Miss Pink Investigates Part One

by Gwen Moffat

  ‘What’s brought you to Sandale?’ Rumney asked.

  ‘Vernacular architecture, sir!’ His face lit up with enthusiasm, and gold fillings flashed. Miss Pink’s brain worried away at the accent: Egyptian? Syrian?

  ‘. . . not concerned only with externals,’ he was babbling on, ‘but interiors too: spice cupboards, stone stairways, spinning galleries.’

  ‘You’ve come to the wrong place,’ Rumney told him, ‘the spinning galleries are at Hartsop.’

  ‘I’ll go there too. But Sandale House is seventeenth century, isn’t it?’

  ‘And Thornbarrow. That’s next door. Then there’s—’ Rumney glanced at Miss Pink.

  ‘Yes?’ Cole hung on the other’s words.

  ‘A longhouse.’

  ‘Not a longhouse! Unspoiled? No picture windows or central heating, an open fire?’

  ‘It’s got an iron cooking range.’

  ‘Well, they have their own charm.’ He was disappointed but he rallied. ‘When can I see these places? I may see them, mayn’t I?’

  Rumney nodded glumly. Cole sensed a lack of enthusiasm and turned to Miss Pink as an ally. ‘It’s the epitome of Lakeland,’ he insisted, ‘the low flat fields, the stone walls, woods, mountains. . . . Mr Mossop says there are mountains when the mist rises.’ He glanced out of the window at the rain driving down the valley again. ‘Oh dear, there’s no light.’

  ‘How long are you staying?’ Miss Pink asked.

  ‘That’s immaterial, dear lady; my employers are very rich.’ His gaze sharpened as he turned back to the window. ‘Some sun, and drifting rain showers . . . the grass is still green . . . those grey rocks. . . . Would you care to see some of my work?’ He was poised to dart away: not a light man but highly mobile.

  ‘I’d like to, but—’ as he made a movement, ‘—I have a call to make. Later today perhaps?’

  *

  Rumney and Miss Pink drove away from Storms in silence. It was she who spoke first.

  ‘Do I run you back to Sandale—or—?’ She drew to a halt in the drive out of sight of the hotel.

  ‘Or what?’

  She turned and looked at him. ‘The police?’

  He considered. ‘What would they do?’

  ‘Look for the killer.’

  ‘They’re supposed to be doing that now. Would they thank you if you told them this story? You’re basing the theory of Peta being killed in the bar on the priest and that gap in the curtains: that someone saw her drinking alone and persuaded her to open the front door. Won’t the police be working on that line, now that they’ve let Mossop go?’

  ‘The police don’t know that she was killed in the bar. I’m afraid that if we go to them, they’ll pull Mossop in again.’

  ‘And you think he didn’t do it.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have left the priest there, Zeke; at least he’d have wiped it.’

  ‘Won’t the police think that way?’

  They regarded each other. ‘All right,’ she said heavily, ‘we’ll leave it for the moment, but are other people at risk?’

  ‘Mossop’s fairly safe with Mr Cole around.’ He snorted. ‘A formidable fellow, that; what did you make of him?’

  ‘Where does he come from? What’s his accent?’

  ‘Greek? Rumanian?’

  ‘Farther away than that. It’s an odd coincidence that he should show up at this moment. He could have come here with an entirely different assignment from what he claims.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Why, the murder. An illustrated feature on the murder of a girl in a remote Lakeland dale would go down well with Paris-Match or Oggi.’

  ‘But he’d never stay with Mossop!’

  ‘Where else?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’d better get back. Will you run me home? I want to get Coneygarth secured.’

  As they drove up the lane he said: ‘Mossop went to pieces. He must have thought over what you said yesterday and come to the conclusion that you knew a great deal more than you do. I’ve never seen him so rattled. It shook him rigid to see you again, didn’t it? And then, your returning with me: he knew it was something important. He told you too much yesterday, he knew he didn’t stand a chance of bluffing you today. You meant business. He’s in an awkward position despite what you say about that priest. He could be a very subtle fellow, you know, and not a rather stupid one as you think.’

