“The situation is basically this,” Powell was saying.
“Viewed objectively, the circumstantial evidence suggests that Dinsdale died as a result of being bitten by an adder. This, despite the fact such fatalities are extremely rare and generally only occur if there is an underlying medical condition. We know that Dickie Dinsdale was an asthmatic and suffered from allergies. The bottom line is that the coroner was not convinced either way, which is where we came in.” He paused to drain his pint before continuing his analysis. “Don't hesitate to jump in, by the way. Now, the way I see it, the break-in opens up a whole new universe of possibilities. According to Sir Reggie, some of the chemicals in the Settles' storage shed could affect the nervous system in a way that's very similar to snake venom. Interesting, don't you think?”
Sarah looked puzzled. “I'm not sure I follow you. Let's say he was poisoned. Isn't it one hell of a coincidence that he got bitten by a snake as well?”
Powell took a drag on his cigarette. “Or supreme bad luck.”
“It seems a bit farfetched,” she said doubtfully.
Powell looked preoccupied.
“What is it?”
He shook his head irritably. “I don't know. I can't seem to think straight. In any case, we need to consider the possibility. I've been through the list of Dinsdale's personal effects retained by the police as part of the initial investigation. It includes one sterling hip flask. I'll make arrangements with Dr. Harvey to have the contents analyzed straight away. He and Sir Reggie should be able to sort out what to look for. And I'd be interested to know what was on the menu at the shooting box that day.”
Sarah nodded. “I'll ask Mrs. Settle.”
Powell reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a folded piece of paper. He handed it to her. “I'd like you to check this out.”
“What is it?” she asked, unfolding the paper.
“A list of the beaters that were out on the moor that afternoon.”
She read the eight names. “It's hardly likely that someone standing in the fog a quarter mile away from Dinsdale's butt would've seen or heard anything,” she protested.
He looked at her. “Assuming that's where they all were at the time.” He realized that the task he had given her would no doubt be a rote and uninteresting one, but it had to be done. Rank does have its privileges.
Sarah sighed. What a girl had to do to get ahead. “I'll get you another pint,” she said.
“Only if you join me.”
“I didn't realize that one drank so much in the field.”
“Standard procedure, Evans.”
She smiled in spite of herself, got up, and went into the pub.
Powell lit a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully.
A few minutes later Sarah rushed back onto the terrace, sans drinks, brandishing a newspaper. Her eyes were wide with excitement. “Look at this!” she said breathlessly. She placed the latest edition of the Ryedale Times on the table in front of him. The headline read:
NORTH YORK MOORS WATER SCHEME EXPOSED. He quickly skimmed through the story.
The Rydale Times has learned that prior to his death on September 13, Richard Dinsdale, son of the ailing supermarket magnate Ronald Dinsdale, had been in secret negotiations with the Hull Water Corporation in connection with a proposed scheme to flood the scenic valley of Brackendale in the North York Moors National Park. The allegation was made by Michael Mac-farlane, the noted environmental activist. Macfarlane, better known as Stumpy, has conducted numerous protests around the country, including an attempt to sabotage a grouse shoot on the Dinsdales' estate in August of this year.
According to Mr. Macfarlane, the water project would involve the construction of a dam on the River Merlin near the village of Brackendale. The resulting reservoir would flood the village and the upper portion of the dale in order to provide drinking water for the City of Hull. The area in question is part of the Blackamoor estate, owned by the Dinsdale family.
A spokesperson for the National Park Authority said she was unaware of the scheme, whilst Mr. Clive Hancock, Senior Engineer for the City of Hull, refused to either confirm or deny Mr. Macfarlane's allegation. Mrs. Marjorie Dinsdale, the late Richard Dinsdale's stepmother, was unavailable for comment at press time.
Another of Dickie's progressive ideas? Powell wondered. He looked up from the newspaper.
“This rather widens the field, doesn't it?” Sarah observed neutrally.
Powell pulled a face. “It never rains but it bloody pours.”
