‘What was Macdonald’s reaction to your Dad’s reply?’
‘He was very rude and slammed out.’
‘So, perhaps then, even if there’s no prosecution to be had there – and I have no intention of abandoning that crime – we can rule out that particular episode as relevant to the murder case.’
‘I think that would be fairly safe.’
Carrick just smiled wryly and took a sip of wine.
‘It’s fairly certain that Frank Crosby dropped the rock on the car surely?’ Patrick went on to say.
‘Yes, but again I can’t prove it.’
‘And his wife was banging on Barbara Blanche’s windows.’
‘She was, and as you probably know, Ingrid was a witness to that. Was this in an effort to drive the woman from the village do you think?’
‘No idea. But all in all, they’re a pretty poisonous pair and they might have murdered Blanche because he’d found out something about them. Ingrid reckons the woman had come through the churchyard and into the garden and not up the drive when she came round that morning, ostensibly about the flowers. She could have thrown the murder weapon, the hammer, into the rectory garden then.’
‘But the pathologist reckoned that Blanche had been killed a while before that.’
‘Yes, but they might have worried, if they’d just left it lying around, that some evidence that could connect them with the murder might be on it. People know all about DNA testing these days. The woman might have gone back for it with the view to chucking it away somewhere.’
‘Hardly very far away though if it was in your garden,’ Joanna commented, obviously having kept abreast of the case.
‘People panic,’ Patrick said. ‘She would have been terrified someone would see her, any number of people: the postman, the newspaper boy, anyone. The Crosbys are your best bet.’
Carrick said, ‘I shall have to prove exactly what it is they’re up to. But I can’t really see them being involved with satanic practices.’
‘Blackmail?’
‘You mean they might be running something anonymously and blackmailing those who are drawn into dancing around naked and sacrificing animals or whatever other nonsense? That’s a bit of a long-shot.’
‘Possibly, but like Blanche, they might be hooked on the power it gives them over people.’
‘One would have thought that someone in the village would have come forward by now – if not to the police then to your father.’
I said, ‘We already have a name, although not from the village, the father of Clem Huggins who’s in Matthew’s class at school. He’s supposed to mess around with black magic.’
‘Carlton Huggins,’ Carrick recollected. ‘I went out to their particular rats’ nest and no one was at home. That family is really bad news – not the sort the Crosbys would normally associate with. It just doesn’t add up.’
‘There has to be a common denominator,’ Patrick muttered.
It was over coffee after dinner that the discussion continued.
‘OK then,’ James said. ‘How long has this black magic caper been going on for?’
‘Only for a couple of months as far as anyone can tell,’ Patrick answered.
‘How many people do you think are involved?’
Patrick shrugged. ‘No one really knows but it can’t be many. Perhaps no more than a dozen.’
‘Let’s change tack and work on the presumption that the black magic bit’s a front. Leaving blackmail on one side for a moment but bearing in mind that if a Huggins is involved there’s money in it where does that get us? Following a phone call, your father, Patrick, went down to where dodgy goings on appear to take place at the bottom of the village on some spare ground. He was roughed up. Rightly, he’s been preaching against this sort of thing in church. Is it a distraction and other members of the Huggins clan are otherwise gainfully and illegally employed nearby somewhere?’
‘That could be it,’ I said. ‘Winter months, long, cold, dark nights. Law-abiding folk kept mostly indoors, especially the elderly, except for visits to the pub, or events and meetings in the village hall. Otherwise they get in their cars and go farther afield, to Bath perhaps, for a meal out. What finer further incentive to keep people firmly at home than the prospect of rough characters getting drunk and killing things down on the site of the old station? People would have asked themselves who these people are. Would they bump into them and possibly be attacked if they went for a walk after dark, as John was? He might have been lured down there for no other reason than for the resultant publicity.’
‘Go on,’ Carrick encouraged.
To Patrick, I said, ‘You know this area really well. What kind of target for criminals might there be round here? Any big and remote country houses that would be worth breaking into where the owners are away? Old buildings in the middle of nowhere whose roof lead might be worth stripping off that aren’t checked very often, if at all?’
‘There are quite a few properties but people don’t tend to leave them unattended these days. The best thing to do would be to dig out the OS map. James, do you have any recent burglary cases involving country houses?’
‘One, but it was a good twenty miles from here. As far as this immediate area’s concerned there’s Priston Manor. The Lord Lieutenant of Somerset lives there, and I happen to know they’re not away. I also know that the place bristles with security devices and there are live-in staff.’
‘What was Frank Crosby’s job before he retired?’ Joanna asked.
Patrick did not know and went through to see if his father did. When he returned there was an enigmatic smile on his face. ‘He had an antiques business in Midsomer Norton.’
‘Wow!’ Joanna exclaimed.
‘Now can you see why I fell in love with my sergeant?’ James said.
She threw a cushion at him.
