Miss Pink Investigates- Part Four

by Gwen Moffat

  Miss Pink collected herself and concentrated on the business in hand. ‘While we were waiting for the police, James and I, I thought of something that doesn’t seem to have occurred to anyone else, at least I haven’t heard it voiced. If Walter killed Joan, why didn’t he disappear immediately instead of hanging around for two or three days?’

  Anne said warningly, ‘This is Clive’s father you’re talking about.’

  ‘Is it?’

  Mother and son froze as if a film had stopped, Anne clutching a paring knife, Clive with a bottle in one hand, the refrigerator door gaping. Miss Pink went on comfortably, ‘As if it matters in these days! The resemblance is obvious, you must see it yourselves and’ — addressing Clive — ‘anyone can see you dote on Harald.’

  Anne turned her back. Clive put the wine in the fridge and closed the door gently. He looked at his mother’s back. ‘We don’t talk about it,’ he said, and it was a warning.

  ‘There’s no truth in it,’ Anne snapped, ‘Edith’s mad. She’s always been jealous; she was probably drunk anyway.’

  ‘She was drinking,’ Miss Pink agreed.

  ‘There you are!’

  Clive looked dubious. Miss Pink wondered if they were all thinking similar thoughts, or was it only Clive who, more perceptive than his mother, guessed that Miss Pink knew exactly why Anne had always maintained that Walter was his father? Because if there was the slightest suspicion that it was Harald, it gave him — and Anne — a motive for killing Walter, should his body come to light. Which was just what Edith had alleged — before she retracted in a frenzy.

  ‘Edith knows,’ she said heavily.

  Anne turned, pulled out a chair and collapsed into it. ‘Of course she knows,’ she cried. ‘Why d’you think I let her stay in the bloody flat?’

  Miss Pink nodded. ‘The reason you gave me seemed a bit weak for blackmail.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’ Clive asked.

  Anne was embarrassed. ‘What?’ he pressed. ‘Something weak?’ He glanced at Miss Pink, then back. ‘If she knows you can tell me.’

  ‘He dressed up,’ Anne muttered.

  Clive was bewildered. ‘He was a cross-dresser,’ Miss Pink explained. He gaped incredulously.

  ‘It had to be an accident.’ Anne ignored them and concentrated on the main issue. ‘Everyone was pulling down houses and barns. Harald was with me.’ She put her hand to her mouth, stood up and blundered out of the kitchen.

  ‘It was an accident,’ Clive repeated, holding Miss Pink’s eye.

  ‘I thought that myself.’ She was equable. ‘I know how unstable these drystone walls can be.’

  He tensed and she followed his gaze to see that Harald was coming in from the garden. ‘Does he know — about the skull?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘What was his reaction?’

  Harald paused to peer at a bed of marigolds.

  ‘Interest,’ Clive said. ‘No more.’

  Bags came in, welcoming the visitor like a prodigal. He was followed by Harald. ‘Well, this is a nice surprise,’ he told Miss Pink. ‘And how many more bodies are you going to discover, eh?’

  Clive rolled his eyes in resignation. Anne returned with a tumbler of whisky. ‘Clive, love: will you do the honours? I’ll carry on here.’

  ‘I’m cooking.’ He was firm. ‘You stay here and talk to me. Bring the whisky, Harald; Melinda needs a stimulant after what she’s been through today.’ Was the tone barbed?

  ‘What were you on, Mel?’ Harald asked brightly.

  ‘Buck. A nice smooth ride; one can relax and look at the scenery.’

  ‘If you want something with a bit of spirit, next time —’

  ‘Harald, our tongues are hanging out.’

  ‘Oh, of course, dear boy, of course.’

  He bustled out. Bags, sprawled under the table, lifted his head, decided Harald wasn’t going far, and dropped back again.

  ‘He’s working on a new story,’ Anne said urgently. ‘Based on today’s events, wouldn’t you know? He’ll be trying it out on you.’

  ‘He’s got the most vivid imagination,’ Clive put in. ‘He just lacks stamina. But he enjoys himself.’ He sighed and smiled indulgently.

