Fell Murder

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “Your speech up here is nearer my own than London English,” replied Macdonald. “I’d probably have fought against you at Flodden Field, but I understand your speech all right. Now there’s another point, Miss Garth. Layng’s point—I’m working on his report, of course. Incidentally he made out a very able report. He mentioned your eldest brother, Richard.”

  “Yes; he asked a lot of questions about him. All I can tell you about him is that he quarrelled with my father when he married Mary Ashthwaite, and went to Canada in 1919. I haven’t heard from him for nearly twenty years. The lawyers are going to advertise for him. He inherits the land, you know. It’s entailed.”

  “That seems rather hard on you,” said Macdonald, but she answered:

  “Oh, no. I don’t want to be a landowner. I’d be quite content to be a tenant farmer. I shall farm anyway, and provided the government doesn’t let us down, farming’s quite a good proposition these days.” She faced him again with her square face resolute. “Some people would be quite capable of saying that I shot my father to gain independence. I do inherit some capital under his will, and it means that I am independent for the first time in my life—but I didn’t shoot him. I know it’s no use saying that, because I’ve no means of proving it, and it could be argued out that I had plenty of time to do it. I was by myself from half-past three until I came into tea about five.”

  “Provided you didn’t do it, you’ve nothing to worry about,” returned Macdonald. “I wish you would tell me this. Is there any means by which Ashthwaite might have known that your father would go to the hull when the hunt was over?”

  “None that I can think of. I didn’t know myself.”

  “Look at it this way, Miss Garth. Supposing your father was out and you needed him for some purpose or another—needed him very badly. Wouldn’t you try and put two and two together to argue where he might be?”

  “Well, I’d know or not know.”

  “Doesn’t it depend on the season of the year? At haymaking or harvest you’d know which field he was in.”

  “Yes—because I should be there, too.”

  “If the river rose suddenly and no one had gone down to the river pastures to drive the beasts up, wouldn’t you have expected him to do it?”

  “Oh, yes. He had an extra sense about the river, he always knew when it would rise.”

  “Very well. Now you said you didn’t know that he’d gone to the fox hunt—but didn’t you think there was a very strong probability that he had?”

  “Yes—but I didn’t know.”

  “Quite. If you’d wanted to make sure, you could have gone to see if he’d taken a gun with him?”

  “Yes—but I didn’t.”

  “All right. Now isn’t it true that you—or someone else on the Home Farm—told John Staple that two stirks were missing from their pasture?”

  “Yes. I told him. I asked him to look out for them. Didn’t he tell you so?”

  “No. He only said he was looking for them. Now if they’d broken out, didn’t it mean a fence was probably defective or needed mending?”

  “Yes—unless a gate had been left open.”

  “There were materials for mending a small break in a fence in the hull itself. Do you know if your father heard you ask Staple to look for those stirks?”

  “I don’t know. He might have done.”

  “And isn’t it possible that if he did hear you say so, he might have gone to look at the pasture and the fence on his way to the fox hunt? He could have gone to Lawson’s Wood that way, couldn’t he?”

  “Yes.” She turned and looked at Macdonald with a frown of concentration. “You’re being clever over this—much cleverer than the Superintendent. You’ve thought it out much more clearly than I could have myself. The upshot is that if I’d used my brains that way, I could have argued out that Father might go to the hull for a post and a mall after the fox hunt was over—but I didn’t.”

  “Was there any way you could have known when the fox hunt was over and the guns dispersed?”

  “No. I might have noticed that there were no more shots—but that might have indicated that they were beating for another fox. As it happened I didn’t notice the shots at all. Until about half-past three I was helping lift potatoes, and the noise of the tractor prevented me hearing anything else. Then I came back here and started on the onions, and I certainly didn’t notice any shots.”

  “Why was it you decided to leave the potatoes and start on the onions?”

