Date with Malice

by Julia Chapman

  The roads, thankfully, were clear, if a bit wet, making the ride to High Laithe possible.

  ‘It’s beautiful!’

  The shout carried over his shoulder, the excitement audible over the engine and echoed in the tightening of the grip around his waist. He grinned. It hadn’t been his idea. In fact he’d been set against it, worried about the weather and the road conditions.

  But he had to admit. She’d been right. For once.

  The sound of her delighted laughter carried on the breeze. With Delilah Metcalfe riding pillion, Samson could have ridden through the snowy landscape for a lot longer than the ten minutes it took to get to High Laithe. In no time at all, however, he was pulling up at the barn, Will Metcalfe’s thunderous face staring out at him from the doorway.

  As charm offensives went, Samson suspected he wasn’t off to the best of starts.

  The snow kept Rita Wilson at the window longer than normal. Having a flat in the rear corner of Fellside Court, she was blessed with a bedroom that looked out towards the hills at the back of the town. Usually she opened the curtains, admired the view, and then got on with the day. But this morning was worthy of prolonged attention. The fell was covered in a blanket of white, even the defining stone walls smothered into nothing, a winter’s blue sky stretched gauze-thin over it all.

  It wouldn’t last long. The sun was already warm enough to begin the thaw, the trees in the copse next to the car park dripping steadily, the courtyard paving stones wet and bare.

  Not quite walkable just yet, perhaps. A couple of years ago she’d have risked the short stroll into town, confident in her sturdy boots. Now she wasn’t so rash. Although there wasn’t a hint of ice out there. Another hour and then she could head into town.

  It was the flash of colour that would prompt her to change her plans. To leave the cosy comfort of her flat and venture out into the melting morning. She spotted it out of the corner of her eye as she turned to leave the window. She paused, turned back and stared across the car park to the huddle of trees skirted in white.

  Something was glinting in the sunshine.

  The small binoculars she used for birdwatching were on the windowsill. She held them up and focused them, the ground blinding in its brightness as she scanned across it.

  There it was. A rainbow buried in the snow.

  Puzzled, she lowered the binoculars, blinked and then looked again. It was still there. But just too far away for her to make out what it was.

  How odd. What could it be?

  Moving into the hall, Rita buttoned up her cardigan, reached for her coat and scarf and slipped on her boots. She’d go as far as the other end of the courtyard and have a look. Just to satisfy her curiosity.

  She was at the front door when she thought of her grabber. A handy gadget that her son had bought her for picking things up off the floor, it might come in useful. Not that she was intending on going further than the pavement.

  Grabber in hand and leaning heavily on her stick, she left the flat and walked up the corridor towards the wall of glass.

  ‘What the hell were you thinking? She could have been killed!’

  Face red, finger pointing, Will Metcalfe was storming across the yard before Samson had even got off the bike. That the oldest Metcalfe sibling’s concern didn’t extend to Bruncliffe’s black sheep hadn’t escaped Samson’s notice, but it wasn’t something he was prepared to query right now. He did contemplate leaving his helmet on, however, not really wanting to enter the festive period with bruises. Especially when the ones he’d arrived in Bruncliffe with – the ones that had been his leaving present from three balaclava-clad men in London – had only just faded.

  Judging by the anger simmering on Will’s features, he was capable of being every bit as brutal as the men in balaclavas had been.

  Taking a chance, Samson removed the helmet and brushed his hair back over his shoulder, glancing at Delilah as he did so. She was frozen, staring at her older brother, tension rigid across her shoulders, knuckles white where she gripped her helmet.

  ‘Didn’t you see the bloody weather?’ Will continued, right in front of Samson now, head tipped back, staring up at the taller man. ‘There’s snow on the ground, you idiot. You can take whatever risks you want with your life, but not with hers!’

  ‘For God’s sake—’

  ‘Sorry.’ Samson cut Delilah off with a single word.

  Will blinked. Leaned back slightly. Then frowned.

  ‘You’re right,’ Samson continued. ‘It was stupid. And I’m truly sorry.’

  A grunt issued from the older Metcalfe, a hiss from the younger.

