Dead on Dartmoor

by Stephanie Austin

  I lingered by a stall selling locally pressed apple juice, sipped the proffered samples and chatted to the young couple running it. Devon used to be famous for its orchards and they owned one just outside of Lustleigh. They talked passionately about the revival of old varieties of apple; varieties with lovely names like Sweet Coppin and Fair Maid of Devon, or Pig’s Nose and Hangy Down. They were also selling pork and apple sausages, jars of apple chutney, and slices of apple pie served with thick clotted cream. I resisted. It was too early in the day to start being naughty and I had to get back. I contented myself with a sample of sausage speared on a cocktail stick and moved on.

  The marquee had begun to fill up in my absence. I’d barely begun to lay out my own wares when Uncle Sandy came in, accompanied by one of his antique dealer chums and I heard a soft groan from Vicky Smithson, whose table was on my right. ‘Oh no, not Barty!’ she muttered to herself. I craned my neck to see Sandy’s companion, a florid individual in a natty sports jacket. Sandy was introducing him to other traders and there was a lot of loud guffawing going on. I turned to Vicky. ‘Friend of yours?’

  ‘Not exactly friend, no,’ she answered softly. ‘Oh God, he’s coming this way! Has he got this table next to mine?’ She groaned again and clasped my arm. ‘Whatever you do, don’t let him get you in a confined space.’

  Vicky, a slim and attractive sixty-something, favoured the approaching Barty with an engaging smile and submitted herself graciously to his embrace. She then introduced him to me. ‘Eddie Bartholomew,’ he said, pumping my hand with enthusiasm, ‘but everyone calls me Barty.’

  ‘Juno,’ I responded, as coolly as I could.

  ‘Juno, eh?’ He rolled a lascivious eye over my body. ‘How apt!’

  Fortunately, Sandy, after enquiring if we were happy with the tables we’d been given, bore Barty off to meet his other comrades and I was able to get on with setting out my stock.

  I took my jacket off. It was already warm inside the canvas tent, and stuffy; a sickly smell of fudge was wafting in from the tent where it was being made. The public address system whined and coughed as it spluttered into life, a hearty voice announcing the day’s events. Later, we were promised, there would be a display by the Dartmoor Majorettes and a performance by Bovey Brass Band. Inside my skull a faint headache began to beat a warning tattoo. It was going to be a long, hot day.

  If Gavin’s fantasy magazines and graphic novels didn’t strike me as suitable for a country fair, I have to say that Barty’s stock struck me as even less appropriate: arms and militaria.

  I know some people are fascinated by medals and wartime memorabilia, but there were far too many nasty-looking knives and weapons on his table for me to feel comfortable with all the children around. One of these children was Gavin who, having plonked his magazines down on his table in two untidy piles, more or less abandoned his stall for the day, assuming that Pat would look after it. He spent ages poring over Barty’s weapons and came back brandishing a short, curved sword with a wicked-looking blade and even more lethal point.

  ‘You haven’t bought that?’ I asked, horrified.

  ‘Of course I have!’ He unsheathed it with a slither of metal and brandished it aloft. ‘The Sword of Virangha!’ he cried proudly.

  ‘Don’t wave that thing about in here,’ Pat told him crossly, ‘you’ll have someone’s eye out!’ The tent had become far too crowded for him to be messing about with a lethal weapon.

  ‘Put it away somewhere safe, Gavin!’ I hissed at him. ‘Why don’t you go and lock it in the station wagon?’

  ‘Good idea!’ he agreed readily. He swaggered off, the scabbard stuck through the belt of his jeans, and that was the last I saw of him.

  Pat sold two of his comics for him in his absence. Better still, she had a good day herself, selling several pairs of handmade earrings as well as knitted toys and animal doorstops. She has a real talent for creating animals with comic expressions and she’d sold a frowning pug and three particularly bonkers-looking sheep before I made my first sale of the day. Meanwhile, Sophie was doing well with her watercolour sketches and greetings cards. Her hedgerow paintings attracted great admiration, although they’re a bit expensive for an impulse purchase. She didn’t sell one, but four people walked away with her business card.