  *

  Sarah Noble was alone at High Hollins, Noble having gone next door to the Brights. He was expected back for lunch so Miss Pink hadn’t much time. She declined a drink and they studied each other, the one quite gentle, the other on her guard.

  Miss Pink asked: ‘Have you any idea who is blackmailing you?’

  Sarah answered predictably: ‘What makes you think I’m being blackmailed, dear?’

  ‘It started in September, not June, so it’s been going on for two to three months. How much have you paid to date?’

  Sarah looked round the room. ‘A hundred pounds,’ she said in a flat voice.

  ‘Who’s behind it?’

  ‘Do you know the reason for it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve got no proof.’

  ‘Someone has.’

  Sarah shuddered. Miss Pink said kindly: ‘At the worst, it would be brought in as manslaughter.’

  ‘How many years does that mean?’

  ‘Three, perhaps. Extenuating circumstances would help, with a good lawyer.’

  ‘How did you know there were extenuating circumstances?’ Miss Pink said nothing. ‘How much do you know?’ There was a frantic gleam in her eyes as Sarah wondered if she were being bluffed.

  ‘You hit a hiker on Storms’ bend in September and he died.’

  The little old face crumpled and the bloodshot eyes shifted as she thought about a drink, a cigarette, escape, until they came back to Miss Pink and Sarah started to talk, haltingly and then with relief.

  ‘I wasn’t drinking so much in the summer. God, that’s an age ago! The time’s been so long since. I was sinking a good bit in the evenings though, and one night, this Friday night, I was watching telly, and there was a play: about a married man and a young girl, a tart. . . . Denis was running after Peta then, you see. I didn’t mind Lucy, I like Lucy—’ she smiled weakly, ‘—I’m an old woman and she relieves me of responsibilities; she’s a convenient fixture in our lives, and safe.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘But then Peta came along; she was neurotic, selfish, greedy. I was afraid he might go off with her. I thought I’d put a stop to it—suddenly, on the evening I was watching this play. I’d lost sight of the fact that he wouldn’t be with Lucy on a Friday now that he was having an affair with Peta, and I phoned Lucy. I suddenly wanted him home; I wanted to have it out with him. I could make him see sense quite easily; I have the money. I rang Lucy and she said he wasn’t there but he was at Storms. At the hotel! So I—’ She trailed off. ‘This is ghastly,’ she whispered.

  ‘Why did you take the car?’

  Sarah looked at her in surprise. ‘But I was too drunk to walk, dear. I took the car. You know the rest.’

  ‘It might help if you told me.’

  The other nodded. ‘Three years, you said; well, it won’t—it can’t be as bad as the last two months. And I might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. What a proverb for this country! So—the hiker must have been going up to Storms and he was on my side of the road with his back to me. They said afterwards that he was wearing a dark anorak and dark jeans, and my eyes aren’t good at night. I saw him at the last moment and I swerved. There was a bump: far worse than hitting a sheep, more like a crash. I turned in Storms’ gateway and went back and shone the headlights on him. He was quite dead. I came home to ring the police but I had to have a drink first and then I realised that no one had seen it happen, nobody knew except me. So I didn’t ring them.’

  ‘Who mended the car?’

  ‘Mossop got rid of it for me.’

  ‘Ah. And sold you a new one?’


  ‘Second-hand. I paid him five hundred pounds over the cost of the one he brought back—from Newcastle.’

  ‘What happened to the damaged car?’

  ‘He told me they cut it up.’

  ‘Fragmented. How soon did the blackmail start?’

  ‘I had a letter about two weeks afterwards. It said he—the writer—was sorry about the accident—accident was spelt with two “d”s—and that I should have twenty pounds ready and he’d telephone.’

  ‘You said it was semi-literate.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘The spelling was poor, and some nouns began with a capital—like “car” and “pound”. He said pound in the singular. It was signed “A Watcher” with a capital “W”, I remember.’ Her eyes dilated.

  ‘What was the writing like?’

  ‘A sloping forward script difficult to read; it was all strokes. He also said I wouldn’t hear from him again; I suppose he meant after I’d paid the twenty pounds. He said, “I am a lad of my word.” It was vile.’

  ‘Where was it posted?’

  ‘I didn’t look.’

  ‘Have you still got it?’

  ‘No. I lost it.’

