Dead on Dartmoor

by Stephanie Austin

  ‘Rita Hayworth.’ We shook. I tried to see the printed place name, wondering what his real name was, but there were too many flowers and wine glasses in the way.

  ‘Is that your real hair?’ I asked, eyeing his dreadlocks.

  ‘No, this comes off with the hat.’

  ‘A gentleman should remove his hat at the dinner table,’ Barty told him, a little sulky at his arrival.

  ‘Couldn’t possibly.’ Jack nodded towards Beau Geste and John Wayne. ‘And they’re keeping theirs on.’

  Making conversation as the chilled avocado soup was served, I learnt that the pirate on my right was a friend of Jamie’s, had studied with him at agricultural college, lost contact, and bumped into him quite by accident a few weeks before.

  ‘Are you a farmer too?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I’m just here temporarily. I’m based in London. I work for the Department of the Environment.’

  I was barely halfway through my delicious pale-green soup, and had started to tell Mr Sparrow about how I’d met Jamie, when I became aware of a disturbance under the table. There was a lot of rustling amongst my net as if a mouse had got in there. Something slyly touched my ankle and began to slide up and down my calf. Bloody Barty was playing footsie. I glared at him, but he just continued to ogle me, grinning, and rub his foot up and down my leg. He was relying on the fact that a woman in company won’t generally embarrass herself or others by making a fuss. He was about to learn he had mistaken his woman when I was saved the bother of retaliation. He suddenly let out a snort like a wounded buffalo and grabbed his shin.

  ‘Sorry!’ Jack Sparrow held up his hands helplessly. ‘It’s these swashbuckling boots, I do apologise.’

  Barty muttered ungraciously, something about his being more careful, and sulked through the rest of the soup.

  I smiled at Jack Sparrow. He smiled back but there was a slight wariness, a look of caution, almost, that lurked in his grey eyes, as if he was weighing me up carefully. ‘You were saying …’ he reminded me.

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘About the dog in the van …’

  ‘Oh yes.’ I don’t remember too much about the rest of the meal. There were lots of courses and they were all delicious, and I have no idea how many times my wine glass was refilled, but by the time we got to the brandy posset with marrons glacé, Jack and I were definitely flirting. Perhaps he had decided to throw caution to the wind. Suddenly Beau Geste opened up. He leant across the table to Barty and asked a question that grabbed my attention.

  ‘Barty, you didn’t get any more trouble from the police, did you, over that unfortunate business of that young idiot with the sword?’

  Barty had also had his wine glass filled several times and appeared to have difficulty remembering. ‘Oh! Silly little ass who stabbed himself?’ he cried at last. ‘No, no.’

  ‘His name was Gavin.’ My voice cut into the conversation more loudly than I had intended. ‘His name was Gavin Hall and he was nineteen.’

  Beau Geste had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘Oh, knew him, did you?’

  ‘I went to his funeral yesterday.’

  The room had suddenly gone quiet. I decided to lob another pebble into the pool of silence and see if it caused any ripples. ‘And he was a friend of Ben Luscombe, another young man who died on this estate.’

  Jamie rose hastily. ‘We’ve certainly had our fair share of tragic accidents. We’re very sad, of course. But we’re here to celebrate a happy occasion. So, if I could ask everyone to raise their glasses …’

  There was an instant response, an exhalation of pent-up breath, the relief of people happily moving on from an awkward moment. They raised their glasses. We all toasted Sandy on his birthday and he made an amusing speech about how wonderful it was to have so many friends sharing his day with him, and how lovely all the ladies looked, and he finished by declaring that as it was his birthday he was jolly well going to drink brandy and smoke a cigar, inviting all the gentlemen at the table to join him, and promising the ladies they would find coffee and petits fours awaiting them in the drawing room.

  We ladies dutifully withdrew, my exit made slightly less graceful by having to tug a bunch of sparkly net from under the leg of Beau Geste’s chair as I got up to leave.