  She chuckled. “You’re thorough, aren’t you? I like that question. It’s one I should have asked myself. The tractor went wrong. Do you know the contraption we use for potato lifting? It’s a bit like a small propeller, and its blades turn over the soil and throw up the potatoes. We’ve only had it this year. Unfortunately nobody has ever invented anything for picking up the potatoes, and you have to do it by hand. It’s a poor job. When Elizabeth Meldon said she’d have to spend some time on the tractor engine to get it to rights I wasn’t sorry. Frankly, I prefer onions.”

  “Had you no one to help you gather the potatoes?”

  “Not that afternoon. I had told Jem he could go as beater, and Bob has taken his gun out. He doesn’t often get a chance of any sport.”

  “Your brother Charles didn’t help?”

  “Lifting potatoes? You haven’t met Charles. He has a back which aches—though he’s quite useful at some jobs. Not that one, though. As for Malcolm, the mere mention of potatoes made him find it necessary to go and look at his hives up on the fells. Actually he’s lame, and a bending job nearly kills him.”

  She paused and said: “That’s Charles just coming in if you want to see him. I don’t think he’ll be very helpful. He’s been in Malaya for years, and he doesn’t notice things here very much.”

  Macdonald heard the footsteps as a man strolled up the cobbles and turned into the flagged yard. Charles Garth looked disillusioned, Macdonald thought, as well as rather weary. Remembering Marion’s statement, “He has a back which aches,” Macdonald had to control a chuckle as he got up to face the newcomer.

  * * *

  “This is Chief Inspector Macdonald, Charles. He has been trying to make me use my wits, but his own are much more efficient. He’d better try his conundrums on you.” She turned to Macdonald. “I’m going in to wash. Newborn calves are messy creatures to handle. If you want me again, I shall be indoors.”

  “Thank you very much for being so patient,” replied Macdonald.

  “You remind me of my dentist a bit,” she answered unexpectedly. “He’s always very polite, but he pulls my tooth out just the same.”

  Macdonald laughed outright at that, as he turned and exchanged nods with Charles Garth. “I’ve never been likened to a dentist before,” he said.

  “Rather apt. My sister’s a bit of a wag at times,” replied Charles, seating himself rather heavily on the stone bench. “God preserve me from you if you were a dentist,” he added. “You’d look a formidable fellow with a pair of forceps. Well? Come to any conclusion yet? We’re finding this business a bit wearing.”

  “I’m sure you are, very wearing indeed,” replied Macdonald. He had sized up Charles pretty quickly: the ex-rubber planter was finding English farming heavy going, but he retained something of his erstwhile manner—bonhomous but a touch condescending. His voice had none of the north of England quality so noticeable in Marion’s: Macdonald diagnosed it as “only one vowel and hardly any consonants.” He went on: “I only arrived in these parts last night, so I haven’t had much time to look around. I have found your sister and Mr. Staple very helpful, because they have enlightened me on conditions round about here. I admit I find the problem a complex one. There are so many possibilities. What is your view, Mr. Garth?”

  Charles shrugged his shoulders. “It’s difficult for me to have any views. These farmers are an unknown quantity to me a
fter twenty years out east. My sister says that none of the farmers did it—she should know, she’s lived amongst them; I say that no one in this household did it. I can’t imagine that a homicidal maniac hid in a calf hull on the off-chance of shooting someone. That brings me to my last point. There’s that idiot boy. He seems the strongest probability.”

  “But where did he get his gun from?”

  “Ashthwaite—to a certainty. Ashthwaite would have known that Jock had been promised a thrashing by my father, and that Jock would have hated him. An English half-wit isn’t so different from a Malayan or Goanese half-wit when all’s said and done. They’re the same mixture of idiocy and cunning. Give one of my half-witted boys in Maramula a gun and he’d have shot the overseer who’d bullied him. I think that’s the likeliest explanation.”

  “You may be right—but Ashthwaite took a risk. If he’d been seen without his gun, people might have remembered it.”

  “Certainly—but Ashthwaite knows the lie of the land and the habits of the farmers. He would have thought all that out. However, I’m only offering you a theory. Obviously I’ve no proof. It’s a matter of elimination.”

