by Gwen Moffat
‘So you’re going to phone your paper with an exclusive story.’
‘No.’ A pause. ‘Not yet. Not if you tell me what you found. You have to tell me, you know.’ She showed her astonishment. ‘Look,’ he pressed, ‘you can’t stop me going back to my car now, any more than I can stop you returning to Sandale. But if I go down to the valley, the first thing I’m going to do will be to find a telephone and release what I know: that Wren’s been found dead in a cave. Within an hour the reporters will be here in hordes, and then the public.’
‘That’s blackmail,’ Miss Pink said.
‘So how did he die?’
‘You said if I told you, you wouldn’t release it. Why not?’
‘Because, like you, I want to know who telephoned you and made demands for money.’
‘How do you know even that?’
‘You said so: outside the cave; voices carry. I saw the doctor go inside and I hung about, and then you all came out. I was behind a rock near the bottom so I only heard the last bit of your conversation.’
‘Why were you up here in the first place?’
‘Two things. Mossop told me about these caves and I’ve been watching all the police activity. I even photographed the packhorse bridge and realised my presence wasn’t exactly welcome. In fact, next time I show my nose in Sandale I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m asked some questions. I saw you and Rumney leave the hamlet—and I’ve got field glasses. Mossop told me where you’d be bound for and how I could get there easily without following you. And although the police have been to the hotel they weren’t there when I rang Mossop, so he was able to tell me they were looking for this girl and her car. It didn’t take long to put two and two together. I’m not a bad reporter.’
‘I can believe that,’ she said drily.
‘How did Wren die?’
‘There’s a wound in his head and a gun close by.’
‘What kind of gun?’
‘A Walther PPK .22.’
His eyes glazed. After a moment he asked softly: ‘And was there any sign of the girl?’
She looked away. When he spoke again his tone was flat. ‘The girl was there.’
‘Yes.’
‘How did she die, Miss Pink?’
She told him. His eyes bored into hers. He asked questions. It was a difficult situation to explain to a non-climber and one who had never been inside a cave system, but he was intelligent. He asked how she thought it had happened.
‘I can’t speculate; you’ll have to ask the police.’
‘You’ll know better than them; it’s a specialist’s job. You must have some idea.’
‘The first reaction is that she was hanged by accident, and that he committed suicide when he found her.’
‘But you don’t believe that.’ She blinked, against her will implying confirmation. ‘Why not?’ he asked.
Her shoulders slumped. ‘He wasn’t the type.’
‘But you think the girl fell over by accident?’
She asked mildly: ‘Who shot Wren?’
‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘who else is in it? Where did you drop the money?’
So he knew about that too. She told him where, watching his face and learning nothing.
‘Did you see any vehicles in the forest?’
‘No.’
‘None on the road?’
‘Some came up the hill as I left the forest; I took no notice of them. How did you know about the kidnapping, Mr Cole?’
‘I told you: Mossop and deduction for most of it; you’re telling me the rest.’
It could be true—and he had heard what she said at the foot of the crag.
‘Now what will you do?’ she asked.
‘I’m going to Sandale. I have to see the police. I suspect they’ll put an embargo on any Press release and I’ll have to go along with that, but I’ve got most of it already; I’m streets ahead of the competition once they give me the green light.’
‘I think you could be of assistance, Mr Cole.’
‘Oh? How?’
‘We might work together,’ she said carefully.
‘What’s your interest, dear?’
‘I liked Caroline. I need to find the person behind Wren.’
‘“Need”?’
‘Yes.’
They studied each other. ‘Strange as it may seem,’ he said, ‘I have values too. I don’t like kidnappers and I detest black-mailers. No—’ as she made a movement of impatience, ‘—you know what I’m referring to. Certainly I forced you to tell me the story but I didn’t extort money from you; I didn’t make your life hell.’ He said it balefully and saw she was surprised. ‘Perhaps I’ve met more blackmailers than you have.’ He smiled, but not with his eyes.
‘Where were you at seven-thirty last night, Mr Cole?’
