I sheltered in the shop while the violent little shower blew over and just missed banging my head on some wooden item hanging from the ceiling. It turned out to be a sledge, probably Edwardian. I avoided injury but managed to set the thing rocking and reached up to bring it to a stop before it could damage anything else. I remarked on how nice it was, slender and highly polished, with graceful, curved lines, the kind of sledge you see racing through the snow on old-fashioned Christmas cards.
‘We did have two,’ Ron told me, ‘but we sold one just before Christmas. I said to the man who bought it, if he was hoping for snow, I think he was going to be out of luck.’
‘You don’t think we’ll get any this year?’
He pulled a face. ‘I was talking with old Ted Barton who farms up around Widecombe t’other day, and he doesn’t think we’ll get any. Bleedin’ rain’s bad enough,’ he added gloomily.
‘Perhaps your customer should have bought a boat,’ I suggested.
He chuckled. ‘You might be right.’
The storm passed, as brief as it had been heavy, and I proceeded on my way, leaving Ron and Sheila wondering whether or not to put their stock back out.
I might not be able to rival Keepsakes but at least I had some new items to display, and I spent part of the afternoon happily sorting, polishing and pricing, an activity that always satisfies some strange little corner of my soul.
Elizabeth had come in to mind the shop, allowing Sophie and Pat to get off for the afternoon. ‘I’m taking Olly to a concert at the arts centre this evening,’ she told me, ‘some sort of jazz collective. One of the teachers involved in the youth band is performing and Olly is very keen to go. I don’t suppose you’d like to join us?’
‘Why not?’ I have very wide musical tastes and I wasn’t averse to a spot of jazz. I glanced at my watch. I’d shortly have to dash off to see my last client of the day, a recent addition: Mrs York, an elderly lady who lived in a bungalow on the way to Woodland. ‘Probably best if I meet you there. If I get there before you, I’ll bag some comfy seats.’
I was driving into town on my way back from Mrs York, having washed her floors, cleaned her bathroom, helped her with turning her mattress and a few other things she found awkward, when I spotted Luke standing outside the Silent Whistle, talking to a man I didn’t recognise. I would have minded my own business and driven past but something about the two of them made me slow down and glance in my nearside mirror. Luke’s rigid stillness told me he didn’t like what the other man was saying. I didn’t know him. He was big, flabby and pale as if he was making poor lifestyle choices. I saw Luke push him away as if he wanted to end the conversation. The other man, smiling, laid a hand on his shoulder. Suddenly Luke lashed out. I braked hard. He was still on licence. He couldn’t afford to get into an argument, couldn’t afford to swing another punch. I threw the van into reverse and backed down St Lawrence Lane. His flabby friend had dodged out of reach, laughing. I flung open the passenger door. ‘Want a lift?’ I called out.
Luke turned to stare at me, his fists clenched, his whole body tense and wired for a fight. He blinked, as if he was waking from a dream and I saw his shoulders relax. ‘Yeah,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Thanks.’
Flabby fella’s plump lips were twisted in a smile. ‘Bastard!’ Luke snarled at him before he ducked into the seat beside me and slammed the van door.
His face was grim, eyes bright with anger, his jaw clenched so tight I feared for his teeth. A glance in the rear-view mirror as I drove off showed the other man still standing outside the pub, arms folded, smirking.
‘Who was that?’ I ventured after a steady silence, during which time I’d turned into East Street and then around the corner into Kingsbridge Lane.
‘Just some wanker I used to know.’
I waited for him to elaborate but it seemed that was all the information I was going to get.
‘You don’t want to tell me who he is?’ I asked. ‘He doesn’t live round here, does he?’
‘Forget him!’ Luke’s face was twisted with distaste. ‘You can let me out here,’ he instructed as I turned by the town hall. ‘My truck’s parked just here.’
‘Luke, if you’re in any trouble—’ I began.
He cut me off. ‘No, I’m not.’ He took a moment to get control of himself and when he spoke again his tone was softer. ‘I’m trying to stay out of it.’
‘Anything I can do?’
He flicked me a shy glance and smiled. ‘You’ve done it already. Thanks.’
