by David Beard
‘Mrs. Firman?’ Smalacombe asked politely. She answered in the affirmative but looked a little wary. Smalacombe showed her his pass. ‘Chief Inspector Smalacombe, Mrs. Firman, I wonder if I could have a word?’
She stood back to let him pass through and as soon as she shut the door she said, ‘I suppose Eli has been up to his tricks again. He’s not tied up with this awful murder business is he?’
Smalacombe was relieved that the grapevine had not extended its runners to Moreton and Mrs. Firman was not aware that Eli was already in police custody. ‘Well, we’re not sure, to tell the truth, but I just wanted to have a chat really.’ She showed him to a chair. This was not what Smalacombe expected after seeing the squalor that was Eli’s home. How the values of a brother and sister could be so markedly different made him wonder what made families tick.
‘How long have you lived here, Mrs. Firman?’
‘From the day I got married, May the fourteenth nineteen fifty-eight. Albert’s passed on now so I’m on my own, but I manage. I’m not lonely, you know; I help with the church a lot, do the altar flowers and that sort of thing. I goes to chapel as well and I do a bit for they up to the big house couple of mornings a week. Then there’s whist drive Mondays and bingo once a month. Us have got a good WI and a Mother’s Union and all of that. Oh there’s plenty to keep me occupied, I can tell you, Chief Inspector.’
Smalacombe reflected on what he had heard. All small towns in Devon seemed to have a ‘Big House’, which was once the centre of the local economy. It seemed to him that some of the wealth still trickled down to the community and Eli’s sister was taking what advantage of it she could. Good for her, he thought.
‘It’s good to be busy and I’m pleased for you.’ He took the time to acknowledge her endearing CV and paused a little to make a break between the niceties and the business at hand. The old lady smiled and waited. It had been a long time since the police had been chasing her about information concerning her brother but the experience remained fresh in her memory and she felt at ease. She decided it was up to the chief inspector to make the running. It saddened her that she was an old hand at handling these situations. Her Albert had never even received so much as a parking ticket and if he had he would have been mortified. It was all so alien from chapel on Sundays, a whist drive or two and an outing once a year to somewhere exotic such as Torquay or Goodrington.
‘So, are you older than Eli, Mrs. Firman?’ He was conscious he was making judgements about her appearance and hoped his assumption was correct.
‘Oh yes. He’s the youngest of the four of us. Zach and Mary have gone I’m afraid, there’s just me and Eli left. I was number two, so I’m twelve years older than he,’ she said in her clear Devonshire brogue, the accent more refined than her brother’s but the grammar much the same.
‘You remember him well as a child then?’
‘Oh yes. He was always a bit different to the rest of us. I don’t know what got into him really; he wouldn’t go to chapel, mitched off school, all they sorts of things. I don’t see much of him now; I’m better off without him really. He’s what you might call the black sheep of the family.’ She thought for a moment and then repeated herself as if to emphasise her opinion. ‘Yes, the black sheep of the family to be sure,’ and her voice trailed off.
‘If he mitched off school, truanted I think you mean, how did he fill his time? Bit of fishing and that?’
‘Oh, rabbits when he was young. Had his own ferret, he did. He always had a net or two in his pocket. Whatever else they say about Eli he kept us in fresh meat from the time he could get about on his own. Us had stewed rabbit, roast rabbit on Sundays, boiled rabbit, an’ if they was young ones us had fried rabbit. Never got tired of it you know. Well, ‘tis lovely meat, so to say, an’ better’n nothing at all. ’
Elsie Firman was now sitting comfortably in her armchair with her hands clasped in front of her, bathing in nostalgia. It was clear to Smalacombe that her childhood was a happy one even if it there was little money around. ‘Course, as you say, he fished a bit, too. Brown trout mainly, but there was some peel and a bit of salmon here and there when the season was right you know. He helped out the water bailiff. Poor old Walter, he was drunk half the time.’ Smalacombe could see she was looking into the far distance of a time long gone. ‘Well, I tell a lie, he was drunk all the time,’ she corrected with a twinkle in her eye, ‘so he relied on Eli to help him out. Eli took him home most nights, after kicking out time, put him to bed, see’d he was all right. All that sort of thing, you know.’
