by Gwen Moffat
‘You haven’t told me what you do,’ Jean said, which was quite startling because until now she’d conveyed the impression of a rather silly woman subservient even in her own mind to her husband, and yet here she was taking the initiative.
‘I write,’ Miss Pink admitted. ‘Short stories mostly.’
‘Really? Have you sold any?’
Wrong question. ‘A few,’ Miss Pink said, adding smoothly, ‘I live in Cornwall and I travel. I’m fond of America.’
The other hesitated then, ‘What brought you to Borascal?’
‘An advertisement in The Lady.’ Miss Pink was bland.
The collie, who had been dozing on the hearth rug, scrambled to his feet as a shadow darkened the doorway. A young girl stepped into the room: pretty, blonde, vital.
‘Hi! There’s no one about and this place is dead.’
She dropped into an armchair and bent her head to the dog’s. ‘How’s my old Whisk? You can’t go out ’cause that Cooper’s patrolling the lane and he’ll kill you.’
Pointedly ignored, Miss Pink waited for the introduction. Jean said indulgently, ‘This is Gemma, our neighbour. Gemma, this is Miss Pink from Ashgill.’
‘Hi.’ She made no move to get up. ‘You’re Eleanor’s friend. She’s closed the tearoom, Jean.’
‘She’s not feeling too good.’
Gemma shrugged. ‘Who is? Can I have some wine?’
‘Certainly not. There’s Coke in the fridge. She’s fifteen,’ she mouthed as the girl went to the kitchen. ‘What have you been doing with yourself today?’ she asked lightly when the visitor returned to slump in the chair again, spilling her drink. Behind the patronizing tone there was a sense of tension which Miss Pink thought had less to do with her own presence than the relationship between these two. They weren’t easy with each other.
‘I’ve been helping Dwayne build a wall at Blind Keld. I’m his mate as you might say.’ Jean threw a glance at Miss Pink. ‘He’s my friend,’ Gemma added with studied emphasis.
Jean appeared to be at a loss. Miss Pink said vaguely, ‘We’ve all had something of a shock.’
Gemma was puzzled, then sulky. ‘I didn’t really know her.’ She caught Jean’s eye. ‘It was Dwayne she laid into, not me, and it wasn’t –’
‘I don’t think we want to –’ Jean began.
‘She got on everyone’s wick!’
‘Gemma!’
‘I mean, what’s it got to do with her? Interfering old bat. Dwayne said what she needed was –’
‘Stop right there!’ Jean was on her feet, signalling wildly to Miss Pink, making for the door. She paused. ‘You can be as rude as you like in your own house but not this one – and in front of a guest! And I don’t give a damn what Phoebe said to anyone; she was a neighbour and she drowned and you’re a callous little –’ She didn’t finish for Miss Pink was crowding her out of the door and now they were in the garden making for the gate.
Jean was shaking as she lifted the latch. ‘I’ll walk you to your place,’ she muttered. ‘Oh, my God, why did I have to fly off the handle? She’s an orphan – but she’s impossible. This Dwayne: he’s twenty-one, and look at her: no discipline at all.’
‘Who does she live with?’
‘Her brother. He’s a wimp – well, not really, that’s what Martin says; I quite like him actually, but he can’t cope with Gemma. And her sister-in-law’s not much older than the girl. What could Walter do: lock her in her room? What can anyone do? I suppose Phoebe told Dwayne what happens to men who go with under-age girls. And Gemma, she flaunts it! But then of course she wouldn’t be for the high jump, would she? It would be Dwayne.’
‘She came here for a reason.’
‘Pardon? Oh, you think I should go back, apologize?’
‘She needs to talk. She could be more shocked by Phoebe’s death than it appears.’
Walter Lambert had had a long day: a meeting in Carlisle in the morning, a sandwich bolted as he drove back to the office, and a hold-up on the motorway after an accident. As if that wasn’t enough on a hot day at the end of it he was trapped in a tailback at roadworks ten miles from home, and that in close proximity to a pub. A number of cars left the queue but Walter didn’t drink and drive. All the same he agonized over the thought of a pint of cold lemonade, even a can of Sprite, but the car in front was moving, the one behind hooted, and not gently; intimidated, he edged forward. The desert must be like this, but not so bad, there were no fumes in the desert. By the time he turned off the highway he was dehydrated. He put his foot down, remembered that most accidents happened close to home, the obvious hazards over, and dropped his speed. He was aware of the hot breeze, of crusted lips and a dry throat. He thought of cold lager, and there was none in the house. Well, if a pint of lager on an empty stomach made him incapable he’d leave the car and walk home.
