‘Did she know about this girl, Clews?’
‘I haven’t questioned her on that point, sir.’
‘Oh! I’d have said it was rather an important one. What kind of family are the Knotts?’
‘They used to be what was called county — owned a hell of a lot of land. I suppose at one time they must have been the biggest landowners for miles. They really got going just after the Civil War because when Malmster Castle fell … ’
‘I think we can skip the history, Inspector.’
It was strange, mused Clayton, how few people now were interested in the past. Yet surely … ?
‘Well?’ snapped Akers. ‘Let’s hear what kind of a family they are now.’
‘The estate’s shrunk to a farm of about a hundred and seventy acres and a couple of hundred acres of pretty useless wood. Daniel Knott’s father seems to have been a good farmer, but Daniel Knott was quite hopeless — the place has fallen into a terrible state. I gather there’s an odd fact about the Knotts — they come in two very distinct types: one kind’s clever, industrious, hard-working, the other kind’s lazy, self-opinionated, and stupid.’
‘What’s the wife’s background?’
‘As far as I can make out, she comes from a small shop-owning family. When she married Knott she must have reckoned she was jumping up the success ladder and she’s become soured as the ladder crumbled. He was a cocoa-broker in the City until he inherited the estate. When he came down here his loudly professed aim was to show all the locals what lousy farmers they were.’
‘Your report said the farm passes on to a nephew?’
‘I’ve been told it’s entailed through to Paul Hulton, who’s the only son of Daniel Knott’s sister.5’
‘And does the wife get nothing?’
‘A valuation of what’s on the farm, I suppose, but beyond that there can’t be much to have.’
Clayton turned off the lane they were on and into another which went up a slight hill and then twisted and turned in characteristic fashion as if seeking the longest distance between two points. He switched on the headlights and almost immediately a bird flashed through the right-hand beam, skimming the road by less than a foot. He wondered what it was. Fifteen years ago he would have identified it as a sparrow-hawk, but now they were virtually extinct in this part of the country. There had been far more changes in the countryside than most people realized, nor did they begin to acknowledge that these changes had come about because they demanded a policy of cheap food: rabbits had been decimated by myxomatosis, birds of prey had almost vanished because of the use of farm chemicals, more and more hedges and woods were grubbed up to provide arable land, few chickens were to be seen outside scratching happily in the dust, calves were turned into veal without their ever being in daylight, cows were zero-grazed and never stepped off concrete …
They reached Endley Cross and Knott Farm. Clayton parked the car in front of the house. He reached into the glove locker for a torch. ‘Where d’you want to start, sir?’
‘We’ll have a look at the buildings. After that, I want a word with Mrs Knott and the cow-man.’
Clayton looked at his watch. ‘He could be asleep by then, sir.’
‘Asleep?’ said Akers, in tones of disbelief.
‘He’ll have to be up by five each morning to milk the cows.’
Akers looked as if it had never before occurred to him that someone had to milk cows in the early morning. ‘All right,’ he muttered, in tones of annoyance, ‘we’ll see him first.’
‘I’ll just go in and tell Mrs Knott we’re here. See you by the buildings, sir. The burned-out section is on the right.’
Clayton opened the broken-down garden gate and walked up to the front door. The dogs at the back began to bark furiously. He knocked and waited, but there was no reply. After a second knock, he went to the garage and found the Bentley was out. He gained some small pleasure from the fact that things weren’t arranging themselves as Akers had decided they should.
He went up to the buildings to find Akers, outside the dairy, talking to a powerfully-built man in his early thirties. Bodmin stood to one side, his heavy face showing little expression.
‘Paul Hulton,’ said Akers.
Clayton studied Hulton as well as he could in the growing darkness. Hulton was dressed in dungarees and a coarse blue shirt, both stained with dried dung. He had the build of a really strong man and a broad face, with lines of bitter, dogged defiance. His mouth was generous and his lower lip curled over. His eyes were a deep brown.
‘He couldn’t wait to get his hands on this place,’ said Akers sarcastically.