‘How old would Eli have been then?’
‘Oh, no more than ten or eleven, I suppose.’
‘Didn’t your mother worry about him being out so late?’
‘Well no, he knew what he was doing even at that age an’ I suppose, in his own way he was providing for us all. Mind you, it did mean he could never get up in the morning to go to school. There was lots of ructions about that.’
‘He grew up fast Mrs. Firman.’
‘Us had to in they days. Us didn’t have much money you know. Father went off when Eli was just a baby. He never comed back, so mother was left with the four of us, so there ‘tis.’ She paused for a while with a wistful look in her eyes and she let the memories flood in. Smalacombe saw no reason to hurry her. Her fingers were intertwined and she was slowly rolling her thumbs around each other. ‘Us had to be fed and clothed and then there was rent to the Duchy, it wasn’t that easy. I suppose if Dad had been home, Eli might have turned out like the rest of us, but there ‘tis,’ she said a second time. ‘What he needed was a firm hand. Mother did the best her could, but he was headstrong. Wayward perhaps! Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Smalacombe, mother made sure us was happy and well fed. Course, Eli and his rabbits helped with that.’
‘Where did he go rabbitting, in the fields round about?’
‘Sometimes, but the farmers didn’t like it too much. They wanted them for their selves. You could sell rabbits back in they days, you see. Good business. They didn’t worry much that us couldn’t afford to buy them. No, he went up over where the old tin mines used to be. Mother didn’t like it; it was dangerous ole place to be, holes everywhere and all that ole broken machinery and trade.’ Smalacombe smiled to himself; he had not heard the word trade used in that manner since his aunt described things to him during his childhood.
‘Oh dear, how bad is it of me? I haven’t asked if you want a cup of tea.’ She got up and moved to the kitchen. ‘The kettle’s always on the stove, won’t take a minute.’
‘You’re very kind. I like only a dash of milk please and no sugar.’ Smalacombe looked around the room. Everything was in place and immaculately clean. Her belongings were modest. The chairs and dining table were probably thirty years old, but it was all well preserved, as if it was bought only the week before. Inside her glass cabinet there were a few knickknacks, some beautiful Victorian porcelain and a plastic doll with a sailor’s hat with Blackpool written on it.
‘You’ve seen me sailor then,’ she said, as she returned with a tray with two cups and a plate of digestive biscuits on it. ‘Albert bought that for me in Blackpool. Us went up there one December to see the lights and stayed all of the weekend.’ She stopped and stood just inside the room. ‘‘Twas all right,’ she continued, using the phrase to indicate it was little more than mediocre, ‘and ‘twas the only time I been out of the westcountry you know.’ She moved across and placed the tray carefully on an occasional table that stood in front of Smalacombe’s chair. ‘Been to Cornwall and all of that but there’s nowhere like Deb’m, is there, Mr. Smalacombe? Do you know, there’s six miles of sea front to Blackpool and not a blade of grass anywhere? All concrete! ‘Twad’n a place I should want to go to again.’ She handed Smalacombe a cup and carried her own back to her chair where she sat carefully down in order not to spill it.
‘So, where did Walter live then?’ Smalacombe asked getting back to the matters in hand and keen to know more about the drunken water baili
ff.
‘Oh, up to White Mills. It’s all falled down now though. I haven’t been up there for years. Don’t suppose anybody else have for that matter.’
‘I used to go up there as a kid myself.’ It was a comment that seemed to impress the old lady.
‘Well, I never! So, you knows your way round out here then.’
‘I used to spend my holidays at Moorlands with my aunt.’
‘What old Stella?’
‘The very same.’
‘Caw. Small world.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Nice old soul, her was. Never had a bad word to say about anybody, she didn’t. And, I tell ‘ee what, she always won the baking competitions to the WI.’
‘Good times eh?’
‘Oh yes! Youngsters today haven’t got it easy you know. I wouldn’t like to be growing up now.’