‘Fancy a pint?’ I asked.
He hesitated, but only a moment.
I parked and we slipped down the ginnel that took us onto West Street and walked up the hill to the old Exeter Inn. I got the Jail Ale in and we sat down at a table.
‘I’ve never been in here before.’ Luke looked around at the yellowed walls and the low beams overhead. ‘It’s a really old pub, isn’t it?’
‘It was this pub Sir Walter Raleigh walked out of and got arrested and taken to the Tower of London,’ I told him, ‘and it was an old pub then. I think it’s at least eight hundred years old.’
Luke nodded and sipped his pint.
I shut up and sipped mine. My enthusiasm for all things Ashburton led me to sound like a guidebook if I wasn’t careful. For a minute we sat in silence.
‘How’d it go today at Ricky and Morris’s place?’ I ventured.
He nodded again. ‘Good.’
Silence again. The words ‘blood’ and ‘stone’ came to mind, but it was Luke who spoke next.
‘Pat says you go up on the moor a lot.’
‘Well, I used to,’ I said sadly. ‘I like to tramp about. But this last year I’ve hardly been up there. I don’t get much time these days, with the shop …’
‘I’d like to live up there,’ Luke said, ‘roam about like a Gypsy.’
‘Like Micky.’
‘That old tramp with the big dog?’ he asked. ‘I’ve seen them up there.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘Biggest dog I’ve ever seen!’
‘Duke? I think his ancestors can trace a direct line back to the Hound of Hell.’ I smiled. Duke and I had history; we were old mates.
Luke laughed and for a moment his eyes were far away, as if he was gazing at wide-open spaces, not sitting in the pub with me. ‘I like all the old industrial stuff,’ he said, returning his gaze to me, ‘stuff leftover from the mines and quarrying, like up at Haytor Quarry. I’ve been up there sometimes, by myself, just sketching.’
‘I didn’t know you could draw.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m not very good.’
‘I bet you are,’ I said. ‘Got a sketchbook on you?’
He frowned, his light eyes narrowing. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Just guessing. Sophie never goes anywhere without one, a tiny little one, just fits in her pocket. She’s likely to whip it out anywhere and start drawing.’
He grinned and pulled a black notebook from his inside jacket pocket. It was quite a large pad and he had a job to wriggle it out.
In shades of grey the moor opened out on his pages. He worked in pencil, sketching familiar landmarks like Haytor, bluff and rounded like a clenched fist dominating the landscape, and Great Mis Tor with its stacks of deeply fissured rock. I recognised the jutting overhang of Crow Tor and Brentor with its church. But he’d drawn many tors I couldn’t name: some solid blocks of granite like castle keeps, brutalist sculptures carved by the wind, others with rocks round as pillows. His sketches of the landscape were stark, bold, and impressive. But it was where he had come in close to his subject that his work was really good. Almost microscopically he had rendered the weathered surfaces of the rock − ice-cracked, wind-scoured, blotched with lichen or glittering with quartz and mica. My favourite was a simple sketch of a drystone wall. It occurred to me I ought to introduce him to Sophie.
‘These are stunning,’ I told him truthfully. ‘Do you sell any?’
‘No.’ He smiled, amused by the idea.
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p; ‘Well, I’d be very happy to put some in the shop, if you wanted me to,’ I told him, although, to be honest, a more fitting place would be Meredith Swann’s gallery.
He shrugged. ‘Maybe, one day.’
I glanced at my watch and realised that if I wanted a seat at the jazz concert, I’d better get going and we said our goodbyes.
Fortunately, Elizabeth and Olly had got to the arts centre before me and had already grabbed three of the comfortable chairs. There were a dozen or so of them, grouped around small tables. But it was first come, first served; the only other seats were the old chapel pews, which despite the donation of dozens of home-made cushions are very hard on the buttocks after a short period of time. The Methodists obviously believed a numb bum was good for the soul.
The place filled up around us. I hunkered down, trying to sit as low as I could. Someone tall like me, with a mass of curling hair, is the very last person that anyone wants sitting in front of them in a concert. I have often felt the burning of hostile stares from shorter people sitting behind me in theatres, and if I’m booking seats, usually choose the back row. But in this case, I was down the front and feeling rebellious. Even tall people have rights, so sod it.
