Downstairs there was very little sign of a search, but perhaps the intruder had been interrupted. The only signal that the silent alarm would have been triggered was a tiny red light on the box in the hall, which would begin to flash. If the intruder had caught sight of it he wouldn’t have hung around. I doubt he would have gone back out through the window. He might have just sneaked out of the front door and closed it behind him.
‘Anything missing?’ the police constable asked me.
‘Not that I can tell,’ I admitted, ‘but Mrs Berkeley-Smythe will be the only person who’ll know for sure.’
‘And when does she come home?’
‘Not for several weeks.’
He sucked in his breath and shook his head. With that he prepared to leave, to file his report at the station. Was that it? I asked. No forensics? No dusting of the window frame for fingerprints? He pulled the kind of face that tells you you’re asking for the impossible. As nothing appeared to have been taken, there was no injury to persons and only minimal damage to property, he doubted if the force would spare the resources. If they did, he warned me with a slow shake of his head, it might take a few days. Did I not know, he asked me reproachfully, how much crime was currently committed in Ashburton? I did have a fair idea but I didn’t comment. And of course, he went on, I wouldn’t be able to get the lock mended in the meantime. Wouldn’t I rather make the place secure? Well, of course I would. As the keyholder, I was responsible. I wouldn’t be able to leave the cottage until I was sure it was safe.
As soon as the useless git had gone, I phoned around locksmiths until I found one who promised to come at once. I tidied up while I waited for him to arrive.
I was puzzled by this intruder. There were bits and pieces of silver and fine ornaments around that he hadn’t touched. It was as if he was searching for something specific, something he could see at a glance wasn’t in view, but which might have been contained in a drawer or cardboard box. Perhaps he was only interested in smartphones, or expensive technical things he could easily sell on. I was glad I’d taken Chloe’s tablet to my place.
The locksmith’s idea of at once wasn’t the same as mine. It was an hour and three-quarters before he turned up, by which time I’d tidied up the bedroom and phoned Ricky and Morris to tell them I wouldn’t be coming back today. Getting through to Chloe was a bit more complicated and I’d leave it until later.
When the locksmith had finished, I had to pay him. His charge was extortionate, but I didn’t really have a choice. I’d recoup the money later from Chloe but that didn’t make me feel happy about having to fork out there and then. On the whole, I decided when I got back home, I would not class this as the best of days. I managed to get through to Chloe later, on board ship, and told her the tale, reassuring her that nothing seemed to have been taken. She promised to arrange an electronic transfer of money into my account as soon as she could. I didn’t mention what had happened to Amanda. It would only frighten her and it was a story that could keep until her return.
I’d not long been tucking into a curried vegetable pie, provided by Kate, and a particularly ghastly romantic novel I’d forgotten to return to the library for Maisie, when the phone rang. It was Digby. I enquired after Amanda and he told me all was well.
‘She was more upset about losing the photograph than anything else,’ he said. ‘It was taken on our wedding anniversary a few years ago, on board ship. Dear old Chloe took it, you know.’
‘In which case,’ I said, ‘she might still have it on her tablet and we could get a copy printed.’
‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ he chortled. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any possibility of getting in touch … ?’
‘No need. She left her tablet behind. I’ve got it here in the flat for safekeeping. Why don’t I bring it over and you can look through it together, see if you can find it?’
‘If you don’t think Chloe would mind?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘I’d hate to upset the old girl.’
‘We’ll only be looking through her cruise pictures and I’m sure she’d be glad to help.’
‘What about tomorrow evening, then? Come over and have a drink.’
‘That would be wonderful,’ I lied bravely.
‘Right, then, Juno,’ Digby said happily. ‘It’s a date.’