  Sophie caught up with me on the way to the drawing room and we began to compare notes. ‘I wish I’d been sitting near you,’ she complained bitterly. ‘I don’t like the way Sandy keeps looking at me.’

  ‘He’s imagining you in a bowler hat and suspenders.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I think he and Barty are about level-pegging in the dirty old man stakes. Barty was trying to play footsie under the table.’

  ‘You seemed to be doing all right whenever I looked at you, heads together with that good-looking pirate.’

  ‘He’s nice, isn’t he?’ I was hoping we might get our heads together again later.

  In the drawing room we found ourselves beckoned over by the Wicked Witch of the West, who patted the empty cushions of the sofa next to her. ‘Come and sit with me, girls,’ she called out, pouring coffee that had been left on a tray on the table in front of her.

  ‘And you, my dear,’ she added to Sophie, ‘talk to me. I’m thinking of asking you to paint my bulldogs.’

  I made my excuses, left the two of them chatting and headed for the guest cloakroom. Going to the loo was a more complicated process than usual: it involved stripping off long gloves and being very careful with an ocean of sparkly net. I put myself back together again and was heading back to the drawing room when I heard gales of girlish laughter coming from behind the library door, which was slightly ajar.

  ‘I thought she was Jessica Rabbit!’ a voice was shrieking loudly.

  I lurked, ears straining.

  ‘Who on earth invited her?’

  ‘She’s a friend of the artist woman.’ Emma’s voice was sour.

  ‘So, I suppose I can understand inviting her,’ chimed in someone else. ‘But what does the other one do?’

  ‘I like her!’ I recognised the voice of the Bride of Frankenstein. Thank you, Jessica.

  ‘She owns a shop, apparently.’

  ‘So, I’d heard she was some kind of cleaner.’

  ‘Well, I wish I had her figure.’

  ‘It was Jamie who invited her,’ Emma added. ‘Sandy had told him to make sure there was some fuckable totty at his party.’

  ‘Oh, charming!’ cried the first voice.

  ‘He meant someone not like us,’ Emma assured her smugly. ‘Anyway, come on girls, heads down, let’s have a race!’

  Intrigued, I pushed the library door a fraction wider. I was treated to the spectacle of two Marilyn Monroes, Audrey Hepburn, Snow White and, alas, the Bride of Frankenstein, each armed with a tube of paper, bending over the desk, racing to see who could snort white powder up her nasty little nose the fastest.

  I slammed the door shut, which caused them all to shriek, first with terror and then with hysterical laughter. I stalked away, or rather minced, as swiftly as my tight skirt and trailing net would allow.

  As I approached the drawing room I slowed down. The hall was deserted. I cast a quick look around me and headed for the door of the study, where I’d been interviewed on the day of Gavin’s death by Inspector Ford. I didn’t know what I expected to find, but a chance for a poke around seemed too good to miss.

  The study was quiet and lamp-lit, heavy curtains drawn across the window. I stood still and looked around me. There were pictures on the wall, which I had not noticed when I was in the room before: engravings of mine workings on the Moorworthy estate, the earliest dated 1860. They showed the mineshaft in the woods, and the shaft at Applecote Farm and several underground passages connecting the two.

  There was also a set of photographs, mostly featuring Sandy, who was obviously receiving an award of some kind, shaking hands with another man, the pair surrounded by self-satisfied men in dinner jackets and bow ties. The caption beneath
mentioned Dravizax, the firm Jessica had said belonged to her father.

  ‘Can I help you, miss?’

  I nearly jumped out of my skin. Like Creeping Ted Croaker, Mrs Johnson seemed to possess the demonic power to materialise, silently, from nowhere. I hadn’t heard her come in and she was standing right next to me.

  ‘No, I’m … um … I was just interested in …’ I blundered uselessly. ‘This is a lovely room.’

  ‘There’s coffee in the drawing room.’ She held the study door open, forcing me to leave.

  ‘Yes, I know. Thank you,’ I swept past her and carried on across the hall. I could feel her gaze drilling into me, right between the shoulder blades. She must have been satisfied I was going where she’d told me to because when I reached the living room door and turned around, hand on the handle, she had already disappeared.

