Malice On The Moors (7 page)

“Dead?”

“Dinsdale's gamekeeper blew its head off.”

“Did you attend the scene yourself?”

“No. I was brought in after the fact by the coroner. I'm retired, Chief Superintendent. Used to teach pathology at the University of Leeds. But I still like to keep my hand in.”

Powell frowned distractedly. “I'm just wondering how someone could get bitten on the hand? I can see how one might step on a snake …”

Harvey shrugged. “Who knows? Strange things happen sometimes. However, you're quite right. The majority of snakebites occur on the foot or lower leg.”

“Do you know exactly how it's supposed to have happened?”

Harvey rubbed the top of his head, as if he were trying to stimulate some cranial activity. “Dinsdale was grouse shooting on his estate at the time. A heavy fog set in and the party was up on the moor waiting for conditions to improve. One of Dinsdale's gamekeepers was doing the rounds, checking up on the guns, when he thought he heard a strange sound coming from his employer's shooting butt. By the time he got there, Dinsdale was in pretty rough shape, apparently. The gamekeeper spotted the snake and shot it. That's about it. Dinsdale died a short time later of cardiorespiratory arrest en route to hospital.”

“You mentioned before that fatalities in such cases are uncommon. Would you care to elaborate?”

“Adder bites can be potentially fatal for persons with
heart conditions or severe allergies, but such instances are exceedingly rare.”

“Did Dinsdale suffer from either of these conditions?”

“There was no indication of cardiac disease. There was, however, some pathology of the lungs, which is suggestive.”

“How so?”

“The lungs appeared to be overexpanded and there was some edema present. Microscopic examination of the tissue revealed bronchial abnormalities characteristic of chronic asthma. And as you may know, asthmatics are often prone to various allergies.”

“What does the venom actually do to the system?”

“It basically has two modes of action. Firstly, there is a hemorrhagic effect—that is, it causes the red blood cells to break down, which can lead to an impairment of kidney function due to the accumulation of hemoglobin.”

Powell noticed with some relief that Sarah Evans was scribbling madly.

“Secondly,” Dr. Harvey continued, “the toxin has a depressant action on the central nervous system.”

“What are the symptoms?”

“In addition to localized pain and swelling? Nausea and vomiting, disturbed vision, labored breathing. In extreme cases, breathing can stop altogether.”

“Do you think Dinsdale's asthma could have been a factor?”

Harvey shrugged. “It's possible.”

“You don't sound entirely convinced,” Powell observed.

The pathologist looked at Powell. “I'm not,” he said, in a careful voice. “And that is why I stated my opinion at the inquest that the cause of death remains unknown.”

Powell nodded. “I assume you conducted the usual blood tests?”

“We ran a routine drug screen. His blood alcohol level was high enough to render him intoxicated at the time of his death.”

“Is that relevant?”

“Well, alcohol is another depressant, so it could have been a contributing factor but probably not a significant one.”

At that moment there was a great commotion of barking and scrabbling feet outside the door, and they heard a woman's voice call out cheerily, “Walkies, babies, walkies!”

“Would you care for a cup of tea?” Dr. Harvey asked hopefully.

Powell smiled and rose from the settee. “Another time, perhaps. I do appreciate your help, Dr. Harvey. If you happen to think of anything else, you can reach us in Brackendale.” He handed Harvey one of the business cards he had picked up at the inn.

There was the faint sound of a door slamming and then golden silence. Dr. Harvey sighed. “I'll see you out.”

Outside, Sergeant Evans looked disappointed. “I'm dying for a cup of tea,” she said.

CHAPTER 5

Marjorie Dinsdale hung up the telephone and looked at her daughter, Felicity. “That was Jim Braughton,” she said.

“What did he want?' Felicity, brushing her long hair, was sitting with her feet up in a large Queen Anne chair. She sounded bored.

Her mother frowned. “He said they've brought up a detective from London to look into Dickie's death.”

“So?”

“Pour me a sherry, would you, dear?” She picked up a copy of
Country Life
from the coffee table and began to flip through it.

Felicity groaned. “Where's that bloody Francesca?”

“Felicity!” Her mother's voice was cross now.

