Shades of Murder (10 page)

‘Better see what we’ve got here,’ he muttered. He reached up and took down a packet, opening the top flaps and sniffing suspiciously before poking it with his finger. Potassium permanganate crystals. The old gardeners used to make a solution of it. Ron remembered vaguely, from his youth, the buckets of purplish coloured liquid and of being told, by his father, to pour it round the tomatoes and be careful how he did it. And this? Bonemeal, solidified into a cake. More crystals. Dried blood, he guessed.

In taking down the last item, he had uncovered a dark bottle, pushed to the back of the shelf. He lifted it down. Protected by the items which had been stored around it, its label had survived in a more legible state than most. Ron carried it to the best of the light, under the self-made skylight, wiped the dust from its glass shoulders and rusty cap, settled his spectacles on the bridge of his nose and peered at the lettering. He gave a low whistle. ‘Crikey!’ His voice held awe.

At that moment, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Someone walked briskly and with heavy echoing tread across the grass. Neither of the Oakley ladies. Who the devil? Ron replaced the bottle on the shelf and hurried to the door. He poked out his head and got, as he put it afterwards, quite a shock.

A youngish man had arrived outside and Ron hadn’t the foggiest idea who he might be, where he might have come from or what he might be doing there. He was what Ron called sloppily dressed, by which he meant jeans and one of those upper garments which looked like underwear and were inexplicably topwear. But the image which leapt into Ron’s mind was that of a spaniel he’d once owned. It was something about the newcomer’s large dark eyes and anxious-to-please expression.

Nevertheless, Ron was deeply suspicious. It might be a burglar, casing the joint. Ron was an
aficionado
of the police procedural form of crime fiction. It was a basic belief of his that any male between sixteen and forty, wandering around without obvious cause, was up to no good. Moreover, this young fellow looked distinctly tough, for all his innocent expression. Ron emerged fully from the shed and prepared to see off this intruder.

‘Looking for someone?’ he asked with dangerous civility.

‘No, only looking at the gardens.’ The voice was foreign. Ron thought he might’ve guessed as much. Blooming tourist of some sort, just walked in.

‘These are private grounds,’ he barked.

‘I know.’ The young man put his hands in his pockets and eyed Ron up and down.

The spaniel image faded. Ron had a feeling that the young man’s previous anxiety had been connected with his not knowing who was in the potting shed. Having seen Ron, he had decided this was no threat. Which, thought Ron grimly, is where you’re wrong, my son!

‘You’re the gardener here?’ There was casualness, even a touch of insolence in his voice, or so Ron fancied.

Ron bristled. ‘I keep the gardens tidy for Miss Oakley and her sister. Entirely voluntarily. Just to help them out.’

‘Ah?’ The young man seemed to make a decision to revise his approach. He became less off-hand and more affable. ‘I’m a relative of the family, visiting them. My name is Jan Oakley.’

‘And mine’s Cary Grant,’ said Ron sarcastically.

‘I am pleased to meet you, Mr Grant.’ The young man extended a hand.

‘Gladstone!’ snarled Ron. My name is Gladstone!’

The young man looked wary, as if the elderly gentleman was proving to be a little confused about his own identity. He withdrew his hand.

‘Miss Oakley,’ challenged Ron, ‘said nothing to me about expecting visitors.’

‘Only one visitor, only me. Why should she tell
you?
’ The dark gaze was now frankly insolent.

Still, though the question wasn’t polite, Ron had to admit it was justified. Why should they tell him?

‘What are you doing in this barn?’ asked Jan.

Ron bristled again. Cheeky young blighter, he thought. I’d like to knock his block off. What does he think I’m doing in there? Brewing moonshine? But of course he couldn’t tackle the intruder physically. The other was young and strong.

As if to demonstrate his disdain for Ron’s opposition, the newcomer had strolled past him and, uninvited, had pushed his head through the opened doorway while, at the same time, grasping the lintel with his raised right hand, as if to claim some right of possession. ‘It’s very untidy. It’s your shed?’ The criticism and the question were both put without the speaker turning.

‘No, it flipping isn’t my shed!’ snapped Ron. ‘I wouldn’t let any shed of mine get into that state!’ He fought for self-control. ‘I was inspecting it. Never been in it before – had to unscrew the padlock.’ He indicated his screwdriver, the padlock and the hasp on the ground. ‘I guessed it
might have been used to store things and it has been. It’ll have to be cleared out now the ladies are going to sell up.’

