Palmer-Jones 04 - A Prey to Murder (12 page)

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing to do with Puddleworth. It’s a list of the breeding sites of most of the rarer raptors in Britain.’ He pulled card after card from the box. ‘There isn’t only information of falcons and hawks,’ he said. ‘There’s a whole section on owls, and here’s a card on buzzard and one on golden eagle.’ He read the eagle card in detail. ‘That’s astonishing,’ he said. ‘ He’s got a record of an amazing number of Scottish breeding sites.’

‘Is it important?’ Pritchard asked.

‘It means that Oliver had access to incredibly detailed information. He must have had contacts all over the country telling him exactly where birds were breeding. There’s no proof of course that he was stealing birds’ eggs or young from these sites. He might have been selling the information to other dishonest falconers or egg collectors. But I can’t think of any legitimate reason for keeping it like this. Look – there are even Ordnance Survey map grid references. If he were just an interested birdwatcher he wouldn’t need that sort of detail.’

‘But it doesn’t help us find Oliver?’

‘No,’ George said. ‘I don’t suppose it does.’

Underneath the card index box were a couple of files containing documents relating to Oliver’s birds at Puddleworth – registration forms, and a letter from the Department of the Environment notifying him of a Wildlife Act Inspector’s visit. Then there was a large, flat cardboard box which might once have contained a shirt. On the top in large, childish handwriting Oliver had written ‘correspondence’. Inside, there were just two sheets of paper. One, a flimsy carbon copy of a typewritten sheet, read like a shopping list, starting with six buzzard and ending with peregrine. It commented that demand for peregrine this year was limited but added that it was essential to obtain the Sarne birds for an influential overseas buyer.

‘I understand this,’ Pritchard said. ‘It’s a list of the birds and eggs Oliver has been asked to take. It shows he was working for a lot of different buyers.’

‘Yes,’ George said, ‘but I don’t think Oliver can have compiled it. Even if he had access to a typewriter at Puddleworth I don’t imagine that his typing would be as good as this. And why just keep a carbon copy if he were making the list for his own use? I think Oliver was employed as an agent by someone who sent him this list and paid him once the birds were delivered.’

‘We can check to see if it was typed at Puddleworth,’ Pritchard said. ‘We might still find that Fenn is involved after all.’

He handed George the second sheet of paper in the box. ‘ What do you make of this?’

It was a piece of lined A4 like a sheet from a student’s refill pad. It was ruled into three columns with the widest column in the middle and it was in Oliver’s handwriting. It was obviously Oliver’s response to the shopping list. It was a detailed plan of campaign. He had decided when each species should be taken and which site it should be taken from. It was set out in chronological order and in the first column was a series of dates running from the beginning of March to the second week of July. In the middle column, next to each date were the bird’s common and scientific names, followed by the exact site of the nest and notes of any wardening schemes or electronic protection. In the last column was one of two initials – either FLO or TW.

George scanned quickly down the list, handed the paper to Pritchard and pointed to the reading for 23 May. ‘ Peregrine,’ Pritchard read. ‘ Falco Peregrinus. Sarne. Eyrie on rock face above hill path. Rope needed. No danger of disturbance. FLO.’ He looked at George, ‘ He was wrong about there being no danger of disturbance, wasn’t he? But at least we know it was him.’

‘We might know that he stole the peregrines,’ George said. ‘We don’t know, do we, that he murdered Eleanor Masefield?’

‘We’ve got bloody good circumstantial evidence,’ Pritchard boomed. ‘We found her shoe on the hill, the birds were missing, the body’s dumped near the birds where Oliver was working. All we need to do now is find the bugger and get a confession.’

‘I wonder,’ George said quietly, ‘who TW is. FLO is obviously Frank Oliver, but TW appears on the list more often than he does. If we could find him he might lead us to Oliver.’

‘You’re brilliant,’ Pritchard said. ‘Of course.’

‘TW is on the list to rob a merlin nest tomorrow,’ George said. ‘On Farthing Ridge.’

Pritchard slapped George on the back. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘you and I had better go bird watching.’

Molly spent all that day at Sarne. For the first time since Eleanor’s death she felt an itch of resentment. George had not asked her to go with him to Puddleworth, nor asked if she would mind being left in the depressing house for another day.

