by Gwen Moffat
‘Oh, he’s your son!’
‘He’s me helper. He thinks he’s taking over t’farm.’
Sewell said, puzzled, refusing to see a joke, ‘Why is it we didn’t know that Mrs Blamire had a son?’
Jacob dropped the spanner and leaned against the tractor. He stared at them as he wiped his hands on a wad of cotton waste. ‘You know well she don’t have no bairns. Bobby be a Lee: from Sunder. Everyone knows.’ This with emphasis, implying that Borascal didn’t discuss the parentage of its children. Drawing a line under it he asked coldly, ‘And what can I do for you gentlemen?’
‘Not much,’ Sewell confessed. ‘We’re going door-to-door.’
‘How many times is that?’
‘Every time we learn a bit more we come back; someone talks, we discuss it, come back again, keep that up till we’re satisfied.’ Jacob said nothing. ‘So?’ Sewell asked brightly.
‘What was the question?’
‘Your son-in-law confessed.’
‘Oh, aye.’
‘To his affair with Isa Lambert.’
Jacob’s face didn’t change, and they were watching closely. As if to spare them embarrassment from the lengthening silence he offered some relief: ‘And?’
‘He is married to your daughter,’ Sewell pointed out.
Jacob nodded, going along with that and waiting politely to be enlightened further.
‘You’re not bothered?’ Holgate put in.
Jacob turned to him, surprised. ‘She’m a grown woman; it’s her business.’
‘And his,’ Holgate exclaimed. ‘He had reason –’
‘Did you know about it?’ Sewell interrupted, lurching against the constable.
Jacob sketched a shrug. ‘Maybe. It weren’t my concern.’
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.’ Sewell was judicious. ‘I understand Blamire was looking to start an outdoor activities centre here once you retire: renting the place from you and running courses. You’d be a sleeping partner?’
‘Someone’s been talking out of turn.’
At last they’d managed to rouse him and Sewell seized his advantage. ‘And you wouldn’t want to be the business partner of a man who was planning on ditching your daughter for another woman, not to speak of any financial obligations he might have entered into already.’ The tone was insidious.
As Jacob considered this, another figure blocked the light and Mabel said coldly, ‘Does someone mind telling me what other woman we’re talking about?’
No one was happy; everyone, except Mabel, disconcerted. Jacob recovered first. ‘Them’s come with some tale about Martin.’
Mabel turned on Holgate who happened to be nearest to her. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me the gossip about my son-in-law.’
Sewell said, ‘Did you know he was having an affair with Mrs Lambert, ma’am?’
‘No,’ she snapped, her eyes flashing at her husband. ‘And neither did anyone else.’
‘If we had known,’ Jacob amended it slightly, ‘it weren’t nowt to do with us.’
‘We didn’t know.’ Mabel was firm, turning to Sewell: ‘Who told you this?’
‘He did. Blamire.’
Her hand lifted towards her throat, and dropped, moving aimlessly as if she didn’t know what to do with it. ‘Does my daughter know? She’s never even hinted at it.’ Her eyes came back to Jacob.
‘Some wives try to block it out,’ Sewell said.
‘Not –’ Mabel checked, then shook her head in emphatic denial. ‘Not her.’ She thought again, as if recalling conversations and behaviour over the preceding weeks. ‘She’d have told me even if it was only a suspicion.’
‘Everyone protecting everyone else,’ Holgate said as they came away from Sleylands. ‘It’s what you’d expect; they’re all related.’
‘Young Bobby’s from that travelling family: the Lees, in the cottage on the beck. Old Swinburn will have had it off with the girl there, the one with all the kids: Sherrel.’
‘What’s that got to do with Isa’s murder?’
‘Nothing. It’s just that Swinburn’s a sly old bugger and, of course, Mabel’s compliant.’ Holgate was staring. ‘Bobby’ – Sewell was testy – ‘he’s Swinburn’s bastard but Mabel goes along with it to the extent of letting the boy come up to the farm. They’re very close, all of ’em.’
‘That’s what I said: too bloody close. Look at the alibis. Christ!’