  I just wished I was doing half as well. I did sell a brass shell case – to Barty, of all people − a few glass brooches and the boot scraper. Unfortunately, I couldn’t resist a mother-of-pearl hatpin from one of Sandy’s chums, which wiped out most of my meagre profit.

  It became oppressively hot in the tent during the afternoon, and we took it in turns to make our escape and walk around the fete in the fresh air. Not being interested in small girls jumping fat ponies over bales of straw, and teenagers in short skirts twirling batons even less, I turned my back on the arena and headed for the house. Here I found Vicky, who had somehow escaped before me, enjoying tea on the terrace. I joined her in a pot of Earl Grey and a plate of dainty sandwiches.

  ‘Any trouble with the abominable Barty?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really. Thank God, I’ve got Tom between us to act as a buffer!’

  Whilst we sat watching the crowds of people milling about in the sunshine, thankful for a while to be separate from them, Jamie came up with a young woman on his arm who he introduced as his fiancée.

  Jessica was a pleasant young woman with soft brown hair and infinitely better manners than her future sister-in-law. She seemed a little shy and clung to Jamie’s arm with obvious adoration. I couldn’t believe he could be marrying such a sweet girl for money. I tried to imagine this English rose when she was older: the mistress of Moorworthy House, the gracious hostess in twinset and pearls. But there was something about her that didn’t quite fit. Her pretty floral dress was appropriate for a garden party, but I couldn’t see her mixing with the country landowners set, couldn’t quite see her in jodhpurs and waxed jacket, like Emma.

  ‘Emma not here?’ I enquired, after we’d engaged in a little polite conversation.

  Jamie shrugged. ‘Oh, she’ll be around somewhere.’

  Stuffing something nasty up her nose, no doubt. Jamie was concerned that we were having a good day, that we thought coming to the fete had been worthwhile. We assured him that it had, and he went off to attend to something, leaving Jessica to sit and drink a cup of tea with us.

  I was right about her as it turned out. She wasn’t a country girl at all. She lived in London where she worked as a PA. I asked how she and Jamie had met. They’d been introduced at some company event, apparently. Sandy had once worked with her father who owned a pharmaceutical firm. ‘I don’t expect you’ve heard of it,’ she said shyly. ‘Dravizax.’

  She was right, I hadn’t. It sounded like the name of a villain from one of Gavin’s graphic novels.

  Jamie came back to claim Jessica as they were due to judge the Scruffiest Dog in Show together, and Vicky strolled back to the marquee. Before I went back in, I popped to the loo, a trip that took me to the other end of the garden. It was when I was returning from there that I spotted Emma, holding on to the bridle of a fidgeting bay horse whilst she stood in earnest conversation with a man I recognised as Moss. I didn’t particularly want to say hello to her, and they seemed to be talking intently, so I just passed them by unnoticed and returned to the stifling canvas cave of the tent for the rest of the afternoon.

  The final judging had taken place, the brass band had trumpeted its last, the crowds had dispersed and we were packing up to go home. Barty and his chums had already left, Vicky had almost packed her stock and Tom had gone off to fetch their car.

  ‘Where’s Gavin?’ Sophie asked suddenly.

  I realised I hadn’t seen him for hours. His table was unoccupied, as it had been for most of the day. He’d shown no interest in it and I really don’t know why he’d been so insistent about coming. Pat shook her head. ‘He’d better come back and start packing up soon or I shall go home without him.’

  ‘I haven’
t seen him since he went to put that stupid sword in the car.’

  ‘He couldn’t have done that. He’d have needed my car keys and he didn’t ask for ’em. Not,’ she added, ‘that I’d have trusted that ninny with my keys. He’d probably drop them in the field and lose ’em.’

  ‘He must come back soon.’ Sophie was carefully stacking bubble-wrapped paintings in a box. ‘Even he must realise it’s all over. We could try his phone.’

  I should have thought of that straight away but, unused as I am to the luxury of a signal, it’s not always the first thing that occurs. After a few moments, Gavin’s phone began to ring, loudly, inside the tent. Pat bent down behind his table, where his jacket had slipped off the back of his chair, and produced the ringing phone from his pocket.

  ‘Moron,’ I pronounced, as I terminated the call.

  ‘Are you girls OK?’ Tom had returned to the tent, ready to load up.

