I phoned Chloe, asked her to check in all her carrier bags that there were no loose fifty-pound notes floating around. I wanted to be sure that none of this money was missing before I returned it. I couldn’t expect anyone else to assume responsibility for it. I was going to have to take it back to him myself.
Before I went home, I decided to check in at the shop. Sophie was on duty, still working on her painting, primroses in a winter woodland, and Pat was there too, arranging some new stock she had just brought in. I sensed a bit of an atmosphere.
‘Busy day?’ I asked.
‘If you mean customers, I’m afraid not,’ Sophie said sadly. ‘We’ve had a few people in through the door but none of them bought anything … Oh, and Jessie Mole came in.’
I looked at Pat. ‘I thought you’d seen her off.’
‘Well, I have now,’ she muttered angrily. ‘I’m not putting up with any nonsense from the likes of her.’ Pat was a good, kind-hearted woman who ran an animal sanctuary, Honeysuckle Farm, with her sister and brother-in-law, but she was blunt and plain-speaking and not a person I’d have wanted to cross. She was clearly angry and upset.
‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘What did she say?’ Sophie was shaking her head, flashing her dark eyes at me. She laid a warning finger against her lips.
‘Nothing.’ A hectic blush had risen up Pat’s neck and her eyes shone with tears. ‘Nothing!’ she repeated, stomped to the door and went out. I gazed after her in surprise and then at Sophie, who was puffing out her cheeks in a sigh.
I’d never known Pat behave like that before. ‘I’d better go after her.’
‘No, I wouldn’t, honestly,’ she said earnestly. ‘I think she’s best left.’
‘What happened?’
Sophie frowned. ‘Jessie must have followed Pat here. She went straight up to her and started whispering. I don’t know what she said but Pat got really angry, grabbed her by the arm and marched her out of the shop. Then they were outside in the lane, arguing.’
‘And you couldn’t hear what they were saying?’
‘Well, I heard something,’ she admitted reluctantly, ‘but I’m not sure if I got it right.’ She hesitated. ‘Jailbird. I’m sure Jessie said the word “jailbird”. Well, Pat really lost it and started slapping her. Jessie ran off. Pat came back in and has hardly said a word since. I asked her if she was all right, obviously, but she said she didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘Perhaps when she’s calmed down a bit …’ I mused. ‘She’s opening up tomorrow morning, isn’t she? It’s Saturday, so I won’t have to walk the dogs. I’ll pop in here and see her first thing.’
‘Do you fancy coming down to the arts centre this evening?’ Sophie asked. ‘I’m going with Mum. There’s a folk group on tonight: Vixen Tor, they play music inspired by the moor.’
I had a horrible vision of bearded men in hairy jumpers, their fingers jammed in their ears, intoning dirges about tin mines, but Sophie assured me the group contained an old schoolgirl friend of hers who was a demon fiddler, and it should be well worth a visit. I still hesitated. My priority ought to be to locate Mr Daniel Thorncroft and give him back his money. I could take the envelope to the police station and leave it there, but for some reason I felt compelled to return it personally. But first I would need to consult a map to find out where Moorview Farm was, and the place might not be easy to find in the dark. The demon fiddler won out. Mr Thorncroft would have to wait.
CHAPTER FIVE
I was late getting up in the morning, partly because I knew I didn’t have to walk the Tribe, but also because the cider I’d consumed along with the diddly-diddly fiddly music at the folk concert the night before meant that I awoke a little muzzy-headed.
Pat had already opened up when I arrived at Old Nick’s and was posting up pictures of the latest arrivals at Honeysuckle Farm in need of loving homes. She was always adding pictures of needy waifs to the wall behind her unit. Sadly, she very rarely took any pictures down. I couldn’t help noticing she was wearing a particularly hideous crocheted cardigan this morning. She knitted the most beautiful things for the shop, but the clothes she made for herself were ghastly, all colours, as if she was using up her odd bits of wool.
I thought I might as well get straight to the point. ‘I was worried about you yesterday, Pat. You seemed upset.’
‘I shouldn’t have lost my temper,’ she responded, looking uncomfortable, ‘not with the likes of Jessie Mole. She ain’t worth it.’