  ‘Apology accepted,’ muttered Will. He gave a sharp nod of his head and then stalked back into the barn.

  ‘What the hell were you thinking?’ railed Delilah, before her brother was even out of earshot. ‘It’s Will who should be doing the apologising! And you too. Talking about me as if I was a child without a mind of my own. Honestly. The pair of you are insufferable!’

  Feet stomping in exactly the same footprints Will had left moments earlier, her shoulders back and spine rigid with temper, Delilah stormed across to the barn in an uncanny replica of her older brother.

  Samson sighed. He couldn’t win. His apology had been genuine, a sudden insight into Will’s fear, which was rooted in the loss of a brother, making Samson repent his reckless action. Not that it had been reckless. The roads were safe enough. But he could appreciate Will’s concerns and the causes of them.

  In appeasing one Metcalfe, however, he’d angered the other. Which was a problem because if he was going to get to the bottom of the Clive Knowles case, he needed them both onside.

  ‘Come here, you little . . .’ Rita Wilson, definitely not on the pavement but boot-deep in the snow, was wrestling with the grabber.

  Curiosity had got the better of her. She’d crossed the courtyard without incident, the ground merely wet underfoot, and had reached the edge of the car park that butted up to the grass. The grass that was covered in a layer of white.

  It had seemed a shame to come this far and still not be able to tell what the splash of colour was that was protruding from under one of the trees. Besides, she had her stick with her. And at least she’d have a soft landing if she fell.

  Beguiled by the hint of red and orange that burned against the stark background, she’d taken a step onto the snow and carefully picked her way across it.

  Only trouble was, while she could distinguish the colours okay, her eyesight wasn’t good enough to see what the object was. Nor could she bend down and pick it up, her days of such agility having passed. So she’d been trying to get a closer look by using her grabber. But the slick surface of the item in the ground was giving her some difficulty.

  ‘There! Got you,’ she muttered as she squeezed the trigger handle and the rubberised ends of her gadget finally gained purchase.

  Leaning on her stick, she lifted the grabber carefully, pulling the rainbow out of the snow colour by colour. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Lilac. Purple.

  She knew what it was now. Recognised the compact rectangle, the slices of semi-precious stone. It took a bit of manoeuvring to lift it up and remove it from the grabber, requiring her to release her grip on her walking stick and stand there slightly off balance, worried that she’d fall over and spoil Christmas for everyone. Then she had it securely in her hand, slipped it into her coat pocket and transferred her weight back onto her stick, her heart pattering with the effort.

  Retracing her cautious footsteps, she made her way back to the safety of the tarmacked car park, a frown drawing deep lines across her forehead.

  What was it doing there? So out of place. So unexpected.

  Thoughts firmly on the puzzle of Alice Shepherd’s pillbox, Rita Wilson failed to notice the shift in light on the first floor as a shadow moved out of sight, away from the glass wall.

  She’d been seen. The object in her pocket had been seen. Her curiosity had placed her in a situation far more deadly
than that caused by an unsteady boot stepping onto an icy surface.

  Samson waited until lunchtime to broach the subject. The morning had been spent in a flurry of activity, Ash directing the willing labourers. Harry Furness had arrived with several members of the rugby club who were put to work carrying in a wood-burning stove and a range cooker, while Samson, to his relief, was assigned the job of painting the walls in the utility. Delilah, perhaps as punishment for the foul temper she’d not bothered to hide when she’d entered the barn, was given the thankless task of grouting the downstairs cloakroom, far away from her brother Will, who was fixing light fittings in the upstairs rooms. Unable to leave her cafe due to the seasonal demand for her mince pies and Yule logs, Lucy was absent. As was Nathan, roped in to wait on tables at Peaks Patisserie, despite preferring to work in the barn with Samson. Also missing was Elaine Bullock, already on her way to the Lakes with a minibus of students for a field trip that had been rescheduled and shoehorned in before Christmas.

  But in spite of the depleted numbers, by the time Lucy pulled up outside in the Peaks Patisserie van – Harry being first out of the door to help her unload the food for the workers – Ash was looking happy at all that had been achieved by the band of volunteers.