  “Quite. I only regret that no one can produce any evidence, as, for instance, if anybody had seen your father coming back over the fields—or seen Jock in the interval between the end of the hunt and the time the shot was fired.”

  “But the time isn’t fixed, is it?”

  “No. There’s a margin of half an hour at least—probably more. There’s one piece of evidence I should like your opinion on, Mr. Garth. First, will you answer a question. Have you, since your arrival in England, had any American coins in your possession?”

  “American coins?” Charles stared. “What are you getting at? The answer is ‘no.’ When I arrived in England I had no money. That’s a literal fact. I reached Java in shorts and a ragged singlet. I was lent a coat and a sun hat. When I reached Australia I contacted a firm I’d done business with, and they booked my passage to England for me, and also, very generously, gave me a small guarantee at an English bank. One of them—a personal friend, lent me a fiver so that I should have a spot of money on board. A fiver—I ask you. I played bridge in the hope of doubling it: I did win a bit—but by the time we reached Liverpool I hadn’t a shilling left on me. As for American coins—where the deuce do you think I got them—and why on earth do you want to know?”

  “The reason’s very simple. A twenty-five-cent piece—U.S.A.—was found among the peat moss in the hull.”

  “Good God!” Charles Garth stared, his face frowning. At last he said: “I begin to see daylight on one point—the Superintendent’s interest in geography. He wanted to know by what route I reached England. Why the deuce couldn’t he have asked me about the coin straight out, as you have done? I suppose he thought he’d got a likely suspect. Well, well… Anyway, I’ve never had any American coins on me. I know that.”

  “Can you help me by making any suggestion as to how such a coin got into the hull?”

  “God help us—what a question. I haven’t the faintest notion. One thing’s pretty certain—Jock didn’t drop it. Of course…”

  He broke off, and sat forward, leaning his chin on his hands, his elbows on his knees, staring at the flags. Macdonald waited for a while and then echoed Charles’s last words.

  “Of course?…”

  Charles raised his head. “Nothing. I was just thinking. It’s damned odd.”

  “What connection can there be between Garthmere and an American coin?” went on Macdonald. “There haven’t been any Yankee troops about here, have there?”

  “No, not to my knowledge at least. I haven’t seen a Yank since I came here. In any case, troops never come to this back of beyond—not even English ones.”

  “Your elder brother went to Canada, I’m told.”

  Charles groaned. “Oh lord, you’re trotting that out again. I told the other police wallah his detection was a bit hoary when he got on to Richard. Damn it, man, he left here twenty-five years ago, and no one’s seen him since. If Richard had put in an appearance in these parts the whole place would be buzzing with the news. There’s mighty little to talk about in Garthmere. Weather, crops, and beasts—and then beasts, crops, and weather for a change. If any of the farmers’ sons come home on leave, or a stranger is seen at a farm sale, the fact is chewed over ad infinitum. No. If Richard had been seen, we should have heard about it.”

  “Is this possible—that he has been seen, and that folks are careful not to mention the fact to you?”

  “Why on earth?—of course they’d tell us.”

  “I wonder… It might look rather like making a suggestion that he was responsible for the shooting.”

  “Tact, eh?” asked Charles. “D’you think our farming neighbours are that tactful? Well, anyway, I can’t go round the valley asking, ‘Have you seen Richard lately?’—you must do that yourself.”

  “I’m doing it—of necessity. Not that I expect any result that way, but it’s got to be inquired into. The other point which strikes me is this. I don’t believe your brother Richard—even if he did it—went and secreted himself in the old hull on the off-chance that Mr. Garth might visit it some time.”

  Charles began to laugh. “Sorry. I’m not being flippant, but the picture you conjure up is rather priceless. Returned prodigal goes to eat husks in a hull, and waits patiently for days, or weeks, as the case may be, until hated parent puts in an appearance. Not too good, what? Incidentally, it’s my brother you’re talking about.”