  Miss Pink knew why she wasn’t being entertained in the drawing-room. Clive was the chef and would stay in the kitchen and no way would he allow her to be alone with Harald, not even with both his parents. Clive was managing things. He caught her eye and nodded. He knew she knew what he was up to, and she tried to analyse her own reaction to being manipulated, because that was what was happening and not for the first time. Clive was a powerful presence.

  ‘What?’ he asked, returning her scrutiny.

  Anne looked from one to the other, out of her depth, and at that moment Harald returned, without the whisky. ‘Come into the drawing-room, Mel.’ Anne wiped her hands. ‘You stay here,’ he ordered, ‘I want to talk to Mel.’

  Anne’s nostrils were pinched, Clive was astounded, then angry. Miss Pink followed Harald cautiously. The clash of wills had been electric. In a different household it could have erupted in a scene but these three had too much at stake, at least two of them had, and there was Clive: determined to save them from themselves.

  ‘They’re terrified,’ Harald said, handing her a glass. ‘They reckon I’m for the high jump. Highly strung, both of ‘em; a touch of the high strikes, you know?’

  ‘It knocks you off balance when secrets you’ve kept for so many years are suddenly exposed.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Edith’s been talking,’ she explained. ‘And Anne confirms what she said. So I know about Clive’s parentage.’

  He looked pleased. ‘Good. Nice to be able to acknowledge it at last. Even if only to a limited circle,’ he added cautiously.

  ‘He’s the elder,’ she observed, and he was with her immediately.

  ‘And born the wrong side of the blanket, m’dear. Besides, he’s happy doing what he’s doing, and he’ll never have children. So young James will inherit, which is as it should be: carry on the line.’

  ‘What’s worrying them’ — she gestured towards the kitchen — ‘and me, is the construction Tyndale would put on your not acknowledging Clive. When Anne was pregnant with your child it gave you a motive for wanting Walter out of the way.’

  ‘Walter would have let her go. He was fond of her in a platonic fashion; he wanted what was best for her. I could provide a good home and the baby would be properly educated.’

  ‘You discussed it with him?’

  ‘What? Er — no; I’m assuming — And their relationship wasn’t normal. He realised — must have realised that.’

  She was thoughtful. ‘He did know that you and Anne were lovers?’

  He hesitated. ‘No doubt he guessed. The question is academic in any event. Everything turned out right in the end.’

  ‘How can you say that? All his life Clive has thought that his father was a murderer.’

  ‘Oh no, you’re wrong there, Mel. We brought the boy up to understand that Walter thought the grass was greener in Canada and his sin, such as it was, was no more than walking out on his wife and baby. Clive came to look on me as his natural father; that’s what I mean by its turning out as it should.’

  She was uneasy but it wasn’t her place to remind him that, as the elder son, Clive had been robbed of his birthright.

  He divined the thought and smiled sweetly. ‘The boy had love,’ he assured her. ‘That’s more important than land or a big house.’

  There was no arguing with that. However, with Harald now demonstrating a modicum of common sense, it should be pointed out that there could be trouble ahead.

  ‘So you’re adamant that Walter died by accident,’ she pressed. He nodded. ‘Then you should know that Edith accuses Anne of his death. She knows — or guessed — that you’re Clive’s father. Now that I know, and blackmail can’t be effective any longer, she’ll tell the police out of spite.’

  Harald was stricken. ‘She holds Anne res
ponsible? Did you tell Anne this? What did she say?’

  ‘I didn’t tell her. My guess is that she’d say Edith’s mad.’

  ‘There is that, of course... Edith was a child — but sharp, very sharp. Between them they knew everything...’ He was musing and he shook himself. ‘That’s all by the by. So she accuses Anne.’ He stared fixedly at Miss Pink. ‘The fact of the matter is I killed Walter. Oh, it wasn’t intentional, I hit him and he fell on the stones and must have cracked his skull.’

  ‘The stones came down after he died,’ she pointed out, not turning a hair.

  ‘Stone, he fell on a stone in the byre — or the wooden edge of a stall. Anyway, he died and I pushed the gable-end down on top of him.’ He paused, thinking. ‘I’d met him to discuss Anne, of course: to tell him she was carrying my child and to ask him to release her. He took it badly. I told you he was fond of her.’

  ‘You’re going to tell Tyndale this?’