  The eyes of the ancestors stared from their portraits. But there was no one else about.

  I gathered up my sparkly train and quickly nipped up the grand staircase. I came to the first landing, my hand resting on the oak bannister next to an impressively carved pineapple. For a moment the suit of armour and I stared at one another. I resisted the impulse to lift the visor of his helmet and check there was no one inside. I looked left and right. Which way to go? I turned right along a wide corridor, passing a series of doors separated by brass console tables and ornately framed mirrors. I stopped by a door that was open and poked my head inside.

  I wondered if this was the bedroom that Sandy had mentioned earlier. It was certainly oriental in style, hung with Chinese wallpaper decorated with birds and flowers. A Japanese lacquer cabinet stood against one wall, whilst on the mantelpiece were placed two Canton vases and an Imari bowl. Whoever had put the collection together obviously didn’t distinguish between Chinese and Japanese. There were several Nanking blue and white plates on the walls, but the pride of the collection was a chrysanthemum flower teapot, only a few inches high, and probably worth more than the rest put together. Very carefully, I picked it up for a closer look. Then I heard a man’s cough in the corridor outside and hastily replaced it.

  I needed a hiding place. I didn’t want to be caught in here, especially not by Sandy. I tiptoed across the room to a closed door, which I hoped led to a lockable en suite, and opened it. It was a cupboard, but someone was coming into the room, so I had no choice but to duck inside. I waited in complete darkness, my breath held, trying to listen for muffled footsteps on the Chinese carpet.

  The door opened and a light flipped on above my head. ‘Well, this is cosy!’ Jack Sparrow remarked pleasantly, his hand on the light switch. ‘May I?’ He stepped inside.

  It was quite a tight fit, requiring an adjustment of feet, elbows, hips and hat before he could wedge himself in. The net did a lot of rustling.

  ‘How did you know I was in here?’ I was whispering for some stupid reason.

  ‘I saw you come upstairs.’

  ‘No, I mean, in here?’

  He grinned. ‘All that net sticking out from under the door is a bit of a giveaway. Anyway,’ he shifted slightly to avoid the prong of a coat hook sticking into his shoulder, ‘I’m impressed. There’s nothing like causing a sensation at dinner.’

  ‘Talking about Gavin as if his death was just an inconvenience—’

  Mr Sparrow leant in even closer. ‘Listen.’ His face was just an inch from mine. There was no levity in his voice now, no laughter in his grey eyes. ‘I want to hear what you know about Gavin and Ben.’

  ‘They thought something—’

  He laid a finger to his lips. ‘Not now. We’ll be missed if we’re not careful. We’re not exactly an inconspicuous couple—’

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Jack Sparrow.’

  ‘No, what’s your real name?’

  He grinned. ‘Nathan, Nathan Parr.’

  I confessed that I wasn’t really Rita Hayworth and we shook hands awkwardly in the confined space.

  ‘And what are you doing here? You said you worked for the Environment Agency.’

  ‘I do. Officially I’m down here as part of a survey into pollution along the River Dart.’

  ‘And unofficially …?’

  He hesitated. ‘Let’s just say that I didn’t bump into James Westershall by accident.’

  ‘Is this about drugs?’

  His dark brows drew together in a frown. ‘Why should it be about drugs?’

  ‘Because in this house they treat cocaine as if it’s an after-dinner mint. Emma’s a user and Ben Luscombe was found—’

  The door swung open suddenly, making us both jump. ‘Playing sardines?’ Jamie asked, his brows raised quizzically.

  ‘We’re just getting acquainted,’ Nathan told him coolly, sliding his arms around my waist. I gave a silly little laugh.

  ‘I was just rounding up people for the fireworks,’ Jamie responded. ‘I thought I heard voices in here. So, if you two can bear to tear yourselves away …’

  He stood back and we trailed past him, doing our best to look sheepish.

  ‘You go on down,’ Nathan murmured to me, ‘I’ll catch you up in a moment.’