The music was excellent, although a little busy for my taste. I prefer jazz that’s melancholy and soulful rather than hectic and frenetic. When the band took a break, Elizabeth got up to refresh our glasses at the bar. Olly grabbed my arm before I could follow her and beckoned me close to him.
‘It was Hannah got that envelope,’ he whispered fiercely.
I didn’t know anyone called Hannah and didn’t catch on for a moment.
‘Hannah Williams,’ he said, seeing my blank look. ‘Will’s sister. She got the envelope through the letter box.’
‘From Jessie Mole?’
He nodded excitedly. ‘Will caught her burning the postcard in the sink when their mum and dad were out.’
I cursed softly. That postcard was evidence.
‘She made him swear never to tell a living soul,’ he added dramatically.
‘So he told you?’
‘Well, I asked him.’
‘Do we know what was written on it?’
Olly cast another look over his shoulder, in case Elizabeth was returning. We both knew she wouldn’t approve if she found he’d been poking around in things which shouldn’t concern him. ‘Hannah wouldn’t say. But Will says she’s got a boyfriend at school, and on their way home they take a walk through the woods so that they can …’ he blushed slightly, ‘you know!’
I had a fair idea. ‘And Jessie had seen them?’
‘Hannah said she thought someone was watching them once from behind the trees, spying on them, someone who ran off.’
‘Do we know if Jessie threatened to tell her parents about her boyfriend?’
‘Don’t know. But she told Will she was glad Jessie was dead.’
I frowned. Somehow I couldn’t see a teenage girl as Jessie’s killer.
‘Anyhow,’ Olly went on, ‘she’s paying Will half her Saturday job money not to tell their mum and dad.’
‘He’s quite the entrepreneur, your friend Will, isn’t he?’
‘He’s what?’
‘Never mind.’
‘The message was written on one of those corny postcards with a Dartmoor pony on the front,’ he went on, ‘and From Devon With Love printed on it.’
‘Irony, I suppose.’
Olly frowned. ‘What?’
I spotted Elizabeth returning from the bar. ‘We’ll talk about it later.’
Olly went to talk to his music teacher, and I watched Elizabeth taking a rather circuitous route back to our table. She’d stopped to talk to someone sitting over the other side of the chapel, someone I hadn’t noticed come in, Daniel Thorncroft. I looked around for Meredith but there was no sign of her. Somehow I couldn’t imagine her in this setting, couldn’t see her roughing it on one of those hard pews, even to listen to good music.
As Elizabeth came back to our table and set the glasses down, she said, ‘You’ve met Daniel Thorncroft, haven’t you?’
‘He’s a bit of an oddball if you ask me,’ I grunted. ‘How do you know him?’
‘He’s come in the surgery a couple of times. We got chatting once when the waiting room was empty.’ She sat down and gave me a rather challenging look. ‘I like him. He lost his wife just over a year ago. He’s been through a rough time.’
‘How did she die?’ I was curious despite myself.
‘Cancer,’ she told me. ‘It was all very sudden, from the time of diagnosis only a few weeks.’
I cast a glance in Mr Thorncroft’s direction to find he was watching us. He raised his glass in silent greeting. I gave a nod in return. I wondered if he knew we were talking about him.
‘He’s been struggling with loss, feelings of guilt and anger – all quite usual. Anti-depressants didn’t help in his case, made it all worse.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Grief can make people behave very strangely, you know. Perhaps you should remember that,’ she added, patting my arm affectionately. In her voice there was the merest hint of reproach.
Olly reappeared at that moment, the band was returning to the stage, and I didn’t get the opportunity to reply. Later, I glanced across at Daniel Thorncroft sitting on his pew, his long legs out in front of him, rapt in the music. I wondered what he had said about me to Elizabeth that should have made her speak the way she did. I was comforted to think, by the end of the evening, how much his backside would be hurting.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘So Jessie Mole’s got herself murdered,’ Maisie said with a sniff. ‘Well, it was only a matter of time.’ These were almost her first words as she entered her cottage on her return. I wondered how she knew.