Of course we take each other for granted, she thought. We’ve been married for more than thirty years. Yet she still resented his escape from Gorse Hill. Because he felt in some way responsible for Eleanor’s death, George had become involved in the search for her murderer, but he had left
her
in Gorse Hill with its bereaved and unhappy occupants to go on a jaunt to a Falconry Centre in Shropshire. It seemed unfair. He had pushed her tolerance too far.

She went downstairs not knowing quite what to expect, but everything seemed much as usual. In the dining room her table had been laid for breakfast and in the hall Helen and Fanny were on their way out to walk to the high school. Their school uniform was black and the girls looked tired, drained of all colour. A girl brought her coffee and poached eggs and she ate alone in one corner of the big room. She was just finishing the meal when Richard Mead came in. Molly did not know what to make of him. On previous visits she had thought him competent, that he held the family business together and took all the important decisions. He had allowed Eleanor to be the figurehead but had managed perfectly well without her interference.

It was a surprise then that without Eleanor he seemed weak and rather foolish. Now he seemed to want someone to talk to. He had given Nan Oliver some time off, he said. It must be a terrible time for her too. Would Molly mind finding lunch for herself in Sarne? Molly said that of course she wouldn’t mind, but still he would not leave her to her coffee and morning paper. She suggested in the end that he find another cup and share the coffee with her. He seemed inordinately grateful for the invitation as if he would never have had the confidence to suggest it himself.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said, staring at her helplessly. ‘There are more guests booked in next Saturday. Should I tell them we’ve had to cancel?’

‘Surely that depends what you and Veronica want to do with Gorse Hill,’ Molly said. ‘Do you want to stay and run it as an hotel?’

‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘ I should think so.’

‘How is Veronica this morning?’

‘She was still asleep when I last looked,’ he said. ‘But I suppose she’ll be waking soon.’

He hesitated and Molly could tell that he wanted something from her. In her mood of resentment she found something irritating in the demands he made of her. She had been a social worker for long enough. That phase of her life was over. But the expression on his long face was so pathetic that she could not get up and walk away.

‘Is there anything I could do to help?’ she asked. Again he was childishly grateful, and her irritation returned.

‘Would you go up to Veronica?’ he said, all in a rush. ‘ Last night I only seemed to upset her. I don’t think she even understood exactly what happened. She’ll be calmer with you. Explain to her about Eleanor’s death. I can’t bear to see her crying.’

‘Are you sure,’ Molly asked, ‘that she wouldn’t prefer to see you when she wakes?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This way will be much better.’

She suspected that he only wanted to save himself unpleasantness. Now it was obvious that Veronica needed more than cups of tea and buttered toast, he was too weak to support his wife through her grief. She followed him up the stairs to Veronica’s room and tapped on the door. Inside there was the sound of a woman stirring, a faint, muffled response. Richard Mead fled.

Molly pushed open the door. The room was large but there was little light. Flounced curtain made of pale pink velvet were still drawn to shut out the sunshine. Molly approached the bed awkwardly.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ she said. ‘Richard asked me to see you. May I open the curtains a little?’

She felt the conversation would be easier if she could see the woman’s face. There was another sound from the bed which she took to be agreement so she went to the window and pulled a plaited cord which drew the curtains apart. The room, Molly thought, was decorated according to Veronica’s taste. She found it hard to imagine Richard Mead there. The room was predominantly pink. There were white fitted wardrobes with gold handles, but the wallpaper had a small rose print and the carpet was the colour of strawberry water ice. The sheets had roses on to match the wallpaper. They were crumpled and the shiny pink cover had slipped to the floor. Veronica was frowning as if she were struggling to consciousness from a deep sleep. She propped herself on to one elbow. Despite her ordeal she looked healthy and rested, as if even in this her innocence had protected her.

‘Is it true?’ she asked. ‘Mother is dead?’

Molly nodded. Veronica lay-back on her pillow.

‘I thought it might have been a dream,’ she said. ‘A nightmare. I slept so deeply.’

‘The doctor gave you something to knock you out,’ Molly said.

‘I made a fool of myself,’ Veronica said. ‘Mother would have been angry.’ She turned her head to look at Molly. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked simply.

‘Richard asked me to come to see you to explain what had happened. He was afraid he might upset you again.’

‘I see,’ Veronica said. ‘Of course. He wouldn’t want to see me upset.’

