Malice On The Moors (14 page)

Her face flushed. “You mean you thought they might spill their guts to someone with more authority, or perhaps someone with a little more experience!”

“It never hurts to try a different tack,” Powell said patiently. “As it turns out, you did the groundwork and I simply built on it.”

“What did you find out?” she asked grudgingly, curiosity getting the better of her.

“About a week before Dinsdale's death, somebody broke into the shed where Settle keeps the pesticides that are used on the estate. According to Sir Reggie, some of these chemicals are deadly and very difficult to detect.”

“Sir Reggie?”

“I called him this afternoon to give him the scoop. I'm trying to convince him to come up. He's mulling it over, but he wants to talk to Dr. Harvey first.”

Sarah knew Sir Reginald Quick only by reputation. The Home Office pathologist was widely regarded as an eccentric and formidable genius who did not suffer fools gladly. She had heard through the grapevine that he could make life hell for anyone who had the misfortune to find his or her way into his bad books. And, to his credit, he didn't discriminate in this respect between the brass and the rank and file. She had to admit to herself that she had mixed feelings about the prospect of finally meeting him.

“The situation is basically this,” Powell was saying.

“Viewed objectively, the circumstantial evidence suggests that Dinsdale died as a result of being bitten by an adder. This, despite the fact such fatalities are extremely rare and generally only occur if there is an underlying medical condition. We know that Dickie Dinsdale was an asthmatic and suffered from allergies. The bottom line is that the coroner was not convinced either way, which is where we came in.” He paused to drain his pint before continuing his analysis. “Don't hesitate to jump in, by the way. Now, the way I see it, the break-in opens up a whole new universe of possibilities. According to Sir Reggie, some of the chemicals in the Settles' storage shed could affect the nervous system in a way that's very similar to snake venom. Interesting, don't you think?”

Sarah looked puzzled. “I'm not sure I follow you. Let's say he
was
poisoned. Isn't it one hell of a coincidence that he got bitten by a snake as well?”

Powell took a drag on his cigarette. “Or supreme bad luck.”

“It seems a bit farfetched,” she said doubtfully.

Powell looked preoccupied.

“What is it?”

He shook his head irritably. “I don't know. I can't seem to think straight. In any case, we need to consider the possibility. I've been through the list of Dinsdale's personal effects retained by the police as part of the initial investigation. It includes one sterling hip flask. I'll make arrangements with Dr. Harvey to have the contents analyzed straight away. He and Sir Reggie should be able to sort out what to look for. And I'd be interested to know what was on the menu at the shooting box that day.”

Sarah nodded. “I'll ask Mrs. Settle.”

Powell reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a folded piece of paper. He handed it to her. “I'd like you to check this out.”

“What is it?” she asked, unfolding the paper.

“A list of the beaters that were out on the moor that afternoon.”

She read the eight names. “It's hardly likely that someone standing in the fog a quarter mile away from Dinsdale's butt would've seen or heard anything,” she protested.

He looked at her. “Assuming that's where they all were at the time.” He realized that the task he had given her would no doubt be a rote and uninteresting one, but it had to be done. Rank does have its privileges.

Sarah sighed. What a girl had to do to get ahead. “I'll get you another pint,” she said.

“Only if you join me.”

“I didn't realize that one drank so much in the field.”

“Standard procedure, Evans.”

She smiled in spite of herself, got up, and went into the pub.

Powell lit a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully.

A few minutes later Sarah rushed back onto the terrace, sans drinks, brandishing a newspaper. Her eyes were wide with excitement. “Look at this!” she said breathlessly. She placed the latest edition of the
Ryedale Times
on the table in front of him. The headline read:

NORTH YORK MOORS WATER SCHEME EXPOSED. He quickly skimmed through the story.

The
Rydale Times
has learned that prior to his death on September 13, Richard Dinsdale, son of the ailing
supermarket magnate Ronald Dinsdale, had been in secret negotiations with the Hull Water Corporation in connection with a proposed scheme to flood the scenic valley of Brackendale in the North York Moors National Park. The allegation was made by Michael Mac-farlane, the noted environmental activist. Macfarlane, better known as Stumpy, has conducted numerous protests around the country, including an attempt to sabotage a grouse shoot on the Dinsdales' estate in August of this year.

According to Mr. Macfarlane, the water project would involve the construction of a dam on the River Merlin near the village of Brackendale. The resulting reservoir would flood the village and the upper portion of the dale in order to provide drinking water for the City of Hull. The area in question is part of the Blackamoor estate, owned by the Dinsdale family.

A spokesperson for the National Park Authority said she was unaware of the scheme, whilst Mr. Clive Hancock, Senior Engineer for the City of Hull, refused to either confirm or deny Mr. Macfarlane's allegation. Mrs. Marjorie Dinsdale, the late Richard Dinsdale's stepmother, was unavailable for comment at press time.

Another of Dickie's progressive ideas? Powell wondered. He looked up from the newspaper.

“This rather widens the field, doesn't it?” Sarah observed neutrally.

Powell pulled a face. “It never rains but it bloody pours.”

The next morning, Powell paid a visit to Blackamoor Hall. Once again he was ushered into the study by the skittish Francesca.

Marjorie Dinsdale rose to greet him. “Chief Superintendent, this is an unexpected pleasure,” she said, sounding not the least bit pleased.

“I won't beat about the bush, Mrs. Dinsdale. I imagine you've seen yesterday's paper.”

She smiled unconvincingly. “Oh, that! That's old news, Chief Superintendent. Just another one of Dickie's brainstorms.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

“Like I told you before, Dickie didn't have a clue about what it takes to run an estate like Blackamoor. Instead of concentrating on doing the basic things properly— modernizing farming methods, improving moorland management, and so on—he was always cooking up some harebrained scheme to make a killing. Dickie was a great one for the quick fix, Chief Superintendent. The Hull water scheme was just the latest in a long line of nonstarters.”