The next morning, Powell paid a visit to Blackamoor Hall. Once again he was ushered into the study by the skittish Francesca.
Marjorie Dinsdale rose to greet him. “Chief Superintendent, this is an unexpected pleasure,” she said, sounding not the least bit pleased.
“I won't beat about the bush, Mrs. Dinsdale. I imagine you've seen yesterday's paper.”
She smiled unconvincingly. “Oh, that! That's old news, Chief Superintendent. Just another one of Dickie's brainstorms.”
“Would you care to elaborate?”
“Like I told you before, Dickie didn't have a clue about what it takes to run an estate like Blackamoor. Instead of concentrating on doing the basic things properly— modernizing farming methods, improving moorland management, and so on—he was always cooking up some harebrained scheme to make a killing. Dickie was a great one for the quick fix, Chief Superintendent. The Hull water scheme was just the latest in a long line of nonstarters.”
Powell was skeptical. “Based on the newspaper article, one gets the impression it had gone beyond being just a twinkle in his eye.”
Her face tightened. “He broached the idea with me, and I made it clear to him that I was unalterably opposed to it. He had power of attorney over Ronnie's affairs, so he could basically negotiate with whomever he wished. However, I would never have tolerated such a scheme. There is Ronnie's legacy to consider, not to mention the well-being of the tenants. It's a matter of preserving a way of life, Chief Superintendent. I would have taken Dickie to court to stop him, if it had come to that.”
Mrs. Dinsdale had raised an interesting point, which Powell filed away to follow up on later. “I'm wondering what exactly your stepson had in mind, Mrs. Dinsdale. How would putting half the estate under water benefit the family?”
She laughed harshly. “He didn't care about his family. Only his own self-interest.” (As she became more agitated, Powell noticed that a definite Cockney flavor had infiltrated her voice.) “He saw the potential for a resort—waterskiing, sailing, fishing, wet bikes roaring about, you get the general idea. He planned to sell the land to the Hull Water Corporation then lease back the rights to develop recreational facilities on the lakeshore. Then he'd turn Blackamoor Hall into a sort of luxury resort hotel. It would have killed poor Ronnie.” She looked at Powell impassively. “I wouldn't have allowed that to happen.”
“Do you know if anybody else was aware of the scheme?” he asked.
She shrugged. “My daughter, Felicity, knew about it. I have no idea who else Dickie may have told.”
Powell formulated his next statement carefully. “I regret to have to tell you that we now believe foul play may have been involved in your stepson's death.” He paused to let this sink in, but curiously enough, Mrs. Dinsdale showed no reaction. “I want you to think about this very carefully: Can you think of anyone, anyone at all, who might have benefited from his death?”
“Do you have an hour?” she asked.
“If that's what it takes.”
She sighed impatiently. “Let's understand each other, Chief Superintendent. I didn't like Dickie much, and I think the same could be said for ninety percent of the residents of Brackendale. Whether anybody disliked him enough to kill him is a question that you are going to have to answer for yourself.”
Powell abruptly got to his feet. “Thank you, Mrs. Dins-dale. You've been most forthright. Don't bother, I'll see myself out.”
Forthright or calculating? he wondered as he
walked to his car. One thing was clear, however: Marjorie Dins-dale was not a woman to trifle with. His train of thought was interrupted by the faint tok… tok… tok of a tennis ball being volleyed. Curiosity got the better of him and he wandered round the side of the house in the direction of the sound.
On a clay court enclosed on two sides by the gritstone facade of the house and an abutting brick wall at the far end, a dark-haired young woman was hitting a tennis ball against the end wall. She was wearing white shorts and sneakers and a skimpy floral top that exposed her midriff. The near end of the court and the side opposite the house were enclosed by a chain-link fence, with a gate in the middle of the long side. Powell walked up to the gate. “Hello there!” he called out.
The woman turned and looked at him. She did not seem particularly surprised at having her practice interrupted. She walked languidly over to where he was standing on the other side of the gate. “Hi, I'm Felicity,” she said brightly, tossing her long hair behind her. “And I already know who you are. I was wondering when you'd look me up.”
