by Jean Rowden
The fog was thick on Falbrough High Street, and Deepbriar almost bumped into the little man who shot out of the hospital entrance just as he turned in.
‘Sorry.’ They both spoke simultaneously, then recognised each other in the same instant.
‘Mr Crimmon.’
‘Constable Deepbriar.’ The organist’s hand was wrapped in an even larger bandage than before.
‘Still not fit to play, I see,’ Deepbriar commiserated.
‘I’m not even able to give lessons,’ Cyril Crimmon replied, ‘the wound turned septic. I was sorry not to see you in church yesterday, we were left at the mercy of Nicky Wilkins.’ He pulled a sour face. ‘It was most unsatisfactory.’
‘I’ll hope to be there next Sunday,’ Deepbriar said, ‘but only if I’m not on duty. We’re a bit stretched for manpower just at present.’
‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to let Miss Lightfall know if you’re not coming, we may be able to find somebody else. There has even been talk of Mrs Emerson playing for us.’
‘And leaving Minecliff in the lurch?’ Deepbriar was indignant. He’d heard that in his absence she had refused to play the organ at Colin Pattridge’s funeral, but luckily a friend of the vicar’s had been persuaded to come from Belston.
Crimmon’s smile was almost a smirk. ‘Well, given the chance to play a far superior instrument, you can understand the temptation for a musician of her calibre …’
There was the sound of an engine, muffled a little by the fog, and a large dark shape, dimly seen, slowed by the kerb on the opposite side of the road. As the mist swirled and thinned for a second, Deepbriar realised it was a hearse, its polished black paint work dulled by a sheen of damp. The car rolled to a standstill, its engine purring, and Aubrey Crimmon looked across at them from the driver’s seat, lifting a hand in greeting.
The organist returned the salute. ‘Ah, I was hoping my brother wouldn’t be long. You’ll excuse me, constable.’
Deepbriar’s brows lifted, he’d forgotten about their connection; it was an unlikely relationship, the two men were physical opposites. Cyril Crimmon looked far more like an undertaker than the rosy-cheeked Aubrey, nearly always wearing a suitably sombre expression. ‘Of course, we’re always quite happy with your playing,’ Crimmon condescended as he turned away, ‘when you’re free. Excuse me, I mustn’t keep Aubrey waiting. Good day.’
‘And a good day to you too,’ Deepbriar muttered as the man climbed into the sleek black car and vanished into the fog. ‘And as for Mrs Emerson, as far as I’m concerned Possington is welcome to her.’
Once he’d seen the doctor and been given a clean bill of health, Deepbriar sought out Sister Hunt. She looked no less formidable, and Deepbriar, feeling about two feet tall, wished he’d worn his uniform. However, the cake having been duly inspected and approved, she unbent enough to grant that Deepbriar almost redeemed the citizens of Minecliff in her estimation.
‘I’m glad you don’t still see me in the same light as Bert Bunyard,’ the constable replied.
Sister Hunt gave a brief decisive nod. ‘A totally unpleasant man. I was very grateful that he only stayed one night. If it had been up to me I wouldn’t have admitted him in the first place, the state he was in. A man has no business being inebriated at that time of day, it’s a disgrace. There’s not much we can do about bruising anyway.’
‘Bruising?’ Deepbriar stared at her. ‘Didn’t he have a broken leg?’
‘Of course not!’ She was shocked. ‘No matter what kind of man he was, I’d hardly suggest sending a patient away with broken bones!’
‘We are talking about the same person here?’ the constable asked. ‘Thickset and untidy, always wears a red neck cloth. He fell down the market steps.’
‘That’s the one. And it’s no wonder he fell, the amount of alcohol he must have consumed. He positively reeked of it.’
‘Bert Bunyard, you old rogue!’ Deepbriar breathed. ‘Well, I hope the nurses enjoy their cake. Thank you again, Sister.’
‘Only doing my job.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘You’ll have to excuse me now, constable, it’s nearly time for matron’s rounds.’
Deepbriar sat beside the young driver as the police car nosed its way towards Minecliff through the fog. He was hardly able to believe his luck. Falbrough’s finest might be no nearer to finding Bronc, but thanks to Sister Hunt he’d solved a case. Or, to be more precise, he’d solved two, for he now knew exactly what had been taken from the Operatic Society’s store in the village hall, and why.