Flora Lee looked enchanting wearing Bobby’s denim cap but at four years old she was too young to be on the wrong side of the beck and alone. Miss Pink, loath to lecture, said that she proposed to visit Nan and perhaps Flora would see her across the beck. The child agreed with alacrity and, hand in hand, they waded to the far bank where Miss Pink studied the little animals embroidered on the hat and the word ‘Alaska’ in pale grey thread.
‘Can I see the hat?’
‘No!’ Flora snatched it off and crumpled it in both hands. ‘It’s our Bobby’s. I forgot. I gotta put it back. He’ll slaughter me.’ And before Miss Pink could stop her she’d rushed back across the beck – shallow here and with an adult standing by she was in no danger – and clambered up the far bank. Miss Pink watched, her eyes intent behind the dark glasses. The child disappeared at a clump of brambles and after a moment reappeared, scrambling down the slope. Above the brambles was a mature larch, incongruous among the broad-leaves, easy to remember.
‘Where is Bobby?’ Miss Pink asked, in no hurry to reach Sunder.
‘He’s working at Sleylands, mending Uncle Jake’s tractor.’
‘And you borrowed his hat while he’s away.’
‘I didn’t thieve it!’
‘Of course not, you put it back. Who gave it to him?’
‘No one. He found un.’
‘Where?’
‘In t’beck.’ The child gasped and clutched at Miss Pink’s hand. Bobby was running up the track, pale with some powerful emotion. He glared from his sister to the far side of the water. Flora’s hand was as tight as a bird’s claw. Miss Pink tried a little reassuring pressure but doubted that it registered; the children were staring at each other and now she realized that they were both terrified.
Flora’s nerve broke first. ‘I never touched it! Never, ever! I never went there! I been in t’beck – wasn’t I?’ This to Miss Pink.
‘We were both in the beck,’ Miss Pink said calmly.
Bobby’s face said it all for him: distrust of both of them, and there was still that overriding fear. He pushed past his sister and, starting to run, slowed to the pace of a stalking cat. He came to the stream crossing, turned and looked at them. Miss Pink and Flora jerked into life and resumed their progress to Sunder.
‘He’ll see I didn’t touch it,’ Flora said. ‘Won’t he?’
‘Oh yes, he won’t be able to tell. What makes it so important?’
‘He says I’m not to talk about it.’
Which was no answer, only confirmation of the importance. No, Miss Pink said as Sunder came in view, she wouldn’t come in and visit Nan after all; she’d take her tea at Jollybeard instead – saying anything that came to mind, anything to get away and consider whether Bobby’s finding of Phoebe’s hat had any significance. Not, of course, unless he had found the camera too, but the camera would have sunk, unlike the hat … unless the camera had remained attached to her … But Bobby was nothing more than a young magpie who picked up trifles; a child of that age could never bring himself to lift a camera from a corpse.
Idly strolling, regardless of heat and the heady scent of hawthorns, of the Lamb tight-closed against the Sunday hush, of ragged robin in the water meadows, she came back to the present when the first waft of foul air impinged on her consciousness and she remembered that this was the field where she’d found two dead sheep. Either Swinburn hadn’t removed them or the carcasses had oozed. And there, among the rushes and incongruously framed by yellow irises, was the bloated lump of a sheep.
She was at the gate on the road before she recall
ed that there had been no sign of a tractor near the carcass, but there were wheel marks at the gate. So Swinburn had taken one and left the other, a gesture only. And where did he put dead sheep? The meadow was boggy and the wheels had shed mud on the tarmac. Grimly determined she followed the traces until they turned in at a gate on the opposite side of the road.
A track climbed through an ash wood towards a crag, diverging sideways to ascend in a wide hairpin and emerge on the rim of what was no doubt a quarry, or the place where the crag had been quarried. In a bay below was Swinburn’s tip, an unwholesome cove of plastic and rusted iron, a car chassis, a fridge, a cooker, rotten wood, drums that would have contained oil or toxic chemicals, ragged rolls of wire, some small trees and a load of rocks and soil out of which a sheep’s leg protruded. She’d seen worse, at least it wasn’t draped down a sea cliff on some magnificent coast. But it was less than a quarter of a mile from the road, and the sheep weren’t buried.
