by Gwen Moffat
‘I don’t know how many victims there are. I know about it because Zeke Rumney had one.’
There was a pause as Lucy considered this. ‘And what was he accused of?’
‘You’ve got two anonymous letter writers in the dale—’
‘What!’
‘Rumney’s letter said that Peta was getting anonymous letters.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s quite simple. One of the victims of the first writer wants the criminal exposed without exposing herself—or himself.’
‘That’s logical. Why did you come to me?’
‘It could have been you who wrote to Rumney. You’re a likely victim. Your way of life could upset, say, someone with a Puritan mind and then, if they were after money—’ Miss Pink shrugged. It was a compliment to one who was well-favoured financially.
‘No money was asked for,’ Lucy repeated dully. She looked round the room and nodded slowly. ‘It’s all based on jealousy, isn’t it? And I suppose, to that kind of mind, I do seem to flaunt my—advantages.’ She looked at her rings which she wore even now, in the morning. ‘I always feel they’re safer on my hands,’ she said apologetically, ‘and I suppose I’m vain. . . . I do like the good things of life and if you’ve got a little money and no family, no one at all to leave it to, what do you do? Let it accumulate and watch it lose its value? It won’t be long before I’m fifty, and my looks are starting to go; in five years time I won’t be able to enjoy my money, and I’m so happy in London at the ballet and the opera and all the latest shows. . . . And I adore clothes and I don’t look too bad in them; naturally I buy the best—but really, it’s only my party things that are expensive. As for entertaining, plenty of people in our position eat out once a week; I can do a better meal at home on half the money. Oh, granted my friends are hard on my drinks but, so what? I give a party—I don’t mean last night, that was just drinks—and I like to serve champagne—a few bottles anyway. Why not? I suppose that’s thought vulgar in Sandale, but I notice no one’s backward at drinking it.’ Her eyes clouded. ‘I wonder if some bastard was drinking my champagne that night and planning that letter at the same time?’
‘What night was that?’
‘My last party, in September; the time Peta got drunk and made an exhibition of herself.’ She grimaced. ‘She could have written the letters,’ she said lightly, ‘even the one to herself. It could account for the murder, couldn’t it?’
Chapter Nine
George Harper was holding a fish slice when he opened his door, and the appearance of domesticity suited him.
‘Were you preparing your lunch?’ Miss Pink asked mildly, in no more mind for obstruction than she had been with Lucy.
‘No, not at all. Won’t you come in?’ He stood back and she stepped straight into his living room. It was raining quite hard now, and the day had darkened, but Harper had his light on and a good fire going on the open hearth. It was a single-storey cottage, modernised, but with a view to only temporary use. There was a lot of shabby chintz and a smell of paraffin. Deal bookshelves held a collection of tired paperbacks and on the window-sill was the usual holiday trove of rams’ skulls, bits of rock and driftwood. Harper seemed to have put no mark on the place.
‘I came to ask you about your barn,’ she ventured.
‘The barn?’
‘The building next door; it does belong to the Daltons, doesn’t it?’
‘Oh, the barn! Yes, I keep my car in it.’
‘Rumney said the Daltons might be willing to sell, and I understand there’s planning permission.’
‘What’s that?’
‘To be converted into a house.’
‘That would take some doing, wouldn’t it? Why don’t you offer to buy this place?’
‘I didn’t know it was for sale.’
‘I don’t know that it is, but if you want to buy a house it would save you a bomb if you bought one ready-made instead of trying to make a house out of that barn. There’s nothing inside: just rotting floors.’
Miss Pink looked anxious. ‘Would this cottage be worth buying in your opinion?’
‘That depends what they’d want for it but it’s got everything; you’d never think it from the outside, would you? There’s a bath and toilet, electricity, a telephone. . . . Look, I’ll show you.’
