Date with Death

by Julia Chapman

  ‘Coming and going at all hours,’ she muttered as she thumped up the stairs, Tolpuddle following without the usual fuss. ‘Treating the place like a hotel.’

  She was still muttering some time later when she emerged from the shower. She wasn’t so disgruntled, however, that she neglected to wipe down the tiles and the tray. Being annoyed was one thing. Running the risk of Ida Capstick’s wrath was another.

  * * *

  By ten o’clock, Samson still hadn’t returned to the office. And he still hadn’t managed to get a cup of coffee. But he was rather hopeful the latter was about to be rectified.

  In a room overlooking the marketplace, he was comparing his surroundings with his memories. He looked around the refurbished office at what was now a contemporary space: the beautiful paintings of local scenery complementing the light furnishings; the heavy desk replaced by a glass table; the tasteful ash shelving that seemed to float on the walls …

  The solicitor’s office wasn’t how he remembered it. It had been all wood panelling and plush carpet the day he’d walked in behind his father, both of them in their only suits, which had seen a lot of use that week. They’d sat stiffly on one side of the oak desk while, on the other, Mr Turpin had frowned over his glasses at the pair of them, the closest the lawyer had come to showing sympathy to any client.

  Samson had been eight years old. The legalese meant nothing to him. The dry words which his father soaked up without comment were wasted on the young lad. He’d been there for one reason only: he’d begged his father to take him, convinced that the solicitor was some long-lost relation to the famous highwayman, and eager to see his mask.

  Unsurprisingly, with expectations set so high, the day had been a disappointment. His comprehension of just what he’d lost not having sunk in; an awareness of all he would lose over the next few years something no one could have had. It had simply been a day wasted inside when he could have been scrambling over the hills or picking blackberries, or anything rather than listening to this old man mumble on.

  Somehow, Samson thought twenty-six years later, today’s meeting might be just as much of a waste of time. Having come away from Bruncliffe Old Station with his mind full of speculation, his return visit to Richard Hargreaves’ house had left him unconvinced that foul play had been involved in the lecturer’s death. Neither was he convinced it wasn’t. He didn’t hold out much hope that the next thirty minutes would help him make up his mind.

  ‘Ah, Mr O’Brien … Samson, sorry to have kept you waiting.’

  Samson turned, and felt time shift as he took in the smart-suited young man with outstretched hand in the doorway. ‘Matty?’

  Matthew Thistlethwaite beamed. ‘To my friends!’

  ‘I thought you were in Manchester?’ Samson crossed the room to greet the man with a handshake and a slap on the back.

  ‘I was. I did my training over there and then got homesick.’ He grinned and Samson could see the skinny youth of years ago, head stuck in a book as he walked homewards, ignoring the teasing of the bigger lads. ‘This place came up for sale when old Turpin retired, so I took a chance.’

  ‘You kept the name, I see.’

  Matty laughed. ‘Despite what you think, it’s good for business. No one forgets a lawyer called Turpin. Plus, they can’t complain if my fees are highway robbery.’ He gestured at the armchairs in the corner of the room. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Coffee,’ said Samson. ‘My stomach isn’t robust enough yet for Bruncliffe tea.’

  ‘Two coffees, please,’ the solicitor called through to the outer office ‘And not too strong. We’ve got a southerner present.’

  He closed the door on the burst of laughter in the adjoining room and took a seat opposite Samson. ‘I heard you were back,’ he said, eyes twinkling with mischief.

  ‘I’m sure you did. Your uncle Seth was one of many witnesses to my homecoming.’ Samson rubbed his chin, which a week later still felt tender to the touch. ‘I’m also sure you’ve heard that not everyone’s happy about it?’

  Matty raised both shoulders, hands palm up. ‘You always used to tell me not to bother about what people thought of you. Why start now?’

  Samson gave a dry laugh at his own youthful wisdom being handed back to him, decades on. ‘Perhaps because I’ve grown up?’

  ‘Shame the same doesn’t apply to everyone in town,’ Matty replied with an equally dry tone.

  A young man entered carrying a tray. ‘Thanks,’ said Matty, standing to take the drinks and place them on the low table between the chairs. He waited for the door to click closed, before resuming his seat and concentrating on his guest once more. ‘But I doubt you called in to discuss local politics. So what can I help you with?’