‘I buried un!’ Swinburn protested. ‘If them’s showing again it were foxes pulled ’em out. You didn’t ought to’ve been there anyway, ’tis private land.’
‘Hush now.’ Mabel was angry and frightened. ‘You go back there and you bury those sheep right. You never told me you’d put ’em on t’tip. And that tip –’
‘And the one on the meadow,’ Miss Pink stormed. ‘You didn’t take that one.’
‘I did then! I took the both of ’em!’
‘So another one died in the meadow. And there’s one up above the big quarry at the head –’
‘Oh no! You’m as bad as that Phoebe –’
‘Jacob Swinburn, don’t you dare say nowt against the dead! Away you go this minute and you get that sheep out of t’meadow and them two in t’tip – and any more as you put in there, and you dig a pit and you –’ but Jacob had gone.
Miss Pink and Mabel regarded each other. Miss Pink wondered how he’d ever dared to look at Sherrel Lee. Aloud she said, ‘Phoebe certainly got under his skin – and I seem to have taken over from her.’
‘No,’ Mabel said tightly. ‘I have. He’s not lazy, just old, and we’ve got no one to leave the place to, not as a farm, so he’s no interest in looking after the land proper. I’ll be glad to be shot of it all, I can tell you.’
‘Jean said something about turning it into a mountain centre and running courses.’
‘It’s not going to work. He keeps chopping and changing, and she’s not keen herself –’
Miss Pink shifted her weight and rested a hand on the table. ‘Here, sit yourself down,’ Mabel fussed. ‘We both need a cup of tea, all that shouting builds up a thirst.’ She pushed a cat off a chair and filled the kettle. Miss Pink lowered herself on to a warm cushion.
‘Mountain activities are all the rage,’ she observed, making conversation. ‘I’m amazed that so many can keep going, that there are enough customers to go round. The courses aren’t cheap.’
‘He’s got this new idea.’ Mabel didn’t seem to like naming Blamire. ‘At first it was walking parties with himself guiding them, now he’s talking about “safaris” with Land Rovers on upland tracks. He says he’ll get the folk who want to see the fells the easy way.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought there are enough tracks where the authorities would allow vehicles.’
‘He’s finding them. He says there are more than you’d think. I don’t see it myself. It’s different abroad where there are wild animals to look at but what is there to see here? Walkers like yourself seem to find plenty to interest you, you go slow enough to look at birds and things, but what bird is going to hang around to be gawked at by folk in a noisy truck, and who wants to be thrown around on these rough old tracks anyway?’
There was a long pause during which the kettle started to sing and Mabel regarded it unhappily.
‘Jean tells me she writes,’ Miss Pink said.
The mother’s face brightened. ‘Aye, she does. She likes that.’ As if Jean disliked the idea of mountain centres. ‘You don’t have family.’ It sounded like an accusation.
‘No, only cousins. I never married.’
‘We always want the best for our children.’
‘Human nature,’ Miss Pink murmured.
Mabel warmed a willow pattern teapot, hefting the iron kettle with the ease of familiarity. She made the tea and set it on the side of the stove to brew, brought unmatched cups and saucers to the table, milk and sugar and a canister of biscuits. She poured the tea, passed a cup to the visitor, proffered the biscuits, which were cinnamon and home-made, and sat down. ‘The police were here,’ she said.
‘They were everywhere this morning.’
‘They’ve got Martin in town.’
‘They’re questioning all the men, the women too actually. They questioned me.’
That brought Mabel up short. ‘What could you tell them?’
‘It’s difficult to remember – but that’s how they work, isn’t it? They don’t interview, they arrive and they talk, and it’s only when they’ve gone that you realize that you did the talking, they were listening, and what on earth did you say that they wanted to hear? I mean’ – she spread her hands –‘I’ve only been here a week, I’m a tourist; what could I tell them?’
‘You talk to everybody.’
‘So?’
‘You hear the gossip.’
‘Is that what the police want: gossip?’
‘It’s why they came here: because they’d heard that Martin had been seeing Isa Lambert.’
‘Seeing her?’ Miss Pink might never have heard the expression.