He felt a pang of sadness at the thought that he wouldn’t now ever have the chance to restore the old potting shed to useful life.

The young man, who had still been peering into the shed, seemed to freeze. He released the lintel, turning slowly and suspiciously. ‘Sell? Sell what?’

‘The house, of course,’ said Ron, adding with a return of his suspicion, ‘thought you’d know that, seeing as you’re family, or so you say.’

‘I am family!’ The young man’s voice and manner were suddenly so pugnacious, Ron stepped back. Then the other added more calmly, ‘But I didn’t know the house was to be sold. Thank you, Mr Gladstone. It affects what I’ve come to tell my cousins. I must go and find them at once!’

He turned and made off rapidly across the lawn. Ron watched him go. When the stranger had disappeared, he looked back at the shed and heaved a sigh. Once you’d been disturbed, you could never get back to a job, it was a fact. There was more to it than that. The encounter had left him deeply unhappy. For the first time since coming to Fourways, Ron felt no pleasure at the thought of any of the garden tasks he’d carried out so contentedly until now. The cluttered old potting shed, previously a challenge, had turned into a wearying chore-in-waiting. He’d have a go at clearing out this place another day. He pushed the door back into place, but lacked the energy to replace the rusty hasp. He picked it up, together with his screwdriver, and set off in the wake of the visitor. He had a feeling he ought to find work nearer to the house today, just so as he could keep an eye on things. Ron recognised a tricky customer when one hove into view and Jan Oakley – if that was indeed his name –struck Ron as very tricky indeed.

Juliet Painter returned to her London flat late that evening. It had been a tiring and futile day. Her latest client was a Texan oil multi-millionaire who’d decided he wanted an English country estate with opportunities for shooting, fishing and some corporate entertainment. She’d driven all the way up to Yorkshire to view a possible property only to find, to her surprise and some dismay, that the present owner was in dispute with a ramblers’ club and the place was being picketed.

Shoulder to shoulder the objectors stood, dressed in a motley collection of anoraks, cagoules, Fair Isle sweaters, thick wool stockings and heavy boots. They bore placards proclaiming their right to roam and sang, not
very tunefully, ‘We shall not be moved!’

As she drew up and let down her window, the crowd surged forward alarmingly. A stout woman in corduroy trousers pushed her face hard against the opening and bellowed, ‘Access for all!’ A terrier she had by a leash, put its front paws against the car door and barked its support.

‘Yes,’ said Juliet pleasantly. ‘I quite agree. Does that mean I can go through?’

The woman withdrew a few inches, looking a little disconcerted. She studied the young woman in the car, assessing the fresh complexion, braided hair, round glasses.

‘Are you family?’ she asked in the manner of an usher at a wedding.

‘No,’ said Juliet. ‘Not even slightly.’

A bearded man with a worried frown, touched the woman’s arm. ‘Peaceful protest, Mrs Smedley,’ he chided.

She shook him off. ‘I am peaceful!’ she snapped. The terrier yapped.

‘You can go through,’ said the bearded man to Juliet, addressing his remark over Mrs Smedley’s brawny shoulder. ‘We only want our rights.’

‘Fine by me,’ said Juliet. ‘I only want mine.’

The crowd had fallen quiet. Suddenly, a younger man wearing similar spectacles to Juliet’s rushed forward and thrust a handful of leaflets at her through the open window.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and put them on the front passenger seat.

As if this had been the object of the whole exercise, the crowd now fell back and parted like the Red Sea to allow her through. She pressed the window button, just in case, as she rolled past them. Behind her they formed up again and as she reached the front door and parked, she heard, in getting out of her car, their discordant chants begin again, interspersed with shrill barks.

Her arrival had been noted within. The front door creaked open a few inches. Juliet approached and it was pulled open further, just enough to allow her to squeeze through the gap, which she did. It was immediately shut behind her. In the dark hallway, she found herself faced with a furious old man. Unsure whether this was the owner or some kind of butler, she hesitated and then solved the problem by introducing herself.

‘Juliet Painter. I wrote.’

‘You are expected, miss,’ said the butler (as he must be). ‘Kindly follow me.’