A rare smile curved Deepbriar’s lips as he remembered Minecliff’s one attempt at farce. Most of the biggest laughs had come at the wrong times. In those days Mary had been responsible for props; it must be ten years since she’d persuaded Doctor Smythe to help her make that mock plaster cast.
Ferdy Quinn had been right all along, and although it would bring Deepbriar great satisfaction to confront Bert Bunyard, it would be no fun admitting his mistake to his neighbour. Deepbriar decided he must soften the blow. Perhaps if he found a way of returning the missing pig … That thought stopped him dead. Last time he visited Hurdles Farm, the day after the animal disappeared, Humphrey Bunyard had proudly, and quite innocently, shown the constable every one of his four legged charges. There were no pigs.
‘Deepbriar, thank heavens you’re back,’ Stubbs met him at the door of the police house and ushered him into the office. ‘We’ve got a problem. Man by the name of Bunyard, doesn’t want us searching his farm. I don’t want to bring in the heavy mob, we’re still short-handed anyway, but it could turn nasty if he’s not handled right.’
‘Bert?’ Deepbriar rubbed his hands together. ‘I’ll deal with him inspector, there’s a little matter of a stolen pig to answer for, not to mention arson and criminal damage. I was planning to go out there anyway, it’s time him and me had a word.’
‘No, the name’s not Bert,’ Stubbs interrupted, consulting the piece of paper he held. ‘The man we’ve come up against is Humphrey Bunyard. According to this report he’s built like a brick privy and is just about as unmovable.’
‘Humphrey?’ Deepbriar was taken aback. ‘He’s just a lad, I can’t imagine him being much trouble, though you have to know how to talk to him,’ he conceded.
‘Then let’s get out there,’ Stubbs ordered. ‘The car that brought you from town can take us, it’s waiting outside.’
‘Right. Only we’ll have to stop at the village shop on the way, there’s something I need.’
‘This is no time for you to be buying your groceries, constable.’ Stubbs said, climbing into the car.
‘It’s not for me, sir, it’s for Humphrey. Unless you happen to have a bar of chocolate handy?’
On the short journey, detouring via the shop, Deepbriar told Inspector Stubbs about Bert Bunyard and the phoney plaster cast, and about the night-time raids at Quinn’s farm.
‘This is all very interesting constable, but I don’t see any connection between this and our missing man,’ Stubbs said. ‘And right now all I want to do is locate this Bronc. Unless the tramp got on the wrong side of Bunyard. Maybe he found out what he’d been up to. It’s a bit strange, the son trying to stop us searching the farm.’
‘I can’t see Bert getting violent, not beyond swinging the odd punch when he’s had a few,’ Deepbriar replied. ‘I doubt if Humphrey stopping your men from searching the farm is relevant to our case, it’s more likely that Bert is in hiding, and he’s told the lad to be on his guard.’ He shook his head thoughtfully. ‘Bert’s gone too far this time, it’s not a case of giving him a caution. I reckon the magistrate’s likely to put him behind bars for a while.’
‘It’s your patch,’ Stubbs said, ‘None of my business as long as you’re right and it doesn’t involve our missing person. You’re sure you’ve got enough evidence to prove he’s behind the arson and so on? Pretending to have a broken leg isn’t a crime.’
‘Maybe not, but I’ll nail him,’ Deepbriar replied. ‘Because if I don�
�t I’ll have a full scale war on my hands, once Ferdy Quinn finds out what’s been going on.’
Humphrey Bunyard stood in the gateway at Hurdles Farm, his feet spread wide and a fixed expression on his lumpy features. When Deepbriar climbed out of the car the young man’s face brightened for a moment, then returned to its former look of stubborn incomprehension.
‘Hello, Humph,’ Deepbriar said, strolling up to him. ‘Can I have a word with your Dad?’
‘He said not to let anyone in,’ the young man said, shifting his feet uneasily.
‘Yes, but he didn’t mean old friends like me. Where is he? Inside?’
The large head moved slowly from side to side. ‘Gone.’
‘Gone? There’s no market today, Humph. Are you sure he’s not indoors? Maybe he told you to say he wasn’t home.’
‘Gone,’ the answer came again.
‘When did he go then? This morning was it?’
Humphrey’s face creased with the effort of working this out. ‘No.’
