A Season for Murder

by Ann Granger

  Markby retraced his steps to Rose Cottage and Meredith opened the door as he came up. She seemed pleased to see him.

  ‘I was watching you through the net curtains – how’s that for snooping? Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’

  ‘Tea would be fine.’ He sat down in the living room into which she ushered him and observed, ‘You’ve taken down the decorations.’

  ‘Yes, it hardly seemed right to leave them there in the circumstances. Mrs Brissett’s very upset about Harriet’s death. She’s been crying and I sent her home. She was very fond of Harriet. It seems that a few years ago Mrs Brissett’s daughter’s husband left her and she had trouble finding a job and had no money . . . and Harriet helped her find a job somewhere. The Brissetts are eternally grateful. It sounds kind of Harriet.’

  ‘I think she was kind . . .’ Markby said, remembering the signed copy of Briony Rides at the Horse of the Year Show. Meredith went out to fetch the tea and when she returned he went on, ‘This is an official visit, actually.’

  Meredith smiled quickly. ‘I guessed as much. What’s happening about that boy?’

  ‘You mean the wretched Pardy – that’s his name, Simon Pardy. I’ve let him go pending further enquiries – he set his solicitor on me. Your friend, Colin Deanes, no less. He arrived in record time and accused me of bullying tactics. I wasn’t going to get anything else out of Pardy anyway so I had a statement typed up and after Deanes had put a magnifying glass over it, the lad signed and was ushered out by Deanes doing a mother-hen act over him.’

  ‘Is Deanes a solicitor? I thought he was a writer and a sociologist?’ Meredith asked, surprised.

  ‘Also, it seems, a qualified solicitor who used to be in partnership up North somewhere, but quit to make a fulltime career of saving wayward youngsters. I didn’t know, either.’

  ‘Is Pardy wayward? I mean, has he been in trouble before?

  Markby grunted. ‘Not around here. Minor things elsewhere.’

  Pardy’s previous convictions were of a relatively trivial nature, being ordered out of several county towns by magistrates for persistently collecting without a licence in the street – rattling his tin in support of a variety of causes but only very recently turning his attention to those connected with animals. That Markby found curious. One might claim Simon’s heart was in the right place, but his head – so it appeared to Markby – was all over the place. An irrational young man. The causes he pursued so vigorously no doubt satisfied some deep, emotional void. Estranged from family, probably, and with few real friends. Even the local hunt saboteurs were vague about him.

  ‘He just turned up one day,’ said their leader. ‘None of us knows anything about him.’

  On the other hand, warned a little voice at the back of Markby’s brain, the lad’s manner and appearance could be a sham. He may be just naive and well meaning. Or he may know exactly what he’s doing – and be doing it for reasons his companions know nothing of, his meaning anything but benevolent. It might be worth enquiring of other departments whether Simon had ever been known to associate with anarchist groups. Just a thought.

  ‘Listen, Meredith,’ Markby leaned forward now. ‘You were a witness of the incident in which Harriet died and the previous one when she and Pardy met. Tell me how you remember the incident in the Market Square first.’

  Meredith poured out the tea carefully, gathering her thoughts. She pursed her lips and rubbed a hand over her thick brown hair. She was wearing a knitted pullover in some kind of fluffy yarn and jeans. ‘Well,’ she pushed the sleeves of the pullover up to her elbows. ‘It’s a funny thing. Although I can see the whole thing unrolling in my mind’s eye like a silent film, I can’t really be precise about where everyone was and that sort of thing.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to be. People never can be. At least you admit it. The worst kind of witness is the one who swears to a fact about which he is quite wrong though quite sincere, and absolutely refuses to be shaken. It’s extremely difficult to remember something which takes place suddenly, unexpectedly and in distracting circumstances. Try your best.’

  ‘Let’s see. Harriet rode close by the demonstrators, which surprised me. It was as if she didn’t see them. They went back – except for Pardy who came forward – or was it that the others went back and he was left alone in a forward position? I couldn’t swear quite to which. He waved the placard in a wild and thoroughly stupid manner. The horse reared up. Harriet came off . . . Pardy just stood there, looking pleased with himself – he waved his arms in a kind of salute. Fearon caught Harriet’s horse, didn’t he? He was holding it by the bridle a minute or two later. Then Green rode up. He must have ridden through the crowd but I didn’t see him do it. Suddenly he was there, taking off his top hat and looking down at her.’