‘Nelly phoned me,’ she explained.
Nelly was one of Maisie’s regular churchgoing friends. ‘Nelly Mole?’ Mole is a common name in Devon and I hadn’t made the connection. ‘Are she and Jessie related?’
‘Distant branch of the family,’ she said, ‘from up Okehampton way.’ She dismissed the lot of them with a wave of her hand. ‘Well, I ain’t surprised she got murdered, that Jessie was always a nasty piece of work.’
‘That’s not a very kind thing to say, Mum.’ Our Janet hovered behind her, still carrying the cases from the car. She’d lived so many years up country that her voice had taken on a northern quality, a slight flattening of the vowels. Jacko, Maisie’s bristly, self-important little terrier, had already gone on ahead, leaping onto the sofa and up to his favourite seat on the window sill, settling down and shoving his evil little snout through the lace curtains as if to announce to the occupants of Brook Lane that he was back.
The day before, after a warning call from Our Janet, I’d opened up and aired the cottage, switched on the fridge and the heating, made up Maisie’s bed and one in the spare room for Janet, who wouldn’t begin her long journey back to Heck-as-Like until next morning, and fetched some essential shopping. Now I helped her with the cases and together we got Maisie settled in her chair and sorted more shopping, which Janet had brought with her.
‘How’s it been?’ I muttered as we stood together in the kitchen, unpacking the shopping and putting it away. Her response was to roll her eyes heavenward and shake her head. Our Janet is a kind woman, with a husband, large family and a job. She is full of concern for her ninety-four-year-old mother who lives far away and stubbornly refuses to leave Ashburton to be near her. ‘I’ll be glad to see the back of that bloody dog,’ was all she said.
‘What’s that?’ Maisie demanded from her armchair.
‘Are you better now?’ I asked, ignoring her question. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’
She tutted. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
A few minutes later, when we were all suitably equipped with refreshment, I brought the subject back to Jessie. ‘What did you mean about her being a nasty piece of work?’ I asked. ‘Surely Jessie was just a bit simple.’
Maisie grunted in di
sgust. ‘I don’t know about simple! Police took her in for questioning more than once, warned her off. She had to leave Okehampton in the end.’
‘What had she been doing?’
Maisie sniffed. ‘Writing letters.’
Our Janet and I exchanged glances. ‘How do you mean, Mum?’ she asked. ‘Blackmail?’
‘Now, I don’t know about blackmail,’ Maisie admitted. ‘I don’t know she tried to get money. Poison-pen letters is what I mean, just saying nasty things about people, upsetting ’em. Everyone knew it was her doing it. Police knew too but they couldn’t prove it was her, not for definite − crafty baggage, she was − but there was trouble and they warned her off.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘Well, that I can’t say,’ she responded with a shake of her head. ‘Nelly don’t like to talk about it. All I know is she disappeared upcountry for years before she turned up here like a bad penny.’
Now it seemed she’d started letter writing again, at least, I’d seen her posting that envelope through the Williamses’ letter box. But why risk posting it herself? I wondered. Why not send it through the mail, or the Internet? On reflection, I doubted if Jessie had ever been near a computer; she would almost certainly have become a troll if she had. Perhaps she derived evil satisfaction from getting as physically close to her victims as she could. Perhaps the danger of getting caught was part of the thrill. I thought about all this as I drifted off to sleep, as January became February and the rain began to fall.
Next morning, we waved goodbye to Our Janet, after a slightly strained farewell, and she set off back to Heck-as-Like.
‘Didn’t you enjoy yourself up there over Christmas, Maisie?’ I made us a cup of tea. I could tell she was gagging to talk. ‘Apart from getting the chest infection, I mean.’
‘No, I did not!’ she declared roundly, sitting herself down in her chair. ‘All those bleedin’ kids!’
‘Those are your great-grandchildren,’ I pointed out.
‘Well, there’s too many of ’em!’ She held up her hands in horror. ‘The noise, come Christmas Day, with all that lot running around screaming!’
From Devon With Death Page 11