A Country Way of Death (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 4)

by R. A. Bentley

  'That's really kind of you,' said the girl. She was quite young, perhaps seventeen, and had looked close to tears.

  'Come and sit down, Em,' said her solicitous partner. 'Thanks, miss.'

  'I couldn't find out what started it,' said Miles, rejoining them. 'The fellow said to forget about it. Bill Rowsell, isn't it? He's offered to pay for the dress, so I suppose he must feel responsible in some way.'

  'Yes, that was Rowsell,' said the doctor. He turned to Connie. 'He's the nearest thing we have to a milkman,' he explained. 'Farms over at Long with his father.'

  'Troublesome?' asked Connie.

  'Not that I'm aware of.'

  'It's Adams that's looking for trouble,' grumbled Miles. 'He called me "copper." I hate that at the best of times.'

  'Well, you are a copper,' said Connie. 'Come on.'

  'It's a Charleston,' said Lavinia surprised.

  'She makes me do it,' sighed Miles resignedly.

  'I hope she doesn't wear him out,' smiled Lavinia, watching them. 'She's full of beans, isn't she?'

  'She'll keep him young, like you do me,' said Roger.

  'Do I? That's nice.'

  Daisy and Ian came over to them.

  'We thought we'd better tell you it's snowing,' said Daisy. 'There's an inch or two already.'

  'Oh what a nuisance,' said Lavinia. 'You'll be wanting to go, won't you, dear?'

  'If you don't want to walk home, yes,' said Roger, rising.

  'Can I stay?' asked Daisy. 'It's hardly got going yet. Miss Pruitt says she'll put me up if I want.'

  'I don't see why not,' said Lavinia. 'I'll just have a word with her.'

  By the time they left the hall the snow was distinctly deeper. Fat flakes settled on their hats and shoulders. 'Looks like we're in for it this time,' sighed Roger. 'Better get up the hill while we still can.'

  'And then you can bet there'll be a confinement down in Nether,' said Miles, anticipating him.

  'How well you know me,' chuckled the doctor. 'Unfortunately it's rather likely this time. Goodnight, Ian.'

  'Goodnight, sir. Don't worry about Daisy; I'll take good care of her.'

  'What about your aunt?'

  'Gone home. She left a while ago.'

  It was well past twelve o'clock. Alone now, they lay entangled on the sofa before the glowing embers of the fire. Only an oil-lamp was burning, the farm's generator having been turned off for the night.

  'Miles, no!' whispered Connie, suddenly pulling away. 'I don't think . . .'

  'Sorry, darling.

  'You'll have me disgracing myself!'

  'Yes, sorry.'

  'I'm only flesh and blood, you know.'

  'Yes of course. Sorry.'

  'You know I would.'

  'Yes, I know you would.'

  'Don't be cross, darling.'

  'I'm not cross.'

  'You sound cross.'

  'I'm not, truly.'

  'I want you terribly, you know that.'

  'I know you do. Hush now.'

  'Love you, darling.'

  'Love you too.'

  For a while they lay in each other's arms, not speaking. The clock on the mantle-shelf struck the quarter hour. It was very quiet.

  'Darling,' said Connie.

  'Yes, darling?'

  'You can if you want to.'

  'But we agreed . . .'

  'I know, but it's silly, isn't it, now we're engaged and everything? You can if you want to.'

  'Are you sure? You don't have to just for me.'

  'It's not just for you, but can it be now, please?'

  Miles smiled and kissed her. 'Maybe this isn't quite the right place, darling.'

  'But I thought you wanted to!'

  'Shush! Of course I do.'

  'I want you so much!'

  The telephone rang.

  'Damn and blast!'

  Connie hurriedly adjusted her clothing. 'Is it a patient, do you think?'

  'Probably,' sighed Miles. 'What were the chances of that? He picked up the telephone. 'Two three eight . . . Hello, Daisy, what's the matter? . . . There's a what? Hang on.' Frowning, he pulled back the curtain, wiping the condensation from the window with his sleeve. 'Yes, I can. Are you all right? How long's it been going? . . . Now listen, you're not to go near it, do you hear?' he turned to her. 'It's Ian's house. Their thatch has gone up. . . Hello, Archie . . . Yes, we're on our way.'