  ‘What did you think of Green’s gesture?’ Markby asked her.

  ‘To tell you the truth, it gave me the creeps. It made me think of that voodoo thing which hangs round graveyards and wears a top hat.’ An image of Green’s bared head as he looked down at Harriet’s body came into her mind and of his face and expression. Shocked? No, she thought, he looked relieved, that’s it! But now she was imagining things, she decided immediately and kept this impression to herself. ‘What did you think?’ she temporised.

  ‘Me? Strictly between us I thought his action grotesque. Although it was correct, I dare say, and he no doubt intended it as a mark of respect. I don’t think Tom Fearon liked it much.’

  ‘No, I noticed he looked angry. Perhaps it’s Green himself he doesn’t much like.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Markby looked at her curiously.

  She flushed. ‘Just a thought. It’s very warm in here. Do you mind if I turn down the gas fire?’ She got up and stooped to reach the tap. ‘That’s how I recall it. Sorry I can’t do any better.’

  ‘Did it strike you just before the accident that Harriet looked woozy or unsteady in the saddle?’

  ‘Yes, it did, very much so, and quite unlike her normal self I would have thought. Although of course I didn’t know her very well or for very long. I’m no judge.’

  ‘Just using your powers of observation, how would you have described her? Hung-over? Still tiddly?’

  ‘I don’t know, Alan!’ Meredith burst out crossly. ‘I’m not qualified to make a guess. And you shouldn’t ask me – it’s a leading question and if you asked me that in court the judge would intervene and tell the recorder to strike it out! Why don’t you ask Dr Pringle – he knew her better than I did and he can give a medical opinion!’

  ‘Oh, Jack . . .’ said Markby vaguely. ‘He’s gone a bit quiet. I don’t know what he’s thinking. All right, I won’t ask leading questions. But you said you saw her in Bamford the previous Friday. How did she look then?’

  ‘In fine fettle. And she was all right because when I got back here, she drove up and asked me over for coffee. She had bought all kinds of food for a dinner party. She’d taken a cordon bleu cookery course, she told me. Perhaps I should take one of those . . .’ added Meredith, going momentarily off at a tangent. ‘I’m not much of a cook at all. Pretty rotten, really.’ She pulled herself together and back to the subject. ‘She probably entertained a lot. She had a visitor on Christmas Day evening, anyway.’ She fell into a sudden awkward silence.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I – saw them. On the blind, their silhouettes.’ Meredith’s face flushed and her jaw set aggressively. ‘It sounds dreadful, real voyeurism. I wasn’t snooping from behind the curtains though, I assure you. I was going to draw the curtains, upstairs in the bedroom about ten minutes after you dropped me off here. He – it was a man – could tell you what sort of a state she was in – oh lord, that sounds like something I don’t mean. I meant, if she felt ill. She wasn’t acting as if she felt ill.’

  ‘As if she were drunk?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say!’ The words came out sharply. More mildly, she added. ‘But I would have guessed she had a good head for holding
her drink. I saw her twice between that Friday in Bamford and seeing her silhouetted on the blind on Christmas Day.’

  ‘Oh?’ he raised his eyebrows.

  ‘On the Saturday morning I saw her outside Pook’s stables. I’d gone for a walk. She caught up with me and took me along to a paddock to see her horse. Then we parted, I went on and she went back with Blazer to the stable yard. And on Monday she came over here and had a quick lunch with me because Mrs Brissett was cleaning over at Ivy Cottage. We just sat and nattered, about various Christmas holidays we recalled from our individual childhoods. Actually, I talked mostly about that. Harriet didn’t say much about family. She had the measles one Christmas and put the entire household in quarantine – that was about the only purely family story she told. She asked what I did abroad. Then I got her talking about horses. She’d always owned a horse or pony since a kid. She’d saved Blazer from slaughter. Saw him at a sale being knocked down to a known horsemeat dealer and stepped in and outbid him at the last moment. She felt very strongly about animals being exported live to the continent for slaughter, horses or cattle. She explained Common Market regulations to me. It seems they aren’t as strict as British ones and people here are worried the rules governing transport of livestock may be relaxed to put us in line with Europe. Harriet was concerned it would mean suffering for the wretched animals and it does seem wrong that, for example, under EEC rules the poor beasts don’t even have to be fed and watered so frequently during transport as under our rules. The really stupid thing is that Pardy got everything so wrong. I mean, she did care about animals. She cared a lot and she did things to help, practical things like buying Blazer and writing to MPs and others about this animal transport business.’