‘Do you want to tell me what it was about?’
‘Well …’ she began reluctantly. ‘It’s Luke, our Ken’s boy.’
Ken was married to Pat’s sister. I knew Sue didn’t have any children but was vaguely aware that Ken had been married before. ‘I didn’t know Ken had a son.’
‘No, Luke’s his nephew. Well, we tell people he’s been working away, but truth is, he’s not long out of prison.’ Pat flicked me a glance, as if she was checking on my reaction to this before she went any further. ‘It was manslaughter. He got in a fight in a pub … he was just unlucky. He’s a shy lad,’ she went on, ‘not the sort to pick a fight − he wouldn’t ever mean to hurt anyone. He had a terrible time in that prison, got beaten up … Anyway, somehow that Jessie Mole got wind of the fact he’s been inside. Well, the lad’s trying to make a fresh start. The last thing he needs is her gossiping about him all over Ashburton. She’s got nothing but a mouth full of spite—’
‘Is he living here now?’ I asked.
‘He’s staying with us at the farm. He’s got no one else. Since he’s come out he’s been working for a firm hedge-laying up on the moor. Course, he helps out with the animals, but he wants to start his own gardening business. That’s what he used to do before he went inside. Trouble is, he’s got no confidence now. We got him these business cards made.’ She dug one out of her cardigan pocket and handed it to me. Luke Rowlands, it said, Gardening Services.
‘Tell you what,’ I said, after I’d studied it for a moment, ‘I’ll pass this on to Ricky and Morris. They need some work done in their garden.’
‘Don’t you usually do their gardening?’ she asked uncertainly.
‘I tidy a few flower borders for them occasionally. All Ricky and Morris do is ride around the lawns on their fancy mower. There’s a lake at the bottom of their lawn, and a little woodland. All the paths are completely overgrown. You can’t walk around the lake at all. The shrubs need hacking back and the trees want crown-lifting – I’ve been telling them about it for ages − it’s a job for someone heftier than me, preferably someone with a chainsaw.’
‘It sounds right up Luke’s street.’ Pat began to look a bit happier. ‘He’s got references.’
‘Has he got a chainsaw?’
‘I’m not sure what tools he’s got,’ she admitted, her brow wrinkling, ‘but it don’t matter, because Ken will loan him anything.’
I waggled the business card at her before I popped it into my bag. ‘I’ll ask them tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, Juno.’
‘And don’t go slapping Jessie Mole again,’ I advised her. ‘She could have you up for assault.’
‘She’d better learn to keep her mouth shut,’ Pat answered, eyes narrowing. ‘Bloody murder her, I will!’
Unfortunate remark as it turned out.
When I left the shop I drove up the hill from Ashburton, past the old disused rifle range, until I reached Cold East Cross, where the road forks left for Ponsworthy. Here, on the right, is Halsanger Common, an area of wide-open grassland where I often bring the Tribe for a run. It was here, set back from the road up a steep track, and almost out of sight, that I found Moorview Farm, just as it was marked on the map.
It turned out to be a large stone house with views over a patchwork of green fields and distant dark woods, the high tops of the moor breaking the skyline. Down in the valley below, a glittering loop of river could be glimpsed between the trees. It’s the sort of place I have always dreamt of owning and I was practically saliv
ating by the time I drew to a halt by its granite gatepost and clambered out of White Van. An untidily chained gate blocked the path. I didn’t want to wrestle with it and decided to walk up the track to the house. The day was grey and dull, threatening rain, sabres of sunlight thrusting through the blanket of cloud, lighting up patches of green in the wide winter landscape. Colder up here than in the shelter of the town, the place was exposed to roaming winds and I shivered.
The farmhouse, which had probably stood for more than two hundred years, was in need of a little refurbishment. The roof sagged wearily as if it was considering collapse; a large portion of what must have been missing slates was covered by rusty corrugated sheeting. There was a straggly plant growing from a crack in the chimney, and an upstairs window, presumably without glass, was shielded by a blue plastic tarpaulin. Any paint that had once coated the door and window frames had been scoured off by unforgiving winds, and it was only the presence of the same car I had seen in the town, and a wisp of smoke from the chimney, that convinced me that Mr Daniel Thorncroft must be at home and I had not arrived at an empty derelict.