‘If this theory is anywhere near the mark we’re talking about a lot of money being involved,’ Patrick said. ‘If they’re going to the bother of arranging so-called satanic meetings, where I should imagine the real draw is booze, probably free booze, then that costs money. They must regard whatever their own returns are for this scam as worth it.’
I said, ‘Matthew told us that Clem invited him to wherever he lives – I take it the whole lot don’t live under one roof—’
Carrick interrupted me. ‘Sorry to butt in, but they do. In a corner-site one-time council house with tatty extensions erected without planning permission surrounded by several caravans parked in what used to be a large garden. Their forebears were either tinkers or what used to be referred to as gallows-fodder. You say Matthew was invited there?’
‘Clem wanted to show him his Dad’s magic stuff. Apparently Clem goes to some of these meetings but isn’t allowed to attend others. I’m wondering if this man really is involved with devil worship.’
‘Which mostly involves booze, drugs and sex,’ Patrick said dismissively. ‘I’ll go and ask Dad about other possible targets where parishioners are away.’
When he came back he reported, ‘Old man Huggins once stripped lead off this church roof, probably the nearest he’d ever got to the place so there’s a bit of family history of that. He made the mistake of leaving something behind that had his name on it.’ He added, ‘Before your time though, James. Then there’s the old mill at Wellow which is apparently empty and up for sale. But it’s in a pretty bad state with not much worth taking, Dad doesn’t think. And the Harley-Brownswords, who live at a house by the name of Fir Copse, are on holiday in the West Indies – although his brother is house and dog sitting.
‘I mentioned the Huggins lot,’ Patrick continued, ‘And other than comments along the lines of their names always seeming to be in the local papers after being arrested for something or other there was nothing useful there. But, for some reason Mum suddenly remembered that the Crosbys had some rather rough-looking men painting their house not so long ago.’
‘Did they have a van with a firm’s name written on it?�
� Carrick wanted to know.
‘No, just a battered plain white one.’
‘Who lives in the Grange, next door, now?’ I enquired.
‘The Rollasons,’ Patrick answered. ‘I’d forgotten about them. They always go to their house in South Africa during the worst of the winter months. They’re probably still away.’
‘But surely your parents would have noticed anything going on there,’ James said.
‘No, by no means. There’s a high wall all the way round and a lot of trees,’ Patrick said. ‘I actually know the lie of the land round there quite well because Ken Rollason asked me about security measures when they bought the place.’
‘Did he mention anything he owns that he had particular concerns about?’
‘No.’
‘It doesn’t sound as though the house would be at risk from the likes of the Huggins tribe then.’
‘It depends on what anyone’s been getting up to,’ Patrick replied dryly. He stood up. ‘I’ll phone to see if they’re there.’
This he did and there was only the answering machine.
‘A little sortie?’ Patrick suggested.
‘What now?’ Joanna said. ‘It’s freezing and really snowy out there.’
‘All the better to see any footprints that shouldn’t be there. Not all of us,’ Patrick remonstrated gently when everyone had jumped to their feet. ‘Too noisy and creating too many footprints of our own.’
He won the argument on the grounds that specialized knowledge was required and he and I ended up by putting on our boots and anoraks. James insisted that he would hang around in case anything important came to light.
There is a gate in the boundary wall between the two properties that dates back to the days when the squire and his lady took a short cut through the rectory garden to attend church in order to save themselves the mire of the lane and having to rub shoulders with the villagers. We made our way towards it now, everywhere starkly bright with the moonlight on the snow. I wondered if the Rollasons were aware that Patrick had a key to the gate, a relic from recent times when close friends of the rector and his wife lived in the house and it was useful for the ladies when popping in for coffee or a short cut to track down the family Labrador that always seemed to turn up at the rectory at mealtimes.
‘There’s snow piled up against it,’ I whispered as we approached.
‘It opens the other way,’ Patrick hissed back in a manner that told me to stop talking.
I could not see that anything might be going on over there right now but did as I was told. The old key made hardly a sound as the gate was unlocked, proof that everything was kept well oiled. Patrick’s stone-cold professionalism at such times always has exactly the opposite effect on me, making me want to giggle. The hinges did not squeak either but no one had trimmed the ivy on the wall on the far side which unloaded a pile of snow on our heads as we went beneath. Patrick turned to give me a look as a huge bottled-up chortle emerged as a faint squeak.
The garden, here a large lawned area dotted with small trees, the shadows of those above our heads, much taller, thrown across it, stretched with virginal perfection before us; no footprints, except those of birds and what might have been a fox. Across the lawn was the western side of the house: as one would have expected, all the windows were in darkness. Leaving the gate open – a pile of snow had fallen into the gap – Patrick turned right and set off along by the wall. I followed, giving him room.
