Deadfall

by Lyndon Stacey

  'Well, if she has, it wasn't from anything I've said. So, do you want me to call that taxi or . . . what?'

  She pursed her lips, primly. 'Well, I have got my reputation to think of, you know.'

  Linc stepped forward and swept her up off her feet.

  'What reputation?' he asked, heading for the bedroom. 'You little hussy!'

  The morning of the Farthingscourt Georgian Fair dawned bright and blustery, with towering white clouds in a deep blue sky. It was the kind of weather that could turn either way, Linc thought, casting a wary eye upwards. Nevertheless, with the fair starting at ten o'clock, it promised to hold fine long enough to tempt people out of their homes and through the gates.

  The festivities were to take place on the gentle green slopes in front of the house, and for security the building itself would have all doors locked except for the one into the yard, which would be monitored constantly by two of the regular house guides.

  The close-mown turf had, in the last few days, sprouted half a dozen white marquees, and by eight o'clock that morning several dozen trade stands, charity stalls and snack bars had joined them. Bunting and balloons abounded, but Linc had held out against the ubiquitous bouncy castle, on the undeniable grounds that it would be a horrendous anachronism. A group of village mums had set up a Pets Corner, and the local riding school had brought two ponies and a hefty skewbald cob to give rides and, presumably, try and bump up a bit of extra business in the process. With very few exceptions, everyone involved had dressed to follow the Georgian theme, although, it had to be said, with widely varying degrees of accuracy.

  Bearing in mind the strength of the early-summer sun, and the amount of running around he was likely to have to do, Linc had decided against wearing the richly ornate dress costume of the day, and wore instead the full-skirted brown coat, breeches, boots and tricorne that constituted the riding garb of a country squire.

  Crispin and Nikki made an odd pair, for although Crispin was resplendent in pale blue satin, knee stockings and a grey wig, Nikki had followed Linc's example and gone for the rustic look. With a full linen skirt, a daringly low-cut cotton blouse and a riot of golden curls cascading over her shoulders, Linc thought she looked like the cover illustration from a lusty historical romance. Which was, he had no doubt, the very effect she had intended. When she saw him, she put her hands on her hips, pulling her shoulders back, and with a sparkle in her eye said, 'How do, Master. Be there anythin' I can do for'ee?'

  'Oi! Do you mind?' Crispin demanded. 'There's no need to offer your favours around!'

  Linc laughed. Whatever her faults, Nikki was great fun.

  As a matter of fact, he would have been hard put to it to have got the whole thing off the ground without his sister-in-law's excellent organisational skills. As the crowds began to trickle in, it became clear that one of her ideas was definitely bearing fruit. In an attempt to encourage people to turn up in costume, she had advertised that a voucher for a free hot-dog would be given to each and every person who did so, and also that a prize would be awarded to the best family group. As the day progressed, it was seen that a good ninety per cent of those attending qualified to claim their free snack.

  Josie had arrived early to help Linc with the last-minute preparations, looking gorgeous in rose satin, her hair piled high with two or three ringlets loose on one shoulder.

  'I would have done the pale make-up, too, but I've got to meet Pierre at the mill at one o'clock. I'll do all the gubbins for the dance tonight.'

  'You look fantastic!' Linc told her, greeting her with a kiss.

  'And you look like Dick Turpin or somebody. Is it my imagination, or has your hair grown since I saw you last?'

  'It's rather clever,' Linc said, fingering the long black-ribboned ponytail. 'It comes off with the hat.'

  'You look more than ever like poor old St John,' Josie declared. 'I rather like it.'

  'Mmm. The trouble is, dressed like this, I'm not sure I should be talking to "Quality", like you.'

  'Oh, that's all right,' she replied airily, sweeping past him with her head held high. 'I like a bit of rough.'

  Linc's response was to slap her elegant rump as she passed.

  'You look very nice, Josie.' Nikki's mother had arrived on the scene, wearing a late-Georgian high-waisted gown and lace cap, and resembling no one so much as Mrs Bennet from Pride and Prejudice, though Linc wouldn't have dared say so. 'I wish I could say the same for my daughter. A wonderful chance to dress as befits her station and she looks like a gypsy!' She bent a critical eye on Linc. 'And you're just as bad! At least your brother has made an effort.'

  She moved on, leaving Linc and Josie to exchange amused glances.

  'Poor Beverley!' Linc commented, leaning close to Josie's ear. 'It's really sad when your snobbery extends as far as fancy-dress!'

  'Poor Nikki!' Josie said. 'Imagine having a mother like that!'

  'So, what about your mother? And the others? Are they coming?'

  'This afternoon.'

