Malice On The Moors

by Graham Thomas

  Powell found himself contemplating the possibility of a freshly baked peach crumble with an oatmeal topping liberally sprinkled with Fluorobane. Or a glass of claret laced with sodium cyanide. He shared his thoughts with his detective-sergeant. “Somebody poisoned him, Evans. I can feel it in my bones.”

  She swallowed. “There's something else you should know, then. Guess who made the dessert?”

  Powell sighed. “In case you haven't guessed by now, Evans, I don't like guessing games.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, according to Mrs. Settle, our landlady, Mrs. Walker, brought the crumble, as well as the wine.” “Really? How is Mrs. Walker, by the way?” “Still in bed with her migraine, as far as I know.” Powell stared out the window at the passing fields. “We'll have to see about that.”

  They stopped briefly in Pickering to see Dr. Harvey. He and Sir Reggie greeted each other like long-lost friends, having met before at a conference dealing with the finer points of cutting up cadavers or whatever pathologists talk about when they get together. Harvey had contacted the Forensic Science Service at the Wetherby Home Office earlier that morning and was able to confirm that the results of the toxicological analyses would be available the next day.

  When they got back to Brackendale, Powell suggested to Sarah that she run up to East Moor with Sir Reggie to have a look at the grouse butts. The expression of dread on her face was almost comical. After they'd gone, he wandered over to the garage and learned that his car would be ready in about an hour. He went back to the inn and rang Sergeant Black at the Yard.

  “I've got something for you, Mr. Powell.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I went to see John Newbury, Ronnie Dinsdale's solicitor, this morning. He was reluctant at first—gave me the usual song and dance about solicitor-client privilege— but when I explained that we were only interested in the gist of Dinsdale's will, he agreed to cooperate. It seems that Dinsdale has willed his entire estate to his son, Richard, with the exception of a sum of money that goes to his wife, Marjorie. Newbury refused to say how much, but I get the impression we're talking about a few hundred thousand pounds. In the event that Dinsdale was predeceased by his son, the wife gets the whole lot.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I thought you'd be interested, sir.”

  “Did you ask him about the Hull Water Corporation scheme?”

  “He was a bit cagey, but I got the feeling he knows something about it.”

  “Anything else?

  “Well, sir, Mr. Newbury did give the impression that Dickie had been a great disappointment to his father. Marjorie, on the other hand, is apparently the light of old Dinsdale's life. A few years ago, he'd talked about changing his will, but never got around to it.”

  “I appreciate this, Bill.”

  Detective-Sergeant Black chuckled. “You can send me a postcard, sir.”

  “Any news on the commissioner's job?” Powell asked, as if by way of an afterthought.

  “Not a bloody word, sir. It's pretty tense around here, as you can imagine.”

  “Well, keep your chin up,” Powell replied with unconvincing heartiness.

  In the kitchen at Blackamoor Hall, Francesca Aguirre was cleaning up the mess she'd made. The bottle had slipped from her fingers and exploded like a bomb on the floor, splattering red wine everywhere. It looked just like blood, she thought morbidly. She leaned on the handle of her mop for a moment, brushing her long black hair from her eyes. She wondered how it had all gone so wrong. When she and her husband, Luis, had come to England a little more than two years ago, it had seemed like a wonderful dream, the chance to start a new life in a prosperous land of opportunity. But how quickly the dream had shattered in this cold English house on these black moors, just like the bottle she kept hidden away in the cupboard to dull her guilt and shame. She felt her stomach knot—she'd have to go down to the cellar to get another one now. She fingered the tiny gold crucifix hanging on a chain around her neck. She thought again about the enormity of what she had done. If Luis ever found out—

  She whirled around suddenly, sending the mop clattering to the floor. “You! What do you want?”

  Mick Curtis was standing in the doorway. “That's no way to treat a fellow member of the working class. The help should stick together, don't you think?”

  “Get out!” Her eyes blazed with hatred.