  Connie joined him at the window. It was still snowing hard, but through it leaping flames could dimly be seen. 'Oh, how dreadful! What can we do?'

  Roger came running downstairs, buttoning his waistcoat. 'Hello, you two, still up? Who rang?'

  'Daisy. It's Glebe Cottage.'

  'Thought it must be. Can someone grab my bag from the study?'

  'Socks, dear,' said Lavinia, throwing them to him. 'Do you want me to come?'

  'No, you'd best stay and man the telephone,' said Roger, bouncing on one leg. 'Damn these things!'

  'Hark, there's the tractor,' said Lavinia. 'Reuben must have seen it.'

  Connie wondered if she looked a fright and if anyone would notice. She was feeling a little shaky. 'I'll get my boots,' she said. 'You may need me.'

  'Good girl,' said the doctor, looking pleased.

  After the warmth of the farmhouse it took a few moments to realise how bitingly cold it was. The snow, Connie estimated, was now five or six inches deep, with no sign of it letting up. The fire was much clearer when seen outside, the leaping orange flames illuminating the trees around Miss Ashton's ancient cottage. A suggestion of smoke drifted away into the darkness. Reuben had already brought the tractor and trailer to the front door, their deep tracks stretching away behind a barn. Miles, scrambled aboard, hauling Connie over the tailgate before helping his father. There was a clang as Reuben, a wiry, taciturn little man, threw in an axe, a heap of sacking, a grappling hook and a length of rope before taking his place on the tractor.

  They set off at a cautious pace, the passengers sitting against the trailer's sides or standing at the ladder-rack.

  'We could have got a car down there,' shouted Miles, 'but I doubt we'd get back up again.'

  As they drew nearer, a crackling roar was added to the horror of the flames, now rising ten or more feet into the air. Most of the villagers were there before them, some forming a bucket chain, others anxiously watching, the fire-light reflected in their faces. The fire appeared to have started upstairs with about a third of the thatched roof now burning vigorously. Smoke was distinctly rising through the rest. Reuben immediately deployed his grappling hook; his efforts and those of others bringing down heaps of still-burning straw.

  'Where are they?' asked Miles.

  The landlord of the Bell shook his head. 'Ian's gone in and Bulloch's gone after him.'

  Daisy was standing in the cottage's garden, her slight figure silhouetted by the flames. 'I couldn't stop him,' she said. There was terror in her voice.

  'Go to your father,' said Miles, and made for the front door, which was standing open. There appeared no obvious damage to the tiny living room but the stairs that rose from it were well alight at the top. The heat was intense, the smoke choking. 'Anyone there?' he shouted.

  'Keep away!' cried Martin, 'We've got her.'

  There came a crash from overhead as someone kicked out a window, showering the rescuers with wood and shards of broken glass. A half-dozen men clustered below, ready to grab the apparently comatose Miss Ashton, her tweedy posterior passing with difficulty through the narrow aperture. Fortunately the ground around the cottage had risen somewhat in its several centuries of existence, enabling them to catch her quite easily.

  There was a muffled shout of, 'No, you, you silly bugger!' and Ian came flying after his great-aunt, falling awkwardly amongst a smouldering heap of thatch. Flames abruptly engulfed the upper floor, causing Martin not so much to jump as dive out, tumbling over and over in the trampled snow. Men rushed to help, but scrambling to his feet he waved them off. 'It's all right chaps. No harm don
e.'

  'Over here!' shouted Connie.

  Supported by Miles and Daisy, Ian limped over to the trailer, now an impromptu ambulance, followed unassisted by Martin. Only the whites of their eyes could be seen in their soot-blackened faces. There was a dull thudding of hooves and the village fire-appliance arrived, two of its operatives rapidly deploying its single hose while the others vigorously pumped.

  Dr Felix, meanwhile, was bending over the stricken Miss Ashton. It was impossible to see his expression in the dark but no-one was under much illusion as to what he would find, least of all the rescuers. Eventually he put away his stethoscope. 'I'm sorry, Ian.'

  Ian nodded and turned away.

  'Where was she?' asked Miles.

  'On her bedroom floor,' said Martin. 'We couldn't wake her.'

  'If only I hadn't been out,' said Ian.

  'I'm so sorry, Ian,' said Daisy, but when she took his arm he yelped in pain, causing Connie to turn her torch on him.