  'Abby too?' Josie had told him that her sister was as yet very nervous about leaving the house.

  'Yes. She's going to try.'

  'She's a brave girl. Good Lord, look! My father in costume! That must be Mary's doing.'

  Sylvester and Mary approached across the gravel looking splendid in full Georgian dress, she with a parasol and he with a silver-topped walking cane.

  'My Lord. My Lady,' Linc said, bowing low as they drew level. 'Mary, you're a miracle worker – and you look amazing!'

  She smiled and thanked him prettily, whilst at her side Lord Tremayne looked his son up and down with an expression of disdain.

  'Good God, Lincoln! You look like a bloody footpad!'

  By eleven o'clock the crowds were arriving in a steady stream, a testament to Nikki's efforts in securing advertising space on local radio and in the regional press.

  Among the attractions, a toffee-apple seller and the World's Strongest Man were cheek by jowl with a bearded lady and a gypsy fortune-teller. There was a coconut shy, a chance to guess the weight of the piglet, and a colourfully dressed tinker extolling the virtues of his patent elixir. In a roped-off arena, terriers were being raced, to the noisy delight of the crowd, and over and through it all, a fairground organ added its cheerful melody.

  Linc recognised many familiar faces behind their period disguise, including DS Manston and his young family, Mike Farquharson, and Nina Barclay.

  Coming up with Linc during a rare quiet moment, Manston introduced his wife and children and then begged a word in private.

  'Er . . .' Linc consulted his watch. 'Okay.'

  'It won't take a moment,' the sergeant said. 'It's just that the guvnor's a bit busy and he asked me to pass on a message. It's about the last warning you received. We've matched it to a page from Thursday's Daily Mail – Thursday before last, that is – so it matches the third one in that respect. The envelope is from W.H. Smith. Two sets of unidentified fingerprints on the outside, none on the inner.'

  'So it wasn't Judge or Sandy – at least, not in person, because you'd arrested them the day before. That makes the timing a bit strange, doesn't it?'

  'Yes, and that's not all that's strange. What's the story with the pot of Vaseline?'

  'I'm not sure there is one,' Linc said hedging. 'Why?'

  'Well, you must have had some reason for wanting forensics to look at it.'

  'And they found . . . ?'

  Sighing, Manston gave up. 'They found that someone had scooped out the contents, doctored them liberally with strong chilli powder and then put them back in.' He watched Linc's face for reaction. 'Now are you going to tell me?'

  'Um . . . Chilli powder would be rather nasty if it got in your eyes, wouldn't it?'

  'I should imagine so. Whose eyes exactly?'

  'Well, I'm not sure, but possibly my horse's eyes, three weeks ago.'

  Manston's expression sharpened. 'That could have caused a nasty accident if you'd happened to be riding at the time.'
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br />   'I was. And it did,' Linc confirmed.

  'So how come we didn't hear about this?'

  'Because I thought it was an accident. I don't come running to you lot every time I fall off my horse!'

  'And now? Have you any idea who might have done it?'

  'Ideas, maybe. But I need to think about it. Anyway, you're off duty. You're here to enjoy yourself.'

  'A policeman is never off duty,' Manston countered. 'So when you've done thinking, let me know.'

  The way Linc felt for the next couple of hours, he didn't think he would ever be 'done thinking'. His mind was buzzing with thoughts and none of them very pleasant. The main thrust was that, given Noddy's completely uncharacteristic behaviour at Coopers Down, his weeping, sore eyes, and the subsequent discovery of the doctored Vaseline, there was no getting away from the conclusion that the horse had been got at, with the intention of causing a very nasty accident.

  True, it had been by no means inevitable that Noddy would fall; it was quite possible that, realising he was uncomfortable, Linc might have pulled out before he even started the cross-country, or pulled him up part way round. Which was, of course, what nearly happened.

  What was equally inescapable was that the two people who'd had the best opportunity to administer the doctored grease were Nikki and her mother. For a long time Linc shied away from this conclusion. It was one thing to come to terms with the fact that somebody wished him harm – the business with Judge had already given him some experience of that – but it was quite another to accept that the somebody in question might be a member of his own extended family.

  He racked his brains for some other explanation but could think of none. Although it was just conceivable that the doctored Vaseline could have been exchanged for the original one without anyone noticing, the fact that he'd found the evidence in the pocket of a coat belonging to Crispin and Nikki made this rather a forlorn hope.

  If opportunity was taken care of, that left motive.

  Ambition.

  The word crept unbidden into his consciousness. But for oneself or another? He found himself remembering Beverley at the dinner party. She'd exhibited a ghoulish interest in his encounter with Beanie and his thugs. Had his narrow squeak on that occasion fired her imagination? She'd never really forgiven him for dashing her hopes of seeing her daughter become a viscountess, and if anything happened to him, Crispin would step into the title.