  ‘Lost it!’

  ‘I put it in my handbag and it just disappeared. I must have burned it one night. I hated the sight of it.’

  ‘Did you have more letters?’

  ‘No; after that it was telephone calls: telling me when he wanted money and where to leave it.’

  ‘Where did you leave it?’

  ‘It was always under a cushion in the car but sometimes he changed the place where the car was to be parked; it was always a place in Carnthorpe though—one of the car parks.’

  ‘Did you watch to see who came to the car?’

  ‘No, dear; someone follows me to make sure I leave the car park. There’s a gang of them.’

  ‘Is that what he told you?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t you believe that?’

  ‘How does he talk?’

  ‘A London accent, I’d say: rather common; not like anyone round here.’

  Chapter Twelve

  On her way up Sandale’s lane she met a car coming down and pulled into a passing place. The other car stopped and George Harper wound down his window. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for several nights and his eyes were shocked. His mouth worked before he could speak but when he did, he sounded almost apathetic.

  ‘I need your help. Caroline’s been snatched and they want money. I suggested you, and they’ve agreed to it.’

  ‘You suggested me for what?’

  ‘To hand over the money.’

  Her eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘Now? In broad daylight?’

  ‘It’ll be tonight, I expect. We must go back in case the phone rings.’

  She said steadily: ‘You seem remarkably cool for a man whose daughter has been kidnapped.’

  He nodded once. ‘I’ve known since yesterday lunch-time; the call came through at one o’clock, not long after you left me.’

  A red Aston Martin slid to a halt behind Harper’s Cortina and Cole put his head out of the window, looking very dashing in a peaked leather cap.

  ‘We meet again, Miss Pink! Will we see you this evening?’ He was arch.

  ‘I’m not sure of my commitments, Mr Cole. We’ll let you pass.’

  ‘He’s going to Storms,’ she told Harper, ‘let him through. I’ll go on to your place.’

  At Burblethwaite Harper drew in behind her and they walked up the path to the front door which he unlocked. There was no fire in the living room, and the remnants of a meal, including a tin which had contained baked beans, and a milk bottle were on the table. The place was cold and squalid. They didn’t sit down.

  He said: ‘It’s Jackson Wren.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He’s missing, and you know it. I saw you over there with Rumney this morning. He must have gone with her and he’s holding her somewhere.’

  ‘Have you any idea where the telephone call came from?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve had two: a second one this morning asking for someone to drop the money; that’s when I suggested you. Yesterday I thought the call came from a kiosk on a road or from a room on a busy street; there was heavy traffic in the background.’

  ‘You don’t normally have windows open in winter time. Did he have an accent?’

  ‘Not a northern one, just ordinary.’

  ‘Wren’s got a Cumbrian accent.’

  ‘There’s more than one in it. Forget that now; I don’t care who it is. We’ve got to get Caroline back safe. I don’t care, I told Wren that—or whoever he is, I said I wouldn’t go to the police, I wouldn’t do anything; just give me Caroline back, I said—’ He was starting to shrill.

  Miss Pink interposed firmly. ‘How much are they asking?’

  He gulped. ‘Fifty thousand.’

  ‘You can’t raise that!’

  ‘I’ve got it.’ He went to the bedroom and, returning with a suitcase, opened it. It was crammed with bank notes and Miss Pink had never seen so much money in her life.

  ‘You’ve had that in the cottage all along?’

  ‘Yes, that’s why I had the new locks put on. We haven’t got much time left; he said he’d ring about one o’clock. Will you do it?’

  ‘The police—’

  ‘No, no, no! They’ll kill her if I get outside help. I’ve promised them: that’s a condition. No police, no one at all, except you.’

  ‘Did he suggest me?’

  ‘No, he said someone. I suggested you. I thought you’d help me.’ He was pleading. ‘Will you?’

  ‘If it’s true,’ she said slowly, ‘if she’s really been kidnapped, then I’ll do it.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  She picked up a bundle of notes. Used fivers. She held one to the light; there was the watermark and the plastic strip.

  ‘Oh, it’s real,’ he said sardonically.

  ‘Where is it to be handed over?’

  ‘He’ll tell me in this next phone message.’