  ‘If he asks me. It’s the truth.’

  ‘Well, that’s supper in the oven,’ Clive announced, entering the drawing-room. ‘You’ll stay, Melinda: chicken stuffed with asparagus.’

  He was followed by Anne carrying her empty glass. ‘Finished your little chat?’ she asked, too gaily.

  ‘You could say that.’ Miss Pink was cool. ‘Harald maintains he’s going to confess to Walter’s murder.’

  ‘Typical,’ Clive said carelessly.

  ‘Silly old boy.’ Anne grimaced at Harald and held out her glass. ‘No water this time, sweetie; why you’ve started diluting single malt I’ll never know. It’s sacrilege. You will stay and eat with us, Melinda.’

  Miss Pink cried off, pleading the need to soak her saddle sores in a warm bath. Anne accompanied her to the door. ‘See what I mean,’ she whispered, ‘It’s fantasy, fantasy all the time now, and I’ll tell you another thing: he’s getting his dreams confused with reality. The things he comes out with! You wouldn’t believe!’

  ‘He’ll tell Tyndale.’

  ‘I’m sure the police are accustomed to false confessions for all manner of crimes, particularly from the aged. Anyway, after nearly fifty years under water there’s not going to be many clues left, are there?’ She caught the other’s expression. ‘So Clive tells me,’ she added airily.

  Miss Pink was in the bath the first time the telephone rang and she ignored it. The second time she was heating soup, regretting chicken stuffed with asparagus but not the charged atmosphere of Nichol House from which she’d escaped. It had been a long day and she was feeling her age. She let the phone ring eight times before she picked it up. It was Mounsey, apologising for the late hour, saying he’d been ringing.

  ‘I was asleep,’ she said, as if dazed, ‘I took a pill. Was it something urgent?’

  Only her statement on the finding of the skull, he said, but they had those of the students and the lad James; it could wait until morning. She promised to go to the station at ten o’clock and returned to her soup, stirring it slowly. They were checking up on her whereabouts — and if Mounsey was doing the telephoning what was Tyndale doing?

  He could be supervising operations at the old village. This late? But someone had to be there, guarding the site. All those stones would have to be moved to expose the skeleton — which must be crushed to splinters by now. As Anne said, no evidence could remain, although the skull might reveal some clue. She wondered if Mounsey might say something apposite tomorrow. She considered what she was going to say, but her statement would be confined to the discovery of the skull, and even then she was merely a witness to its being uncovered by someone else. I know nothing, she told herself, to realise immediately that they might all be under discreet surveillance. Heavens, she was becoming as theatrical as Harald! It was most unlikely that even one constable could be spared to haunt the churchyard, the police had more than enough to occupy them elsewhere; all the same, if it did come to their notice that this evening she’d visited first Edith, then the Fawcetts, Tyndale was going to speculate on the motive for those visits. And if Edith publicly aired her accusations, and Harald confessed, Tyndale would demand why she’d kept quiet. Simple, she thought impatiently, you don’t place any credence on the ramblings of an alcoholic, nor on a poor old fellow’s fantasies. I’ll manage, she thought grimly, sufficient unto the day... never dreaming what that day would bring.

  15

  ‘It was beige,’ Miss Pink repeated. ‘The same colour as the mud. It was mud, a thin veneer on the bone.’

  Mounsey looked back at her statement. ‘They’re not words in common use,’ he said stubbornly.

  ‘The statement is in my words.’ She was anxious to get away from the police station; there were things to do.

  "‘A thin veneer",’ Mounsey read aloud and looked up as a plainclothes man entered the room to sit down before a computer. Mounsey returned to the statement but he was on edge, obviously expecting someone.

  ‘Mr Tyndale must be run off his feet,’ Miss Pink observed chattily. ‘Which death is he concerned with today, or does he take turns like a builder: a bit here today, there tomorrow?’

  ‘I don’t know where he is,’ Mounsey muttered. Anyone else he would have floored with a snub. Not Miss Pink.

  ‘How did this one die?’ she asked, indicating the statement.

  ‘The wall fell on him, ma’am!’

  She left and went looking for Clive. There was no reply at Nichol House and no barking when she rang the bell. It didn’t need three people to walk the dog so it looked as if Harald had been removed, at least temporarily, to a place where he could do no harm.

