Malice On The Moors (8 page)

“What did you do then?”

She frowned slightly. “Let's see … I went over to where he—Dickie—was lying. I remember kneeling down beside him. I thought he might need turning over. He was sort of twitching, and he'd been sick all over himself.” She looked at Powell. “It was awful.”

“Can you remember anything else about him?”

She thought for a moment. “I think I could smell alcohol.”

“Had he been drinking during lunch?”

“Yes, he'd had quite a bit of wine.”

“Anything else?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“All right, you're beside him in the butt. What happened next?”

She stared at him, her voice hollow. “I saw something moving a few feet away, writhing on the ground …” She swallowed.

“What was it, Katie?”

She spoke slowly. “A snake—an adder—or what was left of it.”

Powell nodded. “What was Mick Curtis doing all this time?”

“Throwing up.”

“Tell me, Katie—” He was interrupted by the jangle of the telephone.

She got up and answered it, turning her back to him. “Yes,” she murmured. “No, he's gone out. There's someone here. All right.” She rang off and returned to the table and sat down.

Powell drained his teacup. “Just one more thing, Katie. I'd like to know what you thought of him—Dickie Dins-dale, I mean.”

She met his gaze. “Not much, if you must know.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

Her eyes flashed. “The only thing he cared about was himself. He didn't give a damn about anyone or anything else.” She hesitated. “He made it very hard for my father, raising the rent every year. Dale End Farm is my father's whole life—he'd never be happy anywhere else. Don't get me wrong, Mr. Powell. Nobody deserves to die the way Dickie did, but I'm not about to shed any tears for him.”

That seemed to be that. “Thanks, Katie. I can let myself out,” he added, thinking about his shoes.

As he turned onto the West Daleside Road a few minutes later he saw a red van coming down the road from Blackamoor Rigg. Watching in his rearview mirror, he saw it turn into the road to Dale End Farm.

Emma Walker was worried. She sat in her office looking out the window at the pattern of drystone walls that dissected the landscape like a gargantuan spider
web. She held her head in her hands, gently rubbing her temples. She'd felt the unmistakable symptoms of a migraine coming on all morning and there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing she could do about much of anything, come to that. She had started out with the intention of cleaning upstairs but soon realized that she wasn't up to it. She fretted. Now she'd have to hire someone to help with the housekeeping and the meals for a few days. She stared once more at the guest register that lay open on the desk, as if, by simply wishing it, she could erase the last two entries. She sighed and forced herself to move. She needed to talk to Robert while she was still able.

She found him down in the cellar changing over a beer cask. “What are we going to do?” she asked in a monotone.

He stared at her in the gloom. “What are you on about?”

“He's bound to find out about Dad.”

Walker went back to his work. “I wouldn't worry about it. He's got nothing to hide, has he? Besides, that's the least of our worries.”

She closed her eyes. Her head had begun to throb and she felt unsteady on her feet; she knew that soon the pain would be almost unbearable. She'd be unable to leave her darkened room for days, just when they needed her most. “I'll talk to them,” she said quietly.

He turned to watch her as she made her way slowly up the stairs.

CHAPTER 6

Sarah Evans got back to the Lion and Hippo a little after one. Mrs. Walker was nowhere in sight so she went into the pub. Mr. Walker informed her that Mr. Powell had not returned, and would she care for a drink? She checked the time and decided that she might as well grab a bite while she had the chance. She ordered a ploughman's and, after deliberating a moment, a half-pint of Black Sheep best bitter. While Walker was filling her glass, she noticed that there was one other patron. In the corner, an old man in a shapeless cloth cap sat hunched over his pint, staring at her. She smiled at him.