The Lamb was dark and cool; it was early and the only customers were a couple from one of the holiday cottages whom he knew by sight. They greeted him affably.
‘Hard day?’ Honeyman inquired, eyeing the loosened tie, uncapping a bottle of Stella Artois.
Walter nodded, pulling out his wallet, reaching for a note. He drank with inordinate relief and felt his body swell like dry earth in rain. He wondered if he’d caught a touch of the sun.
Honeyman said, ‘Tell Isa I’ll not be needing her tomorrow. Now the body’s found the media’s lost interest and we’re back to normal.’ He was expressionless but there was a hint of contempt in the tone.
Walter blinked. ‘Isa?’
Honeyman saw that the man didn’t know – but then he’d been at work all day. ‘She come down and give us a hand,’ he explained. ‘Great help, she were; we was run off our feet – or we would have been but for her: right little waitress she is – no, wrong word, more like a hostess? Ornamental, as you might say.’ Honeyman loved to stir it.
Walter was bewildered. ‘She was serving behind the bar?’
‘No, no. Me and Mother was here. Isa was waiting tables. We were overflowing into t’road. Traffic had to slow down. This was before they found the body o’course.’
‘Waiting tables? You don’t do food.’
‘Do a bit with the microwave. But there were drinks to take out, empty glasses to collect afore they broke – a right party it were – tables to wipe –’
‘A pot boy. She was working as a pot boy.’
‘Oh no, I wouldn’t call her that. Hey, you didn’t pick up your change. Walter! Be sure to tell her I don’t want her tomorrow –’
Chapter Six
‘Enemies?’ Eleanor was astounded. ‘The police are asking if Phoebe has enemies?’ She had risen late and now it was eleven o’clock and Miss Pink had arrived for coffee, trailed by Cooper.
‘The sergeant wasn’t specific but the implication was obvious,’ Miss Pink said. ‘The skull is fractured. I’ve been looking at the map, reminding myself of the descent from Gowk Pass. She wouldn’t have to cross any beck with enough water in it to sweep her away … But if she climbed Blaze and came down the dale she’d be following the Rutting Beck for a mile or so. Does that path go close to the beck?’
‘You don’t have to cross it, only side streams, and they’re no more than trickles. I don’t believe Phoebe fell in any beck.’
‘So how was it she came to be found in one?’
‘I think she was pushed.’
‘By whom?’ Miss Pink hadn’t turned a hair.
‘As the police implied: by an enemy.’
‘In Borascal?’
‘There’s no lack of them.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Eleanor stared through Miss Pink for a moment before starting to enumerate: ‘Dwayne Paxton for one. He does odd jobs and charges VAT, which is illegal because he’s not registered for VAT. Then he insists on cash payments and he doesn’t give receipts so he’s defrauding not only Customs and Excise but the Inland Revenue as well. Having said that, I think Dwayne could be more concerned with the possibility of Phoe
be informing on him because of his friendship with Gemma.’
‘Did Phoebe know about that?’
‘She’d seen them together and she told me she’d spoken to him, said that he could get ten years. He’s thick and he could have seen that as a threat rather than a warning.’
‘Could he have retaliated?’
‘You asked me who were her enemies, not who could have killed her.’
‘It could be the same thing. Who are the other candidates?’
‘Swinburn.’ Eleanor stopped on that, thought about it and shook her head. ‘Trivial?’ she asked of herself. ‘But no less than defrauding the taxman. And people hold grudges … Then grudges are exacerbated, and goodness knows, Phoebe was always catching him out. She said the chemical from his sheep dip fed into the Rutting Beck. He has a tip in a little quarry lower down the dale: old fence wire, broken machinery, oil drums, drums that have contained heaven knows what kind of toxic compounds, dead sheep – that’s when he troubles to remove a carcass from the fields.’
‘What about Bobby Lee?’