  ‘Richard Hargreaves,’ said Samson, reverting to the directness of his birthplace. ‘His will, to be precise.’

  The solicitor looked surprised. ‘That’s not what I was expecting.’ A raised eyebrow of enquiry prompted the solicitor to expand on his comment. ‘Well, I thought … I was expecting you to ask me about the sale of the farm.’

  ‘Twistleton Farm?’ Samson went still. ‘Were you involved?’

  ‘No. Rick Procter never uses me for his property sales. In this case he used two firms based in Skipton to oversee the purchase.’ Matty pulled a face. ‘He was kind enough to take care of the legal side of things for your dad, too.’

  ‘Are you suggesting it wasn’t legitimate?’ asked Samson, a dangerous quiet to his voice.

  A firm shake of the head met his question. ‘I’m sure it was legitimate. Just not that sure it was moral. You know how your dad was…’

  ‘Drunk. He was easy prey. And then he drank all the proceeds.’

  ‘There wasn’t much to drink,’ said Matty. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable delivering this bad news. ‘Rick paid him well below market value, even considering the condition of the place.’

  Samson turned away, letting his gaze rest on the busy marketplace below as a knot of anger and guilt clenched his stomach. He was ashamed at how quickly he’d jumped to conclusions. More ashamed that his father hadn’t felt it worth his while to correct his son’s wild accusations about where the money for the farm had gone.

  ‘There was nothing I could do,’ explained Matty. ‘It was all cut and dried before I got wind of it. Rick arranged for your dad to get a place in Fellside Court—’

  ‘Where he has to pay rent to live in a shoebox!’

  ‘A shoebox owned by Procter Properties.’

  The blue gaze snapped back onto the solicitor. ‘Rick owns that place?’

  Matty nodded. ‘Like I said, it was all cut and dried before I knew. And the way most folk around here see it, Rick Procter is an angel. He took a tumbledown property off the hands of an alcoholic and rehoused him in newly built sheltered accommodation. It hasn’t harmed his reputation, either, that your dad subsequently sobered up.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Legally speaking, I’m not sure there is.’

  ‘And illegally?’

  A wry smile came in response. ‘Given how he treated me at school, I’d be the last to put you off. But seriously, Samson, watch your back when dealing with Rick Procter. He’s become a very powerful man since you left here. You don’t want him as an enemy.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Samson. ‘As for the real reason I’m here … Richard Hargreaves’ will?’

  Matty grimaced. ‘Sorry, but I can’t be of much use there either. The contents of a will remain confidential even when the client is deceased.’

  ‘I understand. But I just need you to enlighten me on one or two things.’

  The solicitor looked out of the window at the butcher’s shop across the marketplace, the bulky figure of Ken Hargreaves visible behind his counter, his wife alongside him. ‘So it’s true that Mrs Hargreaves has asked you to look into Richard’s death?’

  ‘How the hell do you know that?’

  Matty chuckled. ‘You have been away too lon
g.’ He reached for his coffee and took a sip, contemplating Samson over the rim. ‘Richard was a good man. One with poor taste in women – with a single exception – but a good man nevertheless.’

  ‘A man that would have contemplated suicide?’

  ‘No. Not now.’ He placed the cup back on the table.

  ‘You think he might have done in the past?’

  The solicitor steepled his fingers and leaned his chin on the apex. ‘It’s no secret that I handled his side of the divorce. Neither is it a secret that it was bitter. Annette was after her pound of flesh, eager to make Richard pay for bringing her to this backwater.’

  ‘I thought she was the one who wanted to move here?’

  A bushy eyebrow that marked Matthew Thistlethwaite out as the nephew of Seth rose in an ironic arch. ‘Funny how people reshape the past when it comes to divorce. Yes, it was Annette who brought Richard back to Bruncliffe. But when the red carpet wasn’t rolled out for them, she took the huff.’

  Samson grinned. ‘So I’m not the only one to get short shrift?’

  ‘You know what it’s like,’ said Matty. ‘A prophet is not without honour…’

  ‘… save in his own country,’ Samson added, suddenly taken back to Sunday school in the Wesleyan chapel, his mother reading bible stories to the children sitting on the floor, Matty and Samson amongst them.

