by J. R. Ellis
ALSO BY J. R. ELLIS
The Body in the Dales
The Quartet Murders
The Murder at Redmire Hall
The Royal Baths Murder
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by J. R. Ellis
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
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ISBN-13: 9781542017435
ISBN-10: 1542017432
Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com
To the Otley Writers
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Dales Incantation
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
Crutching Close Laithe
Yarnthwaite Barn
Hawkswick Clowder
Pikesdaw Barn
It was a crisp, clear Friday morning in mid-September on the high moorland fells above Nidderdale, one of the Yorkshire dales. Early mist had cleared and the sky was blue. The lush fields were dotted with sheep and cows. The trees in the scattered areas of woodland were still in full leaf, but the bright green of summer was slowly fading to yellows and browns.
The quiet peace of early autumn which pervaded the scene was suddenly disrupted by a series of loud explosions and the sound of birds whirring into the air. Puffs of smoke could be seen above small walls within the heather. The strange, mechanical cry of the red grouse, which seemed to call a panicky go back, go back, go back, go back, go back, go back as if in warning, could be heard among the heather. Birds flew up quickly and tried to wheel away, but many shuddered, flapped pathetically and fell to the ground as the bangs continued.
At one of the butts, four shooters were steadily blasting away at the birds that had been driven up by men who could be seen beating in the heather. Some distance away on each side were two more butts, from which yet more shotguns were being fired and birds cut down. The fellside resembled a battlefield.
The four men were all dressed in expensive weatherproof jackets, brown corduroy trousers, green wellies and flat caps. One of the group, Alexander Fraser – ‘Sandy’ to his friends – broke his shotgun to reload. He was a retired judge, a tall, powerfully built man with a shock of wavy hair which had once been blond and was now grey. He lived just outside the nearby village of Niddersgill in a seventeenth-century manor house and owned the shooting rights on the adjacent fells. He employed a gamekeeper and a team of people to maintain the grouse moor, and recouped money in the season from organised shooting parties such as this, for which he could charge a hefty fee. He looked forward every year to the Glorious Twelfth of August, which marked the beginning of the season, and he was a stickler for everything running smoothly.
Fraser peered into the smoke and frowned.
‘I must say, those bloody beaters are a bit on the slow side. I’m going to have to have a word with Davis. It’s just not good enough,’ he said to the man standing next to him in the butt – a tall, thin individual with a balding head, who was a minor aristocrat called James Symons. He lived in a small, medieval fortified manor house in Wensleydale.
‘Not to worry,’ said Symons. ‘We’re bagging plenty. I think your gamekeeper’s done a good job. It’s a splendid morning’s shoot, don’t you think, Rawnsley?’
The third man in the row, short and stocky, fired both barrels of his shotgun before replying. Gideon Rawnsley ran an elite-car showroom near Ripon and supplied many of those present with their Jaguars, Bentleys and Range Rovers.
‘Fine,’ he replied laconically. Rawnsley was somewhat socially beneath the others and said little. He always accepted these invitations, whatever the cost, as he regarded them as being good for business. He got on pretty well with the others although he had some issues with Fraser.
The fourth man was taking a little break and a swig of whisky from a leather-covered hip flask. Henry Saunders wore rimless glasses and seemed to have a perpetual supercilious grin on his smooth face. He was a wealthy banker from London who had known Sandy for many years during the latter’s time in the capital. They’d been at school together.
‘It’s all good, Sandy,’ Saunders said. ‘I’m thoroughly enjoying myself. It’s so relaxing to be up here, and so invigorating to have a gun in your hand.’ He looked around. ‘It’s what these moors are for, isn’t it? There wouldn’t be much point coming up here otherwise, would there? It’s a bit of a wasteland.’ He laughed.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Fraser. ‘What the hell’s going on over there?’ He pointed to where the beaters were slowly progressing through the heather. There appeared to be some kind of scuffle and voices were being raised. ‘I hope it’s not one of those bloody saboteurs again. Do you know, one of these days I’m going to blast them with both barrels. I’m absolutely sick of—’
‘Steady on, old boy.’ Symons put his hand on Fraser’s arm; the latter had been instinctively raising his gun. ‘I think the beaters have it under control.’
‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ replied Fraser as he peered down the slope. ‘I can see Davis escorting someone across to the track and one of the beaters has got another. He’s got the bugger’s arm firmly up his back. Good for him! Now perhaps we’ll be left in peace.’
Fraser’s hope was fulfilled, and the shooting continued uninterrupted until twelve thirty, when a couple of Land Rovers could be seen bumping and rolling up the track from the direction of the village. They stopped at a bothy, a small, stone-built refuge some way behind the grouse butts.
‘Ah, that’s lunch, everyone!’ announced Fraser and, as shoot captain, he blew on a horn to indicate the end of the morning’s session. They all made their way to the bothy where the provisions were being unloaded. As they discussed their successes or otherwise they were served glasses of champagne and fed hot asparagus soup, followed by a range of luxury canapés, sandwiches, pies and desserts. The food had all been prepared by staff at the Dog and Gun in Niddersgill, the local inn and restaurant where the shooters were staying. A sumptuous dinner would be served there in the evening.