He was like a proud housewife and she accompanied him through all three of the very ordinary rooms producing murmurs of admiration as he exhibited their innocuous features. The bathroom held nothing other than the usual three-piece suite except for soap and a towel but, ‘Panelled’, he said of the bath, drawing her attention to some bulging black hardboard. She expressed astonishment. In the bedroom hardboard had been used again for a scalloped pelmet above draped curtains in pink nylon net. ‘A lady’s room, really,’ he told her, looking embarrassed, ‘Caroline said it was a joke.’ The bedclothes had been roughly pulled up under a white candlewick spread. The wardrobe door was closed and there were two suit-cases on its top. There was no dressing table but a small green chest of drawers which bore a grubby comb, a shaving mirror and a crumpled handkerchief which he crammed in his pocket.
‘There’s not a lot of room,’ she remarked dubiously, returning to the fire.
‘You can put people up in here; this settee opens out to a double bed. Caroline slept on it and she said it was very comfortable.’
‘Ah yes, Caroline; where is she?’
‘She left after breakfast: to go back to town.’ He looked sad. ‘She’s all I’ve got; her mother died when she was five and we only had the one.’ He patted a cushion absently. ‘Seems a long time ago now.’ His lips stretched in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘You’ve got to go on, haven’t you? And I had Caroline; she’s a good girl.’
‘And so beautiful,’ Miss Pink said warmly.
‘Everyone says that. It makes me very proud.’
‘Young Jackson Wren was bowled over like a rabbit.’
He shook his head vehemently. ‘He’d be no good for her, that fellow; no character, nothing, not the right sort for my girl at all.’
‘I don’t think she was so attracted by the man as by the fact that he’s a climber. It’s the glamour—’
‘Oh no. No. I wasn’t having that.’ He saw she was amused. ‘I know all you people climb mountains and think nothing to it but you’re experts; but my girl; it was another world to her—’
‘That’s the attraction,’ she murmured.
‘—and far too dangerous. Why, you’ve only got to look at her! She’s not built for any rough stuff. I wasn’t having her going up no rocks. . . . I’ve seen them, you know, I’m not ignorant—’ he glared at her in his sincerity, ‘I seen them on the telly; I’m not talking out the back of me neck. She agreed with me. I said, “You’ve got these pictures to pose for on Monday,” I said. “How’s it going to look if you’re all over cuts and bruises?” I said. “You can’t model nothink like that, my girl.” Of course, I didn’t give a damn about the modelling, did I? It was the danger I was thinking of, but when I said “bruises” that did it.’ He chuckled and nodded in remembered triumph, then sobered. ‘Only child, you see; you know how it is?’
Miss Pink said placatingly, ‘In any case, he wasn’t really a suitable person for her.’
‘I’ve got no time for him,’ he agreed firmly, then, almost unwillingly: ‘Someone broke in here last night, when we was across at Mrs Fell’s—’
‘No!’
‘Through the pantry window.’ He opened the door to a cubby hole he hadn’t shown her until now. Sure enough, there was no glass in a tiny window pane.
‘Put his hand in and undid the latch,’ he explained.
‘Was anything stolen?’
‘No; there was nothing to steal.’
‘What about Caroline’s things?’
‘He was after money—and it wasn’t the first time. It was Wren, of course; he’s been hanging around the place ever since I came. If I didn’t see him, I heard him
in the woods; people make more noise than sheep.’
‘What makes you so sure it’s Wren?’
He shot a glance at her. ‘I did think it was campers at first; that was back in September when someone tried to force the door and I changed all the locks. Then a week ago I caught Wren up here in the dark. I didn’t like that. He said he was coming back from a walk but I’d seen him across at Coneygarth just before dusk. Then there was last night.’ He smiled at her but not pleasantly. ‘So it wasn’t just because I think climbing’s dangerous that I didn’t want my girl to have anything to do with him.’
‘I see. It would have been a terrible day for climbing anyway; she’d have got soaked. In fact, the best way to put people off for ever is to send them out on a day like this.’
‘You don’t say.’ He stood at the window and looked up the dale where the headwall was hidden by rain drifting towards them. ‘She’ll be halfway to London now,’ he remarked wistfully.