‘Was he here yesterday?’ Deepbriar was getting an uncomfortable feeling in his belly.
‘No.’
‘Tell you what, Humphrey,’ Deepbriar said, taking a large bar of Whole Nut from his pocket, ‘why don’t we go indoors and talk about it. We can have a cup of tea, that’ll go down well with a bit of this chocolate, won’t it.’
Humphrey’s eyes widened at the sight of the purple wrapper. ‘He said nobody was allowed in.’
‘Yes, but he meant villains, people who might want to steal things. You and me are pals, and these people with me are my friends. Look, they’re policemen, just like me. There’s a man missing, Humph, we’re worried about him. He’s maybe lost somewhere. Think about how that feels, Humph, you wouldn’t like to be lost, would you? You’d hate being all alone in a place you didn’t know.’
There was a short silence then the simpleton reached out to take the chocolate. ‘He won’t be very happy, will he,’ he said, leading the way to the house.
‘No,’ Deepbriar agreed, giving Inspector Stubbs a quick nod as he followed. ‘So while we have our tea we’ll let our friends look for him, shall we?’
The inside of the house looked no worse for Bert’s absence, in fact Deepbriar thought it had improved a little, though it took him a while to work out that this was because there were no dirty cups or plates lying about. It seemed Humphrey had been doing some washing up.
‘So, when did your Dad go?’ Deepbriar asked, once Humphrey had eaten his first mouthful of chocolate. Getting nothing but a puzzled look in response he tried again. ‘You say your Dad wasn’t here yesterday. Are you sure?’
Humphrey nodded.
‘How about the day before yesterday. Was he here then?’
Humphrey’s face took on its habitual vacant expression and Deepbriar sighed. Then he remembered something.
‘Was your Dad here on Saturday? He brings you a packet of crisps doesn’t he, when he goes to the Speckled Goose. Do you remember that?’
‘Yes,’ Humphrey said decidedly. ‘There was …’ he paused then held up two fingers. ‘Two lots of salt,’ he said, grinning. ‘I got a free one. In blue paper. I remember.’
‘He brought you some crisps and the packet had some extra salt inside,’ Deepbriar nodded. ‘And when he came back, did he go to bed for the night?’
The big head shook slowly. ‘No.’
‘He didn’t go to bed. So he went off somewhere instead. Did he go to Ferdy Quinn’s? Was he going to steal another pig?’
Humphrey looked blank. ‘I like pigs,’ he said, ‘But Dad won’t let me have one.’
Deepbriar sighed. It was going to be a long day.
‘So, all we know is, this Bunyard came back from the pub on Saturday night, then nothing.’ Stubbs frowned. The fog had lifted a little and he could see about a hundred yards across the fields, where a couple of uniformed men were inspecting a ditch. ‘I hope it’s only a coincidence that he’s gone missing exactly three weeks after the old tramp disappeared.’
‘I doubt if there’s any connection, sir. Unlike Bronc, Bert went under his own steam,’ Deepbriar said. ‘As far as I can make out he packed a spare pair of socks and a bit of food, then walked out. I’d guess he got scared and decided to skip until the heat died down. Not that I was on to him, not then, something else must have put the wind up him. He’ll be hiding out somewhere. Bert Bunyard’s a wily old bird though, he might not be too easy to find.’
‘And this Humphrey, you’re sure he’s not going to turn violent? It’ll take us another hour to finish the search, I never saw such a rabbit warren.’
‘He won’t cause you any trouble. He’s a bit simple, but he’s not a bad lad. As a matter of fact it looks like he’s got more nouse than I thought, he’s cooking for himself, and he’s even cleaning the place up.’
‘Doesn’t show,’ Stubbs said sceptically.
‘It was worse when Bert was home,’ Deepbriar assured him.
‘If you say so. Well, we’ll finish the search, but I don’t think we’re likely to find any sign of this missing man ever having been here. A man who was bleeding to death couldn’t have walked this far, and I can’t see anyone carrying a body dripping with gore for nearly a mile.’
‘Nothing’s turned up near The Lodge?’
‘Not a darned thing. And if we don’t find a body, or at least a bit more evidence, we can’t take the case any further,’ Stubbs said gloomily. ‘Not to mention we still don’t even have a proper name for our victim. We’ll go on asking questions of course, but it’s not looking too hopeful.’