  ‘Oh wow, it looks amazing,’ said Lucy as she stepped inside, the newly installed wood-burner already alight and filling the lounge with cheer. Then she spotted the array of huge bodies gathering around the makeshift table and a hint of worry filled her voice. ‘I think I’ve brought enough to feed everyone.’

  ‘There’s cheese-and-onion tart,’ exclaimed Harry, pulling the plate towards himself and reaching for a knife. ‘That’s me sorted.’

  Lucy laughed. ‘Well, you know where I am if you need more. I can’t stop. It’s manic down there – the world and his wife wanting cinnamon coffees and mince pies. The festive season is in full swing in Bruncliffe.’

  She gave Delilah a quick hug and was gone. When Samson turned back to the table, a lot of the food had gone too.

  ‘Best sit in quick, you two,’ said Ash, a half-eaten slice of turkey-and-cranberry pie in his hand. ‘This lot are like locusts.’

  There were two empty chairs at the table – one opposite Will at the end closest to them, the other at the far end. Before Samson even had a chance to choose, Delilah made the choice for him. She walked past her oldest brother and exiled herself with the lads from the rugby club, leaving Samson with the hot seat. Which was exactly what he wanted.

  ‘How’s the detective business going?’ asked Harry from a few places further down as Samson sat. ‘Any luck with finding Knowles’ tup yet?’

  ‘I’ve had a few developments,’ said Samson enigmatically, pulling the tray of sandwiches towards him. He was aware of Will’s interest, the farmer immediately alert for anything that might concern him. And the sudden disappearance of a prize tup in mating season would concern any farmer.

  Letting the conversation hang in the air, Samson busied himself selecting a couple of sandwiches, took his time cutting a slice of the tart Harry had nearly demolished single-handedly, and then set about eating.

  As he’d anticipated, Harry had turned back to the conversation at the far end of the table. But for Will, the suspense was more than he could bear.

  ‘What developments?’ the farmer asked gruffly, black stare on the detective.

  Samson shrugged, lowering his voice so only Will could hear. ‘Interesting ones.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Questions of fertility.’

  Will paused, sandwich halfway to his mouth and a rare sparkle of amusement in his eyes. ‘Yours or the ram’s?’

  Samson grinned. ‘The ram’s. But you’d know more about this than me,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘How was Ralph performing last year?’

  ‘Hard to say. Knowles brought the usual number of lambs to market. But there was nowt special amongst them.’

  ‘No prize-winners?’

  Will shook his head. ‘Not that I heard of.’

  ‘And they were definitely bred from Ralph?’

  Another long pause from the farmer while he assessed the implication of Samson’s words.

  ‘That’s what was claimed,’ he said eventually, looking wary, his attention fully fixed on the detective now. ‘What’s this got to do with the tup going missing?’

  Samson reached for his mobile and flicked to the photos he’d taken up at Mire End Farm.

  ‘Here. Notice anything odd?’ He held out the phone.

  ‘Apart from it being a dump?’ Will squinted at the screen, disapproval evident as he took in the state of the land and the livestock. ‘When was this taken?’

  ‘The day after Ralph went missing.’

  The farmer’s head snapped up. ‘You mean these are the yows he was taken from?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘How long had he been in with them?’

  ‘Two weeks.’

  A frown creased Will’s forehead. ‘Doesn’t Knowles use a tup harness?’

  Samson nodded, impressed. He’d been right to trust his instinct. When it came to breeding sheep, Will Metcalfe was one of the best around, and the man’s natural curiosity had overcome any resentment he harboured towards Bruncliffe’s outcast. He’d spotted the mistake a lot faster than Samson had, too.

  ‘What did he have in it, then?’ asked Will, passing the phone back. ‘Invisible ink?’

  His caustic comment made Samson laugh. ‘Reckon so. Either that or . . .’ He glanced down at the photograph of the sheep in the field where the chain had been severed.