Felicity Jamieson was a stunning young woman, whose sporting attire left little to the imagination, but, to his credit, Powell did his best to keep his mind on task. His attention, however, was drawn inexorably to her pierced navel with its silver stud and, despite his best intentions, he couldn't help wondering how far her penchant for body piercing extended. “Er, may I have a word?” he asked.
She smiled. “I'd love to.” She unlatched the gate and swung it open. There was a wooden bench set along the inside of the fence. She sat down and invited Powell to do the same. She crossed her long legs and waited, gazing at him with cool blue eyes.
“You sounded as if you were expecting me, Ms. Dinsdale.”
“I'll never forgive you if you don't call me Felicity,” she said.
Powell smiled. “All right, Felicity. But you haven't answered my question.”
“I figured you'd want to talk to me about my dear departed stepbrother.”
Touching. “Why don't you tell me all about him, then?”
“Wouldn't you rather winkle it out of me, Chief Superintendent?” she asked archly.
Powell was mildly perplexed by the young woman— leaning as he did towards the Darwinian side of the nature-nurture argument—since Felicity seemed so unlike her mother, as different as Dickie and his father were from all accounts. A diversionary tactic appeared to be in order. “Tell me something, Felicity. How does a London girl like you come to be living in the North York Moors?”
She shook her head wonderingly. “I ask myself that question every day,” she said. “Mummy used to work as a legal secretary for Ronnie's solicitor in London. Bloke named Newbury. Ronnie came in one day and one thing led to another, you might say. The next thing I knew, I found myself in this drafty old pile in the middle of nowhere. I was sixteen at the time—if I'd known better, I wouldn't have come.”
“There are worse things than living in the country,” Powell observed dryly.
“Yeah, well, the club scene sort of sucks,” she replied, without a hint of sarcasm.
“Why do you stay then?”
She appeared to ponder this for a moment. “You can get used to anything, I suppose. And there's less competition for blokes.”
“I understand that Dickie had plans to liven the place up.”
“Oh, the resort thing. Dickie always had big plans. I never paid much attention to him.” She was beginning to look bored.
“Do you know if anyone outside the family knew about his latest project?”
She shrugged lightly. “I dunno.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“I can't remember.” She idly twisted a strand of hair round and round her finger.
Powell sighed inwardly. “Is there anything else you'd care to tell me, Felicity?”
She looked at him with those expressionless blue eyes. “I want you to know that Dickie was a frigging pervert,” she said in a voice oddly devoid of emotion. “He used to have it off, spying on me having sex with my boyfriends.”
CHAPTER 13
Robert Walker was just opening up the pub when Powell arrived back at the inn. He inquired after Sarah and learned that she had gone up to Dale End Farm. Walker seemed uncharacteristically subdued.
“Tell me, Mr. Walker, what do think of this water scheme I read about in the paper yesterday?”
“First I'd heard of it,” he said quickly. “But I wouldn't have put it past him. Flood the whole bloody dale and screw the tenants, that was his style.”
“Do you think they'll still go ahead with it?” Powell asked, testing the figurative waters.
“You tell me. Mrs. Dinsdale seems like a decent sort, but I imagine there's quite a bit of money involved…”
Powell looked puzzled. “I must admit to being a bit surprised that word of the scheme didn't leak out before this.”
Walker blinked slowly. “Yeah, well, I expect these sorts of things are kept pretty hush-hush.”
Powell wasn't convinced that Walker was being entirely forthright. “Mr. Walker, what exactly would happen to the estate's tenants—the farmers, people in the village like yourself—if the land were to be sold?”
Walker shrugged. “There would have to be some compensation, of course, but, for most of us, it wouldn't be nearly enough to pick up and start all over again.”
“If word of Dinsdale's negotiations with the water company had leaked out, how do you suppose people in Brackendale would have reacted?”
“I can only speak for myself, Chief Superintendent.”
