Henry nodded agreement. ‘But even driving slowly, in bad winter weather, I doubt it would have taken so much time. And this was not bad weather. It was June, it was still light, and as a frequent visitor to the Belmonts’ house I imagine Everson was familiar with the route.’
Mickey glanced up as the outer door swung open. ‘And here’s our driver for today,’ he said. Henry was pleased to see that once again it was Constable Burton. He would, Henry thought, be a good person to ask about the route and how long it might take to drive on an ordinary June evening.
Constable Burton’s opinion matched their own and he offered to drive them both from the crash site back to the Belmonts’ house so they could examine the route later, if there was time.
‘What do you know about the Eversons?’ Mickey asked. ‘Are they a local family?’
‘The grandfather bought the estate, I suppose about fifty years ago. There are several farms, some forestry, a lot of tied cottages and I think they’ve some involvement in the weaving. We have a lot of textile mills around here, though not as many now as we did have even fifty years back. He doesn’t have a bad reputation as a landlord, but then again he doesn’t have a good one either. The family donate to charity on a regular basis, because that’s expected round here, all the landowners do. Mr George Everson lives on the land full-time, like his father did before him but the rumours say that Malcolm Everson was not so keen. Not the farming type, or the business type, so his father had sent him away to study law. Fortunately there is an elder brother who seems cut from the old cloth. I’ve met the brother, Mr Ford Everson and I have to say, sir, I don’t dislike him. He’s quite a bit older than Mr Malcolm, and he’s a local magistrate, so I’ve had dealings with him time to time. He’s not a man to put on false graces, if you get my meaning. Some might call him blunt, but he’s quite a decent sort as these things go.’
Mickey reflected the previous day that this young man would probably not have been so outspoken but they had encouraged his observations and his confidence had grown and this local information was certainly proving useful. He was potential detective material, Mickey thought.
At first the journey had taken them along a road that was similar to yesterday’s, rocky and wooded and narrow and with a steep drop-off. Then they found themselves descending into a broad and sunlit valley. The sunlight was still winter cold but Mickey could imagine what it must look like in spring and summer, even in autumn when the trees turned red and gold and the sparkle bounced from the water. Surrounding the valley were high hills, not covered with trees but with what he guessed must be heath and heather. It looked barren to Mickey’s eye but he supposed there was a wild and severe kind of beauty to it.
‘How far away is the Everson place?’ he asked.
‘Another seven miles, going up there.’ Constable Burton gestured towards the moorland. ‘Good views from up there,’ he added, ‘but it’s mostly shooting country, all private ownership. You get walkers here in the valley but that’s as far as they go. There’s some Bolshie talk with the tourists and with some of the locals that they should be allowed to go up on to the moor, but I can’t see that happening, not in my lifetime.’
Mickey wasn’t quite sure why anyone would want to, but then he liked tramping along city streets and he presumed that not everybody would see the appeal of that either.
He glanced across at Henry who was busy following their route on the map and getting his bearings. ‘How far is the Belmonts’ house from the Eversons?’ he asked.
Henry pointed out their respective positions. ‘I suppose about twenty miles by road,’ he said. ‘I presume all the local families, the landowning families, I mean, are known to one another?’ he asked Constable Burton.
‘Most are close,’ he said, and there was an edge to his tone that spoke of unvoiced disapproval. ‘As the landlords go, like I said, Everson isn’t bad and their estate is one of the largest not in titled hands. The Belmont place is posh, but it’s not really that big. They don’t farm or anything like that – they keep it as a country retreat and employ a lot of the local girls when they need extra hands for parties and that sort of thing. They get people come up from London a couple of times a month, I suppose. Not so much in the summer, I think, as the family go away for a month or two around July and August. But they usually spend Christmas at the big house and, like I say, their house parties might happen a couple of times a month through the spring and autumn.’
‘And I suppose the local constabulary is very aware of the comings and goings?’ Mickey asked.
‘It pays to be.’ Constable Burton hesitated.
‘Come on, lad, what were you about to say?’
‘It’s not that there’s any harm in the young people that come up, it’s just that they have no understanding of the countryside or of the feelings of local people. They go tramping across the fields, upsetting the livestock and flattening the crops. Driving too fast, and I have to say often while under the influence. And you see the roads round here, you can guess how dangerous it might be, especially in the winter. It’s a regular occurrence, having to pull some car out of the field when it’s gone off the road and barged through a hedge or worse, demolished a dry-stone wall. And neither of those take five minutes to repair so the farmer has to cobble something together so the livestock don’t go wandering. And if you know sheep, you know they’re just woolly Houdinis. This is not the first accident we had on that bit of road where we were yesterday. Or the first fatality. But it’s like they come in as though they own the place and have no feeling for the locals, or at least for those that aren’t moneyed. Not that I want to speak out of turn, and I know I am, but you did ask.’
‘We have trouble with the same set in London,’ Mickey said. ‘Bright young things driving their cars too fast in races across the city. Taking part in treasure hunts and scavenger hunts, and they don’t seem to care whether they’re on private property or not. I agree, most of the time they’re not meaning any harm, they’re just thoughtless and rich and it never occurs to them that they might be causing trouble with their practical jokes or their brand of fun. But I can imagine it must rankle in a place like this.’