  'Hold this,' she told Daisy, and helped him out of his coat. 'That's a nasty burn, Ian; it ought to be dressed.'

  'Let's have a look,' said Roger.

  'It doesn't matter,' said Ian.

  'Of course it matters. Come to the surgery. We'll put your auntie there for tonight, I think, and then you'd best come home with us. How about you, Bulloch? Any damage?'

  But apart from some scorched hair the farmer was unscathed.

  'That was a brave thing you did,' said Miles, offering his hand.

  Martin shrugged. 'You'd have done the same. The lad couldn't have moved her on his own.'

  The village surgery, three small rooms behind the church hall, was dark and cold. The doctor lit a lamp and bade them place Miss Ashley on the examination couch.

  'Oh, Auntie,' said Ian, stroking her hair.

  'Ian, you do understand that she was quite ill, don't you?' said Roger. 'She could have gone at any time. You mustn't blame yourself for not being there.'

  'You don't think it was the fire, then?'

  'I don't know at this stage. Now I'm going to clean that burn of yours and dress it. Miles, boil up some water. Connie, can you cut me some lint please? It's over there. Scissors in that drawer.'

  'Have you any idea how it might have started?' asked Miles.

  Ian nodded. 'A lamp had gone over on the landing. What I don't understand is why she left it where she did – she never normally does – or why she did nothing about it. There's always a bucket of sand up there.'

  Returning from the surgery, they found the efforts of the fire-fighters had been successful. Denuded of its thatch, Glebe Cottage now stood dark and empty, though they continued to drag clear the great piles of straw and damp down.

  Constable Buckett stopped to talk to them. 'Can't decide whether to stand guard over it,' he said. 'What do you think?'

  'You can't stay here all night,' said Ian, now shivering violently. 'You'll freeze.'

  'Any valuables, sir?'

  'There's a fair amount of cash and my bank-book. I don't know what Aunty had.'

  'Where are they? Can you remember?'

  'In the writing desk in the living room.' Suddenly he sank onto the trailer. 'Sorry, I've about had it.'

  'Come on old chap,' said Roger gently. 'Let's get you to bed.'

  Watching the tractor grind away homewards, Miles and the constable turned and cautiously entered the cottage. Everything in the living room was soaked and filthy but unburned. Fallen plaster littered the furniture and floor.'

  'Joists look solid enough,' observed Buckett, shining his torch at the ceiling. 'These, anyway.'

  'Not locked,' said Miles, trying the writing desk. 'All in good order by the look of it. And here's Ian's bank-book I think. Yes it is. And a pot of cash. Got your notebook Buckett? Best take this down and I'll sign it.' He rapidly counted the change. 'I make that five pounds, three and sixpence. I wonder if I should bring away the lot? Perhaps I'd better had. There might be a will or deeds or something. You'll just have to put "sundry papers" or we'll be here all night.'

  'As it's you, sir,' agreed the constable.

  It was a doleful party that returned to Hilltop farm that night. The choice of the heavy tractor and trailer proved a wise one, and with Reuben keeping a wheel on the verge to improve traction they had only twice to resort to the sacking. Fearing the worst, Lavinia had changed Connie's bed (she would have to share with Daisy) and a protesting Ian was given a hot drink and placed in it. He was asleep in moments, but when Miles rose next morning he saw him limping down the hill, dressed once more in his filthy clothes and wearing a borrowed oilskin.

  Daisy was also up and preparing to follow him. 'I had to have something to eat, first,' she said, 'or I'd have passed out.'

  'Where's he going?' asked Miles.

  'To look for Johann. We'd forgotten all about him.'

  'Dog?'

  'Jack Russell.'

  'I'll come too,' said Connie.

  It was still snowing, the sky full of it. Glebe cottage stood forlorn in its quarter acre of garden, its windows smashed, its remaining roof-timbers naked and blackened. Thin smoke still rose here and there from the piles of thatch. There was no sign of Ian.

  Miles went inside. 'It looks safe enough,' he reported. 'Surprisingly sound really.'

  'Can you get upstairs?'

  'Not at the moment; the stairs are burned out.'

  There was no-one in the garden and they walked into the orchard behind it.

  'I'm here,' called Ian. He was some yards away, kicking at a heap of snow. He shook his head. 'Johann! Where the devil are you?'