  He sneered. “Don't flatter yourself, Francesca. I'm looking for Miss Jamieson. I thought she might be downstairs.”

  After he'd gone, she could not stop trembling. Eventually she went back to her work, scrubbing desperately at the stained flagstones.

  The motor turned over first try and then rumbled happily. “Good as new, Mr. Powell,” the mechanic pronounced.

  Powell thanked him and backed the Triumph out of the garage. He got out and put up the top and a few minutes later he was heading north out of the village. With Sarah and Sir Reggie otherwise occupied, he had some time on his hands and decided that he had better have another word with Katie Elger. As he drove alongside the beck he reflected on his conversation with Bill Black. Marjorie Dinsdale was the major beneficiary of Dickie Dinsdale's death. By inheriting Blackamoor, she would be able to maintain the lifestyle to which she and her daughter had become accustomed. From all accounts, Ronnie Dinsdale's health was in a precarious state—had he died before Dickie, Marjorie would have been left with very little relative to the size of the estate. She and Felicity possibly would have had to leave Blackamoor Hall. And there was something else, something perhaps more important to her than money. Powell had come away with a strong impression of Mrs. Dinsdale's fierce loyalty to her husband, her sense of pride in his reputation both as a businessman and as landlord to the residents of Brackendale. A legacy that was threatened by her stepson's exploits … Did she know for instance that Dickie was a Peeping Tom who got his kicks by spying on her daughter?

  It was in this pensive state of mind that Powell took the turn into Dale End Farm. The high tops were obscured now by clouds and a gusty wind was driving dark streaks of rain across the head of the dale. The first drops splattered the windscreen as he pulled up in front of the house.

  CHAPTER 17

  Katie Elger answered the door with a look of surprise. “Come in, Chief Superintendent.”

  Powell smiled. “I've had some work done on my car and I was just out for a test drive. Is your father in?”

  A flicker of concern in her expression. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “I was hoping to meet him.”

  “He's gone to Helmsley,” she explained as she led him into the kitchen. “The National Park Authority offers grant aid to farmers to help them conserve traditional features on their land, such as drystone walls and historic buildings. There's an old barn on the farm that Dad would like to restore. He's gone to see about it.”

  Powell settled himself at the table. “I'll get right to the point, Katie. I believe that Dickie Dinsdale was murdered. Furthermore, I think the key to the whole thing lies in the sequence of events that began in the shooting box and ended in his death in the grouse butt on East Moor.”

  Her blue eyes probed his. “I don't understand—the adder—I mean, how could it be murder?”

  “I think he was poisoned. There are two possibilities: the snakebite was either an incredible coincidence or a brilliant ruse. I haven't yet decided which.”

  Katie shook her head numbly. “I still don't understand.” “If Dinsdale was poisoned, I'm trying to determine who had the opportunity. So I'd like you to tell me again exactly what happened that afternoon, sparing no detail, however trivial it might seem. You told me before that you were helping Mrs. Settle with lunch in the shooting box. Was anyone else helping you?”

  “Emma Walker brought the dessert and gave us a hand with the serving.” “It was a peach crumble, I understand.” Katie tossed him a curious look. “That's right.” “Katie, I'd like you to think very carefully about this before you answer. Is there any possible way that somebody could h
ave poisoned Dinsdale at lunch? The most likely poisons are a granular rat bait that looks a bit like cereal or a white soluble powder.”

  She frowned thoughtfully. “I remember that he arrived late—we'd already started serving the men. Mrs. Settle's veal-and-ham pie was the main course, followed by the crumble. Wine was served with the meal and a glass of port afterward.” She hesitated. “It's possible, I suppose. I mean, somebody could have sprinkled the rat bait over Dickie's crumble. It wouldn't have looked too out of place with cream poured over it, I shouldn't think. The other possibility would have been to doctor his drink with your soluble powder. The problem is,” she said in a flat voice, “almost anyone could have done it.” She looked at him. “Including me.”