‘I was in Mossop’s bar.’
‘Was anyone else there?’
‘Mossop, of course.’ He thought for a moment. ‘The fellow who waited on me at dinner looked in. There must have been a cook in the kitchen—a woman, that’s right; she came in the back and Mossop gave her a Guinness. Why?’
‘The kidnapper rang me at seven-thirty.’
‘So you’re considering me in the role. And Wren was shot on Saturday. I lunched in London with friends on Saturday and I left to come up here about four o’clock. I think I arrived at the hotel at nine. And then I was talking to Mossop—after the customers had gone—until late that night.’
Miss Pink said: ‘I don’t think you need the money. You have all the signs of affluence; you seem to be a satisfied person—and sane; you’d never hang around afterwards when things have gone wrong—’
‘They needn’t have gone wrong, dear; presumably the killer got his money.’
‘But two people have died!’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose he meant originally to keep Caroline alive or she would have been killed once they reached the cave and there would have been no need to tie her hands and feet. Did he intend to kill Wren or was that a contingency plan?’ He considered this while Miss Pink stared at him in astonishment. ‘Oh, yes.’ He acknowledged her consternation. ‘They don’t have any regard for life, these people, and less for suffering: look at that poor beggar, Harper. The girl died through an accident but after that Wren would have cracked, so he had to be killed. That was a mistake. The police might have believed it to be suicide, but then the kidnapper went ahead with the plan to get the money. Without the telephone calls the police might think only Wren had been in it, but with him dead and the money gone—’
‘That’s circumstantial,’ she argued. ‘It’s depending on Wren dying on Saturday. They might not be able to prove when he died, so he could have made the last call at seven-thirty yesterday. As for the money, again it’s dependent on time of death. He could have picked it up, in which case, where is it now? Alternatively it could have been removed by someone unconnected with the crime: poachers, a courting couple, anyone who happened to be in the forest last evening.’
‘Very far-fetched,’ Cole said pleasantly. ‘You’re looking at it from the policeman’s point of view. Let’s be realistic. Your kidnapper is a person who needs money—or someone who’s keeping up pretences—’
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘we were thinking in those terms for—’
‘For the blackmailer,’ he completed, ‘and the person who killed Peta. Mossop’s been talking—and other people.’
‘Wren fitted the bill for the greedy, impoverished type, but he hadn’t the intelligence for blackmail, least of all for this: the kidnapping.’
‘Someone used him.’
They exchanged glances without subterfuge. ‘You know them all,’ he reminded her. ‘Run through them.’
‘What, now?’ She was exhausted after the caves and the discovery of the bodies. She craved a cup of tea.
‘You did say I could be of assistance.’
She shifted her feet. ‘The doctor’s wife,’ she said petulantly. ‘This is silly.’
He ignored the
last part. ‘I met her.’ She raised her eyebrows. How he had got about! ‘I have migraine,’ he explained. ‘I called at the surgery for some tablets and met both of them. Nice people.’
‘Sarah Noble.’
‘She was being blackmailed. And such an old dear. Not Sarah.’
‘Her husband,’ she said weakly.
‘I met him at the Brights’. He’s not a killer; the type who might strangle his mistress in a rage, but not a plotter. He could have killed Peta, but he’s not responsible for this business—’ He gestured towards Shivery Knott. ‘He hasn’t the guts for a kidnapping.’
‘There’s Mossop.’
‘The same applies: a petty criminal only.’
‘That’s quite definite?’
‘Receiving stolen goods,’ he said lightly, ‘and stealing Rumney’s sheep: that’s Mossop’s level of crime. And—’ He stopped and his eyes shifted.
‘And what?’
‘—moving Peta’s body from his premises because he was terrified of being suspected of murder. An immoral little runt: more concerned with carrying on his fringe activities than in finding his wife’s killer.’
‘You make him sound the sadistic type who could have been the kidnapper all the same.’
‘No, he’s terrified out of his wits. Kidnappers are cool.’
‘This one may not be. We don’t know.’
Cole stared at her. ‘Who’s cracking in Sandale?’