  'I suppose he was frightened and ran away,' said Connie.

  'I don't know that he'd do that really, but you'd think he'd have come back by now. I'm afraid he might be hurt.'

  'He's bound to have left some tracks somewhere,' said Daisy. 'We should look.'

  But though they cast widely about, there were none to be seen.

  'I don't feel very well,' said Ian. He'd begun violently to shiver again.

  'You're not up to this,' said Connie. 'We should get you home.'

  'Martin Bulloch had joined them. 'Come on,' he said, and Ian allowed himself to be led across to the Red House.

  'I'd best go with them,' said Connie.

  Left alone, Miles looked around for a ladder. There was an elderly one of suitable length in an outhouse. Dragging it indoors, he propped it in the narrow stairwell and scrambled up it, forcing his way between the worm-riddled rungs and the wall. The first floor, he discovered, was completely gutted. Little more than a brick dividing wall and the bed-frames remained. It was not a large cottage, and if the dog had been upstairs, Ian would surely have seen him. It also seemed likely he'd have been barking, unless already dead. The oil-lamp, its glass chimney shattered and blackened, was lying on the charred box-like structure that gave headroom to the stairs. Not much doubt about what had started the fire.

  Returning outside, he wandered the garden, looking on top of the outhouses. Then hauling himself up by the gutter he peered, fruitlessly, onto the corrugated roof of the kitchen. It was possible, of course, that the dog had been taken in by a neighbour or was running loose about the village, but a growing unease told him otherwise. He greatly hoped he was wrong, but such success as he'd had in his career was largely due to such hunches and it couldn't be ignored. The kitchen roof drained into a rainwater butt. Brushing the snow off its lid, he took out his torch, peered inside and sighed heavily. At this time of year it should have been full, and it was clear that the fire-fighters had drained off most of the water. Almost upending himself into the butt, he grabbed the Jack Russell's sodden corpse by its collar, dragged it out, and laid it on the ground. A cursory inspection revealed that its skull had been smashed in.

  For a few moments, Miles stood in unhappy contemplation. There was no-one about, and he was, in any case, barely visible from the road. He swiftly returned the dog whence it came, replaced the lid, and followed after the others. So much for my Christmas holiday
, he thought. As he approached the Bulloch's farmhouse, Connie came out of the front door. He beckoned her across the road. 'Found him,' he said.

  'Dead?'

  'Yes.'

  'I sort of knew he would be. Poor Ian.'

  'It's worse than that, I'm afraid.' He drew her along the street a little. 'He's been walloped over the head.'

  'Oh no! Deliberately?'

  'I'd say so. I found him in the rainwater butt. A quick and easy way to hide him, of course. The obvious inference is that someone got into the cottage, the dog went for him and he killed it defending himself, or perhaps to stop it barking. The question, of course, is who was he and what was he doing there? And did he start the fire? Before, it was a horrible accident; now it's a possible police case. Will you come back with me?'

  'Yes, of course.'

  'I'm not sure whom to tell about it at this stage. Possibly not Ian, just at the moment.'

  'No, I don't think you should,' said Connie. 'He looks dreadful and has gone to bed. Martin has offered to put him up permanently, by the way. I've quite warmed to him now, and Alma is sweet.'

  Miles smiled. 'Bulloch's one of those complicated characters that are hard to call. I wouldn't absolutely assume, you know, that he's safe to be with. He had a bit of a reputation when he was younger. I'm half hoping that it was he who killed the dog. One can imagine his having to do that if it was crazed with fear and keeping him away from Miss Ashton. Hard to explain the butt though, and Ian was there first, by all accounts, so it doesn't seem very likely.'

  'Where is it now?'

  'Back in the butt. I didn't want some kids or someone stumbling on it, so it seemed the best place. Anyway, I'd best hook it out now, and bring it home. I expect there's a bit of sacking somewhere I can wrap it in.'

  They turned in at the cottage gate and waded through the snow, now about ten inches deep, to the back door.

  'Darned nuisance, this lot. It'll probably prevent anyone getting up here for a day or two, and maybe longer. I don't suppose the train is running at the moment either, so we're just about cut off.'

  'The police, do you mean? You're not going investigate it yourself?'

  'I'd rather not. You don't want me to, do you?'

  'Hardly, darling. But if you have to, you have to, I suppose.'