  ‘We seem to have lost Gavin. He went off for a look around but that was hours ago.’

  ‘Do you want me to have a scout about?’

  ‘Oh, please don’t trouble, he can’t have got far.’ As I said it, I realised that this wasn’t true. Gavin could have gone anywhere. He might have decided to explore the house, although apart from the tea room it was strictly off limits to the public, or he could have gone for a walk and got lost. He could be anywhere.

  ‘Let me check out the beer tent, make sure he’s not passed out drunk,’ Tom offered with a grin, ‘and I’ll check out the gents’ loos, while I’m about it.’

  ‘That’s kind, Tom, thank you.’

  As Vicky had packed up and could do nothing until Tom returned, she volunteered to box up Gavin’s comics for him. Pat and I went off to retrieve our respective vehicles, leaving Sophie on guard in case he turned up whilst we were gone. We didn’t want him wandering off again.

  As we crossed the field where cars were parked, I saw a now familiar figure walking towards us. Not Gavin, but Moss. I had never spoken to the man, and other than just briefly with Emma, hadn’t seen him since we’d left him standing in the road after my van caught fire. I thought I ought to thank him for waiting for the break-down lorry to arrive and overseeing its removal to the garage. ‘Mr Moss!’ I called out.

  He saw me, halted in his stride and stared at me from pale-blue eyes. He looked horrified.

  ‘Mr Moss,’ I began, ‘I just wanted to thank you—’

  He turned his back and headed off in the opposite direction. As I called his name again, he quickened his pace. It was obvious from the rigid set of his shoulders and his lengthening stride that he didn’t want to talk me. ‘Well, I won’t thank you, then, you miserable, rude old bugger!’ I muttered. Takes all sorts.

  There was still no sign of Gavin. Tom had had no luck in tracking him down. He and Vicky were loading up. Pat had stowed her stuff and was leaning against her station wagon looking fed up.

  ‘It’s pointless you hanging around,’ I told her. ‘I’ve got room in the van for Gavin’s boxes; he can come home with Sophie and me.’

  ‘I’ll hang on a bit longer,’ she insisted, but after a few more minutes of standing uselessly fiddling with her keys, she allowed herself to be persuaded and we decanted his boxes into White Van. ‘You’d better take his rucksack,’ she said, handing it to me. ‘I don’t know why he brought it. It’s been sitting in the car all day.’

  Pat’s car trundled away across the grass, and Sophie and I began loading White Van. By now, the tent was almost deserted, the tables bare, the odd plastic carrier bag and sandwich wrapper left behind, littering the grass. ‘That boy is a bloody nuisance,’ I muttered, slamming the van doors shut.

  ‘I don’t like leaving you girls like this.’ Tom came up, looking at his watch. It was close on seven o’clock. It would be light for a while yet, but the sun was sinking lower, the sky over the moor blushing pink. ‘Something is obviously amiss.’

  ‘Not necessarily. If Gavin got fed up, I wouldn’t put it past him to have hitch-hiked home.’ But I was getting worried, and cross that the wretched boy was inconveniencing so many people.

  ‘Let’s see if we can find the organisers,’ Tom suggested. ‘They must be around somewhere.’

  We split up, Sophie and I to go up to the house in search of Jamie, Tom to check the other tents and talk to some volunteers gathering litter into bin bags, to ask if anyone had seen Gavin. Vicky was to stay with the cars and phone us if he arrived.

  We found Mrs Johnson and a team of ladies in the ballroom. Every scone had been scoffed and they were clearing up after tea. We described Gavin and our predicament. She hadn’t seen him and assured us, her face as starched as her apron, that no member of the public would have got past her and her team into the rest of the house. She suggested that we speak to Mr Jamie, who she believed was in the drawing room. Our quickest way, she added pointedly, was to go back outside and along the terrace.

  We passed the balustrade, an evening scent drifting from the flower-filled urns. But before we reached the drawing room’s open windows, we heard Jamie’s voice, loud and furious. ‘In broad daylight?’ he was yelling at someone. ‘With all these people about? Are you out of your mind?’ I wondered if he’d caught Emma snorting cocaine from some horse’s nosebag. Whatever, this was not a good moment to approach. We veered off, across the lawn.

