by Fay Sampson
Bernard Summers was well known to local people in Moortown. He was a respected geologist, who has several rare fossil finds to his credit, but also was a source of colourful stories.
In other words, thought Suzie, he didn’t know when to stop talking.
He was in the news recently advising a group of protesters about the risks of a proposal to open a tungsten mine just outside this delightful moorland town.
There it was again, that link with mining and Moortown. It was her agricultural labourer forebears who had first drawn Suzie to Moortown, the Days who had once lived at Saddlers Wood. But delving further back, she had become deeply interested in her tinner ancestors in the town. It seemed that part of the story was not over yet.
She lifted the paper closer to study the photograph. Nick had not told her what Bernard Summers looked like. He had a shock of hair, which in the black-and-white photograph looked as if it might be turning from dark to grizzled grey. Horn-rimmed spectacles surmounted a broad, rather jowly face.
She stared down at it. It was a credible scenario. Geologist sets out alone on the open moor with his haversack and tools. Finds something of interest in a stream. Steps down on to a stone in the river to investigate more closely. Slips and bangs his head. If the fall itself did not kill him, he might have lain face down in the water, unconscious, and drowned.
Why did a cold shudder run through her for herself and her own family, as well as for the dead man?
Friends say they understood Mr Summers was a widower. It is not known whether he had any children.
She sat, letting the news sink in. Two deaths in Moortown, in quick succession. Both soon after the deceased had talked to the Fewings. It couldn’t be anything more than coincidence, could it?
She got out her mobile. There were two teenagers sitting beside her on the bench by the tree. Suzie moved around to position herself on the other side of the trunk.
She rang Nick. ‘Listen. I’ve just picked up a copy of the local paper. There’s something you ought to know. Bernard Summers is dead.’
‘What?’ There was no mistaking the shock in Nick’s voice.
She read him the story, word for word. There was silence at the other end of the phone.
‘Nick? Are you still there?’
‘Sorry. Yes. I’m still thinking. It’s hard to take in what it means, if anything.’
‘It’s possible, isn’t it? I mean, it could be an accident. He goes out on to the moor on his own. Slips and falls in the river. It doesn’t have to mean anything sinister.’ It was herself she was trying to reassure.
‘He said he’d kill me if I told anyone else about finding gold in Saddlers Wood. I assumed it was a figure of speech. But now he’s the one who’s dead.’
‘You said the police were all over you when you reported the conversation you had with him. Do you think they knew then he was dead?’
‘Hang on. Read that bit again. About when he was found.’
‘A neighbour reported him missing on Monday, when the shop didn’t open. I imagine they’d tried the flat and couldn’t get an answer. The police broke in but couldn’t find him. You talked to them on Monday afternoon. That must have been after they knew he was missing, but it was only yesterday that those walkers found the body in a stream.’
Another pause. ‘I need time to get my head around this. As you say, it’s perfectly plausible it was just an accidental death. But it does seem a very uncomfortable coincidence that it should happen so soon after he let slip his secret to me. I’m guessing it must have been Sunday he was out on the moor, if he has a shop to mind on weekdays. The next day after I talked to him.’
Suzie cast her mind back over that disturbing Saturday afternoon. ‘You remember those farmers who stopped us? They knew you’d talked to him, that you’d gone to his house. You don’t think they could have anything to do with this?’
‘I’m as much in the dark as you are, but I shouldn’t think so. I mean, it’s hard to imagine them tracking him out across the moor and doing him in. Why would they? They just didn’t want outsiders like us butting in and trampling all over Philip’s reputation. I can’t imagine they’d actually do anything violent.’
Suzie remembered the sense of fear she had felt in the narrow lane, confronted by half a dozen burly, hostile men.
‘All the same, Nick. I think you should be careful.’
‘Hang on. Bernard Summers was the one threatening to kill me – not that I imagine he meant it literally – and he’s dead.’
‘And, as far as we know, you’re the only other person besides the Caseleys who knows what he knew.’