“Oh, all right.” The young woman slid out of her chair and slouched over to the low chiffonier that served as the drink cabinet. She filled a glass from a crystal decanter and delivered it to her mother. “Will there be anything else?” she asked resentfully.

Her mother stared at her. “Felicity, I really think you—” She was interrupted by a loud sputtering sound. She turned to look behind her. An elderly man in a wheelchair was gesturing at her in an animated manner from the corner of the room. “What is it, Ronnie?” she asked, a note of concern in her voice.

Felicity yawned.

Marjorie Dinsdale put aside her magazine and hurried over to her husband. She gently stroked his head. “It's all right, Ronnie,” she murmured.

He smiled slack mouthed, drooling slightly, his eyes opaque.

“The poor dear, it's a blessing really,” she said to no one in particular. “He doesn't have a clue about Dickie.”

“That's an understatement,” Felicity rejoined. “If you ask me, I think the little perv got off lucky—he might have ended up like
that.”

Her mother turned to face her. “Get out!” she hissed.

Felicity stared back with cold blue eyes. “Don't get your knickers in a twist, Mother. You got what you wanted, after all.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

Felicity smiled. “I'm going out. Don't bother to wait up.”

“Felicity, I—”

Ronnie Dinsdale began to mutter something as Felicity slipped out the door. “What's that, dear?” his wife asked, startled. It sounded like “bitch.”

The Lion and Hippo was doing a respectable business that night. Powell and Sarah Evans sat at a table in front of the peat fire, which, according to the landlord, had burned continuously for over a hundred years.

“Be honest with me, why
did
I get this assignment?” Sarah asked.

Powell sipped his beer. “That,” he said, “is a long story. Suffice it to say you have friends in high places.”

She looked skeptical. “Really? What about Bill Black? I thought you two always worked together.”

“Let's put it this way, Evans: We drew straws and you lost.”

She smiled. “Oh, I don't know; I tend to view it as an opportunity.”

Powell raised an eyebrow. “Do you now?” He drained his glass and motioned to Robert Walker for another round.

Sarah looked slightly alarmed. “It's getting late, I think perhaps I should turn in—”

“Nonsense, Sergeant, you're in the Murder Squad now.
Dulce est desipere in loco.
“

She regarded him warily. “Pardon?”

Powell smiled innocently. “The evening's just begun— time to relax and reflect on the day's work. It's standard procedure.”

“Standard procedure,” she repeated doubtfully.

Robert Walker arrived at their table with another pint for Powell and a glass of white wine for Sarah.

When they were alone again, they sat without speaking for a few moments. Then out of the blue she blurted, “Would it be all right if I interviewed the gamekeeper who discovered Dinsdale and the adder?”

Powell regarded her speculatively. Inexperienced, but obviously keen, she exuded an air of competence that he found reassuring. And there was something else about her that he was finding increasingly stimulating as the
evening wore on. “Why not?” he said eventually. He reached for his notebook and flipped it open. “I've reviewed the file and made a list of the people we need to talk to.” He ran through the list. “Between the two of us, it shouldn't take long to get through it.”

Sarah could hardly stop grinning. “Right. I better get started on a list of questions for Mick Curtis. I'll see you at breakfast. Eight-thirty all right?”

Before Powell could protest, Sergeant Evans was making a beeline for the door. Feeling slightly cheated, he caught Walker's eye and ordered another pint.

Putting Sarah Evans out of his mind, he began to analyze his initial impressions of the case. Despite Superintendent Cartwright's glowing description of the late Richard Dinsdale, from what limited information he had been able to pick up in the pub, Powell had come to the conclusion that Dickie hadn't exactly been an endearing character. And the manner of his death was curious at the very least, if not actually suspicious. Fantastic might be a better description. He looked again at his notebook. He decided that he would start by having a word with Katie Elger, supposedly the second person to see Dins-dale immediately before his death. He pulled thoughtfully on his beer.

The next morning in the dining room of the Lion and Hippo, a promising blue sky peeking through chintz curtains boded well for the day ahead. Over breakfast, Powell and Sarah divvied up the names on Powell's list amidst solicitous service from the Walkers (he had to resist the impression that they were trying to eavesdrop). Powell was having the full English, which came
complete with a slice of that northern delicacy he tended to regard with a curious mixture of revulsion and relish: black pudding. Sarah, for her part, crunched away with a superior air on a granolalike substance with a Swiss name that sounded like a body secretion. As Mick Curtis lived in Farnmoor and the Elgers up at Dale End Farm, they agreed that it would be best to go their separate ways and meet back at the inn later.

