Returning to the study of his scrap of paper, Macdonald concluded that some of the numerals were probably telephone numbers – a matter which could be determined later. Finally there were some further hieroglyphics which Vintner had read, quite reasonably, as reminders of card tricks. Macdonald deciphered one line as “trump card west’s hand k5714” and another as “east’s 19k” followed by “Sx1059.”
Having considered all these scribbles in the light of what he admitted was an imagination akin to Mr. Hoggett’s own, Macdonald returned to police headquarters and was connected by telephone with London with quite remarkable promptitude. He then issued certain directions to Inspector Jenkins, C.I.D., and hung up the receiver shortly after 9 o’clock.
Bord was still at the police station, and Macdonald inquired if he would like a drive to Slaidburn.
“What – this evening?” inquired Bord, slightly startled by the chief inspector’s evident intention of continuing his researches well into the night.
“Aye, this evening,” replied Macdonald. “From what I’ve seen, these potters have quite a system of passing on information. Slaidburn’s a tidy distance, and I’m hoping to get there before information received causes Mrs. Gold to move on again. We mightn’t find it so easy to catch up with her another time. You know her by sight, don’t you, Bord?”
“Aye. I can swear to her. I saw her in court when Cobley thought he’d got a plain case and found he hadn’t.”
“Right – then off we go. I make it via Hornby and Clapham, and then leave the main road and up over Clapham Moor. That right?”
“That’s about it,” agreed Bord. “I’ll just put through a call to the constabulary over there.”
Later, as he and Macdonald set out, Bord said: “It’s a rough road, and a long pull. The fells on the top of Clapham Moor are on the 1400 feet contour line.”
“There’s going to be a good moon, so it ought to be a fine drive,” said Macdonald.
The road to Hornby lay through the farm country Macdonald was beginning to know well; just before Hornby they swung east toward Clapham, slowly mounting from river level. After half an hour’s driving they turned right from the main road and began a steep ascent up a secondary road, which soon took them above the last pastures to the open fell. It was dark now, though the sky in front of them was paling toward moonrise, and as they drove Macdonald was aware of the honey-laden scent of heather on the breeze that blew in from the open window. It was a long, steep pull and when he reached the summit Macdonald pulled up.
“I’m going to have at look at this – one minute will neither make nor mar us,” he said.
It was a memorable sight on that remote fell-side; the harvest moon, past the full now, was shedding a white light over the rolling moorland, wave beyond wave of heather, bilberry and rough pasture like a sea whitened by the moonlight, with densest shadows etched in the hollows. The stars were brilliant in the cloudless sky, and Macdonald turned to see the Plough in the northwest, the Pole star overhead, and Cassiopeia and Gemini glittering in the north athwart the sky, with Pegasus and Aries to the south. It was moments like that which made up for the more sordid commonplace of detection routine, he meditated, as he got in the driving seat again.
Bord was sitting smoking, quite uninterested in the moon light. “It’s downhill now all the way,” he said. “One of the local men will be looking out for us at the ford. We don’t want to go right into Slaidburn.”
A young constable was waiting for them as Bord had arranged and got into the car to direct them.
“The woman you asked about is staying in a cottage by Fell Foot Farm,” he said. “It belongs to a woman named Mrs. Hooves – quite a decent body. She’s lived there for years and we know nothing against her. There’s a lad home on leave from the B.A.O.R. – he only came there today. That’s the place, along this track away to the right. There’s still a light in the kitchen window.”
Macdonald drew the car in to the grass verge and pulled up.
“Stay here and keep your eyes open in case anyone tries to get away,” he said to the constable. “The inspector and I will go to the house.”
The two men walked quietly up to the cottage. Macdonald knocked on the door close by the lighted window and the door was promptly opened while a cheerful voice said:
“Come right in, Stephen lad. Whativer art tha–”
The voice broke off on a note of frightened query, and Macdonald had to hold the door to prevent it being shut in his face.
“Mrs. Hooves?” he asked. “I have some to see Mrs. Gold. I am sorry to come so late in the evening, but I’ve had a long drive.”