My arrival had been spotted. Before I reached the front door, it swung open and the lean figure of Mr Thorncroft blocked the doorway, reminding me once again of a scruffy hawk. It was something to do with the way his hair stuck out behind his ears. He needed a good haircut. He was wearing a stained, pea-green jumper, the knitting laddered with holes, but at least he wasn’t sporting the severe specs.
‘Ah, Miss Browne with an “e”,’ he declared, his gaze sweeping me up and down. ‘I’ve been reading about you …’
Effing Gazette. He must have read about me in their pages. He wouldn’t have known the correct spelling of my name otherwise.
‘You’re quite a girl. You’d better come in.’ He stepped aside to let me enter. I hesitated.
‘I promise you, there are no corpses in here,’ he added as I stepped across the threshold, ‘other than myself.’
I looked around a large kitchen, dim and shadowy, lit only by battery-powered storm lanterns hanging from an overhead beam. The beam itself, cracked, was held up by an acrow prop.
‘I’m sorry about the conditions in here,’ he went on as I stared about me, ‘but this is the warmest spot in the house, the only warm spot, in fact.’ He nodded in the direction of the old kitchen range. ‘At least I’ve managed to get that thing going.’
A threadbare rug covered the stone flags, an old sofa took up one wall, with stacked pillows and bedding rolled up on it. It seemed Mr Thorncroft was camping in his kitchen. Beyond an old leather armchair, the only other furniture was a scrubbed table, covered in paperwork, and two bentwood chairs. He flicked a tea towel over the seat of one of them. ‘Sit down.’
‘I really only came to give you this.’ I handed him the envelope and he frowned. ‘It must have slipped into Mrs Berkeley-Smythe’s shopping bag,’ I explained as he peered inside. ‘We didn’t discover it until we got home. And then there was no real address.’ I don’t know why I was speaking in such a rush, but I felt nervous. ‘You can count it, if you like,’ I added, with what sounded in my own ears like unnecessary defensiveness.
‘I didn’t realise I had lost it.’ He tossed the envelope onto the table, its contents uncounted. ‘Thank you.’
‘Well, that’s what I came for,’ I added, feeling suddenly awkward and anxious to make an exit.
‘Let me make you a coffee after you’ve come all this way. I’m afraid it’ll take a while.’ He picked up an old-fashioned percolator from the stove. ‘We’ve no electricity, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, I really must—’ I began.
‘I’m not going to bite you. And Lottie and I don’t get many visitors, do we, Lottie?’
Lottie turned out to be a little whippet who’d been curled up in the armchair all this while, watching me apprehensively from soulful dark eyes. I hunkered down and held out a hand to her. Whippets are shy of strangers and startle easily. ‘Hello, Lottie.’ Tentatively, she sniffed my fingers.
‘She was Claire’s dog,’ Mr Thorncroft went on as he spooned coffee into the percolator, ‘a rescue, terrified of everyone, especially men. Claire was the only one who could get close to her …’ He stopped.
‘Claire?’ I asked.
‘My wife.’ I could sense him drawing breath. ‘She died. I’m afraid Lottie’s still pining,’ he added after a moment. His voice was suddenly husky and he cleared his throat.
‘I’m sorry.’ I stroked Lottie’s smooth head and the tip of her tail began to wag. She licked my hand.
‘She must like you.’ Mr Thorncroft sounded surprised. ‘She’s usually run away and hidden under the bed by this point.’
I straightened up, and as I did I caught sight of a photograph propped on the mantelpiece: a young woman with dark hair, face made radiant by a loving smile. This, surely, must be Claire. By now my host had regained his composure and was watching me, arms folded, leaning against the range. Even in the dimness of the kitchen I could see that his eyes were unnaturally bright. I wondered if he might be high on something. I thought I’d better make conversation. ‘Have you lived here long?’
‘I don’t really live here. My aunt left me this place. It’s wonderful,’ he said with a sour smile. ‘I love it. Most of it is falling down.’