Eleanor’s jaw dropped. ‘Who told you?’ Miss Pink sketched a smile which the other accepted for more than it was worth. ‘It’s no secret,’ she admitted. ‘And Phoebe would never condemn Jacob for that. After all, he’s done the right thing; the family lives rent-free at Sunder despite Bobby being the only – well, the little ones aren’t in the least like Jacob. And since he contributes to Bobby’s upkeep but not to the others …’
‘Swinburn helps out with Bobby?’
‘Regular as clockwork: a tenner every Friday evening, over the garden gate.’
‘No! How humiliating!’
‘I doubt if he sees it that way. Certainly Sherrel doesn’t. She’ll take all the hand-outs she can get. The Lees do very well with child benefits and income support and help with the council tax, and than of course either Sherrel or Misella is working at any one time. Mind you, I don’t know that they’re claiming more than they have a right to, and I understand you can earn up to a certain figure even if you’re on benefit …’ She trailed off, blushing.
Miss Pink sighed, aware that this form of connivance was by no means confined to one Lakeland dale. ‘Would Phoebe have been incensed at benefit fraud? Would she view it as living off the gullibility of the tax payer?’ There was the slightest edge in her tone.
‘She never said anything.’ Eleanor was stiff. She said defiantly, trying a clumsy distraction: ‘She had no problem with illegitimacy. What countrywoman has?’
‘Who else in Borascal might have taken exception to her – er – forthright opinions?’
Eleanor blinked, marshalling her thoughts. ‘Who else is there, excluding the holiday people, because we’re only considering locals here, residents? It couldn’t be anyone else, could it?’ Miss Pink said nothing and Eleanor moistened her lips. ‘The Blamires?’ she suggested brightly. ‘Never. Phoebe admired Martin. She was a simple soul, thought Mountain Rescue was an admirable institution, one of the emergency services. She didn’t have much time for Jean: no backbone she said.’ Eleanor grimaced, as if apologizing for her friend. ‘Come to that, she had no time for Isa Lambert either but then Isa doesn’t trouble to hide her contempt for our lifestyle; no social life here, she says, but then they don’t entertain – couldn’t – she can’t cook. And she doesn’t know how to behave when they go to other people’s houses. I doubt if she ever sat at a table to eat before she married. The girl’s lazy and ambitious; she married up and now she’s got one foot on the ladder, her sights are on the next rung. I wouldn’t be surprised if she finds herself a job in Carlisle once she’s passed her driving test; the excitement in the Lamb yesterday will have spoiled her for staying at home and looking after her house, as if she ever did.’
The venom was scathing but all Miss Pink said was, ‘Waiting at the pub was a temporary measure then?’
‘Yes, Walter wouldn’t have allowed it had he known, although if he can’t cope with his sister he’s unlikely to have any influence with his wife.’
‘I met Gemma but I’ve yet to meet the brother.’
‘He’s a pleasant enough chap but a bit inadequate although, give him his due, he has made himself responsible for Gemma. She’s his half-sister, hence the age gap – he’s in his thirties. His mother died, his father married again, had Gemma by the second marriage and then both of them died on holiday: an earthquake in El Salvador. So Walter and Gemma have known a lot of tragedy and I shouldn’t call him inadequate, he’s probably competent in his job but there you are: he’s a desk-wallah, not an action man. No wonder Isa was enjoying herself at the Lamb … Now there’s a deadbeat: Ralph Honeyman. Poor fellow, it has to be glandular; with such a gross body how can he be anything but ineffectual?’
‘I had the impression that the pub was run by the mother.’
‘Exactly. Dorcas is the boss.’ Eleanor went into a brown study for a few moments while Miss Pink’s eyes strayed to the open windows, her ears picking up birds’ songs, muted now as the heat strengthened with the day. The tearoom was closed; it made a pleasant break for Eleanor, not having to cook, being able to sit and relax … ‘It’s funny,’ came her voice, softly, as if she were commenting on images: ‘funny how the women stand out in Borascal, Dorcas Honeyman eclipsing her son – why does she feed him like that? And Mabel Swinburn: tolerant enough to have her husband’s child playing at the farm, turning a blind eye – well, one assumes she does – to Jacob’s weekly visit to Sunder to hand over Sherrel’s money, and yet, you know’ – her expression was puzzled – ‘basically Mabel is as much in command as Dorcas.’