The quiet, pleasant voice seemed to reassure the little gray-haired woman at the door, but she still stood firmly by the door.
“What dost tha want?” she demanded. “Mrs. Gold’s my sister and she’s none too well.”
“I am afraid I must ask to see her,” persisted Macdonald. “I am a police officer. Reuben Gold was detained by the police today in Carnton and I wish to inquire about him.”
A thin voice spoke from the kitchen, bidding “Lizzie” to “let un in.”
Macdonald, with Bord behind him, entered the little lamplit kitchen, and saw a thin, white-haired woman with a frightened face staring up at him. Macdonald remembered that Castleby had mentioned her odd eyes – one blue and one gray.
“Mrs. Gold?”
She nodded and broke out: “What hast tha done? Reuben’s done nowt. Tha’s nowt aginst Reuben.”
“I don’t want to frighten you, and I’m not asking you to tell me anything which would go against your husband,” rejoined Macdonald, “No wife can be asked to give evidence against her husband in this country. I want you to answer a question about something which happened a long time ago. I can find out for myself, because all marriage certificates are kept, but if you choose to tell me it will save time and so help the law. I want to know if you were first married in Kendal on the 5th of July, 1914?”
Mrs. Gold stared at him, stared with fear in her eyes, but she refused to answer. Her thin mouth shut in a hard line; she was obstinately silent.
In the distance, somewhere outside in the moonlight, a man’s voice was heard singing unmelodiously “Roll out the barrel.” The sound added to the rigid fear of Mrs. Gold’s face, but it seemed to galvanize Mrs. Hooves into sudden life.
“That’s Stevie. Y’don’t want him to hear all this,” she said, and turned to Macdonald. “Her lad’s hoom on leave. Tha’s a decent chap; tha won’t spoil it for him. Coom in here now – Ah’ll tell tha what tha wants in two shakes. ‘Tis all the same now – but don’t tha let Stevie see no p’lice here. Come in t’dairy, do now.”
Bord was again surprised when Macdonald acquiesced and followed Mrs. Hooves’ urging arm into a little candlelit dairy. Bord followed, and the two big men stood listening.
Mrs. Hooves back in the kitchen said:
“Pull thiself together and say good night to t’lad. He’ll be ready for ‘is sleep likely. Ah’ll see to this here and don’t ‘e fret luv; ‘tis long past now. Here he be.”
They heard the outer door open and Mrs. Hooves saying shrilly: “Why, Stevie, tha’s late, luv. Thi mother’s tired like; ‘tis a long day. So oop to bed wi’ you both – and there’ll be eggs for your breakfast coom morning. Up tha goes, lad. I’ve had enough of t’ day and no mistake.”
In the dairy, Macdonald and Bord heard the heavy footsteps mount the shallow stone stairs at the end of the old cottage – Army boots folloked by the slip-slap of felt slippers. Mrs. Howes called after them: “Aye, get in to thi bed and sleep. Ah’ll do fine doon here.”
A moment later, the little body opened the dairy door and motioned to Macdonald and Bord to come back into the kitchen. With a finger on her lip she besought them to speak quietly as she whispered:
“Tha’ll not spoil his leave now? ‘Tis a good lad, and’ only hoom today.” She looked at Macdonald with her bright eyes, a flush on her thin, wrinkled cheeks. “Tha’s reet
aboot t’ marriage. I towd her, they keeps yon registers till doomsday. Tha can’t do nowt – but ‘twas all that time ago, and if so be she took Sarah’s name for t’ Government Cards, what matter?”
Bord was puzzled by all this, but Macdonald understood it well enough. He said quietly, “She used her dead sister’s name for her second marriage, and Gold doesn’t know about the first marriage?”
Mrs. Howes nodded. “Tis no use denying a’ that. Sarah died in 1916 and Susie took her name an’ said none would know – but they keeps those registries, I do know. And see, I had Stevie here since he was a lad, like ma oon he’s been and none wiser. Tha’ll never goo and tell on that after all this time? Not that’s any matter now, wi’ Stevie grown and us all gone gray. As for Reuben Gold, I reckon he’s done nowt that matters. Not a bad man ‘es been to her, not as men go.”