‘A farm doesn’t stop when you tell it to,’ replied Hulton scornfully. ‘Animals don’t work a forty-hour week.’
‘Does Mrs Knott know you’re here?’
‘I saw her earlier on.’
‘Did she ask you why you hadn’t waited until her husband’s bones were cold?’
‘Look, Mister, this place is mine. For five years I’ve seen it being ruined by that bloody old fool. I don’t give a damn what state his bones are in. Farm! He couldn’t grow a rotten potato.’
‘But you reckon you can?’ Akers could not hide his anger at the cavalier way in which he was being treated.
Hulton spoke with greater contempt. ‘Of course I can. I was getting a hundred gallons a lactation more than anyone else would from the broken-down herd I had.’
Clayton spoke quietly. ‘Do you own the farm where you’ve been?’ Hulton swung round and Clayton could not miss the look of hatred in his eyes.
‘It belongs to a dried-up bastard called Fingle. I was called farm manager. I’ll tell you what there was to manage. Forty scrub cows, chucked out from other people’s herds and riddled with mastitis, bucket milking, an old shed that was alive with disease, paddocks thick with weed grass, and me not allowed to use a pound of basic slag or nitrogen … I’ll tell you something more and you won’t believe it. This place is a model farm compared to that.’
‘Have you left there?’
‘I quit. I told the bloody old fool what he could do with his farm.’
‘When?’ snapped Akers.
‘The moment I read Daniel was dead.’
‘We’re not yet certain he is dead,’ he lied.
‘Phyllis said he was dead. The papers said he was dead.’
‘The papers merely said that two bodies had been found in the debris.’
Hulton rested his thick, massive hands on his hips. ‘Then come on and tell me — is he dead or isn’t he? You must bloody know by now.’
‘You’ll have to go on waiting before you can be certain whether all this is yours, or not,’ said Akers with malicious pleasure.
Hulton swung round, slammed open the sliding door of the dairy, and went inside.
Akers led the way along the earth drive which went round the west side of the buildings. ‘He’s in a goddam hurry to take over.’
‘Somewhat understandably, sir,’ said Clayton.
‘Quite!’ replied Akers.
‘I didn’t mean from any ulterior motive, but simply because he’s obviously a genuine farmer at heart and so he’d have suffered at seeing this place become derelict. You know, a real farmer has a love for soil and stock, which means he hates seeing a place go backwards — of course, when he’s due to inherit it and remembers the old saying that one year’s neglect means five years’ thistles … ’
‘You sound like the Archers,’ said Akers, and it seemed he could offer no greater insult.
They continued in silence until they reached the concrete raft on which were the kow kennels.
‘The van was there,’ said Clayton, pointing to a spot in front of the interior Dutch barn.
‘You haven’t marked the position.’
‘No, sir, I didn’t think it necessary. I had an accurate sketch-map made and we took a number of photos … ’
‘You should have marked the position.’
Black marks galore, thought Clayton, and a dun
ce’s cap. He smiled at the thought of himself in a dunce’s cap, but stopped smiling when he saw that Bodmin was watching him.
Clayton switched on the torch and stepped over to the doorway of the Dutch barn. He shone the beam inside. ‘There are two odd things, sir. First, there’s no hay or silage on the place.’
‘So what?’
‘You must have winter feed unless you’re going to buy in everything and then you need enough cows to make that economically feasible.’
‘You told me the place was derelict. It’s obvious he didn’t give a damn about the winter. What’s the other thing?’
‘All that cow cake over there.’
Akers stared briefly at the paper sacks. ‘One minute you’re complaining because the cows haven’t any food, the next you’re complaining because they have.’
‘But you don’t need much cake at this time of the year. The grass obviously isn’t as nutritious as in May or June, but it’s still good for maintenance and a gallon, maybe a little more … ’
Akers spoke impatiently. ‘For God’s sake, Inspector, forget the dietary needs of cows and start concentrating on things that matter.’