  ‘Exactly. And Annette felt that loss of honour keenly. I did what I could to make it a balanced settlement but Richard was determined she should be looked after, that the children shouldn’t be penalised.’ He shrugged. ‘He was low for some time after that. Who wouldn’t be? But suicide…?’

  ‘You knew him well, then?’

  Matty nodded. ‘We were both professionals in a small town so we’d get thrown together at social occasions. Plus, I knew him a bit from school. We were in the chess club together.’ A lopsided grin accompanied this confession, making the solicitor look all of twelve again. ‘We were slow to discover the wilder side of life in Bruncliffe.’

  ‘You mean there is one?’ laughed Samson.

  A shadow crossed Matty’s face. ‘It’s getting that way. Drugs. Not in Bruncliffe yet, but around the edges, in the towns further south. Seems the chess club doesn’t hold the same attraction for young teens any more.’ He drained his cup of coffee and then gave a small smile. ‘You’d know more about that than the rest of us, I suppose, given your line of work.’

  Samson’s head jerked up, trying to gauge whether the comment referred to more than just his career. But Matty’s expression was guileless. If news of Samson’s disgrace had followed him home, Matthew Thistlethwaite had yet to hear it.

  Relieved, the detective returned to the reason for his visit. ‘So if Richard didn’t commit suicide…’

  He let the thought hang between them, knowing Matty was smart enough to get the gist of the unasked question. After a few seconds contemplating his hands, now spread across his knees, the solicitor spoke.

  ‘Murder. A grim thought for such a lovely day. But while I can’t disclose the contents of my client’s will, I can say with a clear conscience that it didn’t provide any motive for foul deeds.’

  Samson leaned forward in his chair. ‘Annette didn’t benefit?’

  Matty fixed him with a wry look. ‘You know, Mrs Hargreaves would be able to tell you all this. Why don’t you ask her?’ He glanced across the cobbled square once more and then back at Samson. ‘Or perhaps you already have?’

  Samson let out a bark of a laugh. ‘Guilty as charged!’

  ‘And what did Mrs Hargreaves say?’

  ‘That Richard didn’t leave a will. Can you explain how that would work? In general, of course…’

  Matty’s eyes lit up at Samson’s cunning. ‘Of course. “Intestate” is the legal definition. An awful word and, in most cases, an awful condition to be in. But in a case following divorce…’ He spread his hands, face innocent. ‘No spouse to claim prior rights. The entire estate goes to the children.’

  Samson gave a resigned nod.

  ‘Sorry. Not what you wanted to hear?’

  ‘No … yes … Christ, I don’t know.’ He stood, Matty standing with him. ‘But thanks for your time. And if you want to catch up in more relaxed circumstances…’ He passed Matty a business card.

  ‘Dales Detective Agency, eh?’ Matty looked up from the card. ‘I might have need of your services now and again.’

  ‘You’re the first one around here to think so.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s Bruncliffe for you. You’re useless until they need you. How are your rates?’

  ‘Not highway robbery, that’s for sure,’ said Samson with a laugh as they shook hands. ‘Great to see you, Matty, and thanks.’

  ‘Not sure I was of any help,’ confessed the solicitor as he escorted Samson to the door.

  Samson didn’t refute him. In fact, it would be some time before the detective realised just how helpful Matthew Thistlethwaite had been. Right now, his mind was on his next appointment, which he’d been putting off for a week but could forestall no longer. He was dreading it. Even if it did include the promise of a delicious lunch.

  9

  Given that the sun was shining outside, Troy Murgatroyd should have been in a good mood. But the low temperatures, the bitter wind and a busy lunchtime pub had conspired to rub much of the shine off his disposition. As a result, his normal surly and sullen features were gracing the bar of the Fleece as Delilah entered, Tolpuddle by her side.

  ‘Coffee please, Troy,’ she said as she approached the counter where Seth Thistlethwaite was already in residence.

  ‘Coffee?’ spluttered the landlord. ‘This is a bloody pub, you know. Not a fancy cafe. What’s the point of me getting these in, if everyone just orders bloody coffee?’ He cast an aggrieved hand over the gleaming beer taps in front of him.