‘Do you remember what happened to your mother?’ Molly said. ‘Or would you like me to tell you as much as we know? The police will probably be here to ask some questions later.’

Veronica looked closely at Molly but ignored the question.

‘Richard
is
all right?’ she said. ‘He’s not angry with me for being so silly?’

‘Of course not. He’s just worried about you.’

‘He doesn’t like unpleasantness,’ Veronica said. ‘That’s why he would never stand up to Mother.’ She sat up in the bed, leaning against the padded bedhead. Molly watched her snatch a glimpse of herself in a mirror on the wall opposite and pat a curl into place. It was an habitual gesture of comfort and probably meant nothing, but Molly could not help being shocked.

‘Tell me what happened,’ Veronica said, unaware of Molly’s reaction. ‘ I don’t remember very clearly.’

‘Your mother’s body was found in the birds of prey’s weathering ground,’ Molly said uncomfortably. ‘The birds hadn’t killed her. The police think she was murdered on the hill. One of her shoes was found there.’

‘What was she doing on the hill?’

‘The peregrine chicks were stolen.’

‘So she was right,’ Veronica said. She was astounded, shocked from the lethargy of her drugged sleep. ‘She wasn’t mad at all.’

‘No,’ Molly said. ‘I never thought she was mad.’

‘Do the police think she was killed by someone who was taking the peregrines?’

That seemed to matter to her. Molly could imagine that it would be easier for her to accept her mother’s death if there were some, reason for it. A random, motiveless murder must seem the worst kind of injustice.

‘Yes,’ Molly said carefully. ‘I suppose she must have surprized the thieves while they were taking the young birds. She was killed by a heavy blow to the head.’

‘Do the police know who killed her?’ Veronica asked. Molly had never seen her so still or intense.

‘They think they do. They’re looking for Nan Oliver’s ex-husband, Frank, and her son. Frank Oliver owned a blue van and he works for a falconer. He’s disappeared.’

It seemed to Molly then that Veronica changed again. She became the woman Molly had known and could recognize, the silly, self-centred woman who could gossip for hours about the new curate’s relationship with the cub scout leader.

‘Poor Mrs Oliver,’ she said, but Molly thought she was almost excited by the news that Frank Oliver was wanted for her mother’s murder.

‘So there
was
a blue van,’ Veronica continued. ‘I was never sure. I thought perhaps Mother was making the whole thing up to persuade the RSPB to warden the site. Or just to worry us.’ She seemed to have forgotten her theory of her mother’s insanity. ‘ I’m glad in a way that Mother was right. She usually was.’

Molly sensed some of the old bitterness. How would Veronica, vain and pretty and dependent, manage without her mother? She might enjoy the freedom at first as she had when she was first married, but Molly felt that the emptiness and depression of the previous day would return. The calm was as unnatural as the ritual glimpse in the mirror.

‘I’ll get up now,’ Veronica said. She swung her legs out of the bed, pushed feet into flufly slippers. ‘I’ll go to Richard. Thank you for coming to see me. It helped a lot.’

As she was expected to, Molly left the room. Only then did she realize that Veronica had not asked how her children had been affected by Eleanor’s death. She was, Molly thought, very like a child herself.

Molly wandered downstairs. In the pleasant, sunny house, she felt trapped and uncomfortable, and her futile resentment of George returned. She had accepted his admiration of Eleanor Masefield and had agreed to come to Gorse Hill because she knew he had enjoyed Eleanor’s company. Now she realized how much she had disliked Eleanor, and began to blame the woman, quite unreasonably, for her own discomfort. That’s ridiculous, she thought. Eleanor Masefield was a victim, an innocent witness of a crime. She got in the way. But the notion that Eleanor had, in some way, contributed to her own death remained with her and did so for the rest of the investigation.

Molly decided to go for a walk. She could at least escape that far. It was a great pleasure to leave the house where she felt like an unwelcome and uninvited guest. The mild wind blew into her face. The sun came out in occasional bright bursts, setting fire to the huge banks of gorse. There was a wheatear on the short grass and a skylark was singing. She turned her back on the hill and walked down the lane towards the town. Away from the hill the landscape changed. On one side of the road was a field of sheep, with big, black-faced lambs and on the other a stretch of growing corn. The wind blew through the corn in a long, green wave, and brought back a memory so vivid and sharp that she had to stop walking.