I put the phone down and got back into my pie and book. Outside the wind was getting up, roaring down from the moor and buffeting against the chimney pots. Rain began to spot the windowpanes, to patter on the roof of the conservatory. Inside I was cosy, happily oblivious of what was to come. I didn’t know it but my date with Digby and Amanda would not be kept tomorrow. It would not be kept for a very long time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It must have rained heavily all night long. In the early morning the lanes were thick with mud, every little rut and hollow shining with its own puddle. In the woods the first shoots of wild garlic were thrusting through the dead leaves, turning the floor green, and wild daffodils and the tiny yellow flowers of dog’s mercury sparkled in the shadows. The weak morning sunshine made every bough shine with wetness, diamond raindrops dripping from the branches and scattered in the moss. The dogs raced ahead of me, heads down, tails up, sniffing damp bark and toadstools, excited as children in the blustering wind. I breathed in deep. The air was fresh, not cold, the wet wood smelt of spring. And still we’d had no snow, no frost, no winter.
There would be more rain to come, though, judging by the clouds piling up in the west. I walked the Tribe in a brisk circuit through the woods, along the lanes and back into the shelter of town. After I’d taken them all home, I checked in at the shop – Sophie was in charge, still no sign of Pat − and went off to tackle two blisteringly boring hours of ironing for Simon, the accountant.
When I’d steamed his shirts and pressed all his collars and cuffs, I called in on Maisie. Maria, her agency carer, had returned after only one day off sick, which was just as well. After being insulted about her hair, her eyebrows and her dog, I didn’t put much faith in Ashleigh reappearing. I sorted Maisie’s recycling, hung up her washing, did her shopping, walked Jacko, picked up her prescriptions and took her novel back to the library. I hadn’t bothered to finish it. I could stand no more of the insipid blonde heroine or the arrogant black-browed hero into whose arms she was undoubtedly destined to fall. I selected another for her by the same author, as requested. This time, the heroine on the cover was a brunette but the plot looked pretty much the same.
By mid-afternoon I realised I had had no lunch. There was not much going on at the shop, so I strolled along to Sunflowers to see if I could bag anything past its sell-by date. I was pleased to see that the cafe was quite busy.
Kate was behind the counter. ‘Your friend was here earlier,’ she told me, smiling.
I frowned. ‘Friend?’
‘The tall one … um … Daniel?’
‘Why does everyone keep calling him my friend?’ I asked, feeling cross. ‘He’s not my friend.’
‘Oh, sorry!’ Kate shrugged. ‘I’ve seen you chatting to him in here a couple of times, so I thought …’ She tilted her head on one side, making the end of her plait slide down over her shoulder. ‘Don’t you like him? I think he’s nice.’ She laughed. ‘He’s a funny one, though. He’s always leaving things behind him.’ She picked up a large envelope from beneath the counter. ‘Today it was this. He was sitting at his usual table, typing away on his laptop, when suddenly he went rushing off as if he was late for something. He took the laptop but left this behind. He even forgot the dog. The poor little thing had to go scurrying off after him.’
‘I’ll take it,’ I said, stretching out my arm for the envelope.
Kate looked doubtful. ‘Are you likely to be seeing him, then?’
I shrugged airily. ‘I don’t mind driving up that way after the shop’s closed.’ I realised I’d like an excuse to talk to Mr Thorncroft. We hadn’t spoken since I’d seen him at the police station − before that, since the day h
e stopped me to ask what day it was when we had talked outside Old Nick’s. Why that was important, I didn’t know. Perhaps it wasn’t. But I wouldn’t mind knowing more about what had taken place between him and the police.
‘He’ll probably come back here for it,’ she objected.
‘If he’s not at home, I’ll post it through his letter box,’ I promised, and still a little unsure if she was doing the right thing, she handed me the envelope.
I wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing, either. If Daniel Thorncroft had murdered Verbena Clarke, then it wasn’t the most sensible thing to be visiting him alone in his isolated farmhouse on Halsanger Common. But someone who is constantly leaving a trail of his belongings behind him doesn’t strike me as a man who could commit murder without leaving any evidence, unless his persona of absent-minded professor was all an act. Somehow, I sensed it was horribly real. In any case, I might not get the chance to speak to him. He probably wasn’t at home. He was most likely to be at Meredith’s place, I thought with a sneer, spooning.