“And he still doesn’t know – about Stevie?”
Mrs. Howes twisted her apron between her fingers:
“A can’t tell, not now. She hid it, long eno’. Life was cruel hard to her.”
“The boy’s father left her – deserted her?”
“Aye – and her carrying her child, wi’ none to help. Not even me she towd till long after. She was afeared of our dad, for he was a hard man and he cast her off. Mebbe he’d reason for anger – but young blood’s young blood, an’ she toiled right hard for a motherless girl.”
“That was at home, up near Kirkby Stephen?”
“Aye. Tha knows. ‘Tis a hard life up yonder. Tha’ll not mak trouble for my Susie now, not when she’s owd and Stevie a reet gout lad?”
“The trouble won’t be any of my making, Mrs. Howes. You’ve done your best for me – and I’ll do my best for you.”
“Eh, ‘tis t’ lad I’m thinkin’ on. Ah’d lie right enough for t’ lad – but when tha knows, ‘tis no use lying.”
She looked at them, her hands folded in her apron, bright-eyed and unafraid, and added:
“As for yon Reuben, I don’t think all that o’ t’ potters, but he’s not been a bad man to Susie and ah reckon it’s not that black what tha has aginst ‘im. Will tha go, now? If Stevie came doon, it’d be trouble – and reckon there’s trouble enow in t’ world without asking fore more.”
“Aye, there is,” agreed Macdonald somberly, and continued: “Will you promise to try to keep your sister here, in case she’s needed? If, she runs away, she’d only have the police after her.”
“Mebbe. I tell you straight I can promise nowt – but she won’t go away while Stevie’s hoom, poor lass.” Arms akimbo she faced Macdonald, independent, fearless. “Thee men, tha makes trouble enow, tha dost, and ‘tis lasses like my Susie bear t’ brunt. Ah’ve no patience with tha, I tell tha straight! Police tha may be, but tha might let ould troubles rest.”
Macdonald found a smile on his face; he liked the gallant little gray-haired woman, fearlessly charging him with trouble-making.
“All right, Mrs. Howes – and thank you for your help. I’ll do my best for you – and for your lad. Good night.”
He turned quietly to the door and Bord followed him without a word.
It was not until they reached the car that Bord burst out: “Well, I’m damned! She’s got a cool cheek, telling us to let old troubles rest.”
Macdonald chuckled. “I liked her. She’s straight and shrewd. She’d got the sense to know it was no use refusing to answer, and I liked the way she turned on us in the end. I could do with a few more women like that. You know I felt more than a bit ashamed of myself, Bord. There’s something undignified in two large chaps like you and me setting out to overawe a little old woman like that.”
“If you had some of our routine jobs like pig-killing and disposal of carcases and keeping poultry off the black market, to say nothing of illicit marketing of eggs and butter you might take a different view,” said Bord. “They’ll diddle you every time – and that’s a fact. However, the point is – you got what you came for?” Bord was complacent.
“Aye. I tried out a guess based on a dirty piece of paper I found in the late Ginner’s coat pocket,” said Macdonald. “Here’s the paper. Like to try it out yourself – or shall I save you the trouble and tell you?”
“No. By heck you won’t,” said Bord. “If I’m diddled I’ll say so, but I’m not giving in without trying.”
They got back in the car and dismissed the attendant constable who would continue to keep an eye on the cottage, and Macdonald turned the car north again to climb the fell road.
Bord lighted his pipe and ruminated. “It’s a case of old sins coming home to roost,” he said, and Macdonald agreed.
“Aye, old sins, coupled to the stupidity of a smart Alec who thought it easy to make money out of his knowledge of them. Ginner took a lot of trouble to avoid bombs, but, for all his smartness, he hadn’t enough wits to know that there’s other explosive material in the world in addition to what’s manufactured for armaments. Tempers up north are said to take more rousing than tempers down south – but when they’re roused they’re formidable.”
