by Gwen Moffat
‘You don’t say.’ He stood at the window and looked up the dale where the headwall was hidden by rain drifting towards them. ‘She’ll be halfway to London now,’ he remarked wistfully.
‘You should report that broken window to the police.’
He shrugged. ‘He won’t come again: now he knows there’s nothing here.’
*
Miles Mossop was a very different kettle of fish from Harper. Rumney had told her that on a wet Saturday she’d find few customers in the hotel bar so she snatched a bite of bread and cheese at Sandale House, then, clad in waterproofs and carrying a rucksack, she took the squelchy path across the green again. There was no change at Coneygarth, the windows still tightly closed and no smoke rising from its chimneys.
She traversed the fellside through the dripping trees and, arriving behind Storms, slithered down the slope to its depressing backyard, trying to make allowances for the fact that anywhere must look miserable in this weather and that empty crates and dustbins must go somewhere.
She prowled round the building, peering in windows at dim interiors and plastic-covered chairs. In one room, light at the back illumined shelves of bottles. She struggled out of her over-trousers and cagoule in the porch, draped them across her rucksack and stepped into the hall. As she hesitated, a fat man appeared and regarded her sourly.
‘Good afternoon.’ She was pleasant but firm. ‘Would you like me to remove my boots?’
‘We don’t have a climbers’ bar.’
‘Are you objecting to my footwear or my person? The boots are easily removed.’
‘I’ll serve you with drink.’ It was projected as an insult. He could be thinking of the rule about publicans refusing drinks at their discretion but, if so, he didn’t invoke it.
She put her boots outside and walked across the hall in her stockinged feet: the picture of an elderly spinster panting for a drink. She trusted that Mossop would fail to recognise a healthy glow and would put her down as a near-alcoholic.
The bar was empty. ‘My name is Pink,’ she announced, eyeing a high stool with a cigarette burn in the cushion and rejecting it. He grunted. ‘Are you the proprietor?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’m staying at Sandale House.’
‘And what d’you want here?’
Her glance ranged the shelves and she remembered tardily that she was a walker rained off the hill.
‘Vodka and green ginger. And what will you have?’
He was an opportunist. ‘I’ll have a drop o’ Scotch.’ He served the drinks in silence while she observed the room. When Storms had been a private residence this would have been the drawing room; it looked across the gravel sweep to a wet stone parapet and the tops of trees. The ground fell away very steeply to the road. The view would be the best part of the place now. Inside there were shiny brown armchairs, formica tables and enough Birmingham brass to stock a souvenir shop. A small stick-like object hung on a string above the counter.
‘Sixty pence.’
‘Your very good health.’
‘Cheers.’
‘What a dismal day!’
‘You’ve got to expect it at t’back-end in Lakeland. You don’t pick a good time for a holiday.’
‘Actually I’m looking for a cottage to buy.’
‘There’s none in Sandale.’
‘I would have no objection to renting on a long lease.’
‘There’s plenty of summer places below the Throat but they’re only empty in t’winter. Folks let ’em for forty, fifty pun in t’season.’
‘That’s out of the question.’
‘Ay, well. . . .’
‘I wanted a place in Sandale; I knew it many years ago, but it’s changed.’
‘Lots of people about in the summer.’
‘It’s changed in the winter as well. People used to be so neighbourly in these remote dales; everyone was ready to lend a hand when it was needed, all so friendly . . . but now, I don’t know . . . these anonymous letters going round; I’d find it very unsettling.’
He glowered. ‘What—anonymous—letters?’
‘Yes; it’s not a thing you like people to know about, is it? Are you a victim as well?’
The glower was replaced by astonishment. ‘Is Rumney getting letters?’
‘Oh, he and others. Each person thinks he’s the only one receiving them, and yet—how many are there? Four, five, a dozen?’
‘How do you know?’
‘People talk.’
‘Who you been talking to? Who’s had them?’
‘I don’t think it would be ethical to—’
He slammed the counter with his fist. ‘I’m asking you! Who’s been getting ’em?’