I gazed out of the kitchen window at the breathtaking view. ‘It is wonderful,’ I agreed. ‘At least, it could be made wonderful.’
‘If I spend every penny I’m ever likely to earn between now and the day I die on it, it might be made habitable.’ He gazed about him. ‘I’m wondering whether I could move my life here.’ He shrugged. ‘The sensible thing would be to sell the place and forget all about it, but for some reason I’m reluctant to do that.’
‘Did your aunt live here?’ I couldn’t imagine an elderly lady living in this cold, crumbling ruin on her own. It was as if a chill had crept into its stones. The house needed to be lived in. It needed warming through.
‘Until a few years before she died. She moved into a retirement flat in Torquay. Unfortunately, she left me that as well.’
‘Unfortunately?’
‘It’s a retirement flat, which means that even if I wanted to live in it − which I don’t − I can’t because I’m too young. I can’t even use it for holidays. But, as the owner, I am liable for all the bloody extortionate maintenance fees. I’m trying to sell it. At least then I’d have some money to start doing up this place.’ He swept a long arm in the direction of the paperwork on the table. ‘My aunt’s affairs are in a hell of a mess. Believe me, inheriting property is not all it’s cracked up to be.’
‘I know,’ I agreed, without thinking. ‘Last year one of my clients died and left me his shop, and now I have business rates and—’
‘What sort of client,’ he interrupted, frowning, ‘leaves you a shop?’ I saw by the merest twitch at the corner of his mouth that he was joking. ‘What do you do for them, Miss Browne with an “e”?’ he asked, raising his brows at me.
‘I don’t know,’ I confessed. ‘I have no idea why Nick left his shop to me. I think it was part of a plot to take revenge on the children who’d ignored him for years … But I really don’t know … Anyway,’ I added, looking at my watch, ‘it’s time I went.’
‘Without your vile coffee? I won’t hear of it. Don’t worry,’ he went on as he began to pour, ‘this mug is clean.’
I don’t really like my coffee black but there didn’t seem to be any milk on offer so I took the mug of dark liquid and sipped it cautiously.
‘How is it?’ he asked.
‘Like something rinsed from an ashtray,’ I told him truthfully.
‘It’s improving, then.’ He grinned as he took the mug from my hand. ‘I still owe you a proper one, next time you’re in Ashburton. I’m usually to be found lurking in one cafe or another, anywhere where there’s warmth and free Wi-Fi − none up here, of course.’
I smiled weakly and headed for the door.
‘Goo
dbye, Miss Browne …’ he began.
‘Juno,’ I said. ‘Call me Juno.’
‘Oh, I think I prefer Miss Browne with an “e”.’
I shrugged. ‘Suit yourself, Mr Thorncroft.’
As I walked back down the track, large heavy sploshes of rain fell sudden and fast, forcing me to break into a run. Before I reached the gate and the shelter of the van, it had turned to hail, frozen white balls that pelted painfully on my scalp. Another host might have called me back, invited me to shelter until the shower had passed. But the door of the farmhouse had shut. I had already been forgotten.
CHAPTER SIX
‘Well, I think he’s odd,’ I told Chloe Berkeley-Smythe that afternoon. I’d gone to her house to finish unpacking but she’d decided she wanted to go shopping, which really meant returning the items she’d bought the day before. Fortunately, the dress shops in Ashburton are well used to her.
‘Who, dear?’ Chloe asked, pouring tea. She had been to the hairdresser in the morning and her hair was restored to its usual silvery beige, her nails a glossy plum colour. She found all this pampering terminally exhausting, so we were getting our strength back in Taylor’s tea room.
‘Mr Thorncroft,’ I reminded her. I hadn’t been able to put my finger on what it was I didn’t like about him. He’d been hospitable, after a fashion, and amusing in a slightly desperate, manic way, but still managed to be irritating.
‘Well, we’ve done our duty in returning his money, so we can forget all about him,’ she said, hunting in her handbag for her sweeteners. I loved the use of we. ‘That’s a new art gallery that’s opened, just up the road,’ she went on, pulling out a purse, a lipstick and a handful of wrapped toffees. ‘It wasn’t there the last time I was here, was it?’
From Devon With Death Page 4