  ‘I don’t suppose he went into the wood.’ The trees were ahead of us, a dark tracery of branches with the sun melting gold behind them.

  Sophie frowned. ‘It’s fenced off, isn’t it?’

  ‘Didn’t Jamie say there was a path, that part of it is open to walkers?’ There was certainly a gate in the fence that separated the trees from the lawn. As we approached, we could see a sign hung on it: Please keep to the path. I swung it open.

  Sophie hung back. ‘Do you think we should?’

  ‘Yes, I do. He might have gone in there and sprained an ankle or something.’

  The gate shut with a little click behind us. It was quiet under the trees, and growing dim. I yelled Gavin’s name. There was no reply, just a frantic rustle amongst the leaf litter from some tiny creature I’d frightened. The path was directly ahead, wide enough for us to walk side by side: bare earth scattered with bark chippings, a pale strip against the surrounding undergrowth. It was well maintained, with no ruts or stones to trip on. The setting sun sent shafts of gold into the surrounding shadows and gilded gnats danced a ballet in the dying light. We walked, stopping twice to call out Gavin’s name.

  The path veered around a high fence that blocked the way ahead. Signs on the wire warned trespassers they would be prosecuted. We followed the path for a hundred yards or so, before it ended abruptly, the wire fence cutting it off. We couldn’t go any further. Sophie sighed. ‘He’s not here.’

  I peered through the fence into the dusky woods beyond. The ground sloped away sharply, tree trunks jutting at odd angles from steep, rocky banks.

  ‘You don’t think he climbed over the fence, do you?’ she asked.

  I looked up. It was topped with vicious razor wire. ‘I don’t think he could have.’

  ‘We might as well go back.’ The gathering gloom was getting to Sophie. She sounded nervous. Something dark fluttered between the trees above us, but whether it was bird or bat I couldn’t tell, its darting, flickering movement was so swift.

  We began to retrace our steps. The shadows were thickening, reducing the green vegetation to a tangled mass of darkness. Something white caught my eye, about fifty yards from the path; it snagged my attention and held it. An oak had fallen long ago, a tree of great age and girth, its gnarled roots left exposed, its branching crown holding the stricken trunk at an angle, not allowing it to sink to the ground in rest. Tiny ferns grew along its mossy branches and something white, some object, was hooked over the slanting trunk. ‘Stay there, Soph.’

  As I made off through the undergrowth, she began to follow. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Stay there,’ I repeated. There was no point in bo
th of us crashing about amongst the vegetation. I picked my way between saplings and ferns that swished against my thighs as I brushed past. Even in the twilight I could see where someone had been before me. I followed a trail of snapped off branches and broken twigs. A terrible feeling of misgiving was growing with every step. A few yards further and I knew what I was looking at: the sole of a trainer, white, like the ones Gavin wore.

  ‘Gavin?’

  There was no answer, no moans or groans from the other side of the tree. No movement from the shoe, or the jean-clad leg I could see as I drew close: all perfectly still. I leant over the stricken tree trunk. Gavin was lying face down. My first thought was that he’d broken his neck; he’d tried to leap over the trunk, caught his foot and fallen. ‘Sophie!’ I yelled. ‘Ring for an ambulance. Then you’d better run back to the house, bring Jamie.’

  ‘Have you found him?’

  I clambered over the stricken trunk, clutching at twisting stems of ivy clinging to the bark and heaved myself over. I could hear the rustling of Sophie’s steps as she hurried up behind me. ‘Stay back, Soph!’ I knelt down by Gavin’s side and touched his neck gently, feeling for a pulse.

  Sophie was on tiptoe, peering over the tree trunk, her voice tremulous. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’ I could smell blood; the leafy ground beneath his body was sticky with it. I gently turned him over and heard Sophie gasp. Gavin was dead, his eyes staring, a fallen oak leaf clinging to his pale cheek, and the Sword of Virangha sticking out of his chest, the handle between his clutching hands.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Call it a run of bad luck, but Gavin’s was the third dead body I’d discovered in less than a year. Perhaps that’s why Detective Inspector Ford favoured me with such a long and thoughtful stare before he spoke. ‘We always seem to meet under distressing circumstances, Miss Browne.’