‘And did you ever run across Faun Moran or Malcolm Everson when you were dealing with troublemakers?’ Henry asked.
‘Not especially that I remember,’ Constable Burton said. Henry got the distinct impression that he was merely being tactful with the ‘not especially’.
The Everson house was old and grey and ivy-clad and compared quite dramatically to the stylish building they had visited the day before of the Belmonts. They drove down an avenue of trees and glimpsed the ubiquitous sheep, for much of the land seemed open and heather-covered and Henry wondered what on earth they could grow there, or how the estate made its living. He remembered what Constable Burton had said about this being shooting land. Did they have grouse here? Pheasants? Henry was not particularly au fait with country pursuits.
A number of barns and outbuildings dotted the landscape, also stone-built and around which seemed to be more cultivated land. The house itself had gardens beyond and what looked like an orchard. Constable Burton dropped them at the front and drove around the back of the house. He had been instructed to gather any gossip he could as no doubt their presence would have stimulated a lot of interest among the staff and the newspaper reports would have aroused curiosity in even the most proper cook or butler. The staff of a house like this often knew more about the business of the owner than any householder would be willing to admit and Henry had no doubt that Constable Burton was perfectly capable of extracting any such information that might be available.
They were led into a study that was warm, quite dark, formal but still inviting. It contrasted dramatically with the bright little room that the Belmonts used as their private sitting area. A young man came in to greet them and introduced himself as Ford Everson, Malcolm’s elder brother. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, was tall and straight and had a very direct way of looking at
the visitors as though summing them up and, Henry thought, appraising what trouble they might bring.
‘My father was called away on business. I hope I’ll do. I probably know as much as he does about this whole sordid affair. But I don’t know what else I can tell you. We’ve made statement after statement, been through the dreadful business with the coroner.’ He shrugged and spread his hands as though pained and eager to be disposed of the whole matter. ‘I understand that Mr Caius Moran is refusing to speak to the police,’ he added. ‘That he simply wants this unknown woman exhumed from the family tomb so that his daughter can be interred and the matter closed.’
This was news to Henry, but he merely nodded.
‘This is a difficult time for all concerned,’ Mickey intoned sympathetically.
A knock at the door announced the arrival of coffee. Just coffee, Henry noted, not the option of tea or cake and sandwiches. Everson was bound to be polite but he had no expectation of them pushing the limits of his politeness.
‘We understand you had the car brought here.’ Henry got straight to the point.
‘We did. What of it?’
‘And the luggage that was in the car?’
Everson shrugged. ‘I imagine if it was in the car then that’s where it still is. We didn’t want the car left to rot, it seemed …’ He paused as though unsure of how to express his thoughts, but in the end he said, ‘Seemed disrespectful to the dead girl. Of course, at that time we thought it was Faun, and we didn’t want it picked clean by sightseers and voyeurs. I imagine the men who winched the car from the ravine also gathered together whatever belongings they could find and put them back in the car.’
‘Sightseers would have to be quite determined,’ Mickey commented. ‘It is not an easy location to access.’
‘Apparently not. I didn’t go there. I arranged for the matter to be taken care of and it was, very capably by a man who owns a local repair place.’ He frowned, as though struggling to remember. ‘A Mr Birch, I believe. He brought the car here and parked it in one of the old barns that is no longer in use and that’s where it remains.’
‘We would like to see it,’ Henry said.
‘For what reason?’
‘I’m sure you understand, now that we know that Faun Moran’s body was not the one that was found in the car, we are investigating two cases of murder. That of Miss Moran and of the poor unfortunate that was in your brother’s car.’
Ford Everson sighed but accepted the inevitable. ‘I’ll get someone to take you to it,’ he said. ‘Or to give directions to your driver, it’s not far. I’m presuming there’s nothing more?’
He hadn’t even bothered to pour the coffee, Henry noted. He was eager to be done with them. ‘If there is then we will contact you,’ Henry told him.
Everson glanced at his watch. ‘You must excuse me. Please drink your coffee. I will send word that you are ready for your driver and that he needs to be given directions to the barn. Drop the key at the gamekeeper’s cottage, it is adjacent to the barn, you may just post it through his letterbox. He will know what to do with it. Now, if you will excuse me.’
Whether they would or not he left. Henry watched as he opened the heavy study door, not bothering to close it behind him. He heard Mickey pouring coffee, Mickey never being one to pass up what smelt like very good coffee. He handed Henry a cup. A woman’s voice attracted Henry’s attention and as Henry watched a girl, perhaps in her early twenties, came down the stairs and spoke to Ford Everson.
‘I saw a car pull up. Who is here?’
‘Nothing to concern you. Just the police following up on enquiries. You know, after this other business.’
He marched on past her and she turned and looked towards the study, her head slightly on one side as she considered the figure of Henry Johnstone. He felt himself thoroughly scrutinized though not judged, he thought. She was merely curious. She had blue eyes and very dark, bobbed hair and was dressed for riding. She smiled at him and then went on her way.