A distant rattle became a hum and a clatter, and a bicycle turned in at the gateway, skidding as it hit the mud. Constable Giddens, his fresh young face flushed with the cold and the exercise, came to a halt beside them and leapt off the machine. ‘Sir! We’ve found something.’ He paused to take a breath, then plunged on. ‘It was the bothy, sir, the garden shed at The Lodge. I thought about how all that rain would have washed away any evidence, but when I scouted around I found there’s this big overhang at the back, where the roof sticks out at least a foot, and with the prevailing wind coming from the west, it keeps the ground pretty dry there. And I realised the stuff lying around, leaves and twigs and so on, well, it looked as if it had been disturbed. I had a bit of a poke about, and I found a huge great stain. Something red and sticky seeped down into the ground behind that shed. I bet that’s where it happened, sir, you can see it’s blood, even now.’
Chapter Twelve
* * *
‘Oh, Inspector, isn’t it just dreadful!’ Bella Emerson’s eyes were bright with excitement, and she twisted a tiny lace-trimmed handkerchief between her fingers as if recreating her performance as the tragic Cio Cio San. ‘All that blood! It quite makes me shudder to think of the poor man.’
Deepbriar wondered cynically at the process that had transformed Bronc from a dirty old tramp into an object of pity, and decided that for the likes of Mrs Emerson it had a lot to do with his being dead. Not to mention that a murder being committed in her garden would give her a certain standing among the village gossips.
‘When I saw it I felt quite faint,’ she went on, ‘in fact I’m still feeling a little strange. Imagine, a murderer, here!’ Her eyes rolled as she swayed ominously towards the constable, but he stepped aside without apparently noticing her, as if in a hurry to follow the inspector. Mrs Emerson recovered her balance, and with a glare at the constable’s back she fell into step behind the three men as if fainting had never been further from her mind.
Inspector Stubbs paused briefly. ‘I don’t know that we’re dealing with a grave, Mrs Emerson. Constable Giddens, why didn’t you tell Mrs Emerson to keep away from the garden shed?’
‘I did advise her it wasn’t a suitable sight for a lady, inspector,’ Giddens protested.
‘I’m not thinking about her sensibilities, man,’ he gave the woman an unconvincing smile. ‘Mrs Emerson is not a child. What I’m concerned with is the evidence. We’ve
precious little, and now you’ve found some we don’t want half of Minecliff tramping about on it!’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Giddens was downcast, but he brightened as they approached the bothy. ‘I did put a couple of tools across, before Mrs Emerson came to see what I was doing, so I doubt if she’s actually done any damage.’
‘Hmm. All right constable, I think you’d better escort the lady back to the house. If she’s of a nervous disposition we don’t want to expose her to any more shocks. We’ll be in to have a word with you shortly, Mrs Emerson,’ he added, turning to her, ‘and we’ll need to talk to your gardener again. I take it he’s here somewhere?’
‘He’s in the conservatory,’ she said. ‘Since your men wouldn’t allow him to get on with his usual work, I had to find him something to do in there. It’s almost time for his lunch, and I think he was going into the village. I’ll warn him to wait until he’s seen you, shall I?’
‘Yes, thank you. You can tell him we shan’t keep him long. Come on, Deepbriar.’ Stubbs led the way to the bothy, glancing back over his shoulder. ‘That woman gives me the pip,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t say that. I gather she’s a friend of yours.’
‘Not mine, sir,’ Deepbriar hastened to assure him. ‘My wife’s. I can’t say I’ve exactly taken to her.’
‘Not the type to have committed bloody murder though,’ Stubbs mused, sighing regretfully. ‘Women are capable of killing, constable, but in my experience they prefer to keep it clean. Poison, perhaps, or maybe a blunt instrument, in the heat of the moment, but not knives, and I’d say that’s what the evidence points to in this case.’
‘What about a gun?’ Deepbriar suggested, as he peered over the Inspector’s shoulder into the space behind the bothy. Giddens had protected his find with a rake and a broom propped across some upturned flower pots. ‘A man could bleed to death from a gunshot wound.’ A heap of leaves and twigs had been swept to one side to expose the bare ground beneath; the young constable was right, the projecting roof had kept the surface dry, and the dark moist area, almost three feet across, certainly looked like a blood stain.