  Crispin. He'd been at the Coopers Down event . . .

  No. Linc gave himself a mental shaking. He wouldn't go down that road, it was unthinkable.

  What then of Nikki? She'd been bitter when they split, but afterwards had seemed very content with her new life, and surely now, with the baby on the way . . .

  'Linc. There you are!' Josie interrupted his thoughts. 'I've been looking all over for you. I shall have to go in a minute.' She gave him a searching look. 'Are you okay?'

  'Yeah, fine,' he lied, summoning a smile. He briefly considered sharing Manston's revelations with her, but it wasn't really the time or the place.

  'Well, I'll just go and get out of this clobber, and then I'll be off.' She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. 'See you later.'

  'Yeah, okay. Take care, won't you?'

  'I'll try not to fall in the millpond,' she promised, laughing as she turned away.

  Linc didn't feel much like laughing. He felt a little panicky. There was something important here that he was missing, but the more he searched his muddled thoughts, the further away it seemed to be slipping.

  'Jo Jo?'

  'Yes?' Josie turned, clearly surprised by the urgency in his voice, and he forced himself to calm down. After all, the threat wasn't a new one, and whoever was behind it couldn't know he'd discovered the doctored Vaseline.

  'Nothing,' Linc said, lamely. 'No problem.'

  Josie looked at him oddly. 'Are you sure you're okay?'

  'Yeah. Look, do you want me to come with you?'

  'No. Whatever for? Anyway, you can't just walk off and leave this.' She glanced at her watch, hidden discreetly under a long sleeve. 'Linc, I must go. I mustn't keep Pierre waiting – he's on his lunch break. 'Bye.'

  With another kiss she was gone, weaving her way through the crowds towards the house, and Linc's attention was almost immediately claimed by Geoff Sykes, dressed for the Georgian period but somewhat incongruously refusing to abandon his flat tweed cap.

  By the time the Hathaway family arrived, some twenty minutes later, the clouds had given up the unequal battle with the early-summer sun and gone off to dampen someone else's day.

  Running hither and thither, Linc had become far too hot in the heavy brown coat and joined the many others who had stripped down to shirtsleeves. He persevered with the tricorne and its attached hairpiece because, without it, it looked almost as though he hadn't bothered to dress up at all.

  He didn't know the Hathaways were there until he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find Rebecca at his side, smiling at him from under a lace cap. They greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek and Rebecca congratulated him on the success of the day.

  'I was looking for Josie,' she continued. 'Pierre asked me to get her to call him back and – of course – she left her phone at home. I've got it with me but I haven't seen her yet.'

  'I'm sorry?' Linc was confused. 'Why should Pierre want her to call? She's with him now, at the mill.'

  'Oh. Well, she shouldn't be. He rang earlier, a couple of hours ago. He's had to cancel and he'd been trying to get her on her mobile but couldn't – obviously – so I told him I'd pass the message on, but then I couldn't get you either.'

  'No, we're using the radios today,' he said, indicating the device on his belt. There were six of them in all; he had one, as did his father, Reagan, Sykes, Nikki and the guide who was on duty at the house door.

  'Yes, that's what your sister-in-law said when I rang.'

  'You spoke to Nikki? When?' The question came out more sharply than he'd intended, but Rebecca didn't appear to have noticed.

  'Earlier this morning. When I couldn't get hold of you on your mobile, I tried the office and Nikki answered. She offered to pass the message on to Josie so I left it at that.' She looked closely at Linc. 'Is something wrong?'

  He shook his head, trying to think clearly through the mounting unease that was gripping him. 'No. I'm afraid she didn't get the message, though. I expect Nikki just forgot. She's been very busy.'

  'Oh, well, never mind,' Rebecca said. 'I expect Josie'll soon give up and come back when Pierre doesn't turn up. If you see her before I do, tell her I've got her phone.'

  'Sure.' Linc produced a smile. He hated to deceive her but on the other hand he could hardly say, 'Well, actually, I think someone in my family may be trying to murder your daughter because I've asked her to marry me.'

  The act of putting his fears into words, even if only in his own mind, effectively crystallised them, and abruptly he knew he couldn't just wait and hope for Josie's safe return. At the same time, he couldn't justify causing untold damage to family relations over something that was, as yet, mere supposition.

  He didn't like just to walk out on the afternoon's festivities. God willing, he would be no more than a few minutes, but nevertheless somebody would have to be told that he was going and be asked to deputise in his absence.

  Crispin.