‘That must be Violet Everson,’ Mickey said. ‘The younger sister. I believe she was on the guest list for the ill-fated party.’
A moment later the butler returned to tell them that their car was waiting and the driver had been given instructions for how to get to the barn. He handed Henry the key, a large and somewhat rusted affair. Looking at it, Henry found himself hoping that the locks would still be working.
‘I hope you fared better than we did,’ Mickey said. ‘We were offered coffee but no time to drink it and a brief audience with Mr Ford Everson, but it was clear he did not want to remain in our company for longer than was absolutely necessary.’
Constable Burton looked rather pleased with himself. ‘I had a nice mug of tea and a piece of cake,’ he said. ‘And apparently Mr Everson is not happy about this new direction the enquiry’s taken. He believes it might upset his younger brother and it has certainly upset their father. He’s gone down to London, with a view to going anywhere he doesn’t have to deal with the police. Cook seems to think that he feels the family’s being brought into disrepute, that the inquest was bad enough and now they are to be dragged through the mud again. Apparently several members of staff have already left, because what happens above stairs it seems impacts on what happens below stairs and they don’t want their good reputation to be risked.’
Mickey laughed and then realized that Burton was serious.
‘No one wants to be judged to have been in service at a disorderly house,’ the constable said. ‘And I think in these parts a disorderly house probably doesn’t mean what you think it means down in London. Apparently they have no end of trouble hanging on to decent staff over at the Belmonts’ house and that’s why they bring in local girls to help out when they have guests. The rumour is they’re both short-staffed and short on cash and of course the girls just get an hourly rate, no bed and board, no commitment on either side.’
‘Interesting,’ Mickey said. ‘And yet they still host lavish house parties.’
‘Appearance is everything for some families,’ Henry reminded him. ‘How did the Wall Street crash and the London stock market fiasco affect them, is that known?’
‘It’s no secret it affected a lot of the families round here, but no one talks about it. Many of the estates dismissed staff, there’s a lot of land been quietly put up for sale. But the parties still go on and the houseguests still arrive weekend after weekend.’
There was an air of desperation about all this, Henry thought. He thought about the way that his sister and brother-in-law had sold the London house and other properties and retreated to the coast. Cynthia had just been quite relieved that they could sell their way out of debt and much of what was left she now personally owned or was in trust for their children. They had spoken recently of Albert reviving his business prospects and Cynthia had sounded quite hopeful. Henry knew that they had been incredibly lucky not to lose more, and that their good fortune had largely been due to Cynthia’s wisdom and financial acumen. But it had still been a tough time. The investigation that he had been involved in before Christmas had highlighted for him just how many bankruptcies and how much desperation the financial extremes in both London and New York had brought to those who had thought themselves secure.
‘That must be the barn,’ Mickey said.
Burton stopped the car in front of a large stone-built building with an almost intact roof and two small but broken windows. The doors were locked and the key did turn in the ancient lock, but discerning how they barely hung on their hinges and how rotten the wood had become Henry didn’t consider them to be of much value in terms of security. They opened the doors wide, so that the grey winter light could filter in and Burton brought flashlights from the car. They needed them in the dimness.
The car stood in the centre of the large barn, broken and disconsolate. The windscreen had been torn away and the paintwork displayed the evidence of damage caused by rock and tree roots and fire. Slowly and meticulously Henry and Mickey began to ex
amine this melancholy crime scene, now ripped from its context. Burton stood and watched them with interest, occasionally asking questions. The murder bag sat at his feet and from time to time Mickey asked for something to be retrieved from it. Camera, evidence bags, the measuring tape.
‘You can see where the fire began and how it spread,’ Henry said. ‘It did not begin in the engine or the fuel tank. The seat of the fire is exactly that – the front passenger seat. This is burnt through to the springs beneath and the scorching has spread up the back and along the inside of the door. When it crashed down the hill the seat frame was damaged and the seat itself pushed forward and down, which I suppose is how the girl’s ankle came to be trapped beneath it and why she was not flung from the car.’
He stood back and surveyed the damage, not from the flames but that which had been caused by the car’s journey into the ravine. It had received crushing injuries, scratches and gores, deep tears of the upholstery. ‘Now I look at the car, what strikes me is how Everson survived. How he was thrown out with, in reality, so little injury. And for that matter how the girl was not. Even if her ankle had become trapped. Would that have been enough to keep her in her seat? The entire chassis of the car appears to have been bent. If you look along the line it is warped and twisted completely out of shape.’
‘Could that have happened when they pulled it back on to the road?’ Burton asked.
‘I doubt it. The damage to the front end almost certainly did – you can see where they’ve attached the chains and straps and I’m guessing that added to the damage to the front axle. You can see here where the straps have rubbed.’
‘And the lack of fire damage is itself extraordinary,’ Mickey added. ‘Any fool could have seen that, even DI Shelton.’
‘To have not seen it, he would have to have been looking the other way throughout his so-called investigation,’ Henry said coldly. A thought struck him and he glanced at Constable Burton. ‘Is it possible the Eversons put pressure on him, on Shelton, I mean, not to look too closely? Is that something that is likely? You understand the politics of this place, so is that possible?’
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