‘It’s not unknown for a wife to tolerate a former mistress.’
A slow smile suffused Eleanor’s face. ‘You’re deep. You’re another dark horse.’
Miss Pink merely shrugged and changed the subject, saying she was going for a walk and then regretting it, knowing where she wanted to go.
‘You’re going to the quarry,’ Eleanor said, adding firmly, ‘I’ll come with you.’
They were differently motivated. Miss Pink wanted to investigate the quarry because it was there and, because she had not as yet been in it, she felt an odd sense of omission as if previously she had been obstructed. There was no reason connected with Phoebe that she should enter the old workings, the dead woman hadn’t fallen down one of those man-made walls, she would have had multiple fractures … And why did Eleanor want to go there? She asked, and Eleanor said she wanted to see the globe flowers. Miss Pink didn’t push it further. As they strolled up the dale, lightly clad, wearing trainers and cotton hats, she said, ‘Those letters informing people that there was salmonella at Jollybeard: where did the letterheads originate?’
‘Somewhere down south.’ Eleanor slashed at a thistle with her stick. ‘Lewes, as I remember: East Sussex.’
‘Do you remember the department concerned?’
‘Environmental Health, of course. He got that right.’
‘ “He”?’
‘One assumes … but now you question it, it could have been a woman. Spiteful enough. Why the interest? It can’t have anything to do with Phoebe.’
‘Not on the face of it.’ Eleanor glanced at her sharply. ‘Walter Lambert works in the Council offices,’ Miss Pink said.
They stopped. The younger woman said coldly, ‘So Walter got hold of some letterheads from an office hundreds of miles away and concocted that obscene libel … Will you tell me what he has against me to make him do that?’
‘I can’t. I don’t know anything about him, and not a lot about yourself, and nothing of the relationship between you.’
‘There is no –’
‘Technically. A relationship exists when you know someone, anyone.’ Miss Pink started to walk on. ‘Suggest a better hypothesis.’ Eleanor fell into step, staring at the ground. ‘Alternatively,’ Miss Pink went on, ‘try this: who has a better motive to damage your business than Walter? Dorcas Honeyman?’
‘No.’ Eleanor was dismissive. ‘The tra
de is different and the only food they serve is hamburgers. Besides, how could the Honeymans get hold of the letterheads, or forge them – if that’s possible – on a computer? They don’t have a computer.’
‘The Swinburns? Blamires? Lees?’
‘No, no!’ Eleanor was annoyed now. ‘It’s impossible. No one – none of them could have done it.’
‘Someone did.’
Eleanor’ s eyes were piteous. ‘You frighten me.’
‘I want to get to the bottom of this.’
‘Why? I can understand you wanting to know what happened to Phoebe, so do I, but the salmonella has nothing to do with her – surely? It’s a coincidence.’
‘I don’t believe in coincidences, not in this context. And it’s because the salmonella episode appears inexplicable that I feel the explanation could tie in with Phoebe. Don’t ask me why; let’s leave it for a while and enjoy the walk.’
The quarry was opening out on their left, less impressive than seen from above and looking down through the vertical walls. From this angle the rock was full in the sun: pearly and smooth, and to a climber beautiful, no longer daunting, in fact quite diminished by the rising fell beyond. Now the place could be seen in perspective: an abandoned excavation rather than a death trap.
Ignoring the Danger notice they climbed the stile and started up a gentle incline starred with daisies. A cuckoo called most musically among the rocks.
‘The notice could be there to stop people climbing,’ Miss Pink mused. ‘Didn’t you say it was safe if you kept in the bottom?’
‘At the lower level, down here. Right at the back, higher up, there are holes.’
‘Shafts? It’s a mine then, not a quarry?’ They’d come to tumbled stones, an angular boulder field, and Eleanor took the lead. A rock moved under her feet. ‘Or both,’ Miss Pink muttered, and stopped talking, concentrating on not spraining an ankle. The place might not be a death trap but it was still a bone-breaker.
The cuckoo had flown away, the only sound now was the occasional gentle chock as a stone rocked under careful feet, although increasingly there was the suggestion of a whisper and Miss Pink paused, listening.