‘Control yourself, man. You’re in no position to lose your temper with a customer, nor with anyone else—’
He was suddenly wary. ‘You can’t be from the police—’ He surveyed her clothing in confusion but wouldn’t meet her eyes, ‘That’s mad. What are you then? You’re not looking for a cottage; what d’you know about it? You’re a stranger.’
Miss Pink regarded him sternly. ‘My interest is in who’s sending them, not in who’s receiving them. Wouldn’t you want to know the identity of the sender?’ Her voice dropped. ‘Or do you know?’
He hesitated. ‘I had a phone call,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Just one. I took no notice and I didn’t get any more.’
‘Blackmail?’
He licked his lips. ‘Yes.’ It was drawn out; he was trying to think as he spoke and finding it difficult. ‘He said as I was serving drinks after hours and said the police would get a phone call unless I left some money. To leave it outside t’back door, he said.’
‘And did you?’
He grinned nastily. ‘Like hell! I’m no easy touch. Besides, I don’t serve drinks after hours.’
‘Did you recognise the voice?’
‘He were a southerner. I didn’t know who it was.’ Again that grin. ‘He wouldn’t be very fit if I had known, not now, he wouldn’t.’ She sipped her drink and he went on, his tone noticeably milder, ‘You get these outbreaks in country districts: some old woman living alone thinks she can make some easy money on the side.’
‘You said your caller was a man.’
‘When did you have this phone call?’
‘Well, some fellows are like old women, aren’t they?’
He shrugged. ‘October some time.’
‘Just the one, or have you had any since?’
He looked away. ‘Just the one.’
‘Did you have a letter?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know anyone who was getting them?’ She regarded him intently and he returned the stare without belligerence, considering his reply. ‘No one said anything to me. The wife was supposed to be getting phone calls but if she was, she said nothing to me about them.’
There was a stamping of feet outside the entrance and men’s voices. He glanced at the clock. People crowded into the hall. He went out of the door behind the bar shouting, ‘You can’t come in here without you take your boots off. . . .’
She reached up and took down the wooden object that hung above the counter. The string was a leather thong threaded through a hole at one end. It was about seven inches long and rounded, tapering from its head to the thong end and surprisingly heavy; weighted with lead, she guessed. She hefted it; it must be a weapon of some kind. A cosh? She licked her handkerchief and rubbed the head. The voices approached and she replaced it quickly. Walkers entered, loudly disputing who should buy the first round. Mossop appeared, she retreated from the counter and slipped away.
As she finished lacing her boots in the porch, the hall door opened and he asked roughly: ‘Are you from the police?’
‘How could I be?’
‘Look,’ he said tensely, ‘I don’t know who you are, or what you want but I know that people use private detectives—if they don’t want the police poking their noses into their business—’ he added nastily, �
��—but I’m telling you straight: the police had me at the station for two days and they can’t pin a thing on me because I’m clean, see? I’m not saying as I were always good to her nor as I wouldn’t do murder if I found the one as did it, but I didn’t do it! Got that?’
‘I know you didn’t,’ Miss Pink said.
‘Well, just remember it.’
*
Going down the drive she wondered how soon it would occur to him to question how she knew; he was remarkably stupid if he’d never considered that the weapon which killed his wife might be in his own hotel—or was he? She looked at the dark stain on her handkerchief where she’d rubbed the head of that strange little weapon. The police had missed it too. Could it be that, suspecting Mossop, they never dreamed that the weapon could be hanging in the bar for everyone to see, because, if Mossop had done it, he’d have disposed of it? And if Mossop had been the killer, he’d have wiped away the blood. She stopped, heedless of drops falling on her hood from the trees. Did this mean that Peta was killed at Storms, killed in the bar while her husband slept upstairs?
It wasn’t impulse that made her leave Storms’ drive and strike through its grounds, but the thought that Sarah Noble was an alcoholic. The Nobles were an unknown quantity; there was Denis with the elegant mistress living a mile away, and his wife who was—what? Old, plain, unmoved that her husband spent Friday nights regularly in someone else’s bed? And Peta had been Noble’s mistress too, for a while.