  Markby sat glowering at the gas fire which had dulled its bright flames and hissed in a soft insistent way. ‘I suppose,’ he asked without any real hope, ‘she didn’t mention to you anything about anonymous letters?’

  ‘No, nothing.’ Meredith looked and sounded surprised. ‘Did she receive any? What about?’

  ‘I don’t know. Tom did and other subscribers to the hunt may have. I’ll have to wait for Miss Needham-Burrell.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The deceased’s cousin and her executor. Probably an old biddy with a moustache and a shooting-stick.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Meredith, remembering the photograph of the three little girls, ‘She’s—’ She broke off and finished meekly, ‘She’s probably very nice.’

  ‘Nice and, I hope, cooperative.’ Markby got up. ‘Thanks for the tea. I hope this isn’t going to cast too much of a blight over seasonal festivities. Will you be able to come out for a drink on New Year’s Eve, next Tuesday evening?’

  He wanted to see her again. She ought to be wary but despite this she felt pleased. ‘Yes, thanks, if you’re not still busy with this.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll have it cleared up by then,’ said Markby, cheerfully.

  Meredith waved him goodbye from the gate, watching as he turned outside the Haynes’ cottage and until he had driven off out of sight towards Fenniwick’s garage and the B road turn. As the sound of his car died away she found herself staring at the blank windows of Ivy Cottage across the lane. Yesterday morning Harriet had got out of bed and made herself ready to go hunting behind those upstairs windows. Today Harriet lay dead. And on Christmas Day night Harriet and a man had been locked in passionate embrace behind those windows and she, Meredith, had glimpsed them. Where was he now, Harriet’s lover? What was he thinking? And did he know the reason or could he offer any explanation for her unusual demeanour at the meet? If there’s an inquest, Meredith thought, he ought to come forward and give evidence. There would be an inquest, wouldn’t there?

  A sharp breeze blew around her and brought on it a faint but unmistakable odour of horses. Meredith looked thoughtfully down the lane. Pook’s stables were invisible from here but were making their presence known by other means. She reprimanded herself sharply. She shouldn’t interfere. But why not? She’d liked Harriet. She wanted to know the truth. Tom was Harriet’s friend. So he should want to know the truth too. Or did he know it already?

  She returned indoors to fetch stout shoes and anorak, tied a headscarf over her bobbed brown hair to stop it flying about in the wind, and set off down the lane.

  At Pook’s stables the yard was empty although she could hear the horses in their stalls. Meredith pushed open the five-barred gate and refastened it carefully behind her. Fearon’s Mercedes was parked under the roof of a hay-barn to her left. He was around somewhere unless he had ridden out on the common. That was more than possible. Meredith peered into a couple of loose-boxes and called ‘Mr Fearon?’ but only found herself staring into surprised equine faces. She hesitated, thought ‘In for a penny, In for a pound!’ and began to walk towards the ramshackle bungalow behind the stables.

  There was a field just behind it containing red and white poles and some painted oil drums. They lay about higgledy-piggledy but were obviously intended to be set up as practice jumps. The whole place seemed to be organised chaos. Horses mattered here, horses first and foremost. The humans and their needs had to be squeezed in when time and space permitted. The front door of the bungalow was ajar. Meredith hesitated again in the porch and then rapped loudly on it.

  ‘Mr Fearon!’

  There was no reply. She could imagine that Tom would go out and leave his door open if he was working about the place but not if he had quitted it, and in winter it seemed foolhardy to say the least to leave it and let the cold air invade the house. She stepped into the narrow hall and called again, ‘Mr Fearon, are you here?’

