Malice On The Moors (20 page)

She averted her eyes and stepped aside.

Felicity was in the sitting room, still in her dressing gown, flipping through a fashion magazine. She looked up as Powell entered the room. “Chief Superintendent, this is a surprise.” She crossed her long legs and smiled. “I must look a fright.”

“I apologize for barging in unannounced like this, but I was wondering if I might ask you a few more questions?”

She affected an expression of mock concern. “It sounds serious. You'd better sit down.”

“Felicity, I have reason to believe that your stepbrother was murdered,” he said solemnly.

There was no visible reaction. “What's it got to do with me?”

How touching. “I'd like to take you back to September thirteenth, the day your stepbrother died,” he began. “As I understand it, the farmers' shoot got going in the morning, but Dickie didn't turn up at the shooting box
until around noon. Do you have any idea where he was?”

She appeared to give the question some thought. “I'm afraid I can't help you,” she said.

A somewhat ambiguous answer, Powell thought. He tried again. “Do you remember seeing him at all that morning?”

“I can hardly remember what happened yesterday, let alone two weeks ago. Now that I think about it, I think he might have gone into the village that morning. Maybe you should ask Mummy?”

“I'll do that. By the way, what do you think of this resort scheme your stepbrother was promoting?”

She shrugged. “At least it would have livened up the bloody place.”

“I see. I won't take up much more of your time, Felicity, but there is one more thing …”

“Yes?”

“I understand that you've been seeing Mick Curtis?”

She looked at him, her blue eyes cool and appraising. “I think that's between me and Mick, don't you?”

Powell didn't answer.

She sighed. “After the protest. Mick started coming round the Hall more and, well, one thing led to another.”

“Did Dickie know about your relationship?”

“You make it sound so serious. Look, Chief Superintendent, Mick is extremely good looking and he amuses me. That's all there is to it.”

He didn't believe her somehow. “Does Mick feel the same way?”

“You'd have to ask him about that.”

“You didn't answer my original question, Felicity. Did Dickie know about you and Mick?”

“Like I told you before, he got off on prying into my personal affairs.”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“Whenever I took my boyfriends up to my room at night, Dickie would listen at the door, and I'd try to catch the little wanker in the act. It was a little game we played.”

“Was Mick involved in this game, as you put it?”

She smiled without humor. “It's not like I told him my perverted stepbrother was going to listen in while we were doing it. Anyway, Dickie must have recognized Mick's voice one night. He was absolutely furious. I think it was the idea of his stepsister being screwed by a member of the working class that bothered him.” She smiled bitterly. “It must have upset his sense of social order. He certainly didn't give a damn about me.”

“Did Dickie say anything to Mick?”

Her sudden laughter struck a harsh note. “Dickie always considered his own interests above everything else. He'd just sacked one head keeper; he couldn't afford to lose another one with the shooting season just starting. But he told me that he was going to get rid of Mick at the end of the season. I tried to reason with him, but it was useless.”

“When did this happen?”

“I can't remember exactly—around the end of August, I think.”

“And Mick didn't know anything about it?”

She shook her head.

“Why didn't you tell him?”

“It would've upset him, wouldn't it? Besides, I still hoped that Dickie would change his mind.”

“Does your mother know about any of this?”

“I don't discuss my love life with my mother, Chief Superintendent. Do you with yours?”

“I'm afraid she'd be bored to tears. Are you and Mick still seeing each other?”

She frowned. “Mick hasn't been himself since Dickie died. It really hit him hard. I think he just needs some time.”

Despite what she'd said previously, it sounded like Mick was more than just her boy toy. What was it that Rashid had said about love that day in the restaurant?

CHAPTER 19

As he drove into the village, his mobile phone began to beep insistently. He fumbled for it in his jacket pocket as he pulled over to the side of the road. “Powell.”