  She sat down. ‘Was it you who broke into Coneygarth?’

  ‘Yes. Last night.’

  ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘Nothing. No trace of her. And nothing to show where he’d gone. Did you find anything?’

  ‘No.’

  He sat down facing her and for some moments they were silent, then she asked: ‘How was it the money wasn’t stolen on Friday night?’

  He shot a quick glance at her. ‘It was well hidden.’

  ‘That’s what they were after,’ she mused. ‘It’s not your money, is it, Mr Harper?’

  ‘It’s winnings on the horses; I’m a professional punter. I’ve been lucky lately but you know how it is on race tracks: I ran foul of someone and I had to lie low for a while.’

  ‘Could it not be that person who’s got Caroline, not Wren after all?’

  ‘Does it make any difference?’ He was listless. It occurred to her that he wouldn’t have slept last night. ‘I don’t care who’s got her as long as I get her back safe.’

  ‘It was one o’clock when you had the phone call yesterday, and she left here after breakfast. What time would that be?’

  ‘About nine.’

  ‘How far could she have travelled in four hours?’ She calculated. ‘Half an hour to Penrith, then she could have done roughly two hundred and fifty miles on the motorway. Surely she’d be almost in London by one o’clock?’

  ‘I’m no good at distances,’ he admitted miserably.

  ‘That’s assuming doing seventy all the way,’ she murmured. ‘Suppose she had to go more slowly? Two hundred miles would bring her level with Northampton.’

  ‘Who knew she was coming? If Wren was with her, it’s different, see? If she was alone no one would know when she left here; she didn’t know herself what time she was going to leave. Why, on Friday night she arranged to climb with Wren. No, I reckon he left the dale in front of her and stopped her somewhere on the road.’

  �
��Then his van must still be in the area; they’d hardly go away in two vehicles. I suppose she’d go willingly in the first place?’ She was really asking the question of herself.

  ‘What happened at first—’

  The telephone rang and he leaped up. She followed and was beside him when he lifted the receiver.

  ‘Harper,’ he said unsteadily. He tilted the instrument towards her.

  ‘What does she say?’ A cold neutral voice came over the wire: just a voice.

  ‘She’ll do it.’

  ‘I’ll ring you tonight at eight. Repeat that.’

  ‘You’ll ring at eight—tonight at eight. Let me speak to Caroline—please will you put Caroline on? Let me talk to her.’ He turned to Miss Pink, his hand clutching the receiver. ‘He’s rung off.’

  It was true then; no one could simulate such suffering as showed in his eyes. She touched his arm and guided him to a chair, then started to look for tea things.

  ‘Have you any brandy in the cottage?’

  ‘I don’t want a drink.’ There was a pause. ‘Have one yourself,’ he added absent-mindedly. He said nothing else until she’d made the tea and brought him a cup, then he asked hopelessly: ‘Make anything of it?’

  ‘The call? No. Not a northerner, anyway. A trace of London, I’d say. I couldn’t hear anything in the background at all.’

  He drank his tea. ‘The Rumneys will be wondering where you’ve got to.’

  ‘Won’t you come over with me?’

  ‘How could I?’

  He was right. One look at his face and they’d know something dreadful had overtaken him.

  ‘And you . . . I can’t tell Rumney?’

  ‘Look, my girl’s life is at stake!’

  *

  The Rumneys were in the kitchen, Zeke reading the Observer, his womenfolk putting the last touches to Sunday lunch. Apparently she hadn’t been seen at Burblethwaite and they attributed her present air of constraint to Sarah Noble’s troubles. Rumney followed her to the living room.

  ‘Was it you who wondered why no anonymous letters had been found?’ she asked. ‘I think I know why. Sarah put hers in her handbag. If Peta did that as well, then I’d make a guess that they were both retrieved by the sender, and I think I see how he did it. It’s simple really. The door at High Hollins isn’t kept locked, nor the one at the hotel, of course. So far as the Nobles’ place is concerned, he had only to hide in the woods, as he did at the doctor’s house before he broke into the surgery. The big windows make those places like glasshouses. He’d nip into Sarah’s drawing room when she went to the kitchen or the lavatory. And then Wren frequented the hotel.’