  A faint moan from the door to her immediate right answered her. Alarm seized her. Was he hurt or ill or even, given recent events, overcome by grief and distress? He had been closely involved with Harriet over the horses. Poor man! thought Meredith in a sudden burst of commiseration. She tapped on the door and receiving no further reply, pushed it open.

  She found herself on the threshold of Fearon’s bedroom: that was a bit tricky and she knew she ought to retreat there and then. The curtains were drawn still and on this winter day it was almost as dark as night in here. But then she heard another faint groan and saw that a figure was sprawled immobile across the double bed in the centre of the room. Meredith edged cautiously towards it.

  ‘Mr Fearon?’ She came to an abrupt halt, stooped and sniffed, wrinkling her nose at the odour of whisky. Hurt or ill? Distressed? Nothing of the sort. He was drunk!

  Meredith uttered an exclamation of disgust. She turned on her heel and strode to the windows, jerked back the curtains to allow the grey daylight to flood the room and surveyed her surroundings. What a mess. Tom’s riding hat hung on the brass bedknob at the foot of his bed. One pair of riding boots, presumably his best ones, lay propped against one another by the dressing table looking as inebriated as their owner. His white shirt from the previous day had been discarded on the floor. Tom Fearon, fully dressed, lay across the unmade bed, his feet in muddy boots on the coverlet, unshaven, eyes closed.

  Meredith marched across, grasped his pullover in both hands and dragged him off the pillows to shake him violently. ‘Wake up!’ she ordered sharply.

  Tom’s eyes opened blearily. She released him and he fell back on the crumpled bedclothes to stare up at her at first blankly. Then after a moment his gaze cleared and a puzzled look entered his eyes. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he muttered hoarsely from the pillow.

  ‘Meredith Mitchell from Rose Cottage!’

  ‘Oh, sure, yes,’ Fearon blinked. ‘Remember you. In the square, yesterday . . .’

  ‘Get up, Mr Fearon! This is disgusting! You have livestock to care for!’ Meredith said furiously.

  That struck home. Fearon’s eyes opened fully and he sat up with a jerk, swore, rubbed his hand over his black curls and squinted at her. ‘I was out there at six this morning seeing to the horses. Don’t bloody lecture me!’

  ‘There’s no need to swear!’ Meredith said crispl
y.

  Fearon swung his legs to the floor, put his hands on the edge of the bed and grimaced up at her. ‘What are you doing in here, anyway?’

  ‘I came to see you but you weren’t in the yard. The front door is open. This place is icy cold. Haven’t you any heating?’

  ‘Don’t need any, I’m outdoors all day!’ Fearon lurched to his feet. She was tall but Tom was an awful lot taller, he must be six-two in his socks, Meredith calculated. She tried to visualise the silhouetted figures on Harriet’s blind. The man had been tall, but as tall as this? Difficult to say.

  Her gaze fell on the mud-stained coverlet. ‘Tchah!’ she said crossly.

  Fearon glanced in that direction to see what had upset her, looked vaguely surprised, slapped half-heartedly at the mud with his hand and mumbled, ‘It’ll brush off . . .’

  He walked past her, scratching his ribs absently, and disappeared into another room. Tap water splashed into a basin. Meredith walked out into the hall and waited. Fearon reappeared holding a towel, his black hair glistening wet and rivulets running down his swarthy skin. He rubbed at his jaw and the back of his neck with the towel and said, ‘I’m not drunk, I was dog-tired, not that I owe you any explanation. I only had a couple of hours sleep last night.’

  ‘I smelled the whisky.’

  ‘One drink, I had one drink! And it’s no damn business of yours! Who the hell gave you the right to breeze in here and order me about?’ He suddenly exploded into anger, jaw thrust out pugnaciously, dark eyes gleaming.

  ‘You invited me yesterday. You said I should come down and see the stables.’

  Fearon looked temporarily nonplussed, then shrugged, tossed the towel back into the bathroom behind him where it presumably landed on the floor and growled, ‘All right, I’ll show you around. Let me get my jacket!’