  “Yes. I hadn’t forgotten—neither had I forgotten that it was your father who was shot.”

  “All right. Don’t let’s lose our wool. I’m willing to discuss the Richard possibility, but don’t talk to Marion about it. She’s had enough to put up with lately, for all that she looks so tough. If you’re going to put it on to Richard—though the idea’s mad to my mind—kindly explain two things. One is: how did he know the old man would go into the hull? Two is: how did he get a shotgun? Did he bring it from Canada with him?”

  “Both very cogent questions, Mr. Garth. Let us consider the second one first. We don’t know that your brother has been in Canada all these years—or do we?”

  “Search me!” said Charles. “We’ve just taken it for granted.”

  “In detection we can’t take anything for granted. He may have been living within a few miles of this place—unknown and unrecognised. He may have been in Wensleydale, or up in the Lakes, or up by Kirby Stephen. Folks here don’t go far afield.”

  “Damn it, you’re right there! So what?”

  “If he intended to do what we are suggesting, he wouldn’t have wanted to be seen carrying a gun, even though he had changed out of all recognition. He would have known there was one place he could find a gun—and ammunition as well. Here, in your gun-room. He could have counted on the fact that nothing would have changed here while your father was alive.”

  “My God!” groaned Charles. “You’re suggesting he came here, to this house?”

  “Why not? How many people were in this vast house that afternoon?”

  “Here? Nobody—except the old Biddy—Mrs. Moffat. She was in the kitchens, because I saw her half a dozen times.”

  “Exactly. Jem and Bob Moffat were at the hunt. Your brother Malcolm went up to the fells. Miss Garth and Miss Meldon were lifting potatoes. You were about the shippons. I haven’t been over this house, but I should imagine that there are a good many ways of approaching and entering it, unseen from the kitchen quarters.”

  “Lord, of course there are—dozens of them.” Charles mopped his forehead. “I can’t get used to this idea,” he said. “It gives me the hump. Richard and I played in this house as kids... It’s a beastly idea.”

  “Murder is beastly—with apologies to the beasts,” said Macdonald. “Now here is a theory. I put it up like a skittle for you to knock down.
Richard Garth may have been in the neighbourhood unseen. He may even have made contact with someone who told him about the fox hunt.”

  “Ashthwaite?” burst out Charles. “If so, he’ll never admit it. Never—no matter how you third-degreed him.”

  “Anyway—assume for the moment that your brother knew about the fox hunt. It was an opportunity—there’s no disguising it. Every one in the place was out with a gun. He could have guessed that no one would be left in the house on a fine September afternoon. Could he not have got into the house and borrowed a weapon?”

  “Of course he could,” replied Charles. “Equally, of course, he didn’t. It’s fantastic. Anyway, you haven’t answered the other part of the question. How did he know that Father would go to the hull?”

  “He couldn’t have known, but if he were in touch with Ashthwaite, he could have guessed at a probability. Isn’t it true that two of your stirks broke out and were missing from their pasture on the morning of the hunt?”

  “Were they? God knows—I don’t, and neither do I see what that has to do with it.”

  “It means that a fence or gate was broken, or the beasts wouldn’t have got through. Who generally did odd jobs like mending fences? Did Mr. Garth ever do it?”

  “We all do it—it’s one of those never ending jobs. The hedges on this farm aren’t thick enough, and they’re always having to be reinforced. The old man would bung a post in, or cut some thorns to fill a gap if he noticed one.”

  “It’s a poor sort of job I should imagine. Cutting thorns isn’t every one’s notion of fun.”

  “Fun? If you think farming’s fun you come and try it,” growled Charles. “It’s just one damned grind from morning to night.”

  “One needs to have done it all one’s life to enjoy it, I expect,” said Macdonald. “To get back to my theory: if a fence had been broken and your father knew of it, wasn’t it likely that he would have gone and mended it after the hunt was over?”

  “Possibly—but how could any one have known in advance that the cattle would break out?”