  The gentlemen had not lingered too long over their brandy and cigars and the sitting room had filled up in my absence. Sophie waved to me through the throng. ‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered, patting her little pink handbag. ‘I’ve saved you some petits fours.’ Judging from the way the bag was bulging she must have slid an entire plateful in there.

  The room was so warm now that someone had flung open the long windows onto the terrace and a few people had drifted out to look at the stars. I decided I could use some air and drifted out myself. After a few moments, Nathan Parr leant on the balustrade next to me.

  ‘Can we meet?’ he asked softly. ‘Are you free on Tuesday evening?’ He named an isolated pub on the moor. ‘We can talk more freely there, less chance of being overheard.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I’d really love to stay and dance with you till dawn, but I have to go.’ He raised my gloved hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘Till Tuesday.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll know you without the hat and dreadlocks.’

  ‘I’ll wear a red carnation.’

  ‘You might not know me either. I don’t usually look like this.’

  ‘You don’t?’ he asked in mock sadness.

  ‘My hair is usually … um … wilder.’

  ‘Wow!’ he grinned. ‘I’ll look forward to that,’ and walked away.

  I felt mildly triumphant. At last there was someone interested in hearing about Gavin and Ben Luscombe, prepared to take their deaths seriously. He was also a very attractive pirate and I was not at all unhappy at the thought of a little swashbuckling in his company. If things went well, we might even go as far as a jolly roger.

  Jamie came out at that moment and announced that fireworks would be starting in five minutes, and that the place to view them from was the terrace, but if people wanted to wander down onto the lawn, he warned them, please beware of the ha-ha.

  ‘We don’t want any broken necks. Also, it’s getting a bit chilly, so some of you might want to grab a coat or something before the fireworks start.’

  I went inside and reached for the mink stole I’d left draped over the end of the sofa. I snatched it up just before Emma grabbed it. ‘Mine, I think,’ I told her, smiling sweetly. She glowered, her pupils mere pinpoints, then shrugged, a painful manoeuvre she obviously regretted, and stalked away.

  ‘Well, I’m getting a coat,’ Sandy announced loudly. ‘I feel the cold these days. I blame it on these damned pills the doctor keeps giving me.’

  ‘You’re just getting old, you fool,’ the Wicked Witch of the West informed him flatly.

  ‘You’re right, Margaret, m’dear, you’re right,’ he admitted, shaking his head.

  A few minutes later I stood on the terrace with Sophie whilst rockets shot upward in golden, fizzing streaks and exploded in sparkling starbursts. I saw the figure of Sandy close by, suddenly silhoue
tted in a dazzling burst of brightness, wrapped up against the cold in a sheepskin coat and trilby hat, looking as he had when I had seen him standing outside the shed at Applecote Farm, just before Moss and Pike’s lorry had tried to run me off the road. I tried not to stare. Sophie was shivering. I wrapped one end of the mink stole around her shoulders and watched the dying glitter of the fireworks as they fell to earth over the dark masses of the woods, and the place where Gavin and Ben had died.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Never trust a pirate. The bastard stood me up. On Tuesday evening I drove all the way out to this damn pub in the dark and sat for two hours in a deserted and almost silent bar, nursing half a sour-tasting cider, waiting for him to show up, and receiving unwelcome glances from two fat blokes playing pool. At first, I thought I’d got the time wrong, then the place. And it was only then it got through to my dim brain that I didn’t even have the man’s phone number. I’d obviously got carried away on the bubbly at the party and the whole assignation was just a fantasy.

  Sophie and I had not stayed long after the fireworks. James Dean wanted her to dance, so I sat down between the Wicked Witch of the West and the eldest Marilyn, and watched them join the jigging horde on the ballroom floor.

  ‘Not dancing?’ WWW asked me.

  ‘Difficult to move at all in this dress,’ I admitted.

  ‘It is lovely. Did you get it from those two old reprobates up on Druid Lane? What do they call themselves, Sauce and something …’