‘Don’t forget yourself. I told you too.’ Was there a hint of laughter in his voice?
‘Nick, I’m serious.’
‘Sorry. You’re right. It’s not a joking matter. I’ll be careful.’
‘See you later then.’
‘Take care.’
It was unsettling how that everyday phrase suddenly sounded so important.
Suzie felt more shaken than she knew she had any right to be. A man she had never met had slipped and fallen into one of the many rushing brooks on the high moor. It must be an occupational hazard for a geologist. He might just as easily have met his death hunting for fossils at the foot of unstable cliffs.
She should have gathered up her shopping bag and caught the next bus home.
Instead, she wandered in a partial daze beyond the High Street into the gardens that surrounded the remains of the city’s Norman castle. She found a seat overlooking the dry moat, now grass-grown, facing the red sandstone tower of the keep.
Just supposing, for a scary moment, that Bernard Summers’ death was not the unfortunate accident it appeared to be, what then? Something troubling was obviously going on in Moortown. It must have begun before Eileen Caseley’s shooting. Suzie was becoming increasingly convinced that it must have something to do with the minerals on Caseley land, and not just domestic violence. Surely it couldn’t be only her own tinner ancestry that was pushing her in that direction? If not, then how many other people were involved? Undoubtedly Bernard Summers had been. And now he was dead. Who else might have known?
The name Merlin Mines came back to her. Who else in Moortown might have had connections with it? Or was this the work of faceless people she had never met, who might strike again out of nowhere? The thought was even more frightening than the grip of Clive Stroud’s hand and the penetrating look with which he had warned her that she had no further business in Moortown. Was it any better if you could put a name to your enemy?
Enemy? She, Suzie Fewings, was sitting here alone in the castle gardens. She glanced around her. Not truly alone. Men in shirtsleeves and women in summer dresses or casual tops and trousers were strolling along the path past the library behind her. Others, holidaymakers or locals, were sprawled on the grass a little distance away enjoying a picnic in the sunshine. It was ridiculous to think that she might be in danger.
More worryingly, though, was the thought of Nick. Too many people seemed to know that he had been talking to Bernard Summers on Saturday afternoon. It hadn’t been just a casual chat at his stall in the square. Nick had gone with the geologist back to his home above the shop. If Bernard Summers had been killed because he knew too much, then what about Nick?
‘Hi there, Mum!’
She was startled out of her blackest thoughts. A group of teenage girls had stopped on the path along the edge of the moat. Millie was standing over Suzie, her face alive with curiosity. Further along, the rest of her friends had paused and were looking back at her questioningly.
‘What’s wrong?’ Millie asked. ‘It’s only me. You look as though I scared you out of your skin.’
Suzie was only then aware how violently she had jumped at the sound of Millie’s voice. She tried to laugh it off.
‘Sorry! I was miles away. You startled me, that’s all. Are you out for an afternoon’s shopping?’
Millie sat down on the bench beside her and wave
d the other girls on. ‘Come off it, Mum. You’re as white as a sheet. What’s going on?’
Reluctantly, Suzie drew out the newspaper from her shopping bag. She laid it on the seat between them and pointed to the photograph.
‘That’s him. The geologist Dad talked to on Saturday. He’s dead.’
Millie picked up the paper and read the story.
‘Him? The guy who sold Dad that piece of fossil poo?’ Then she lowered the paper and looked directly at her mother. ‘So, the guy slips on a wet stone and drowns. Very sad. End of story. And you’re sitting here looking like death warmed up and starting out of your skin because somebody speaks to you. You don’t fool me, Mum. There’s more going on here than you’re telling me. Time to come clean. You haven’t been telling us the whole story, have you? Split.’
Suzie struggled to give her a shamefaced smile. ‘You’re right. Your father didn’t tell you everything on Saturday. Yes, he did meet this Summers man. He even went back with him to the shop where he lives. Bernard Summers told him something. Something he wished afterwards he hadn’t. He seems to have let his tongue run away with him.’