  He smiled thinly. “How so?”

  “Well, Mrs. Settle, Emma Walker, and I were doing most of the serving, but several others pitched in as well. I can't remember who did what, specifically, but there were eighteen or nineteen people in the shooting box, so it was pretty chaotic.”

  “Try to think, Katie. Can you remember anyone else besides the three of you serving food or drink to Dinsdale?”

  “No, I'm sorry.”

  Powell was disappointed. “Right. Do you recall what time lunch began and ended?”

  “I think it was around noon when we started serving. I remember it was just after two o'clock when I set out for the butts after helping Mrs. Settle with the washing up, so we must have finished lunch about half an hour earlier.”

  “Was Emma Walker still there?”

  Katie shook her head. “She only stayed a few minutes.”

  “How would you describe Dinsdale's demeanor during lunch?”

  Her manner stiffened. “Same as always, you could say.”

  “Could you be a little more specific?”

  Her eyes flashed angrily. “He was behaving like a drunken boor. Is that specific enough?”

  “Did he appear unwell in any way?”

  “Not so as you'd know it.”

  “Did anybody else appear to behave oddly?”

  “I'd say everyone was having a pretty good time, Chief Superintendent. Even Dinsdale being there couldn't put a damper on—” She stopped suddenly, an odd expression on her face.

  “What is it, Katie?”

  “I remember now that Emma Walker seemed quite upset about something, but I suppose that's not surprising considering what Dinsdale did to her parents.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “Not to me.”

  “You said you left the shooting box around two. What was your intention?”

  “It was miserable out. I was taking my father a flask of tea.”

  “So you set out for the butts.”

  “Yes.”

  “You're aware that your father had decided not to shoot and was out on the moor with the other beaters?”

  “I didn't know that at the time.”

  “All right, Katie, I want you to tell me again exactly what happened after you set out from the shooting box. Please don't leave anything out.”

  In a calm tone of voice, she once again described her chilling experience: becoming disoriented in the fog, hearing the two shots, then seeing Mick Curtis standing white as a ghost beside the butt; bending down over Dinsdale and seeing the adder writhing in its death throes beside him. “I still dream about it,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Powell nodded. “Thank you, Katie. You've been most helpful. I imagine you'll be starting university again soon,” he added casually.

  She grimaced. “Classes start next week. I'll be moving back to college on the weekend.”

  “Biology, isn't it?”

  She nodded.

  “I was talking to a graduate student in biology at York just yesterday.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Stumpy Macfarlane. You must know him.”

  She hesitated for an instant. “I've heard of him, of course.”

  “I thought you might have run into him at the university.”

  She blushed, clearly flustered now. “Did you say he was a graduate student?”

  “You do know him, don't you, Katie?”

  “I know all about his run-in with Dinsdale and the police on the grouse moor, but I didn't know him then …” She lapsed awkwardly into silence.

  “It would be best if you told me about it.”

  She sighed. “Why does everything have to be so complicated?”

  He smiled thinly. “I only know that it's simpler in the long run to tell the truth.”

  She met his gaze, a hint of defiance in her eyes. “I suppose you're right. After all, we've got nothing to hide. Yes, I know Michael. He gave a lecture in York at the end of August on the environmental issues facing this country. I stayed at the end to tell him that I disagreed with the tactics he'd used against Dinsdale, which is bloody something coming from me. Don't get me wrong, shooting birds for sport or watching a pack of frenzied dogs tear apart a fox is not my idea of enlightened resource management, but I do resent outsiders coming in and telling people how to live their lives. If attitudes towards blood sports are to change, evolution has to occur within the rural community. And the fact remains that a lot of country folk still rely on traditional pursuits for part of their income.”

  “From what I know of Stumpy, er, Michael, it must have been an interesting discussion,” Powell observed dryly.