‘Going with her. An affair.’
‘Jean did mention it.’
‘Then you know!’ Mabel was mortified.
‘I didn’t know how much you knew. You wouldn’t expect me to repeat gossip about your son-in-law.’
Mabel slumped in her chair. ‘I don’t know that I care now,’ she confessed. ‘Jean says she doesn’t. It happens; she’ll take him back, no doubt.’ Her eyes glazed. She could be thinking of her own husband and Sherrel Lee.
‘The difference here is that Isa was murdered,’ Miss Pink said.
Mabel’s eyes narrowed as she caught the inference but she fastened on the more important issue, and without subterfuge. ‘You’re saying he’s a suspect.’
‘Apparently it was a local man, because he had no car and must have left the river by a cross-country route.’
‘Is that what the police are saying? How do you know?’
‘I picked it up. It makes sense.’
‘I hope you’re wrong, indeed I do. It’s not nice, him being questioned by police, and him married to my girl.’
Chapter Fifteen
Gemma was trying to pull Whisk away from Phoebe’s gate; on the other side Cooper spat and swore, his back arched, every red hair on end.
‘That dog is heading for trouble,’ Miss Pink observed, coming home from Sleylands. ‘Are you walking him or does he run loose?’ Loose dogs being anathema in sheep country.
‘He must have got out, but he’ll go with anybody.’ Gemma paused. ‘Not the only one,’ she added darkly, with a glance at her own roof.
‘Come and have a cool drink.’ Miss Pink was firm. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Might as well.’ The girl was ungracious. ‘I don’t seem to be welcome at Elfhow, and Eleanor’s too busy.’ She had a grip on the dog’s collar as he strained to get back and threaten Cooper. Miss Pink unbuckled her belt and handed it over.
‘What’s this?’ Gemma slipped it through the collar. ‘It’s gorgeous bead-work.’
‘I bought it on a Navajo reservation.’
‘Oh, wow!’ Candid eyes were turned on the traveller. ‘You’ve been around.’ But candour was replaced by speculation as Gemma wondered if there might be more to an intrepid traveller than met the eye. She muttered something about getting home to give Walter his tea.
‘I won’t keep you,’ Miss Pink said comfortably. ‘I need to talk about Isa.’
They were at
Ashgill’s gate and Gemma dug in her heels. ‘What about her?’
‘For instance, did she visit Walter at the office?’
The other blinked. This was unexpected. ‘Of course she did. We both did: when we went in by bus and wanted a lift home. Isa more than me actually; there are plenty of men in the office.’
‘Would they have shown her how to operate the computers?’
‘That’s not the only thing –’ Gemma stopped. ‘You’re on to something: something to do with her? And computers? What is this?’
Miss Pink opened the gate and they entered the garden. The collie pulled and the girl released him and returned the belt, her eyes demanding an answer, but her companion wouldn’t be hurried.
They sat under a silver birch drinking Seven Up, Gemma’s tension mounting. ‘Your brother doesn’t have a computer at home?’ Miss Pink asked. ‘Nor you?’
‘Of course not, neither of us. Nor does – did Isa.’
‘But could she use one?’
‘I wouldn’t think so, it would need too much concentration.’
‘Did you know she was seeing Martin?’
Gemma gaped, then over-compensated with a mask so blank it was absurd. ‘Everyone knew,’ she said coldly.
‘That’s where you’re making a mistake.’ It was friendly but assured. ‘Walter may have suspected, and yourself, but no one knew other than themselves –’
‘And her other boyfriends –’
‘No! You’ve protested too much, Gemma; you’ve been doing it all along. Isa was having an affair with Martin – he admits it himself – but the story that she was promiscuous started with you.’
‘She was –’
‘Promiscuous is usually taken to mean many men: indiscriminate behaviour.’
‘And so she did. She was –’
‘She wasn’t. You started the rumour because you wanted to divert suspicion from Walter. If she had a reputation for promiscuity you could hope to widen the circle of suspects. It was you who came up with the story of her picking up lorry drivers in all-night cafés.’
‘I knew.’ Gemma was sullen but determined. ‘She left the MG at Blind Keld and went on …’ She tailed off.