Clayton switched off the torch. ‘Very good, sir.’
Akers led the way to the end of the concrete float and down the side of the east wing to the hard-core road and the burned-out section. He demanded the torch, switched it on, and shone the beam over the debris. ‘This will all have to be sifted through.’
‘I’ve had it searched, sir.’
‘And I’ll have it searched again,’ snapped Akers. He clearly wanted the job done properly. ‘Bodmin, see to it tomorrow morning. Tell the inspector the number of men you want and make certain they sift every last ounce of stuff.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Bodmin.
Akers walked on round the end of the wing and then back to the passageway between that wing and the dairy. There was a light on next to the dairy and he continued along the passage until he could look through a window. ‘What the hell’s that?’ he asked.
Clayton went up to his side. ‘The parlour, sir. That’s where the cows are milked.’ Hulton was stripping down the rubbers of one of the claws and judging from his expression the rubbers were either perished or extremely filthy.
‘What a hell of a contraption for getting some milk out of a cow,’ said Akers, puzzled.
‘It’s a herringbone, said to be the best kind of parlour for a biggish herd. The cows come in batches on either side and stick their heads … ’
‘I’m as interested in the mechanics of milking as I am in the cows’ dietary requirements.’ Akers turned round and crossed the passage.
From the south end of the east wing to the point at which the fire damage began — and where an internal wall had collapsed at the top — was a feed store: a circular wire silo, containing barley, was in one corner and from this an auger led up to a mill: below the spout of the mill was a small heap of crushed barley. Dirt was thick everywhere and there was a strong smell of mice: dozens of empty paper sacks lay untidily about the floor.
‘Where did the gun come from?’ demanded Akers suddenly.
‘I haven’t discovered yet, sir.’
‘Don’t you think that’s a matter of some importance?’
Hell, thought Clayton, the case wasn’t thirty hours old yet: if he’d been able to find out all the answers to all the questions already, he could have taken over the chief constable’s job. His stomach suddenly gurgled, reminding him how hungry he was. Stupidly, he hadn’t eaten before meeting them, relying on driving them to their hotel and then hurrying straight home for dinner. Margery had said she was preparing liver and bacon and this was a dish he really liked. His stomach gurgled a second time.
Akers suddenly crossed to the doorway. ‘All right, we’d better go and see this cow-man — if he hasn’t already gone to bed because the sun’s disappeared.’
Akers, on the short drive to Browland’s cottage, asked how soon the men could start searching the rubble the next morning. Clayton suggested eight o’clock. Akers said that as it was light by seven-thirty, that’s when they’d start.
The door of the cottage was opened by Browland. He was wearing a collarless shirt and patched trousers held up by ragged braces. When he saw Clayton and learned who Akers was, his fear was immediate and obvious. He stood in the doorway, speechless, and it was Meg who asked them into the sitting-room. Clayton spoke quietly to Browland, trying to calm his fears, and as he did so he became more and more aware of a rich smell of cooking.
Akers stood in front of the empty fireplace and there was an expression of distaste on his sharp, angular face as he looked round the badly furnished room. ‘You’ve made a statement and I want to check it.’
Browland cringed. ‘I don’t know nothing.’ Meg tried to smile encouragement at him.
‘Come on, man, buck your ideas up: this is a very serious case.’
‘I don’t know nothing.’
‘Just tell the gentlemen what happened,’ said Meg softly. ‘You were going to the farm and saw all the smoke and the flames.’
‘There was all the smoke and the flames,’ said Browland stupidly. He fiddled with his nose and his very light eyes seldom looked away from his wife.
‘What happened then?’
‘I cycled and saw the fire.’ He fiddled harder with his nose. ‘There weren’t no one at ’ome so I got in and telephoned.’
‘You didn’t see a single person?’
‘There weren’t no one to see.’
‘When had you last seen Daniel Knott?’
‘After I finished milking in the mornin’. ’E tells me to clean up the collecting yard. I says I couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I ’ad to come’ome.’
‘Why?’