*
Her behaviour was deliberately repetitive. She approached High Hollins, the Nobles’ house, by its backyard, walked round the side peering in at windows, stripped off her waterproofs in its porch and opened the front door. No one appeared in the dark hall.
‘Is anyone here?’ she fluted in the dimness.
There was a movement from the room on her right. ‘Who’s that?’ A woman came to the doorway: a bulky little figure against the light.
‘Perhaps I ought to remove my boots,’ Miss Pink suggested.
‘Why, dear?’
‘They’ll spoil your carpet.’ She bent and started to untie her laces. There was no sound from the watcher. She put the boots in the porch, closed the door and advanced across the hall.
‘I feel such a fool, padding about like a hippie,’ she gushed, ‘Now—I’m dying for a drink.’
Weak bloodshot eyes peered at her and the woman stepped back—which she was forced to do in the face of the other’s confident approach.
Miss Pink entered the drawing room boldly and halted. ‘Oh, I’m not dressed for the lounge; I thought you had a cocktail bar.’
The woman giggled. ‘No bar, dear; we drink in comfort in this establishment. Sit down.’
‘I don’t. . . . Are you the—? No.’ Her gaze took in the room. ‘But this is a private house! I do beg your pardon . . . what appalling manners!’ She made to retreat, her face red, but the woman barred the way.
‘No, don’t go. Stay and have a drink now that you’re here; after all, it’s what you came for. Sit down.’ The tone was amused but wistful. ‘The name’s Noble. It’s unusual to have visitors but you’re very welcome.’
‘I couldn’t trespass—’
Sarah had crossed to the sideboard. ‘Whisky, gin, brandy?’
Miss Pink gave an embarrassed little laugh. ‘Well, at least I must introduce myself. My name is Pink and I’m staying at Sandale House.’
‘With the Rumneys? How nice; I adore Grannie. Now, what will you have?’
‘A very small brandy.’
She saw now that Sarah was a thin little person, the bulky appearance being the result of a number of sweaters worn over wide trousers. Her hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed since she’d got out of bed, and as she crossed the room, intent on not spilling the contents of Miss Pink’s glass, she took quick tottering steps. With her head poked forward from hunched shoulders she gave the impression of an anxious old tortoise.
The glass was half full and Miss Pink looked alarmed. ‘You need this if you’ve been out all day,’ Sarah said with a maternal air. ‘Personally,’ she added drily, ‘I need it if I’m in all day.’ There was another glass on the coffee table in front of the fire. She sat down and looked at her visitor with interest. ‘My company can’t be worse than Mossop’s,’ she remarked.
‘I’m sure it isn’t. Mossop?’
‘The man at Storms: the hotel you must have been making for. It’s next door; you came down to the wrong house, that’s all.’
‘I see.’
There was a pause. ‘One shouldn’t drink alone anyway,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s morbid. But it’s more discreet than going to pubs and making an exhibition of oneself; besides, one has to drive. . . .’ She leaned forward and poked the fire. ‘I’m an alcoholic; I suppose they’ve told you?’ As Miss Pink sought for words, the other went on: ‘Yes, they have. Naturally. Warned, I should have said.’
‘A warning is against danger,’ Miss Pink said inanely.
‘Or boredom.’
‘Boredom is worse than insecurity.’
‘Ah, a wise woman.’ Was there a hint of sarcasm in the tone? ‘What are your vices?’
Miss Pink considered. ‘Inquisitiveness.’
‘Are you indulging that now? My God! You’ve got plenty of opportunity in this place!’ When Miss Pink didn’t respond, the other pressed: ‘Haven’t you?’
‘Quite a lot.’
‘Staying with Rumney, you said. Did he send you?’
‘Why should he send me?’
‘You tell me, dear.’
Miss Pink asked: ‘Why did no one go to the police about the anonymous letters? Or just tell them when they were here investigating the murder?’