As they mounted the crest of the moor again and saw the vast expanse of heather-covered fell in the moonlight, Macdonald reflected that this untamed moorland had altered little enough in the centuries of man’s endeavor – but man himself had altered less than the pundits were wont to claim.
It was nearly midnight when Macdonald parted from Bord in Carnton, and the C.I.D. man then set out again driving westward, toward the road which bounded the hills and rough pasture at the back of Thorpe Intak. If Reeves were to have a sleepless night on the chilly hillside, Macdonald was quite game enough to share it with him. In the chief inspector’s mind was the thought that Anthony Vintner was given to asking for trouble quite as much as anybody else in the case, because his attitude to other people’s problems was the classical reaction of the rogue: “Anything in this for me?”
Whether Vintner had made his own interpretation of the scrawl he found in Ginner’s pocket, Macdonald had no means of knowing at present, but he hazarded a shrewd guess that Vintner had tried to profit by other people’s troubles in more ways than one.
Leaving the car safely parked off the roadside, Macdonald set out on foot along a quiet by-road parallel with the Lune. The road was bordered by low stone walls and to the southwards gave a view right across the valley to the southern fells, but on account of its position on the hillside it also commanded a great expanse of sky. The moon was in the zenith now, shedding a bland white light, and the stars seemed almost to flash in the clear, frosty air, some blue, some yellow, some exceedingly white against the void of a dark, cloudless sky, with a long train of nebulae milkily drawn out in faint shining gossamer.
After he had walked some hundred yards, Macdonald stood still and stared and listened. His eyes had accustomed themselves to moon and starlight after having concentrated on the white swathe made by his headlamps as he drove, and his ears caught the sounds of the night. He walked on quietly looking out for the wall and the row of ancient thorns which marked the bridle path connecting up this road with the parallel one some half mile below it which ran through to Netherbeck. The track was probably ages old, but had fallen into disuse, and only occasional thorn trees marked the path that pack-ponies had once taken down the valley sides.
Climbing a gate whose ancient hinges had long been replaced by twists of rusted wire, Macdonald set out over the rough pasture, downhill at first, and then rising to the ridge above the steading. He moved slowly, pausing to listen and to look around. This was sheep land, and Macdonald knew that it was possible to blunder into a sleeping sheep which would rouse the whole flock with its complaints. As he reached the ridge of the hillock he was able to see right over the intervening land to the steading, and he saw the sheep, too, their fleeces pale, casting black shadows in the moonlight. The things that interested him was that the flock was on the move; slowly; sleepily they were coming toward him – an unexpected thing for sheep to do at night. The wind was blowing from the west – fr
om the direction of the sheep to where Macdonald stood – and they had not spotted him yet; they came on slowly, fussily, as though uncertain of what to do. Macdonald guessed that somebody else was over there, across the pasture, standing as he was standing, waiting to hear if the flock would raise their voices.
A sound suddenly broke the stillness, surprisingly abrupt and loud. An indignant blackbird had woken up and was shouting its alarm call. This decided the sheep; they began to hurry and they came on to within a yard of Macdonald before they were aware of him, and then they broke back; fussily, panicking, as is the nature of sheep. Macdonald promptly sat down and kept very still, anathematizing the silly sheep quite unjustly; they might spoil the whole show, he meditated; his show, of course – not the sheep’s. After a few minutes, during which the flock fell to grazing on the higher ground, Macdonald moved away from them more to the line of the thorns, and soon found, as he had expected, that he was in the path of a small beck trickling down the slope. Resenting the fact that he had now to squelch through marshy ground, he held on his course until he reached the level and stood on waterlogged ground by the old thorns where he had agreed to meet Reeves.
Reeves, however, was not there and Macdonald stood still and cogitated. Somewhere away to the west on the higher ground above the steading, someone had been moving cautiously. Their movements had been enough to rouse the sheep but not to frighten them into a rush; it had been sufficient to wake a blackbird, and blackbirds commonly roost in shrubs or hedgerows or gorse bushes. Whoever was on the move must thus have traversed part of the grassland where the sheep were resting in a huddled flock and then turned toward the hedgerow or gorse bushes further up the slope.
The Theft of the Iron Dogs Page 19