Browland looked pathetically at his wife.
‘Why should ’e clean up?’ she demanded in a shrill voice. ‘ ’E weren’t paid for doin’ anything but milk the cows — and ’e weren’t paid proper for doin’ that.’
Akers took his pipe from his pocket. He lit it, not bothering to ask permission to do so. ‘What was in the part of the building that’s burned down?’
‘Things.’
‘Goddammit, what kind of things?’
Browland licked his lips. He fiddled still harder with his nose.
‘What was in that part of the buildings?’ demanded Akers, with loud exasperation.
‘Tell ’im, Tom,’ said Meg. ’E only wants to know what Mr Knott kept there.’
Browland took a deep breath. ‘Diesel oil what was for the tractor, paraffin for the stove, buckets what we used for calves.’
‘Nothing else?’
Browland nodded.
‘Then what was there?’
‘There was spares for the tractor and … and the old fertilizer spinner what wouldn’t work and the deep-freeze what he kept the dogs’ food in, and some shovels.’ His wide brow became furrowed. ‘There were a dung fork — or were that round the corner?’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t rightly remember.’
‘Never mind, Tom,’ she said, ‘you’re doing real good.’
He was heartened by her praise. ‘Then there were the old gun what ’e kept in the corner … ’
‘What old gun?’ snapped Akers.
Browland was frightened by the other’s tone of voice. He moved closer to his wife.
Clayton cut across what Akers had been about to say. ‘Was this some old shotgun, just about falling apart? There’s usually one on every farm?’
Browland looked quickly at Clayton, then back at his wife. ‘It weren’t that bad. ’E used it for rabbits, them what myxy didn’t get. ’Course, ’e’d got a good gun for when ’e went shooting proper.’
‘And did he keep any cartridges out by the gun?’
‘There was always some. Up on the old shelf.’
‘Were there any there yesterday morning?’
Browland slowly shook his head. ‘I can’t rightly remember seein �
�em, but there were always some there’
‘Was he a good shot?’
Browland sniggered. ‘I see ’im miss a rabbit what sat and looked at ’im not twenty yard away. ’E didn’t ’alf swear cause ’e was always sayin’ what a good shot ’e was, never missed nothing. Missed that rabbit and no mistake.’
‘Can’t you remember if there were any cartridges on that shelf in the morning?’ snapped Akers, angry at being ignored.
Browland again became frightened. He fingered his nose as he looked anxiously at his wife.
Akers swore under his breath, had a last contemptuous look round the ill-furnished room, then led the way out. Clayton thanked the Browlands.
As he sat down in the front passenger-seat of the car, Akers said disgustedly: ‘He’s utterly useless as a witness — talk about the village idiot!’
‘Don’t you ever have idiots in town, sir?’ asked Clayton. Akers ignored the question. Clayton tried to start the engine and it refused to fire. To be marooned outside Brow-land’s cottage was all that was needed to complete the evening, he thought gloomily. Luckily, at the third attempt he started the engine.
Chapter 7
Clayton awoke and saw it was late. He washed and dressed and hurried downstairs to the kitchen, where Margery was cooking breakfast. He said he hadn’t time to eat, but she said she’d left him to sleep on and now he wasn’t going anywhere until he’d had a good breakfast. He argued no further.
He arrived at the station at a quarter to nine and went up to his room. He was checking through the mail when Detective-Constable Burrows came into the room. ‘Morning, sir. Detective-Superintendent Akers has been asking for you.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘I’m not certain. He seemed a bit impatient.’
Clayton wondered what the stolid Burrows meant by ‘a bit impatient’. ‘Where’s he now?’
‘He was around a moment ago, sir. He did keep asking if all the arrangements had been made for a press conference at ten o’clock sharp.’
‘Hell!’ muttered Clayton. ‘Look, Abe, go and telephone the local papers and tell’em to come along at ten, but warn’em it’s nothing fresh. And then see if you can find Sergeant Morris and send him along here.’
Dead Man's Bluff Page 6