  It was what he’d been reminded of when Tolpuddle had come bursting into the pub the day before, smeared in colours. Crayon. The dog had been covered in it after the slightest contact. That was what was supposed to happen. Yet in the photograph in Samson’s hand, every sheep was white – not a mark of red on their rumps. As Will suggested, either the crayon-holder in the ram’s harness had contained invisible ink or . . .

  ‘You think the tup wasn’t performing?’ Will asked.

  ‘Looks that way,’ said Samson. ‘Any ideas as to why that might happen?’

  Will blew out his cheeks and scratched his head, shifting in his seat as though warming to the topic. ‘Depends who you believe. There’s been quite a lot of research into low-performance rams.’

  ‘Is it common?’

  ‘More so than you’d think. Some put it down to nutrition, some to stamina. But in a tup as young as this one, it shouldn’t be that. It’s also possible that the tup just doesn’t want to perform.’

  ‘You mean . . . ?’

  ‘He could be gay.’ Will saw Samson’s look of disbelief and shrugged. ‘Why not? I’ve read a lot of studies which suggest that as many as one in ten rams are born with a preference for their own kind.’

  ‘And if a ram has that inclination?’

  ‘As a farmer, you’re stuffed. You’ve paid out for a prize tup and you’re left with an animal that won’t perform.’ He shrugged again and gave a wry smile. ‘Reckon in that situation, I might be wishing someone would steal my tup, too. Especially if I had it insured.’

  Again, Samson had to admire Will’s quick wits.

  ‘You reckon that was what happened?’ continued the farmer.

  ‘It’s a theory I’m working on,’ said Samson. ‘Thanks for letting me run it past you. But if you could keep this to yourself for now?’

  Will grinned. ‘My lips are sealed. But if you find the tup and Knowles puts him up for sale, I won’t be bidding, no matter how low the price!’

  Samson laughed, the sound hitting a lull in the lunchtime conversation, and he felt the stare from the far end of the table.

  Delilah. Watching them. Her gaze like flint.

  Samson sighed and helped himself to a slice of turkey-and-cranberry pie. As his relationship with one family member thawed, the other deteriorated. There was no winning with the Metcalfes. It was probably better not to even try.

  A bacon butty. A mug of tea. By lunchtime Arty
was feeling almost human. Almost.

  There was a persistent thumping in his head and his eyes were gritty with tiredness. But at least he was alive, even if it didn’t feel that great.

  When the bookmaker had struggled from his drunken slumber the evening before, Joseph had been in the flat. He’d proved his expertise in the matter of hangovers by plying Arty with water and dry toast before leaving him for the night, warning him to have something substantial in the morning.

  Three rashers of bacon from Hargreaves the butcher. Two slices of Warburton’s toastie. A liberal amount of HP Sauce. It had all gone down a treat and now only the headache remained from Arty’s excesses.

  He felt ashamed of his behaviour. Drinking that much. It was stress, he knew. But even so. A man of his years ought to know better. Did know better.

  He pulled on his jumper and checked his appearance in the mirror in the hall. He looked haggard, his eyes peering back at him as though trying to ascertain the validity of the reflection.

  He’d do. He was only going down to the cafe. To catch up with Joseph and apologise for yesterday.

  Easing open his front door, he glanced out into the hallway. Clear. No one in the corridor by the glass wall, either. He hurried across to the stairs, slipping through the door and into the stairwell. His heart was pounding. It was ridiculous. Scurrying around the place, afraid for his life. He had to do something about it. Talk to someone.

  After Christmas. He’d talk to Joseph after Christmas. Until then, he’d stay out of the way and keep his head down.

  Reaching the last of the steps, he crossed to the door that led into the foyer. All clear. Just the route past her office to negotiate.

  Palms sweaty, pulse racing, Arty Robinson stepped out into the welcoming environment of Fellside Court, feeling none of the festive cheer that the Christmas tree by the entrance was meant to evoke.

  Rita had been puzzling about her discovery all morning and she’d come to the only two conclusions that seemed logical.

  Either Alice Shepherd’s god-daughter had callously thrown the pillbox away – which seemed unlikely, as Elaine was such a lovely girl and had been distraught at her godmother’s passing – or it had been mislaid.