“It's Evans, sir. We just got the results of the blood tests back. We're with Dr. Harvey now.” There was the muffled sound of conversation in the background. She paused as if drawing a deep breath. “Dinsdale died from cyanide poisoning; there's no question about it.”

It seemed almost anticlimactic. “What about the flask?”

“Nothing except whisky.”

“Well, this is it,” Powell said. “Is Reggie handy?”

“Hold on.”

A few seconds later he heard the pathologist grumbling on the other end. “Reggie,” Powell said, “is there any way that sodium cyanide could take as long as two hours, or even longer, to act?”

Sir Reggie launched into a discussion on the factors affecting the rate of decomposition of the sodium salt
into hydrocyanic acid in the stomach. He conceded that it would be somewhat unusual for that amount of time to transpire before a lethal dose of sodium cyanide took effect, but it wasn't impossible.

“So Dinsdale could have been poisoned before he arrived at the shooting box. He got there sometime after twelve and was found in his butt around two-thirty.”

Sir Reggie grunted in a noncommittal fashion. “If he had a full stomach or achlorhydria—”

“What's that?” Powell interrupted.

“An absence of stomach acid secretions. It occurs in about one in twenty normal people without causing symptoms. A reduced concentration of hydrochloric acid in the stomach would tend to retard the release of hydrocyanic acid.”

Powell thought about this for a moment. “What if he'd taken some bicarb?”

“An antacid, taken in large enough quantity, would have a similar effect, although it would only be temporary.”

“Thanks, Reggie. Put Sarah back on again, would you?”

Powell gathered his thoughts for a moment. “Sarah, I'd like you to track down Stumpy's ex-girlfriend, Chloe Aldershot…” He flipped open his notebook and recited the telephone number. “If necessary, run over to York and interview her. I want to know how tight Stumpy's alibi is. I wouldn't be at all surprised if she weren't just a little disappointed in her old comrade.” In answer to her question, he explained about Stumpy and Katie Elger. “I'm heading back to the inn to see if I can raise Mrs. Walker from her sickbed. I'll see you later.” He disconnected abruptly.

He found Robert Walker alone in the pub. The landlord looked up from his newspaper. “Morning, Chief Superintendent. What'll it be?”

“I'd kill for a cup of coffee.”

He smiled. “No problem. I've got a pot on in the kitchen. White or black?”

“White, please.” Walker folded his newspaper and went to fetch it. He returned a few minutes later with a steaming mug of coffee. He produced a bowl of sugar and a spoon from behind the bar and set them in front of Powell. “How's the investigation going?” he asked casually.

“We're making headway,” Powell replied. “As a matter of fact, we've just confirmed this morning that Dickie Dinsdale was poisoned. We think it was a type of rat poison containing sodium cyanide.”

“You mean an accident, like,” Walker said slowly.

Powell stared at him. “Not an accident, Mr. Walker. Cold-blooded murder.”

“Murder? I don't understand.”

“It appears that he was poisoned a short time before being found in his shooting butt.”

“But the adder…”

“If Dinsdale was killed by a snake, Mr. Walker, it was the two-legged variety.”

Walker swallowed hard but said nothing.

“I understand that your wife helped prepare the lunch that day.”

Walker stared blankly at him.

“She provided the dessert for the occasion,” Powell prompted. “A peach crumble, I believe.”

The landlord shrugged stiffly. “She helps her mum out every year.”

“How are Mr. and Mrs. Settle, by the way?”

“All right. We'll be helping them move into their flat in Scarborough on the weekend.”

“I imagine it'll be quite a change for them.”

“You could say that,” Walker said in a flat voice.

“I take it Mrs. Walker is feeling better, then?”

He wiped the bar with a towel. “Still under the weather, I'm afraid. Her migraines often last a week or more.”

“I thought you said she'd be helping you move her parents on the weekend?”

“Well, I meant only if she feels up to it.”

“Would you tell Mrs. Walker I'd like to have a word with her? When she's feeling better.”