‘Mossop.’
‘No, dear; he’d have cracked by now. I’ve had him drunk.’
‘I see.’
He returned to a mental list and she realised how much work he must have put in since his arrival and what a formidable memory he had. ‘Then we come to the hamlet. Harper and Wren are out of the running. That leaves Rumney.’
‘No.’
‘Well, where was he at the relevant times?’
‘But it’s not logical; he asked me to come here to try to help him. He was appalled at Peta’s death—’
‘Who wasn’t? And he discovered all the bodies. Where was he, dear?’
‘There are so many times concerned.’
‘Your telephone call yesterday at seven-thirty. Where was he then?’
‘I presume: at Sandale House.’
‘Who else was there?’
‘His old mother and his niece.’
‘That enchanting American child? I met her.’
‘Harper had the first call at one o’clock on Saturday,’ she went on. ‘The others were yesterday: at midday, at one o’clock and at seven-thirty.’
‘I’d like to know more about Rumney’s movements.’
‘You’re quite wrong,’ she said firmly. ‘And then there’s Lucy Fell. We were looking for someone poor. Rumney and Lucy are rich people.’
He was preoccupied. ‘People who look like farm labourers usually are. Labourers look like stockbrokers. That was a nice piece of tweed though—forty years ago. His jacket, I mean: the one without any buttons.’
‘That’s all of them,’ she said impatiently. The craving for tea was back. ‘And don’t forget the kidnapper must have killed Peta as well. There can’t be two murderers in the dale.’
‘Where was Lucy when Peta was killed?’
She stared, and then decided to humour him. ‘It was a Friday. Denis Noble dined with her at Thornbarrow and stayed the night there. And Lucy’s ruled out—’
‘Yes, dear?’
‘Well, I suppose you know almost everything now. Lucy was a victim too; she wasn’t being blackmailed, but she had an abusive letter.’
‘Really? I noticed an odd reaction when I suggested yesterday that I might find a skeleton in her bread cupboard. What was her secret?’
‘Oh, it was fabricated—and Lucy didn’t keep it a secret; she told me without my prompting. Her letter accused her of burying a baby in her own garden. Why—’ she’d caught his expression, ‘you don’t believe it?’
‘Of course not; it’s just what you’d expect. All anonymous letters relate to the victim’s activities. Poor little Peta asking for trouble because she’s a nympho—and getting it; Sarah loses control when she drinks; Mossop is a cinch for a neighbour with a suspicious mind, and anyone would think—seeing that Lucy is the local femme fatale, and such a decorative one with that gorgeous hair and the jewels and the supercilious expression, that somewhere in the lady’s background there has to be at least an abortion. So why not suggest a live birth? They were all Aunt Sallies, but only a local person could have known their secrets, and their characters. . . .’ He was silent, thinking.
‘Not Rumney,’ she insisted. ‘You’ve got some kind of case, but you have no one to hang it on.’
He said, as if he hadn’t heard her: ‘Yes, Rumney will do.’ He turned his fathomless eyes on her. ‘Not a kind of case: we’ve got it all now.’
Chapter Sixteen
Cloud came down and drifted across the moor and the rain started in earnest. It was going to be another wet night. Miss Pink tramped stoically along the path through the heather and in no time she was soaked. She came to the top of Shivery Knott and saw figures toiling up the scree below. Two of them carried a stretcher; several were in dark uniforms. She was far too wet to tolerate delay so she turned aside and descended to the hamlet by way of the wooded slopes at the back of Sandale House.
Grannie Rumney was scraping carrots in the kitchen while Arabella worked through a pile of washing up. At sight of Miss Pink the girl dried her hands and went upstairs to run a bath.
‘Where is everyone?’ Miss Pink asked, as usual having to shift a comatose cat so that she could sit to unlace her boots.
‘They’ve taken George Harper to the police station,’ Grannie told her, ‘and there’s a crowd of men gone up Shivery Knott with Zeke and some of the Mountain Rescue. I’m sorry that this should have happened: it must have been a shock for you.’