After he had eaten, Fraser came out of the bothy to speak to his gamekeeper, Ian Davis. Davis and the beaters were sitting on a wall eating the sandwiches they had brought with them and drinking from flasks of tea.
‘What was all that row about then, Davis?’ Fraser said.
Davis was the son of a local farmer. He was in his late thirties with a young family and had lived in the dale all his life. He hastily swallowed his mouthful of corned-beef sandwich. ‘Nowt to worry about, Mr Fraser, it was just a couple o’ them sabs. We got rid of ’em.’
‘Yes, I saw you,’ Fraser said irascibly. ‘But how did they manage to get there in the first place? Don’t you patrol the area to make sure there’s no one around? One of these days one of them will get shot and no doubt that will be regarded as being our fault. Not that it would bother me in the slightest; they deserve everything they get.’
�
�We did have a look round, Mr Fraser, but it’s such a wide area, like, and they’re crafty, they hide in the heather until the shoot starts and then they stand up with those placard things and get in the way and—’
‘I know what they do, but I’m expecting you to do a better job of preventing it. And also, those beaters were a bit lackadaisical this morning. You need to get them to show a bit more energy and enthusiasm.’
Davis glared sullenly at his boss. ‘Yes, Mr Fraser. It was because those sabs came that we—’
‘No excuses, Davis. Now see to it.’ Fraser turned round and went back into the bothy, leaving his gamekeeper seething with the injustice of this rebuke. Davis kicked a stone against the wall in frustration. The beaters were looking on with a combination of amusement and sympathy. Sandy Fraser was generally known for his arrogance, especially in the way he treated his employees.
‘Right, come on then, you heard him,’ said Davis. ‘Let’s get into position, they’ll be out soon. If you see any more of those sabs, strangle them with the bloody heather.’ This produced some laughter and they all trooped off back to the moor. Privately, Davis was wondering how long he could stand working for that bastard, but as his wife didn’t have a job at the moment and they had two small children, he had no choice but to grin and bear it. But sometimes, he thought as he screwed up his fists, he could just . . .
He shook his head to dispel the violent images that came into his mind.
The afternoon shoot went well and the satisfied party rode back to the village in Range Rovers, followed by an old jeep stuffed with their trophies.
In the village of Niddersgill, local postman David Eastwood made a late delivery of post to the Dog and Gun Inn. He toured the dale in his red postal van and it was always late afternoon when he reached his final locations. He popped into reception, where Rob Owen, who was joint owner with his wife Sheila, was behind the desk looking at the computer screen and rattling away at the keyboard. Rob was tall with black curly hair and a moustache.
‘Afternoon, Rob.’ Eastwood handed over a wodge of letters and the usual junk mail.
‘Afternoon, David,’ replied Rob, not looking up from the screen.
‘Have you got that shooting party in tonight?’
‘We have indeed.’
‘I thought so. You can hear the guns going off from well up the dale. I don’t envy you. They’re not a pleasant crew, are they?’
‘Maybe not, but they bring in good money.’
‘Yep. I’m sure they do, and business is business.’
‘It sure is.’ Owen still didn’t look up from the screen, and Eastwood, realising that he wasn’t going to get a long chat, went off to do a quick round of the village before driving away in the red van in the direction of Pateley Bridge.
Inside the inn, the atmosphere was frenetic. In the kitchen, Sheila Owen was run off her feet. It was the busiest time of year, when shooting parties made large group bookings, ordered food to be taken up on to the moors, and dined together in the evenings, often occupying the large table in the main dining room. They were lucrative business but also very demanding, none more so than those organised by Sandy Fraser. Fraser scrutinised menus and wine lists and nitpicked about everything. His guests were little better, always exclusively men and usually of the worst type: rich, arrogant and misogynistic. She’d had to deal with a number of complaints from waitresses and chambermaids about unwanted attention and physical contact. It was made worse by the fact that Fraser lived locally and he brought in too much money to turn away his business.
It was 5 p.m. Sheila looked around the noisy kitchen at her team, who were working hard preparing the evening’s meal. She sighed and pushed a lock of auburn hair back under her cap. ‘Harry, get a move on with those onions and carrots; the onions very finely diced please, carrots finely sliced too.’
‘OK, Chef,’ replied the young commis chef.
An added pressure was that tonight the members of the shooting party were not choosing from the normal menu but would be eating some of the grouse they’d shot. This meant that a Land Rover had had to rush back from the moors to the inn with some of the dead birds, which then had to be hastily prepared for roasting. Removing all the shot from the carcasses was more difficult than it looked. Sheila was taking responsibility for this meal, while her sous chef, Greg Cooper, attended to the regular menu – which, unfortunately, would have fewer specials tonight due to the extra demands on the kitchen.