  It was Dave Murray who put her on the right track, beckoning to her from the door of the bookshop. ‘It seems I’m the dead-letter drop,’ he announced as she approached. ‘Message for you from Clive. He suggests you go to the big house and ride. Deb will fix you up.’

  ‘Bless you.’ She beamed, then, casually, ‘Where is Clive? And the others. There’s no reply at Nichol.’

  ‘I know. I saw you over there.’ He looked past her shoulder. ‘It’s a gorgeous day — again; they’ll have taken Harald for a drive.’

  ‘You don’t happen to have seen Tyndale?’

  ‘Who he, dear?’

  ‘The detective inspector. Have you seen any policemen this morning? Like sinister strangers hanging around?’

  His gaze came back to her. ‘Edith had a visitor. No, I tell a lie; I saw two men go along the walk towards Plumtree Yard and since Rick’s away I assumed their business was with Edith.’

  ‘What d’you mean: Rick’s away?’

  ‘He’s out on bail. I came to the rescue: a small thing but — why not?’

  ‘If he’s on bail, shouldn’t he stay in Kelleth?’

  ‘I’m sure he will.’ But the note of assurance was suspect. ‘He’ll be looking for Perry.’

  Dave raised expressive eyebrows. ‘I don’t think he’ll find her,’ he said, ‘but it keeps him occupied.’

  *

  Two ponies were in the yard at the big house, already saddled. ‘I’m coming with you,’ Deborah said, emerging from the stable. ‘Do you know what this is about?’ Miss Pink asked.

  ‘Uncle Clive said you’d know.’

  She was surprised. If Perry had agreed to see her why did she need an escort? ‘Why —’ she began, to be checked immediately.

  ‘We’ll talk when we get going,’ Deborah said, leading the gelding to a mounting block.

  They didn’t talk for quite a while because the girl led the way and told Miss Pink to keep back because her mare kicked. They went along the back of the garden wall, up the brae and into the woods, but at the top of the slope where she had turned right yesterday, Deborah kept straight ahead, puzzling Miss Pink until she recalled her meanderings before she came on the summer-house. All the same, when they had ridden another half-mile and, taking her bearings from the sun, she saw that they were riding north-west when she could have sworn that the summer-house lay to the east, she called to Deborah to stop. Watching the mare’s ha
unches she eased forward gingerly.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked bluntly.

  ‘We moved her.’

  ‘You might have said!’

  ‘You don’t know who’s listening.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ Childish games were one thing but, like Harald’s fantasies, carried too far they were an unlooked-for distraction, a sheer waste of time.

  ‘It’s unlikely,’ Deborah admitted, watching her face, ‘but there’s murder involved and she didn’t do it. So maybe the cops couldn’t be near enough to hear what we were saying but you never know. We’re safe now — I think — but I’m still not taking any chances. Perry’s a suspect and if they thought she was in our woods they’d have dogs out here pronto. That’s why we moved her from the summer-house. There were too many horse tracks.’

  ‘We moved her?’

  ‘Well — me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last night, of course.’

  ‘How was it your parents didn’t find out? Your mother’s so safety-conscious she makes you leave word when you take a pony out.’

  Deborah sighed at such a display of tunnel vision. ‘You always tell the truth? And you didn’t know how to get out of your house without your parents knowing?’

  ‘Touché, but — did you take a pony?’

  ‘I saddled up in the paddock so there was no sound in the yard. Not that it’d matter, they all sleep on the far side of the house.’

  They were walking on now and ahead the trees thinned to the open fell. They stopped at a gate in the drystone wall. This gate was padlocked. They dismounted and lifted it off its hinges. Mounting again, they breasted an easy rise to a long whale-backed ridge. The path reached the crest and turned along it but Deborah continued over the top and, dropping a little, followed a route that was scarcely more than a sheep trod. Below, on their right, the tips of trees appeared above an unfamiliar dale.

  They came to a little round sheep pen beside a gully. ‘This is it,’ Deborah said and slid down, coming to take Miss Pink’s reins. ‘Follow the water down to the wood until you come to where a rowan tree’s fallen across the beck. On your left there’s a crag and a cave. She’s there.’