‘And you think …’ Suddenly Millie stiffened as the implications of what Suzie had said struck her. ‘You don’t think this guy died of natural causes, do you? It wasn’t an accident. You really think he was killed because he knew too much! Does this have anything to do with Eileen Caseley?’
‘I’m afraid it might.’
‘Then what did he tell Dad?’
Suzie was torn between the longing to share her fears with someone else and caution. ‘It’s probably better if I don’t tell you. If someone did get killed because they knew too much, then the fewer other people who know it the better.’
‘Look, Mum, I’m your daughter! You obviously know what it was. I bet Dad told you. Anybody who knows that can guess that Tom and I know about it too. So it won’t make any difference whether you tell me or not. They’ll think I know.’
Suzie looked away. The paths around the bench were clear again. A seagull circled around the flagstaff on the castle keep. The voices of children playing came from a distance.
‘All right, then. But promise you won’t tell another single soul. Not even Tamara.’
‘Cross my heart.’
‘Bernard Summers told Dad he’d found evidence of gold at Saddlers Wood.’
‘Gold!’ Millie’s voice came louder than she intended. She clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry. Go on.’
‘Philip Caseley was keen to exploit it and sell the mining rights. But the land actually belonged to Eileen, and she said no.’
‘Why, for heaven’s sake? Their farm looked to be on its last legs. Surely they needed the money?’
‘I’ve no idea. But it certainly gives a motive for murder. Either by Philip or somebody else.’
Millie ran her fingers through her short hair. ‘You mean we’ve stumbled into something like a killer movie? And I can’t tell anyone? Oops, sorry. This is for real, isn’t it? Sometimes I lie in bed and think about that day we met her, and then what it must have been like for her seeing somebody else on the other end of the gun that shot her. Maybe her own husband. It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? Do you think Philip killed this Bernard Summers guy too? No, idiot. Of course he didn’t. He’s in prison, isn’t he?’
She looked at Suzie with renewed concern. ‘So somebody else is out there. Somebody who may have been the one who killed Eileen. And now he’s killed this Bernard Summers. And you’re thinking …’ – Suzie watched the blood drain from her daughter’s face – ‘… he might go after Dad, too, if he thinks he knows.’
Suzie stood up. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. Anyway, Dad’s already been to the police. It’s too late for anyone to stop him telling Bernard Summers’ secret. Killing him wouldn’t help.’ It seemed unreal to be using that word ‘killing’ in conversation, as though it was just part of everyday normality.
Millie stood too. ‘Does Dad know?’ She gestured at the newspaper in Suzie’s hand. ‘That he’s dead?’
‘Yes. I phoned him.’
‘And?’
‘He just said, “Take care”.’
TWENTY-THREE
‘You know what you said about it might be safer for me if you didn’t tell me?’ Millie and Suzie were walking down from the castle towards the High Street. ‘Does that mean you really think we’re in danger?’
Suzie glanced sideways at her daughter, alarmed that she might have frightened her. But Millie looked more thoughtfully curious than scared. Though she was not a tall girl, she carried herself with that unconscious confidence of a young woman who knows she is beautiful. It came as something of a shock to Suzie. She had grown used to seeing Millie as the gauche, scrawny younger child, in the shadow of her extrovert brother with his dashing black hair and vivid blue eyes. But last year, at fourteen, Millie had had her hair dyed ash blonde and cut in a gamine style that made her a head-turner. Shoelace straps on her lacy top and cut-off pink pants added to the glamour. A hand gripped Suzie’s heart. Her beautiful daughter couldn’t really be in danger, could she? She had spoken to Suzie more as if she was considering an intellectual question than one of personal risk.
‘I really don’t know,’ Suzie said honestly. ‘If I had any real idea of what was going on I might be able to give you an answer. Bernard Summers’ death could perfectly well be an accident. But if it isn’t, then the only logical reason is that someone wanted to silence him because he knew about the gold at Saddlers Wood.’