The rain had started again in the afternoon and by the time I’d closed the shop and was driving up the hill towards the common, water was glazing the tarmac and trickling past me in a river down the side of the road. In theory, there should still have been some light in the sky, but the gloom was so deep I had to switch on my headlights to see the way ahead, my windscreen wipers swishing wildly. As I reached the brow of the hill and the common opened up around me, White Van was punched in the side by a giant fistful of wind. Clouds as dark as bruises hung over the hills. Thunder rumbled, lightning split the sky, the clouds glowed with it and for a moment the moor before me pulsed with light. Then all was dark again. In the dimness the farmhouse loomed as a black shape up the track to my right. I slowed down as I approached the gate and peered through the rain.
No smoke came from the chimney. The place seemed to be in darkness. Thunder rumbled again, echoing around the moor. I decided not to risk driving up that muddy track, I could too easily get bogged down and I didn’t want to park White Van in the open. I crawled on past the house, out of sight, bounced up over the bumpy grass and tucked the van behind the shelter of a stone barn.
I kicked off my shoes, pulled on my wellies, stuffed keys, phone and torch into my pockets and shrugged on my rainproof jacket, tucking as much hair as I could under the hood. I put the envelope into a deep inside pocket. Then I braced myself and clambered out into the wind and rain.
As I turned towards the farmhouse the wind pummelled me in the face, sprayed rain like shrapnel and blew the hood back off my head. I tried to grab the edge of it, hauling it back up over my hair, keeping a grip on it with wet fingers, the torch clutched in my other hand. It lit the ground as I trudged over soggy turf, squinting against the needles of rain, my boots squelching in puddles, and picked my way carefully amongst a scattering of boulders from a collapsed garden wall. From there the path to the front door was a series of granite stepping stones that shone wet in the light of the torch. I slithered on the surface of one, the toes of my boot getting hitched on the edge of the next one and almost pitching me forward. I dropped the torch. Whose stupid idea was this? I asked myself as I bent to pick it up. As I straightened, thunder growled and lightning flashed, lighting up the sky, turning a nearby twisted thorn tree to a crouching silhouette. It was not safe here out in the open. I ran for the shelter of the front door and banged on it hard. ‘Anyone at home?’ I yelled.
But there was no answer, no welcoming bark or comforting light, just the shrill whistle of the wind as it sneaked under doors and through cracks in window frames, as it rattled doorknobs, boomed under corrugated iron sheeting and loosened the corner of the tarpaulin over the upstairs window, making it flap like a flag.
Well, I wasn’t hanging around. I’d deliver the envelope and head back to the safety of White Van. I pointed the torch towards the place where I thought the letter box should be and discovered that there wasn’t one. Cursing, I bent lower with the idea of shoving the thing under the door. There was a space that was certainly wide enough, but the flagstone doorstep was wet. Rain had blown in under the door. I didn’t want the envelope and its contents to get ruined. I should have listened to Kate and left the wretched thing at Sunflowers. Nothing for it, I’d have to take it back.
I hunched my shoulders against the rain and set out across the grass. I didn’t bother with the hood this time; it was clearly not going to stay up. I just lowered my head and met the rain full on, the wind pushing me from behind now, forcing me into a run, blowing my hair in front of me to obscure my vision, strands clinging like seaweed to my wet face. My hands were numb with cold, the pitiless rain golden in the bouncing light of the torch as I ran. Thunder echoed. A blinding light cracked open the blackness of the sky. Sparks flew as lightning struck the twisted thorn tree, splitting it in two. I watched transfixed as a branch crashed to earth, leaving the torn and splintered trunk still standing. The air smelt scorched, pulsated with a strange energy that thrummed in the ground beneath my feet. My hair crackled.
I ran for the shelter of the stone barn, pushing its wide wooden door open enough to slide myself in. For a moment I stood in the darkness, getting my breath. I slid a hand through the dripping ringlets of my hair, pulling strands away that clung to my face. It was pitch-black inside the building and I shone the torch around, hoping to find a light switch. There was an antiquated one near the door frame and I flicked it on. A single bulb hanging from a rafter on an old twisted brown flex cast a dull yellow glow not much brighter than a candle, but it was enough to show me my surroundings, enough to stop me bumping into the elderly tractor that took up most of the space. I put away the torch and checked in my coat to make sure the envelope hadn’t fallen from my pocket. It was still there, and still dry, although the flap had become ungummed. In fact, I couldn’t remember whether it had been sealed in the first place.