She sat down at a table near the door and, still sensing the eyes of the old man on her, began to pick selfconsciously at her lunch. As a distraction, she thought about her interview that morning with Mick Curtis, the gamekeeper—the
head
keeper, as he had made a point of reminding her more than once. She took a sip of her beer. It had gone well enough, she supposed. Curtis's account of the sequence of events leading up to Dinsdale's
death had added some useful detail to the description given by Dr. Harvey. It seems that Dinsdale had indeed been drinking heavily on the day in question. They'd gone up on the moor after lunch to wait out the fog. There were apparently eight butts on East Moor where the shoot took place. Dinsdale was in the end butt, the one on the Rosedale side of the moor; the next butt was occupied by Curtis, followed by four farmers (whose names had slipped her mind for the moment), and the young son of one of the farmers. Harry Settle, the former head keeper, was stationed in the last butt, or the one nearest Brackendale. Curtis had mentioned in passing that Settle was no longer employed by the estate, and she got a feeling that there was something going on between them. She made a mental note to follow it up.

She glanced at her drinking companion. The old man was still staring at her. “Lovely afternoon,” she remarked loudly.

He grunted something unintelligible and turned his attention to his beer.

Sarah did the same. According to Curtis, fog is an occupational hazard for a gamekeeper. The weather up on the moors can change from one minute to the next, so the usual policy is to sit tight and wait for the fog to lift long enough so you can finish the drive. She imagined that being able to see what you're shooting at would be a bonus. On the day of the farmers' shoot, however, the fog had proven to be thick and persistent. Once settled, the party waited in their shooting butts for about half an hour. As the mist was showing no signs of abating, Curtis had decided to make the rounds to canvas his companions, including Dinsdale.

As Curtis had approached his employer, he could hear agonized groans. He had rushed over and found Dins-dale lying on the ground. As he was about to see what he could do for him, he saw the adder. He told her it was a bit of a blur after that; he remembered shooting the snake, seeing Katie Elger and the others, and then being sick. Sarah shivered. She'd have fainted on the spot! Like Curtis, she had a thing about snakes.

The phone in the office began to ring and Robert Walker left the bar to answer it. Sarah finished her beer, got up, and walked over to the old man's table. “I was wondering if you could help me,” she said brightly.

The man looked at her with bloodshot eyes. “Oh, aye?” he rumbled.

“I'm looking for Harry Settle, the gamekeeper. Do you know where I might find him?”

“Aye.” Silence.

“Where does he live, then?”

“Ah knows who tha' is, lass,” the old man said archly.

Sarah groaned inwardly.”Oh, yes?”

“Past t' garage about a half mile, down by t' beck.”

Was she imagining it, or had he lowered his voice slightly in a conspiratorial manner? Everyone wants to be a cop, she thought. She thanked him, and as she walked out of the bar she decided that she'd better head up to her room to do up her notes before she forgot something important.

The next thing she knew, there was an annoyingly persistent banging in her head. She opened her eyes, unsure for a moment where she was. She was lying on her bed, fully clothed, a molten flood of afternoon sunlight pouring through the bay window. Someone was pounding on
the door. She held her watch in front of her face and blinked blearily. “Good God!” She leapt to her feet and stumbled towards the door. She fumbled with the lock, eventually managing to wrestle the door open.

A smiling Powell, formulating the witty remark.

“Don't say anything,” she warned.

“I've come to invite you to dinner,” he replied innocently. “And I must say you look smashing.”

She grimaced. “I'll be down in twenty minutes.” She shut the door in his face.

The harried-looking landlord was clearing away the traces of the grilled salmon and buttered courgettes from their table. Powell and Sarah Evans were the only customers in the dining room, but Walker had his hands full serving them as well as his patrons in the pub next door. “Missus is under the weather,” he explained hurriedly. “Give me a shout if you need anything else,” he said, as he dashed back into the bar.

Powell raised his glass. “Here's to success.”

“I'll drink to that,” Sarah replied, taking a sip of her wine. Then she leaned back in her chair and sighed contentedly. “That was bloody marvelous.”

“Standard procedure, Sergeant. The detection of crime is a sport of noble minds, and to function at peak efficiency one must properly nourish the little gray cells.”

She smiled crookedly. “If I drink any more wine, I won't have any little gray cells.”

“We'd better get down to work, then,” Powell rejoined. “I've been meaning to ask you how you got on with Curtis.”