Through a maze of chilly corridors, he led her to his employer whom she found staring from an upper window with an expression suggesting imminent apoplexy.

‘You chose your day to come!’ he greeted her. ‘Look at ’em! It’s like the blasted French Revolution – hordes of ’em bleating about their rights!’ He turned a bloodshot eye on her. ‘What about
my
bally rights, eh? What about them?’ He breathed heavily for a moment or two before adding more mildly, ‘Want to see over the place?’

She wasn’t sure she did. However, she’d come this far and braved the mob of latterday
sans-culottes
outside. She might as well view the place though she was well aware by now what she’d find. As expected, it was a mausoleum of Edwardian furniture and grisly hunting trophies. Stag’s antlers lined the corridors and a moth-eaten collection of stuffed birds and small mammals fixed her with beady eyes as she passed by. Disapproving family portraits sneered at her from smoke-blackened walls. Although the day was a mild early summer one, every corner of the house was icy cold.

After the tour of inspection, they sat down to a lunch served by the furious butler, and punctuated by bearded faces appearing at the windows. It hadn’t been a very good meal, consisting of lumpy vegetable soup, tough cold cuts and a piece of cheese so dried out it had cracked into fissures like an Ice Age rock formation. Juliet suspected the elderly retainer was also the cook. The wine, on the other hand, was exceedingly good, the butler bringing to the table a dusty bottle which would have fetched a high price at auction. Though normally not a lunchtime drinker, especially when on business, Juliet was tempted to a couple of glasses. Partly this was because one didn’t turn up one’s nose at vintage wine and partly because she suspected what was to come that afternoon and felt in need of some Dutch courage.

They emerged afterwards to view the grounds. Juliet was now suffering severe indigestion from the cheese, which kept burping up reminders of its presence in her stomach in a way that would have been embarrassing if her host had appeared to notice. But his attention was taken elsewhere. All along their way they were severely hampered by woolly-hatted personages of either sex, and occasionally of unattributable sex, popping out from behind walls, bushes, out of ditches . . . the only thing they hadn’t done was drop from the sky. They still brandished placards and in addition thrust forward ancient maps which showed, they claimed, rights of way. They were earnestly eager to engage her and the owner in conversation. All they wanted, they continued to insist, was freedom to roam.

As it was, Juliet’s freedom to roam and inspect had been severely curtailed. But she was very glad indeed she’d witnessed all this. It made
her decision straightforward. The place wouldn’t do.

Rights of way, she’d found before, could cause a lot of trouble. Millionaires like privacy. They are also understandably nervous about their own security. The Texan oilman would not want his defences breached by anoraked and booted open-air enthusiasts. Nor would he wish to see them straggling across the landscape like a column of refugees when he was trying to entertain high-profile guests. The shooting might be thrown into question because the game birds had been disturbed. She struck this particular property from her list of possibles.

‘Sorry,’ she said to the present owner who stood by her in simmering resentment. ‘I shall have to inform my client about this. I can tell you now, he won’t—’

‘I know,’ interrupted the owner disconsolately. ‘And I don’t bally well blame your client!’ He returned to gazing from the window across his moors, dotted with spots of moving colour marking the triumphant progress of the ramblers. ‘You know what I’d like to do? he added wistfully. ‘I’d like to bloody shoot them.’

Driving back to London, Juliet thought about the owner with sympathy. Although she wasn’t unappreciative of the ramblers’ argument, and didn’t really approve of breeding birds simply to shoot them, she was annoyed with the demonstrators. They were the cause of an entire day wasted. There was no question of the Texan oilman taking on the dispute over access. Not that he couldn’t get his lawyers on to it and probably get some decision in his favour, but ill-will would result locally and that sort of thing was best avoided.

Still, thought Juliet recalling the present owner, poor old chap. There he is rattling round in that gloomy great house. Presumably he has no family anxious to live in it. He probably couldn’t afford staff even if staff could be found. That funny old butler is probably all that’s left and the two of them are growing old together in cold and discomfort. There may be death duties and the place would have to be sold probably, when he dies. He wants to sell now, of course he does, and spend some of the cash before the taxman gets it. He could move to a comfortable cottage. He’s in the same situation as Damaris and Florence really, only Fourways is a much smaller house and hasn’t got acres of moorland all round it. Thank goodness the Oakleys don’t have a human problem, like ramblers, gumming up the sale process!