  “I was simply making the point that farmers like my father are conservationists as well. Dad has farmed this land for forty years and he's put back much more than he's taken. He's painstakingly restored derelict hedgerows and rebuilt drystone walls. He's fenced off woodlands to promote wildlife. He doesn't overgraze or use herbicides on his flower meadows. He's planted saplings to ensure trees for the future—I could go on and on. The point is, environmentalists would do well to regard traditional farmers as allies in their cause rather than adversaries.”

  “You have me convinced. What about Michael?”

  “I think Michael has come to the realization that he can't spend the rest of his life lying down in front of bulldozers. He'd already decided to do a graduate degree in biology when we met, and I've had him out here to look at the farm. He seems to be impressed.”

  Listening to her, Powell couldn't help but be impressed himself. “I can see why he would be,” he said. But was she being entirely forthright? “There's just one more thing, Katie. What do you know about this Hull Water Corporation business?”

  “Michael told me about it.”

  “Before it hit the newspapers?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you know how he found out about it?”

  “I know all about Chloe Aldershot, if that's what you mean. It's over between Michael and her—that's all I care about.”

  “I imagine you know that the protest on Dinsdale's grouse moor had nothing to do with cruelty to animals but was intended as a warning to Dinsdale to back off on the water scheme?”

  “Dinsdale was willing to put half of Brackendale, including this farm, under thirty feet of water simply to line his own pockets!” Katie said fiercely. “When Michael explained the real reason for the protest, I understood why he had to do it.”

  Powell persisted. “Michael told me that he had plans to escalate the campaign, to do whatever it took to stop Dinsdale. Do you have any idea what he had in mind?”

  “Are you asking me if he intended to kill Dickie?” she asked indignantly.

  Powell didn't think a reply was necessary.

  The young woman shook her head stubbornly. “If you really knew Michael, you'd realize how absurd the suggestion is.”

  Powell got to his feet. “Does your father know about you and Michael?”

  She looked slightly uncomfortable. “I haven't found a way to tell him yet.”

  As Powell drove back to the village through a steady drizzle, he couldn't help wondering what Lord Alder-shot's elusive daughter, Chloe the aristocratic anarchist, thought about Stumpy turning all respectable and falling for a far
mer's daughter.

  That evening, Powell, Sarah Evans, and Sir Reggie drove into Kirkbymoorside for dinner. Later, cozily ensconced in the bar of the King's Crown, a former seventeenth-century coaching inn presided over by a charming landlord who looked like Inspector Morse, they got down to comparing notes. Or rather Powell and Sarah compared notes. Sir Reggie—who, at irregular intervals and without any hint of a warning, sneezed explosively, causing his companions and the other unsuspecting patrons to jump—was sulking. His large red face was even redder than usual and he snuffled noisily into a damp handkerchief. “Damned weather in these parts,” he muttered.

  Sarah seemed worried that Sir Reggie held her responsible for his present state. “We could have caught our death up on that moor,” she agreed with the pathologist.

  “Nonsense, exposure to the elements is the best restorative for the soul,” Powell rejoined.

  An ominous rumble from Sir Reggie.

  She glared at Powell. “After we located Dinsdale's shooting butt, we undertook a thorough inspection,” she said, obviously making a point.

  “Don't know how anyone could have missed it,” Sir Reggie grumbled.

  “Missed what?” Powell asked, in spite of himself.

  “A loose stone in the front wall of the butt about a foot above the ground,” Sarah said. “When you slide it out, there's a sort of cavity in the wall, extending back perhaps two feet.”

  “This is interesting, Evans. Tell me more.”

  “With the stone in place, the size of the cavity would be about a foot wide, six inches high, and a foot and a half deep.” She paused to let this sink in. “Just about big enough for an adder to squeeze into, I expect.”

  “That's just what I was thinking,” Powell said.

  “There's more,” Sir Reggie interjected gruffly. “On the inside walls of this little grotto, I noticed a few small dark stains. Could be blood.”

  “I've got the scene-of-crime team coming out from Pickering tomorrow to check it out,” Sarah added.