Continuing along by the wall we soon arrived at another pristine area of grass, the wall bare now but for a few climbing roses growing in the border. From here we could see the drive, lined with mature trees, and the front of the house. Patrick carried on, still walking along by the boundary wall until we reached where it turned at ninety degrees at the southern limit of the property where there was a lane that gave access. Carrying on, we came to the inside of the large entrance gates, which were closed. There were plenty of footprints in the snow covering the drive itself and vehicle tracks where the postman had made deliveries. Patrick signalled to me that we should walk up the drive and from here it was possible to see that the front of the house was also in darkness.
‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone around,’ Patrick said under his breath when we were side by side. ‘Round the other side is a building that used to be a coach house and stables. Ken didn’t say if he stored anything there but hinted they might turn it eventually into some kind of office or living accommodation. I think we should take a look at that first.’
‘What does he do for a living?’
‘Dunno. Something in the city probably.’
‘What did you make of him?’
‘Bit of a smart-arse.’
There were footprints around the side of the house too, where the drive continued, only narrower. Patrick stopped and shone his ‘burglar’s’ torch down at them.
‘These are recent, possibly this morning or last night. Three people coming and going. As you can see there’s just a little fresh snow in the prints – it snowed again a bit last night – and they’ve thawed slightly and then frozen again as it chilled off tonight.’
We came in sight of the carriage house and stable block, a rather fine stone building that matched the house. There was an archway that carriages would have once been driven through into an inner courtyard. We followed the footprints; they led straight under the arch. But we did not go that way, Patrick’s natural caution causing him to turn aside to follow the outside wall. There were several windows, quite high up, with bars and no other openings until we reached the rear where there was a smaller archway. Inside the arch, which did not directly face the larger one opposite, were a couple of doors, one on each side. Patrick tried the handle of the first we came to. It was locked. As was the other.
We made our way under the arch, keeping out of the moonlight as much as possible, and emerged into what would have been the carriage yard. It was quite small, enough room to manoeuvre a modest carriage drawn by two horses, and there were stable doors facing inwards where the animals would have been housed. The carriage house itself was immediately around to our right.
There was no choice now but to emerge into bright moonlight. For some reason I half expected to be shot at, especially when we discovered that the same footprints led right up to the large double doors and the padlock fastening them had been cut off. Patrick kicked a little bump in the snow nearby and found it, pushing it into a corner by a drain pipe with his toe so as to be able to find it again.
Warily, we pulled open one of the doors wide enough to enable us to enter. Once inside Patrick shone the beam of his tiny torch around. In its limited illumination there seemed to be nothing within but lumber, together with what must have been a couple of tons of logs and an old Transit van. Patrick went over to the van, which was parked close to the left hand wall, and peered around behind it.
‘Give me a hand,’ he whispered.
The handbrake had either failed or had not been applied and we were easily able to roll the vehicle forward. Behind it was an old bedspread acting as a curtain. Behind that was another door. It was of solid construction and the two bolts on it plus a padlock had been either jemmied or cut off.
TWENTY-ONE
‘This would have been the harness room, surely,’ Patrick murmured, thinking aloud as he hitched back the curtain. ‘And we mustn’t contaminate any evidence here.’
Taking down one of several lengths of old rope hanging from a nearby rusting nail in the wall, he made a loop with it and used it to pull down the handle of the door, which opened inwards. All was completely dark within. We went in and the torch beam picked out stacks and stacks of boxes, some cardboard, most of wooden construction.
‘Better not put the lights on,’ Patrick said in an undertone as the little pencil of light flicked over a couple of wall switches.
Shining the torch in other directions revealed that the damp room was about twenty feet square and that some of the boxes had been opened. Packing – tissue
paper, bubble wrap and wood shavings – was scattered on the floor. We went over to one of the opened boxes that appeared to have been discarded on one side. Half buried in some hastily rammed back bubble wrap was a large silver coffee pot with a monogrammed escutcheon on it. Careful probing on Patrick’s part exposed another, smaller one, a jug and, right at the bottom, a gallery tray, all solid silver.
We investigated other opened boxes, finding china packed in several, probably a whole dinner service, that was heavily decorated with gold, hand-painted country scenes and a coat of arms. We discovered Chinese pots, glass claret jugs, gold-plated and silver cutlery and Royal Worcester vases. There were cleaner areas on the dusty floor that gave every impression that some boxes had been removed altogether.
‘So is Ken a dealer or a fence?’ I whispered.
‘Impossible to tell at this stage. But it looks as though someone’s pinching it who has to be a fence. You notice that most of the obviously traceable stuff has been rejected. No, come to think of it, Kenny boy isn’t likely to be a dealer otherwise this lot would be kept somewhere much warmer and drier.’
‘Consulting with you on a friendly basis about security was all a bit of a front then.’
Patrick chuckled humourlessly. ‘Perhaps he thought I carried local clout and was an open door to drinks parties with the upper classes and so forth. But Paddy boy doesn’t like being used by crooks.’
‘My money’s on the Crosbys,’ I said.
Patrick’s mobile rang and he muttered a few expletives for having forgotten to switch it off. I stood close when he answered it so I could listen in. It was Carrick.
Souvenirs of Murder Page 24