‘How are you doing, Greg? Ask Harry to give you a hand when he’s finished preparing for me. He’s quite capable of doing some of those dishes; he must have seen you do them so many times.’
‘I’m OK. I’d rather be doing this than cooking for that shooting party and Fraser.’
‘Yes, it’s a challenge, but you could manage it.’ She was looking down at her preparation surface when she said this and didn’t notice the look of hatred on Cooper’s face when he mentioned Fraser.
Sheila contemplated the dish she was cooking for the twelve people in the shooting party: roast grouse with sauce Albert, puréed sweet potato, and braised savoy cabbage with bacon. The key was a good sauce: smooth and creamy, with the mustard and horseradish flavours not as strong as they might be for beef. The cabbage and sweet potato were being prepared by another commis chef. Blast! She remembered that they were also serving sautéed potatoes. Who was in charge of those?
Then someone called out to her: ‘How’s it going?’
Rob stood by the open kitchen door, hardly daring to come in. He ran the bar and accommodation side of the business, and normally steered well clear of anything to do with food. He knew his wife was under pressure this evening.
‘It’s fine. Just go away,’ replied Sheila, light-heartedly pointing a knife at him.
Rob held up his hands. ‘Wow! OK, I get the picture.’ Laughing, he made a swift retreat from the kitchen and went to the dining area, which was split into a number of separate rooms, the largest to be occupied by the shooting party. They would be sitting down to eat at seven thirty, after their gin and tonics in the bar.
Everything seemed in order. The table was set and included two jeroboams of a red grand cru Burgundy on silver trays. These had been specially ordered in by Sandy Fraser at considerable expense. Rob shared his wife’s ambivalence about Fraser’s shooting parties. They were not the easiest people to deal with, but they were a source of revenue that the Owens didn’t want to lose, especially at this time of year when the high-summer tourist season was over and the main restaurant was not as busy as Rob would have liked. He went round the table, tweaking the cutlery and glasses. It was difficult not to share his wife’s nervousness before an evening like this.
Sandy Fraser returned to his manor house when the party arrived back in the village. He walked up the stone-flagged path, which was flanked with cottage-garden plants, to the solid wooden door, overhung with a now rather tired-looking late climbing rose. His wife Miriam called out from the sitting room, which overlooked a substantial garden to the rear: ‘How was it, darling?’
Fraser went to join his wife, who was sitting in an armchair facing the garden and reading a book. ‘Fine, apart from those bloody saboteur people. They had another go at disrupting things; damn nuisance, they never give up.’
‘Can’t the police do anything?’
‘Too lily-livered; they’re afraid of being taken to court if they use any strong-arm tactics.’
‘Well, don’t you do anything. You know what happened last time.’
‘That wasn’t my fault. The chap had a weak heart; he shouldn’t have been up there.’
‘I know but . . . Anyway, would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Thanks, but I haven’t really got time. I need a shower and then I must get back to the inn for a drink or two before dinner.’
With that, he went upstairs, leaving his wife to contemplate another evening alone as the late-afternoon sun slanted in through the window.
At six thirty the shooting party were
starting to gather in the bar, where there was a tab for their drinks. They occupied a number of bar tables, and one of the staff brought their drinks over. Fraser insisted on black-tie dress for these dinners, while he himself always appeared in a kilt of the Fraser tartan. This was an affectation, as his family had had no connection with Scotland for hundreds of years, although he had been to boarding school there.
At the bar itself, a number of the locals were gathered, drinking pints of beer and lager. Alan Green, sitting on a bar stool, wiped beer from his brown moustache. His red face reflected his outdoor life – he was a gardener and odd-job man. Next to him on stools were Peter Gorton, a burly character who ran the local shop and newsagent, and Wilf Bramley, a farmer in his sixties wearing a battered tweed jacket and grubby corduroy trousers. He was the sole farming tenant of Sandy Fraser, who owned the land on which Wilf’s farm stood.
They were joined by Ian Davis, the gamekeeper, who came in looking exhausted.
‘Evening, Ian,’ said Gorton. ‘You look well and truly buggered.’
‘So would you if you’d been out wi’ that lot,’ replied Davis, glancing over to the shooting party and frowning. ‘I’d forgotten they’d be in here. I’ve had enough o’ them for one day.’
‘Not to worry,’ continued Gorton. ‘Ignore them, they’ll be going in for their posh meal soon. What’re you having to drink?’
‘Oh, cheers. Pint of bitter, please.’
Gorton turned to the bar and attracted the attention of a young woman with long blonde hair, tied back.
‘Kirsty, pint of bitter for Ian, please. Do you fancy another, Alan? Wilf?’
‘Aye. Cheers, Peter.’
‘Aye, go on then, ta,’ said Bramley, as he and Green finished their pints. Green’s accent was north-eastern and he sometimes got teased and called ‘the Geordie lad’.
‘Coming up!’ Kirsty grinned at the group as she pulled the pints.
Davis took a drink from his glass and glared again at the shooters, who were involved in increasingly loud banter with each other and oblivious to the people at the bar.