‘It wasn’t the bodies so much,’ Miss Pink said. ‘It’s the killer’s mind.’
‘Jackson was led astray,’ Grannie said. ‘You never could trust him. I didn’t say that to Bella because it would have sent her the other way and I thought that, seeing she’s a sensible girl, she would find him out before she suffered harm. Bella’s got her wits about her, not like that other poor child.’
Arabella came back. She looked pale and subdued.
‘Jackson was not the prime mover however,’ Miss Pink said.
The girl showed a spark of interest. ‘Who was then?’
‘I’m not sure. Did the police talk to you?’
‘Talk! They’re throwing loaded questions about Uncle Zeke! They’re mad. They’ve done nothing yet; you found the bodies, I found Jackson’s van—oh, they did find Caroline’s Lotus: in a plantation under Whirl Howe. Some forestry workers found it. Her luggage was still inside.’
‘I left the money there,’ Miss Pink said slowly.
‘I know. The police were over there, of course, and the money’s gone. What are you puzzling over, Miss Pink?’
‘Why was Caroline’s car at Whirl Howe?’
‘I thought Jackson put it there because he could come home on foot; it’s only a short distance back to Sandale over the tops: four miles or so.’
‘That would take him no more than an hour and a half. He doesn’t appear to have been seen by anyone, which suggests that he didn’t get here—or to Shivery Knott—until dusk, just about the time I heard him in the wood.’ Absently she started to peel off her wet jersey.
*
Some time later she knocked on Lucy’s back door and waited. She thought she could hear music through the sound of the rising beck. After a moment she depressed the thumb-latch, pushed the door—and the final movement of Beethoven’s seventh symphony met her, played too loudly. She thought she heard someone singing below the horns, and she stepped round the inner door.
Cole and Lucy faced each other across the room, Cole conducting with large gestures, Lucy in red velvet, sipping tea and regarding him quizzically. When she saw Miss Pi
nk she laughed like a young girl and gestured the older woman to the fire. Miss Pink hung her anorak in the passage. The symphony ended and Cole threw himself on a sofa, red-faced and gasping.
‘Come in and have some tea,’ Lucy said. ‘This man has depraved tastes and thinks Beethoven should assault one’s ear drums. He’ll be deaf before he’s fifty.’
‘Such a glorious tone,’ Cole enthused. ‘I never thought to find a gramophone like this in the sticks—oh, pardon! I’m forgetting my place.’
‘Have you been taking your pictures?’ Miss Pink asked.
‘Not while Beethoven’s on, dear.’
A coffee table was loaded with plates of food but Miss Pink declined tea. ‘How did your lecture go last night?’ she asked, sitting down. Lucy had taken an easy-chair and the firelight played on the red velvet. The only lights were two pale wall-lamps, and the flames flickered over their faces, making a hawk of Cole, an owl of Miss Pink.
‘It was interesting,’ Lucy said, as if the fact surprised her. ‘But what a journey home! There were stones all over the Throat—and the river! It was rather fun though.’
‘I know.’
‘Of course, you were out last night. Daniel’s been telling me. The police were here: asking questions about that wretched letter I had, the anonymous thing. It was a chief inspector who came, a detective; Hendry, is it?’
‘Fancy Harper having all that money in his cottage.’ Cole’s eyes sparkled. ‘Did you never suspect?’
‘No,’ Lucy said. ‘How would I?’
‘Of course, it was Wren broke in there last Friday,’ he said didactically. ‘The police told me. Harper’s come clean—except that he hasn’t said how he got the money.’
‘What else has he told them?’ Lucy asked.
‘Why, all the details of the kidnapping, dear, but then they’ll have had most of those from Miss Pink, who would have been more coherent than poor Harper. Wasn’t she wonderful, battling through the storm and delivering the money—imagine! She could have been shot!’
‘Why?’ Lucy asked.
Cole was askance. ‘He was there, wasn’t he? Hiding in the trees, watching her drop the money, darting out of cover and picking it up, running back to his car, then waiting.’