. Indeed, there was no message pad.
The rest of the flat yielded nothing that could throw any light on that perplexing telephone call. She looked in cupboards and drawers, glanced at the files but uncovered only notes, his clippings, typescripts of his Lakeland series and what appeared to be the start of a novel.
The bedroom window looked out on Doomgate. The tapes had been removed from the entrance to Whelp Yard. She turned to the bed and drew back the duvet. She looked under the mattress and the pillow, inspected the contents of the wardrobe and a chest-of-drawers. She found nothing untoward. Rick was clean and no more untidy than was to be expected of a young man. Perry had left no clothes behind; he must have taken them to Whelp Yard.
Inside the front door she looked back, sensing something — something expectant; there was an object here which she should have found otherwise why had he telephoned?
There was a sound, a whisper like fur brushing wood. She froze. Inside the front door the passage was dim and cool as a vault. There was a faint creak. Her eyes focused reluctantly. She hadn’t looked in the cupboard under the stairs.
She took several deep breaths, went quietly to the living-room, picked up the torch and advanced on the cupboard. She had no weapon, she remembered, as she flung open the door
and projected the beam, flinching but her muscles tensed for a jump sideways.
The cupboard was empty. That is, there was an old vacuum cleaner, brooms, a dustpan, two or three cardboard cartons which she eyed askance... rats? The creak came again: from above her head, and another, a little further away.
‘Mrs Bland!’ It was stentorian. Miss Pink had been badly frightened, and relief made her furiously angry. ‘A word, Mrs Bland!’
She slammed the front door behind her and stamped round the corner to hammer on Edith’s door. It was flung open and the woman was speaking before her face showed: contorted and as angry as Miss Pink’s.
‘That were you! I were just about to call t’police! All over the place: into cupboards and drawers, slamming — He’ll be up here next, I were thinking, we’ll all be murdered in our — It were you: all t’time?’
‘Who did you think it was? Why shouldn’t it be Mr Harlow?’ Evidently there was no answer to that. ‘You were running a risk,’ Miss Pink went on, momentarily diverted but rallying: ‘listening on the stairs, with a killer just the other side of a partition that he could have demolished with a kick.’
That struck home. ‘Who’s a killer?’ Edith stared past her caller as if to spot one lurking in the yard.
‘Wasn’t that who you thought it was: the killer who —’ She remembered that the victim had been Isaac. ‘ — was in Mr Harlow’s flat,’ she went on lamely, ‘coming for you next: isn’t that what you were afraid of?’
‘You reckon he’s about?’
‘Let’s talk. Shall I come in?’ Miss Pink advanced bulkily. They were both big women but Miss Pink had presence. Edith backed off and started up the stairs.
Settled in an easy chair that was too soft, registering the fact that she had not been offered refreshment (oversight or deliberate rudeness?), Miss Pink said, lying blatantly, ‘I’ve come to offer my condolences.’
Edith’s nostrils flared. In the face of such formal utterance she was unable to point out that the other had come to poke around the ground-floor flat. She waited. If she’d been a dog her hackles would have been erect.