Powell was skeptical. “Based on the newspaper article, one gets the impression it had gone beyond being just a twinkle in his eye.”

Her face tightened. “He broached the idea with me, and I made it clear to him that I was unalterably opposed to it. He had power of attorney over Ronnie's affairs, so he could basically negotiate with whomever he wished. However, I would never have tolerated such a scheme. There is Ronnie's legacy to consider, not to mention the well-being of the tenants. It's a matter of preserving a
way of life, Chief Superintendent. I would have taken Dickie to court to stop him, if it had come to that.”

Mrs. Dinsdale had raised an interesting point, which Powell filed away to follow up on later. “I'm wondering what exactly your stepson had in mind, Mrs. Dinsdale. How would putting half the estate under water benefit the family?”

She laughed harshly. “He didn't care about his family. Only his own self-interest.” (As she became more agitated, Powell noticed that a definite Cockney flavor had infiltrated her voice.) “He saw the potential for a resort—waterskiing, sailing, fishing, wet bikes roaring about, you get the general idea. He planned to sell the land to the Hull Water Corporation then lease back the rights to develop recreational facilities on the lakeshore. Then he'd turn Blackamoor Hall into a sort of luxury resort hotel. It would have killed poor Ronnie.” She looked at Powell impassively. “I wouldn't have allowed that to happen.”

“Do you know if anybody else was aware of the scheme?” he asked.

She shrugged. “My daughter, Felicity, knew about it. I have no idea who else Dickie may have told.”

Powell formulated his next statement carefully. “I regret to have to tell you that we now believe foul play may have been involved in your stepson's death.” He paused to let this sink in, but curiously enough, Mrs. Dinsdale showed no reaction. “I want you to think about this very carefully: Can you think of anyone, anyone at all, who might have benefited from his death?”

“Do you have an hour?” she asked.

“If that's what it takes.”

She sighed impatiently. “Let's understand each other, Chief Superintendent. I didn't like Dickie much, and I think the same could be said for ninety percent of the residents of Brackendale. Whether anybody disliked him enough to kill him is a question that you are going to have to answer for yourself.”

Powell abruptly got to his feet. “Thank you, Mrs. Dins-dale. You've been most forthright. Don't bother, I'll see myself out.”

Forthright or calculating? he wondered as he walked to his car. One thing
was
clear, however: Marjorie Dins-dale was not a woman to trifle with. His train of thought was interrupted by the faint
tok… tok… tok
of a tennis ball being volleyed. Curiosity got the better of him and he wandered round the side of the house in the direction of the sound.

On a clay court enclosed on two sides by the gritstone facade of the house and an abutting brick wall at the far end, a dark-haired young woman was hitting a tennis ball against the end wall. She was wearing white shorts and sneakers and a skimpy floral top that exposed her midriff. The near end of the court and the side opposite the house were enclosed by a chain-link fence, with a gate in the middle of the long side. Powell walked up to the gate. “Hello there!” he called out.

The woman turned and looked at him. She did not seem particularly surprised at having her practice interrupted. She walked languidly over to where he was standing on the other side of the gate. “Hi, I'm Felicity,” she said brightly, tossing her long hair behind her. “And I already know who you are. I was wondering when you'd look me up.”

Felicity Jamieson was a stunning young woman, whose sporting attire left little to the imagination, but, to his credit, Powell did his best to keep his mind on task. His attention, however, was drawn inexorably to her pierced navel with its silver stud and, despite his best intentions, he couldn't help wondering how far her penchant for body piercing extended. “Er, may I have a word?” he asked.

She smiled. “I'd love to.” She unlatched the gate and swung it open. There was a wooden bench set along the inside of the fence. She sat down and invited Powell to do the same. She crossed her long legs and waited, gazing at him with cool blue eyes.

“You sounded as if you were expecting me, Ms. Dinsdale.”

“I'll never forgive you if you don't call me Felicity,” she said.

Powell smiled. “All right, Felicity. But you haven't answered my question.”

“I figured you'd want to talk to me about my dear departed stepbrother.”

Touching. “Why don't you tell me all about him, then?”

“Wouldn't you rather winkle it out of me, Chief Superintendent?” she asked archly.

Powell was mildly perplexed by the young woman— leaning as he did towards the Darwinian side of the nature-nurture argument—since Felicity seemed so unlike her mother, as different as Dickie and his father were from all accounts. A diversionary tactic appeared to be in order. “Tell me something, Felicity. How does a
London girl like you come to be living in the North York Moors?”

She shook her head wonderingly. “I ask myself that question every day,” she said. “Mummy used to work as a legal secretary for Ronnie's solicitor in London. Bloke named Newbury. Ronnie came in one day and one thing led to another, you might say. The next thing I knew, I found myself in this drafty old pile in the middle of nowhere. I was sixteen at the time—if I'd known better, I wouldn't have come.”

“There are worse things than living in the country,” Powell observed dryly.

“Yeah, well, the club scene sort of sucks,” she replied, without a hint of sarcasm.

“Why do you stay then?”

She appeared to ponder this for a moment. “You can get used to anything, I suppose. And there's less competition for blokes.”

“I understand that Dickie had plans to liven the place up.”

“Oh, the resort thing. Dickie always had big plans. I never paid much attention to him.” She was beginning to look bored.

“Do you know if anyone outside the family knew about his latest project?”

She shrugged lightly. “I dunno.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“I can't remember.” She idly twisted a strand of hair round and round her finger.

Powell sighed inwardly. “Is there anything else you'd care to tell me, Felicity?”