Smalacombe felt he was now in danger of outstaying his welcome. ‘Mrs. Firman you’ve been most kind putting up with me.’ He finished his drink and replaced his cup on the tray.
‘Think nothing of it Mr. Smalacombe, but look, if I can say just one thing to ‘ee - Eli isn’t bad inside. Poor little toad, he was a good boy. Oh, he was a bit of a rip with the cider and all that but you know what they say about drinks in, wits out. Well, you see, I think nobody got to tell him the difference between right and wrong. Now, that it isn’t his fault, is it?’
‘I do understand, Mrs. Firman, I’ll see what I can do,’ Smalacombe advised and he rose to leave. She saw him to the door and offered her hand. He shook it warmly and left feeling that there was still good in the world but in his job it just seemed to pass him by, at least for most of the time.
When he returned to the station he saw Clive Tiley sitting at the side of Barry Sheldon poring over the VDU. They both seemed animated and were nodding at each other in agreement.
‘What’s on then?’ Smalacombe asked.
‘Don’t ask.’
‘All right, I won’t and don’t ask what I’ve been doing either.’
‘Seriously sir, Barry has pulled so much out of this thing, I don’t know where to start,’ Tiley said pointing to the computer.
‘Well, constable, tell me yourself,’ Smalacombe demanded and pulled up a chair to sit on the other side.
‘Well, sir, the first thing is, trying to sort out who Constance really is? I was talking to the sergeant here and after he told me what Golding said about Budge - you know, he’s a bit of loner - it occurred to me that the only place he would find friends is inside. So I just checked out all the Dereks I could find who were banged up in the same nick as he was. This one guy came up a number of times.’ He clicked the left button of the mouse and the screen changed with a portrait photo in the top left hand corner.
‘That’s Constance,’ Smalacombe said. ‘Good work lad.’ He looked at the rest of the information. ‘Derek Ricket! Well, what do you know? Del boy.’
‘He’s not of the same ilk, sir, this one is a nasty bee, not much better than Budge, if you ask me. He’s done time for much the same sort of thing: GBH, extortion, trafficking. But, he has been clean for nigh on ten years.’
‘Turned over a new leaf it would seem,’ Tiley interjected.
‘Reformed character or not, there’s no way he would have been granted a pub licence. So, that’s where Mavis Wright comes in, I suppose, but what’s his connection with her?’
‘I haven’t worked that one out yet.’
‘I reckon she’s the one who sorted him out, sir,’ Tiley joined in again
‘I was more concerned with the relationship between him and Budge.’
‘Quite right!’
‘But there’s something else coming up too, sir,’ Tiley said. Sheldon clicked the mouse again and this time an array of summonses by the Small Claims Court came into view. ‘You see here sir, Dog and Rabbit Inn,’ Sheldon pointed to a specific item, ‘and here, and here and further down. It looks as if the pub is floundering.’
‘Time for the bailiffs do you think?’
‘Don’t know, but I doubt there’s much for them to take.’ Tiley said. ‘They are not permitted to take anything that is essential to the running of the business and I suspect that’s about all there is. From what I’ve seen there is precious little private belongings of any worth. Even the car is an old banger. Some of these creditors have got together and are filing for bankruptcy. All in all it adds up to fifteen grand.’
‘I’ve also checked with the brewery, sir,’ Sheldon carried on, ‘and they sent letters out last week informing the pub that they’re stopping deliveries until their account is up to date. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised they’ll be down at any moment to take what they can. You can bet your bottom dollar they’ll get in first if they have a sniff of what’s going on.’
‘How long has it being going on?’
‘They’ve only been there twelve months, but they only missed the brewery’s account this month.’
‘When it comes to credit, they don’t hang about do they? How the hell does a small pub like that run up debts of fifteen grand in such a short time?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out, sir.’ Sheldon looked at his watch. ‘I’ll stay on if you like; I want to sort this as soon as I can.’
‘OK. You do that,’ Smalacombe said. He patted him on the shoulder and walked back to his office. He didn’t have the heart to tell him that the super wanted a five percent cut in the salary bill for the next two months and there was to be no overtime on any account.