‘You think there’s a connection?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘That’s why you wrote to Rumney.’
‘I wrote to Zeke? What makes you think that?’
‘It was an educated person, and one who was almost certainly a victim herself.’
‘It could have been Lucy Fell, the doctor or his wife, or my husband, or Zeke himself; even Arabella.’
Miss Pink thought this over seriously and then asked, ‘Is the writer of the other letters an educated person?’
Sarah lit a cigarette, taking a long time about it. ‘I’ve not had any letters myself but I’ve seen one. They are not very literate but they’re clever—or perhaps I should say cunning.’ She twisted her wedding ring. ‘I understand that the person who sends them combines them with telephone calls.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it goes on, dear—indefinitely, and sometimes he wants the money taken to a new place.’ Miss Pink held her breath. ‘You didn’t know that,’ Sarah said.
‘I didn’t. How much is demanded at a time?’
‘Small sums—I believe; as I said: he’s cunning.’
‘“He”?’
‘They said it’s a man.’
‘When did this thing start?’
‘I—’ Sarah flushed. ‘Some months ago: back in the summer; June, I believe.’
‘How many letters did Peta have?’
‘I don’t know if she had any; she had the telephone calls so, since the two seem to go together, one assumes she had at least one letter to begin with.’
‘Why was she being blackmailed?’
Sarah was surprised. ‘But you couldn’t blackmail Peta! She had no money, and he was crafty; I mean, if he only asked what he knew people could afford, he’d never try to victimise a poor person, would he?’
‘Unless the blackmailer was Peta herself. Everyone agrees that she was short of money and there’s only her word for it that she was a victim.’
‘But it was a man on the phone!’
‘A man’s voice. That’s easily imitated. If it had been Peta that would explain why there have been no more letters or telephone calls since she was killed.’ It was a guess which emerged as a statement. The other nodded, staring at the table. Miss Pink looked
away and heard Sarah’s voice, a careful voice: ‘Have there been no more then?’
‘Could you imagine her as a blackmailer?’ Miss Pink asked.
The other gave this serious consideration. ‘She was selfish and neurotic. Certainly she needed money but she could get that quite easily from men. My husband had a brief relationship with her, very brief.’ She was objective, not bitter. ‘I don’t think Peta would have—could have been a blackmailer on her own; only if she’d been doing it for someone else.’
‘Miles Mossop?’
‘He was the only person who was close to her.’
A car drew up outside. ‘You’ve got visitors,’ Miss Pink said, without embarrassment, quite herself again.
‘It’s my husband, but there’s no need to go.’
‘I’ve trespassed on your hospitality for long enough—’ but Denis Noble appeared in the doorway and paused at the sight of the visitor. His wife introduced them.
Noble said, ‘I went out for a bit of rough shooting and got one pigeon! What a terrible afternoon it’s turned out. Don’t go, please; we don’t have many visitors.’ He retreated and Miss Pink realised that she was being studied by her hostess.
‘Are you on holiday?’ Sarah asked politely.
‘I’m looking for a cottage.’
‘Are there any in Sandale?’
‘Coneygarth may be vacant soon, if Jackson Wren goes.’
‘Is he going? I didn’t know.’
‘I think now that Arabella has terminated the affair he may be persona non grata.’
‘I didn’t know Arabella had terminated the affair. That’s a euphemism for a quarrel, I take it.’ She was amused. ‘We don’t really know Jackson; his father’s the Council roadman.’
Noble came back and went to the sideboard. ‘Not the best weather for walking,’ he observed, coming to the fire with a full glass, eyeing Miss Pink’s breeches. ‘Would you like a pair of my slippers?’ She declined gracefully.
‘Miss Pink says people have been getting anonymous letters, Denis.’
He grimaced. ‘All over the dale, is it? That’s a bad show.’
‘Did you know anything, darling?’
‘Well—’ He stretched his legs. ‘Lucy had one. Nasty thing, she burned it.’ No one pressed him for details. ‘Who else has been getting them?’ he asked of Miss Pink.