‘You should report that broken window to the police.’
He shrugged. ‘He won’t come again: now he knows there’s nothing here.’
*
Miles Mossop was a very different kettle of fish from Harper. Rumney had told her that on a wet Saturday she’d find few customers in the hotel bar so she snatched a bite of bread and cheese at Sandale House, then, clad in waterproofs and carrying a rucksack, she took the squelchy path across the green again. There was no change at Coneygarth, the windows still tightly closed and no smoke rising from its chimneys.
She traversed the fellside through the dripping trees and, arriving behind Storms, slithered down the slope to its depressing backyard, trying to make allowances for the fact that anywhere must look miserable in this weather and that empty crates and dustbins must go somewhere.
She prowled round the building, peering in windows at dim interiors and plastic-covered chairs. In one room, light at the back illumined shelves of bottles. She struggled out of her over-trousers and cagoule in the porch, draped them across her rucksack and stepped into the hall. As she hesitated, a fat man appeared and regarded her sourly.
‘Good afternoon.’ She was pleasant but firm. ‘Would you like me to remove my boots?’
‘We don’t have a climbers’ bar.’
‘Are you objecting to my footwear or my person? The boots are easily removed.’
‘I’ll serve you with drink.’ It was projected as an insult. He could be thinking of the rule about publicans refusing drinks at their discretion but, if so, he didn’t invoke it.
She put her boots outside and walked across the hall in her stockinged feet: the picture of an elderly spinster panting for a drink. She trusted that Mossop would fail to recognise a healthy glow and would put her down as a near-alcoholic.
The bar was empty. ‘My name is Pink,’ she announced, eyeing a high stool with a cigarette burn in the cushion and rejecting it. He grunted. ‘Are you the proprietor?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’m staying at Sandale House.’
‘And what d’you want here?’
Her glance ranged the shelves and she remembered tardily that she was a walker rained off the hill.
‘Vodka and green ginger. And what will you have?’
He was an opportunist. ‘I’ll have a drop o’ Scotch.’ He served the drinks in silence while she observed the room. When Storms had been a private residence this would have been the drawing room; it looked across the gravel sweep to a wet stone parapet and the tops of trees. The ground fell away very steeply to the road. The view would be the best part of the place now. Inside there were shiny brown armchairs, formica tables and enough Birmingham brass to stock a souvenir shop. A small stick-like object hung on a string above the counter.
‘Sixty pence.’
‘Your very good health.’
‘Cheers.’
‘What a dismal day!’
‘You’ve got to expect it at t’back-end in Lakeland. You don’t pick a good time for a holiday.’
‘Actually I’m looking for a cottage to buy.’
‘There’s none in Sandale.’
‘I would have no objection to renting on a long lease.’
‘There’s plenty of summer places below the Throat but they’re only empty in t’winter. Folks let ’em for forty, fifty pun in t’season.’
‘That’s out of the question.’
‘Ay, well. . . .’
‘I wanted a place in Sandale; I knew it many years ago, but it’s changed.’
‘Lots of people about in the summer.’
‘It’s changed in the winter as well. People used to be so neighbourly in these remote dales; everyone was ready to lend a hand when it was needed, all so friendly . . . but now, I don’t know . . . these anonymous letters going round; I’d find it very unsettling.’
He glowered. ‘What—anonymous—letters?’
‘Yes; it’s not a thing you like people to know about, is it? Are you a victim as well?’
The glower was replaced by astonishment. ‘Is Rumney getting letters?’
‘Oh, he and others. Each person thinks he’s the only one receiving them, and yet—how many are there? Four, five, a dozen?’
‘How do you know?’
‘People talk.’
‘Who you been talking to? Who’s had them?’
‘I don’t think it would be ethical to—’
He slammed the counter with his fist. ‘I’m asking you! Who’s been getting ’em?’