“Yes?”
Walker's expression was emotionless. “I would have done everything I could to stop him.”
Powell decided to drive up to Dale End Farm to see if he could intercept Sarah. They had much to talk about before he could finalize his plans for an excursion to York the next day. He climbed into his TR4 and turned the ignition switch. Nothing happened save an ominous and all-too-familiar click. He held his breath and tried it again with the same result. Cursing creatively, he put the car in gear, got out and rocked it backward and forward. He climbed back in and turned the switch. Click. Before he could feel too sorry for himself, he recalled the assertion of an American friend that the reason Brits drink warm beer is because the inner workings of their refrigerators are manufactured by the same firm that makes electrical parts for their cars.
The man at the garage nodded sagely. “Aye, sounds like t' starter, all right. T' worm gear's probably jammed on t' flywheel. Any road, tomorrow's Sunday, so I won't be able to get t' parts until Monday.”
Powell sighed. It was just what he needed. “Fine. Here's the keys. Do you need a hand pushing it over here?”
The mechanic grinned toothlessly. “It's all part of t' service, sir.”
As Powell walked back to the Lion and Hippo, he wondered how much this latest chapter in the long, sorry tale of his obsession with impractical and unreliable cars was going to set him back. At the very least, he would have to alter his travel plans. When he got back to the inn, Sarah's black Vauxhall was back in the car park.
“That is a shame,” Sarah said when she heard about Powell's car. “And British racing green is such a lovely color,” she added innocently.
Powell scowled. “I'll need a lift to the train station in Malton, first thing in the morning.” He explained about his planned visit to York. “In the meantime, I've got some phone calls to make. What's on your agenda this afternoon?”
She smiled ruefully. “I'm still going through my to-do list.”
“I'm afraid I've come up with a few more things to add to it.” He smiled. “We'll have a strategy session this evening, after we've both done a proper day's work.”
Powell went up to his room, rang up Detective-Sergeant Black, and issued a series of instructions relating to Ronnie Dinsdale's London solicitor. He then managed to track down Sir Reggie in his garden in Hampstead.
“Do you realize it's a bloody weekend, Powell?” Sir Reggie thun
dered.
Powell could imagine Sir Reggie hurling his mobile phone into the compost heap if he wasn't handled carefully. “I do apologize, Reggie.” (The senior Home Office pathologist refused to be addressed by his title, at least by those he got on with—unlike Merriman, who reveled in his own like a dog rolling in a rotting carcass.) “I just thought I'd touch base to see if you'd given any further thought to my invitation,” Powell said casually. “I'm traveling down to York tomorrow—I could pick you up at the station. You could catch an afternoon train, if it's convenient.”
An ominous silence on the other end of the line, followed by snatches of muffled conversation then a raised feminine voice. A few moments later Sir Reggie was speaking in the manner of a conspiratorial whisper. “As a matter of fact, I had decided to lend a hand. I wasn't going to leave until Monday morning, but my wife has planned some infernal dinner party tomorrow evening that I'd just as soon avoid. I've told her that an emergency has arisen in connection with the case, requiring me to change my plans and leave a day early, so mum's the word, eh, Powell? I'll be on the three o'clock train.” He rang off.
Powell smiled. A personality strong enough to intimidate Sir Reggie didn't bear thinking about. Feeling at loose ends—and a trifle guilty for leaving Sarah to toil alone in the fields—he decided to spend the rest of the afternoon making inquiries around the village.
That evening, the pub was as busy as Powell had seen it. A number of couples were seated on the terrace, so Powell and Sarah Evans secluded themselves in the snug, where they might have a measure of privacy.
Sarah was warming to her subject. 'According to Katie Elger, most of the time there was some dispute going on between Dinsdale and his tenants. If he wasn't accusing someone of poaching or stealing, he was raising the rents or just generally making life difficult. Katie thinks he was trying to force the farmers off their land so he could redevelop the estate for commercial purposes. The Hull Water Corporation scheme seems to bear her theory out.”
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