Powell drove the now familiar route to upper Brack-endale and took the turning to Dale End Farm. The morning sunlight, filtering through the alders that lined the stream, warmed his face. The leaves were just beginning to take on the bronze hues of autumn, but the fields beside the road were still lush and green. Ahead, the rocky fell that demarcated the head of the dale was dissected by two deep ravines cut by tumbling gills that nourished the infant Merlin, which at this point was no more than a few feet wide. Perched on the high top, overlooking the dale, was the austere facade of Blackamoor Hall.

He pulled up to a large gritstone farmhouse and a young woman emerged from one of the outbuildings, watching him. He waved.

“Ms. Elger?” he called out.

She walked across the muddy farmyard and stood at the gate. Twentyish with frizzy red hair tied loosely at the back and direct blue eyes, she was wearing a University of York sweatshirt. Powell got out of his car.

“Yes?” she said.

Powell introduced himself. “I was wondering if I might have a word. It's about Richard Dinsdale.”

She sighed. “You'd better come inside.”

Powell followed her to the house, cursing silently as the soft muck oozed up over his shoes. He removed them outside the door.

Katie Elger looked at him with humor in her eyes. “I'll make some tea.”

“Splendid.”

She ushered him into the large flagstone kitchen and sat him down at the table. Sunlight flooded into the room through a window above the washbasin. She opened the window a little then put the kettle on.

“I understand that you live with your father,” Powell began.

“Yes, he's gone into Kirkby. Biscuits?”

“Lovely.” He pulled in his stomach and selected a piece of shortbread. “I couldn't help noticing your shirt—are you a student?”

She nodded ruefully. “I was hoping to take a year off to help my father. He's not getting any younger and well, since Mother died, the farm's been a handful for him. But he wouldn't hear of it.”

“What are you studying?”

“Biology. I'd like to work here as a park naturalist someday. Milk?”

“Thanks.”

She poured the tea.

Powell munched on a chocolate digestive. “What sort of farming do you do?” he asked.

“Hill sheep mostly. We run about fifteen hundred head on two hundred and fifty acres.”

“Your father's a tenant farmer, I take it?”

“Serf would be a better word for it,” she rejoined angrily.

Powell did not reply, hoping for more unsolicited comment.

“Upland farming is a marginal proposition at best,” she explained. “The production of lambs from an upland ewe is about half that from a lowland ewe, as is the gross margin. And that's before you even get started. Then if it's not bracken encroaching into your pastures, it's falling sheep prices. I mean it's hard enough as it is …” She seemed about to say something more but apparently thought better of it.

“How long has your father farmed here, Ms. Elger?”

“Over forty years now.” A hint of pride in her voice.

“His tenure predates Ronnie Dinsdale taking over Blackamoor, then.”

“Old Mr. Dinsdale bought the estate about twenty-five years ago, before I was born. You probably know already that he's the founder of the Dinsdale Supermarket chain…”

He nodded. “I understand he's not well.”

“He has Alzheimer's, I think. Dickie's been running— I mean, Dickie ran the business for the last few years.”

“I've heard that Mr. Dinsdale, senior, is well regarded in the dale.”

“According to some folk around these parts, 'e knew knowt aboot farmin' when 'e first come 'ere—but Dad has always spoken well of him.”

Powell smiled and sipped his tea. Then his expression turned serious. “I'll come directly to the point, Ms. Elger. I understand that you were one of the last persons to see Dickie Dinsdale alive. I'd like you to tell me exactly what happened.”

Katie Elger explained how she had set out from the
shooting box on the day of the farmers' shoot, how she'd gotten lost in the fog, heard the two gunshots, then come across Mick Curtis.

“Tell me exactly what you saw, Ms. Elger.”

“It's Katie, please.”

“Right. Katie.”

“He was just standing there, pointing at Dinsdale, like this.” She gestured with her left arm, her eyes wide and staring. “It was freaky. He looked completely shattered, like he'd just seen a ghost or something.”