‘Control yourself, man. You’re in no position to lose your temper with a customer, nor with anyone else—’
He was suddenly wary. ‘You can’t be from the police—’ He surveyed her clothing in confusion but wouldn’t meet her eyes, ‘That’s mad. What are you then? You’re not looking for a cottage; what d’you know about it? You’re a stranger.’
Miss Pink regarded him sternly. ‘My interest is in who’s sending them, not in who’s receiving them. Wouldn’t you want to know the identity of the sender?’ Her voice dropped. ‘Or do you know?’
He hesitated. ‘I had a phone call,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Just one. I took no notice and I didn’t get any more.’
‘Blackmail?’
He licked his lips. ‘Yes.’ It was drawn out; he was trying to think as he spoke and finding it difficult. ‘He said as I was serving drinks after hours and said the police would get a phone call unless I left some money. To leave it outside t’back door, he said.’
‘And did you?’
He grinned nastily. ‘Like hell! I’m no easy touch. Besides, I don’t serve drinks after hours.’
‘Did you recognise the voice?’
‘He were a southerner. I didn’t know who it was.’ Again that grin. ‘He wouldn’t be very fit if I had known, not now, he wouldn’t.’ She sipped her drink and he went on, his tone noticeably milder, ‘You get these outbreaks in country districts: some old woman living alone thinks she can make some easy money on the side.’
‘You said your caller was a man.’
‘When did you have this phone call?’
‘Well, some fellows are like old women, aren’t they?’
He shrugged. ‘October some time.’
‘Just the one, or have you had any since?’
He looked away. ‘Just the one.’
‘Did you have a letter?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know anyone who was getting them?’ She regarded him intently and he returned the stare without belligerence, considering his reply. ‘No one said anything to me. The wife was supposed to be getting phone calls but if she was, she said nothing to me about them.’
There was a stamping of feet outside the entrance and men’s voices. He glanced at the clock. People crowded into the hall. He went out of the door behind the bar shouting, ‘You can’t come in here without you take your boots off. . . .’
She reached up and took down the wooden object that hung above the counter. The string was a leather thong threaded through a hole at one e
nd. It was about seven inches long and rounded, tapering from its head to the thong end and surprisingly heavy; weighted with lead, she guessed. She hefted it; it must be a weapon of some kind. A cosh? She licked her handkerchief and rubbed the head. The voices approached and she replaced it quickly. Walkers entered, loudly disputing who should buy the first round. Mossop appeared, she retreated from the counter and slipped away.
As she finished lacing her boots in the porch, the hall door opened and he asked roughly: ‘Are you from the police?’
‘How could I be?’
‘Look,’ he said tensely, ‘I don’t know who you are, or what you want but I know that people use private detectives—if they don’t want the police poking their noses into their business—’ he added nastily, ‘—but I’m telling you straight: the police had me at the station for two days and they can’t pin a thing on me because I’m clean, see? I’m not saying as I were always good to her nor as I wouldn’t do murder if I found the one as did it, but I didn’t do it! Got that?’
‘I know you didn’t,’ Miss Pink said.
‘Well, just remember it.’
*
Going down the drive she wondered how soon it would occur to him to question how she knew; he was remarkably stupid if he’d never considered that the weapon which killed his wife might be in his own hotel—or was he? She looked at the dark stain on her handkerchief where she’d rubbed the head of that strange little weapon. The police had missed it too. Could it be that, suspecting Mossop, they never dreamed that the weapon could be hanging in the bar for everyone to see, because, if Mossop had done it, he’d have disposed of it? And if Mossop had been the killer, he’d have wiped away the blood. She stopped, heedless of drops falling on her hood from the trees. Did this mean that Peta was killed at Storms, killed in the bar while her husband slept upstairs?
It wasn’t impulse that made her leave Storms’ drive and strike through its grounds, but the thought that Sarah Noble was an alcoholic. The Nobles were an unknown quantity; there was Denis with the elegant mistress living a mile away, and his wife who was—what? Old, plain, unmoved that her husband spent Friday nights regularly in someone else’s bed? And Peta had been Noble’s mistress too, for a while.