With an admirable attention to detail, Sarah recounted the gist of her conversation with the gamekeeper. “Whatever happened must have happened during the thirty minutes or so that Dinsdale was alone in his butt waiting for the fog to lift,” she concluded. “By the time Curtis got to him he was already in a bad state, so I should think that he may have been bitten sooner rather than later. To know for certain, we'd need to know how long the venom takes to act.”

This seemed to arouse Powell's interest. “And Curtis didn't hear anything suspicious during this time?”

Sarah shrugged. “Apparently not. But then he was some distance away. As I understand it, the butts are about forty yards apart. Curtis says he didn't hear a thing from Dinsdale until he went over to check up on him.”

Powell grunted. “It seems to fit. When Katie Elger— that's Frank Elger's daughter—showed up on the scene, she found Curtis as white as a sheet, standing over Dinsdale, who was probably beyond hope by then.” He frowned slightly. “Wouldn't you think, though, that someone who had just been bitten by a venomous snake would cry out or call for help?”

“He was drunk, wasn't he?” Sarah observed.

“True.” Powell emptied his glass. “What was your general impression of Curtis?”

Sarah thought about this for a moment. “Rather fancies himself, I'd say. He spoke highly of Dinsdale, and I gathered that the feeling was mutual. Dinsdale recently promoted him to head keeper, apparently. I got the feeling, though, that there was something going on between Curtis and the former head keeper, Harry Settle.”

“Really? It wouldn't hurt to follow that up.”

She nodded. “Tomorrow I'd like to drive over to Helmsley,” she said. “The National Park headquarters are located there. I thought it might be a good idea to bone up on adders.”

“I didn't think you liked snakes.”

“There's all sorts of things I don't like that I have to put up with,” she said pointedly.

Powell ignored this. “While you're brushing up on your herpetology, I'll pay a visit to Blackamoor Hall. It's about time I introduced myself.”

Sarah stared at the fire roaring in the hearth. She suddenly felt very warm and the atmosphere seemed stifling.

“Why don't we get some fresh air?” Powell was saying.

“What? Oh, yes—I'd like that,” she said.

The sun dipped behind the dark curve of the hill as they walked together beside the beck, the sounds of the village—a woman calling to her child, a barking dog, and the shouts of small boys playing football on the green— were submerged in the murmur of rushing water.

Sarah breathed deeply. “I've often thought it would be lovely to live in a place like this,” she said.

Powell grunted in a noncommittal fashion. “Tell me, Sarah—by the way, may I call you Sarah?”

“What am I supposed to call you, then? Sir? Mr. Powell?”

He shrugged. “Erskine, or just Powell if you prefer.”

She looked skeptical. “It's a bit informal, isn't it? Suppose I forget myself back at the Yard? I'd be drummed out.”

“Well, we're in the field now. Things are always a bit informal in the field.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “I know, standard procedure. You were going to ask me something just then.”

“I was wondering what Merriman sees in you,” Powell said mischievously.

A puzzled expression on her face. “What do you mean?”

“Apparently he has plans for you.”

She colored. “You must be joking!”

Powell described the circumstances in which Merriman had assigned her to the case.

“Good God! I hope you don't think …” She was suddenly angry. “I don't need him or anyone else to pull strings for me. I'll succeed on my own merit or not at all—I refuse to be a bloody statistic in one of his self-serving PC schemes.”

“An admirable sentiment, but I wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, if I were you. You could be back in the office pushing paper right now.”

She sighed. “There is that. But what about you?”

“What about me?”

“I mean, how do you cope?” She searched in vain for the right words. “You know … with the Merrimans of the world.”

He hesitated for a moment. “It's the job—this damnable job. It keeps me going, keeps me thinking. Or keeps me
from
thinking. I don't know.” He smiled thinly. “In the grander scheme of things, Merriman and his ilk are the least of my worries.”

She was taken aback by such an unexpected display of candor from her superior and was unable to think of a
reply. They walked along for a while without speaking. The wind began to pipe up and Sarah shivered. “It's getting late,” she said. “We should be getting back.”

“Yes, of course,” Powell said, trying to conceal his disappointment.

It seemed that in no time at all they were back at the inn. They stood at the bottom of the stairs for an awkward moment.

“Well, until tomorrow, then,” he said.