I drew it from my pocket, unable to resist the temptation to peek inside. There was some legal-looking stuff on headed paper, and a postcard. I drew it from the envelope between my thumb and forefinger. On the front was a picture of a Dartmoor pony and the words From Devon With Love. A nervous pulse began to beat in my throat. I turned the card over and read the words in stark, black, childish writing: Everyone knows you murdered your wife.
This was from Jessie. Whether or not her terrible accusation was true, had this postcard provoked Daniel Thorncroft into killing her? Did he act out of a sense of guilt, or rage? I took a deep breath, steadying myself, my hand against the wall. I felt sick. Either way, I didn’t want it to be true.
There was a noise of an engine outside and I flipped off the light, pushing the door closed, leaving just a narrow slit to look through. Headlights shone in the gloom, a car turned in the gate, its driver prepared to risk the muddy track that led up to the farmhouse. His wheels spun as they tried to find traction. The car struggled. It stopped halfway and there was a crash of gears before it shuddered onward. It drew to a halt at the end of the path, the driver’s door opened and its driver backed out, carrying something in his arms, something that wriggled. ‘It’s only rain, Lottie,’ I heard him tell her as his dark figure stomped up the path. ‘I’ll have to put you down now.’ He stooped as they reached the front door. ‘I’ve got to find the key.’
He deposited her on the doorstep. I could see her slender, pale form against the dark wood of the door. She turned her head, nose pointing towards the barn as if she could sense my presence. She barked. The tip of her tail began to wag.
I cursed softly. ‘Lottie, don’t come over here,’ I willed her silently. ‘Stay where you are.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ her master admonished her, swinging the front door open. He nudged her with his leg. ‘Go inside.’
The door shut behind them and I could breathe again. A dim light began to shine through the kitchen window as lanterns were lit inside. Now what? I asked myself.
I slid the postcard back into the envelope. I had only to slip out of
the door, around the corner of the barn, get in the van and go. But would the occupant of the farmhouse hear the van start up? What if my wheels stuck in the mud and I couldn’t get away?
Suddenly the door opened again and Daniel Thorncroft ran out to his car, his shoulders hunched against the rain, arms crossed over his chest. I stepped back hastily, bumping into something hanging in the dark, something that swung slightly. Lottie had come to the open door of the farmhouse and watched her master as he retrieved something from the boot. But she was still bothered by me, staring at the barn and whining.
‘It’s probably just a fox,’ he called to her. ‘Go on, good girl, go inside.’ As he slammed the boot shut a flash of lightning showed him the stricken tree. I heard him exclaim and mutter something, but the wind took his voice away. Thunder grumbled, more distant now.
He hurried back to the house and the door slammed a second time. Now was the time to go. Right now. Except when I rooted in my pocket I couldn’t find the envelope. I must have let it drop. I crouched, feeling around the floor of the barn, my fingers finding nothing but tiny stones in the earth and stiff stalks of straw. I dug out my torch and shone the beam over the ground, praying that at that moment Daniel Thorncroft wasn’t looking out of his window to see the thin beam of light shining through the gap under the barn door. I found it inches from where my fumbling fingers had been searching, grabbed it and stood up, bumping my head a second time against the thing that was hanging from the beam.
I ran the torchlight over it. It was a sledge, Edwardian, just like the one in Keepsakes antique shop, perhaps the very one that Ron had told me he’d sold to a man at Christmas, warning him there would be no snow. Some tiny fragment sparkled in the light, just like a snowflake, some tiny wisp of something trapped between two pieces of wood. I teased it out with my fingers and held it up in the light. A scrap of cloth, a filmy fabric that wasn’t quite white, wasn’t quite silver and wasn’t quite blue. I gazed at the scrap of Verbena’s dress lying in my palm and my hand began to tremble. I ran the torchlight over the sledge once more, searching for more of it. There was nothing but odd blades of grass clinging to the runners, as if they had been pulled across a field. My trembling hand covered my mouth to stifle the cry that rose to my lips. I knew now how Verbena’s body had been dragged to the lake and who had dragged her there.
From Devon With Death Page 23