“What is it you want to ask her?” he asked. “Maybe I can help?”

Powell sipped his coffee. “It can wait. But there is something you might be able to help me with. I've been informed that Dinsdale was in the village that morning. You didn't happen to see him, did you?”

“What's this all about?” Walker asked, his manner defensive.

“It's strictly routine, Mr. Walker. I'm simply trying to trace his movements in the hours leading up to his death.”

Walker did not respond immediately, as if he were weighing his options. “Yeah, I saw him,” he said eventually.

“Where?”

“Here, at the inn.”

“Do you remember approximately what time it would have been?”

“It was just before opening time, around ten-thirty, I think.”

“Did he just drop in out of the blue?”

“No,” the landlord admitted grudgingly. “I'd called him up the day before. Told him I wanted to talk to him.”

“Go on.”

Walker's face flushed. “About the bloody reservoir. I tried to get him to understand the impact it would have on the lives of everyone who lived in the dale. But the bastard just laughed at me. I shouldn't have expected anything else, I suppose, after the way he'd treated Harry.”

“So you did know about the water scheme at that point.”

He nodded. “There had been rumors flying about ever since that protest on Dinsdale's grouse moor.”

Strategically leaked by Stumpy, Powell had little doubt. “Can you be a bit more specific about the nature of your conversation? “

Walker's expression darkened. “Dindsale stated his view that the only people who might be negatively affected by the sort of 'progress' he envisioned for Brackendale were a few marginal farmers and a handful of small businessmen in the village, like myself. All expendable, as far as he was concerned, with token compensation.”

“I see. Was Mrs. Walker present during your meeting withDinsdale?”

“She was in and out, as I recall. She was getting ready for the farmers' shoot lunch.”

“I heard that she appeared to be upset about something when she was at the shooting box.”

“That's understandable, don't you think?”

“Perhaps. Tell me, Mr. Walker, did you serve Dinsdale a drink when he was here that morning?”

The landlord's eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?”

“Just answer the question,” Powell said, an edge to his voice.

“Yes, I served him a bloody drink.”

“What was it?”

“How do you expect me to remember that?”

“I've got all day.”

Walker sighed. “He liked malt whisky and French wine. It would have been one or the other.” He hesitated. “Look, Chief Superintendent, I'll save you a lot of time and bother. I hated Dickie Dinsdale's guts, but I can assure you that I didn't kill him.”

Powell drained his coffee cup. “I'm happy to hear that, Mr. Walker.”

Powell went up to his room and rang Sarah Evans on her mobile phone. She was on her way to York with Sir Reggie to interview Chloe Aldershot. He arranged to meet her in Kirkbymoorside on her way back. After his little chat with Robert Walker, he wasn't sure that the atmosphere in the Lion and Hippo would be conducive to an evening of relaxed conversation.

Around four o'clock, Sarah called to let him know that she was just coming into Malton. She also informed him that she had put Sir Reggie, who was still in a snit, on a train back to London. When Powell left the inn, one side of the dale was illuminated by the afternoon sun, the other was immersed in deepening shadow. Powell
drove into Kirkbymoorside with his mind in neutral and parked in front of the King's Crown. He decided on a stroll around the Market Place to kill time.

The hotel was located near the top of the High Market Place next door to the house where the second Duke of Buckingham, the notorious George Villiers, supposedly died after a hunting accident in 1687. He strolled past the news agent and the post office, two more historic hotels, and then a row of tidy redbrick semidetached houses with doors and window trim painted bright blue and green and navy. He crossed the road and browsed at the garden center for a few minutes before heading back towards the King's Crown. The Market Place was nearly deserted now, but once a week market stalls line the street, as they have done every Wednesday for six hundred years, and the town bustles with a traditional market. He passed St. Chads and the Methodist church and stopped for a moment to peer in the window of a Chinese restaurant that was sandwiched like a red-and-cream pagoda between two larger buildings.