Smalacombe sat at his desk and rang home. ‘Hello love, how do you fancy a walk this evening and perhaps a pub meal afterwards?’
Freda knew, after twenty-eight years of marriage that these sorts of offers didn’t come out of the blue without strings attached. ‘I don’t,’ she answered firmly, ‘if it’s pursuing some enquiry or other.’
‘Oh come on love, it’s on Dartmoor. I want to show you some of my childhood haunts that’s all. It’ll be lovely; it doesn’t get dark until nearly ten. We’ll have a great time. Oh, and wear your boots.’
Freda thought for a moment, ‘I’m right aren’t I?’
‘Yes,’ he answered sheepishly.
‘Well, as long as I’m not expected to leave the pathways; all that prickly gorse, it rips my trousers and socks to pieces.’
‘I’ll pick you up within the hour.’
CHAPTER 18
Wednesday evening July 12th
Dexter and Freda alighted from the car in the lane just past the entrance of Longtor Manor at the point where it ceased to be maintained. Ahead of them it was clear that the lane was rarely used, if at all.
‘Are we going up there?’ Freda asked with some apprehension.
‘It’s only a little way,’ Dexter advised, despite the fact he had forgotten how far the track stretched. He took the walking sticks from the back of the car and checked the contents of his rucksack. He had learned early on in his childhood that Dartmoor could be an unpredictable and dangerous place. A clear blue sky was no guarantee that they would not be engulfed in fog within the hour. He touched each item: chocolate bars, rainwear, compass, drinking water, and torch. He threaded the straps of the backpack under his arms and with a gentle heave he positioned it comfortably on his back.
‘I thought you said we were going to walk up on the moors. This is just a wet and dismal lane,’ Freda moaned.
She had a point. The tumbledown granite walls on either side were hidden by the flora of high summer. Some brambles extended skywards beyond the top of the stones, and with nothing to cling on to, swayed delicately in the wind. Others had sprouted from the bottom, crawled along the surface and were already layering their roots to claim more territory. There were white astilbes, cow parsley that stood majestically at six feet and more and great patches of stinging nettles looking down on them threatening a painful contact if they should be disturbed. From what could be seen through the flora, the dry stone wall was a misnomer. The damp conditions had encouraged the growth of moss and lichens so that
only patches of wet grey granite could be seen through the green covering, painted on by the brushes of grey mists that descended without warning and with great regularity. At their feet was the uneven surface of a neglected track, still wet, despite the fact that there had been no rain for a few days. Between the boulders the surface had been washed out and brown soup puddles of indeterminate depth rested there to damage the ankles of unwary ramblers.
Dexter felt relieved he had brought his walking stick as he strode ahead of Freda beating back any offending plant that crossed their path. This was not what Freda had in mind and as she looked ahead she could see no open moorland and nowhere that could conceivably be considered a destination. He pressed ahead, trampling down the undergrowth and wielding his stick like a platoon leader in the Malayan jungle.
‘My feet are soaking, Dexter, you could have told me about that damned puddle,’ she carried on.
‘I’m sorry, love, I was too busy hacking away here. Just be careful and watch out for tigers,’ he added, hoping it would give her some light relief.
‘It would probably get tangled up. You never said anything about a hat either, did you? These midges are eating me alive.’
‘Yea, I know, they’re having a go at me, too. Now, if you had let me continue with my pipe I could have kept them off.’
‘I’ve no wish to go into that,’ she replied with some anger in her voice. ‘Why can’t we ever go somewhere like normal people, you know, just for the enjoyment of it and to a place that everybody wants to go to?’ Dexter didn’t answer. At last, up ahead he could see the remains of a five bar gate and through it, between the growth on either side, open moorland was coming into view.
‘I told you,’ he said, ‘look ahead, we’re nearly out on to the moors.’
‘I hope you’ve got a map,’ she retorted. He hadn’t, but it didn’t worry him because he was pretty familiar with the area in general, although it had been nearly forty years since he last followed this particular pathway. He knew that in the most isolated part they would be following a brook and his trusty compass would give him all the direction he needed.