  ‘And a pie and chips,’ added Delilah with a smile, trying to soothe the irate host. Her day had been going well so far, thanks to the continued absence of Samson O’Brien from the offices, and she wasn’t about to let the sour humour of the man who ran the Fleece spoil it.

  The man in question stalked towards the kitchen to pass on the order, leaving a trail of grumblings in his wake. ‘What is it with food and hot beverages? Why can’t folk just order a beer and be done with it? Bloody cafe culture, that’s what I blame…’

  ‘Nice to see Troy’s full of sweetness and light, as usual,’ remarked Seth Thistlethwaite, once the swinging kitchen door had cut off the landlord’s gripes. His observation elicited a peal of laughter from Delilah as Ash, her lunchtime date, entered the pub. He crossed the room and leaned down to kiss her cheek.

  ‘Someone’s in a good mood,’ he said. ‘Considering you’re officially the black sheep of the Metcalfe family.’

  Delilah’s smile slipped to a grimace. ‘Did you have to spoil the moment?’

  ‘You getting grief over young Samson?’ asked Seth, eyebrows pulling together.

  ‘What do you think?’ Ash replied. ‘She’s harbouring a fugitive, as far as Will’s concerned.’

  ‘Idiot!’ muttered Seth. ‘Just you ignore them, lass. That lad’s done nothing to deserve the cold shoulder. You’re doing the right thing.’

  A blush of shame spread across Delilah’s cheeks. The only right thing she was doing was keeping her business afloat. But she didn’t rush to correct the old man.

  A coffee was slapped onto the bar in front of her. ‘Anything else?’ grunted Troy.

  Ash was quick to answer for her. ‘I’ll have a pint, and a pie and chips. I’ll pay,’ he added, a hand out to stall Delilah’s protests.

  But she wasn’t about to protest. With the way her finances were, lunch at the pub was an extravagance she couldn’t really afford, so she was happy to let him foot the bill. Even more so when he’d recently been granted the contract to fit the kitchens in the development Rick Procter was building at Low Mill. Her brother’s fortunes had been going in the opposite direction to her own of late.

/>   ‘Thanks, Ash.’ Delilah stretched up to peck him on the cheek. ‘Good to know at least one of my brothers still loves me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ said Ash with a grin. ‘I’m just keeping you sweet so I can get the inside gossip and pass it on to Will.’

  ‘Inside gossip you’re after, is it?’ Seth Thistlethwaite twisted round on his bar stool as brother, sister and dog settled at a nearby table, his eyes dancing with devilment. ‘Won’t be long before the Three Peaks comes round.’

  Ash looked confused at this incongruous mention of the famous fell race, which was still six months away. ‘That’s hardly headline news, Seth. It happens every year.’ He gestured at the back wall of the pub, photos of lean men and women hurtling down the sides of Pen-y-ghent, Whernside and Ingleborough adorning it. ‘What makes this next one so special? You thinking of entering again?’

  Seth shot the young man a look of contempt. ‘My running days are long over, lad, as well you know.’ He turned his fierce gaze on Delilah. ‘But some of you young ‘uns are just reaching your prime. And April won’t be long coming.’

  Delilah busied herself straightening the beer mats on the table, face neutral, refusing to give her old coach the satisfaction of even a flicker of interest. But it was there – a flare of excitement at the thought; closely followed by that familiar clench of the stomach muscles.

  Nerves. It was a race that deserved nerves. And respect. Just short of a full marathon, but run up and down the sides of three of the biggest peaks in the Yorkshire Dales, it was tough. How long since she’d last run it? Years. Too long.

  ‘Haring over hills is more Delilah’s game,’ said Ash, slapping his sister on the back. ‘Those of us with brains concentrate our physical efforts on rugby. Isn’t that right, Troy?’

  The landlord, former celebrated hooker of the Bruncliffe team – which had flown as high as the top of Yorkshire Division One under his guidance, but now languished near the bottom – grunted as he thrust two plates on the table. ‘Shame you haven’t been showing them brains on the pitch a bit more, Ash Metcalfe. Might not be looking relegation in the face this early in the season, if you had.’