‘Why? If somebody wants to mine it, it’ll all come out in the open anyway, won’t it?’
They turned into the busy High Street. Though Suzie was trying to speak calmly, she found her eyes darting anxiously through the crowds.
‘Maybe whoever it is thinks they’ve got an edge on the competition, if they know about the gold and nobody else does. Didn’t Tom say something about a company buying up the site as though it was just agricultural land, and only then putting in an application for a mine?’
‘Mmm. But Philip knows, doesn’t he? If what Bernard Summers told Dad is right. He’d want to make a packet if he sold it to anyone else.’
‘Philip’s in prison. And it’s not his land. I don’t know if Eileen left a will, but my guess is that the farm will go to the son, Matthew.’
‘The hunk from Australia?’
A little thought lit like a spark in Suzie’s mind. John Nosworthy was the solicitor acting for Eileen’s estate and for Matthew. Surely the terms of the will, if there was one, must be have been through probate by now. The bequests would be public knowledge. John, more than anyone else, would know who inherited the farm. She was acutely conscious of the diary in her shoulder bag in which she had written the phone number he had dictated to her. Frances Nosworthy had warned her off, but John had invited her to phone him if she needed help.
And John had looked scared. She remembered his anxious eyes going round the square as he talked to her.
‘You know,’ Millie cut across her thoughts, ‘it’s all this damned secrecy. If there’s so much panic about who knows and who doesn’t, and you think somebody wants to stop it getting out, then wouldn’t the best thing be to give the story to the press? Splash it all over the papers and nobody’s got a reason to try and keep it quiet any more.’
Suzie stopped dead on the pavement. She looked at her daughter with a new respect.
‘I hadn’t thought of it. But you’re right. I’ve been hating this hole-and-corner thing, looking over my shoulder to see who might be watching or listening.’
‘Well, then,’ Millie demanded, ‘who’s going to tell them? You or me?’
It would be such a relief to have it out in the open. Then a new thought struck Suzie.
‘The police already know about it. Dad went to them and told them about Bernard Summers finding gold. They obviously haven’t mentioned it in a press release. Do you think they might be following it up? They could have someone in their sights. How do w
e know that, if we go public with this, we’re not going to foul up their investigation before they can nail whoever is behind this?’
Millie made a face. ‘Like you said, we could be the ones in danger if it’s just us that know. I’ve been trying to keep cool about it, but a guy’s dead. And you don’t honestly think it’s an accident, do you?’
DS Dudbridge. Her mind curled round his name, like a shipwrecked passenger clutching at a rope. Was there a chance he might give his permission to go public on the news she no longer wanted to keep to herself?
‘Leave it with me,’ she told Millie.
‘Are you sure?’ The teenager’s face looked disappointed. ‘I was looking forward to landing a scoop on some lucky reporter’s desk. It’s too late for the local rag. They don’t publish again until next week. But the nationals would go mad for a story like this. “Murder over a gold mine.” You can just see the headlines, can’t you? Mum, please, let’s do it.’
‘Not until I’ve squared it with the police. I feel the same as you do, but the last thing I want to do is get had up for fouling up a murder enquiry. I’ll get on to the DS we talked to straight away. Promise.’
Millie still hovered, frustrated. ‘OK. I’ll be with the girls. Ring me. And don’t take too long about it.’
‘Will do.’
Suzie watched her elegant daughter stride off confidently into the busy crowds.
She got her phone out. Should she ring Nick first and tell him what she wanted to do? No, Nick would be busy at work. He had enough to worry about. She was convinced that what she was doing was the sensible thing. If she cleared it with the police first, there was no danger of making a terrible mistake.
Her thumb hovered over the keypad. Should she ring John Nosworthy before the detective sergeant? She felt an unexpected desire for the reassurance of his soft voice. Of course, there was little doubt about it. Matthew Caseley must be the heir to Saddlers Wood – could she risk letting his solicitor know just why it was of such importance? Was it possible that both Matthew and John knew already what lay beneath the soil of Saddlers Wood?