by Jean Rowden
‘Could be. Perhaps there isn’t a key,’ he said, sniffing, ‘not in Minecliff anyway.’
She was already flicking through the papers in another file. ‘There’s only that one folder left to check, perhaps you’d do that. I have to go in a minute, or I’ll miss the bus, and there’ll be no beef for your dinner tomorrow.’
‘All right, love, thanks. I think you’re right, there was no letter. I’m sure if I’d been told who the key holder was, I’d remember.’ Deepbriar lifted down the remaining file. ‘It won’t be in here, there’s no way I’d file it under traffic.’
‘Unless it got caught up with something else. You might as well look, since it’s the last one.’ She left him to his fruitless search, coming back a few minutes later with her coat on, carefully inserting a lethal-looking pin through her red felt hat. ‘Bye, love.’ She pecked him on the cheek. ‘What I don’t understand is, if you want to have another look at the airbase, why don’t you go in the same way as before?’
‘Because last time I could say I was following a suspect, which makes it all right to use the hole in the fence, although even for a police officer that’s officially classed as trespassing.’ He sighed. ‘The ministry are a bit over zealous if you ask me. I’ll just have to make my search unofficial, and anything I find will need to be discovered all over again once we get hold of the key.’
She laughed. ‘Poor old thing. You’ve got a face as long as a wet weekend. Why don’t you have your elevenses a bit early? There’s a fresh fruit cake in the tin.’
Thorny Deepbriar took his wife’s advice, and along with a generous helping of Mary’s cake he sneaked an exciting ten minutes with Mitch O’Hara, so he was in a more cheerful frame of mind when he wheeled his bicycle out again and headed up the hill. Instead of taking the route by which they had recovered Ferdy Quinn’s pig, he went to the main gates. These were made of two layers of thick mesh and stood nearly eight foot high; topped with barbed wire, they made a formidable barrier. Bert Bunyard had hinted that somebody went in that way, but if so they must have had a key, because the chain and padlock showed no signs of tampering.
The passing years had left the road into the airfield very overgrown, but only in a few places had the concrete vanished entirely beneath a layer of dirt and weeds. Deepbriar bent down, taking a closer look at the ground. He could barely believe what he was seeing. There were tracks. A vehicle had gone in here, some time ago; a week or more maybe, he couldn’t tell exactly, but there could be no mistake. Despite the rain that had fallen since, there were still faint indentations where the wheels had passed. The marks weren’t clear enough for him to be sure it was the same vehicle that had left the tracks in Wriggle’s yard, but they looked as if they were the right distance apart. Was this what Bert Bunyard had seen?
Full of a fresh determination, the constable hurried to the place where the badger trail passed under the fence. There were miles of old concrete roads on the airfield, simply getting back to the gate on this side of the fence would have taken him half an hour on foot. He crouched to force his way through the gap, holding the bike by the saddle and pushing it in front of him. A pedal snagged on a low branch at the very moment that the front wheel hit a root. The bike slewed sideways, the handlebars twisted and the whole machine bucked as if it were suddenly alive. With no room to get out of the way, Deepbriar was sent crashing to the ground with the bike landing painfully on top of his legs.
It was amazing how many projecting parts a bicycle had, and at that moment all of them seemed to be sticking into him. At the expense of more bruises, a scratched face and a nasty tear down the sleeve of his greatcoat, he pulled free. Muttering words he wouldn’t dare use in front of Mary, he wrestled the bike through the gap somehow, emerging smeared with mud from the wheels and grease from the chain. Hot, cross and dirty, Deepbriar eventually pushed the machine on to the concrete surface and climbed into the saddle.
Back at the entrance, this time on the inside, he scanned the ground. The tracks were no easier to see, and they faded out in a couple of yards, leaving nothing to suggest which way the vehicle had gone. He sat astride his bike, one foot on the ground, deep in thought as he stared down at the slight indentations in the grass. Had dead men really been brought this way? Bronc, Spraggs, maybe even Tony Pattridge? Could the cellar where Joe was held have been an air-raid shelter?
‘Hello, Mr Deepbriar.’
The constable jumped as if he’d been shot, almost tumbling over for the second time that morning.
‘Sorry,’ Harry Bartle said apologetically as he came freewheeling along the concrete track and braked alongside Deepbriar. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘You shouldn’t be here, Harry, this is Air Ministry property.’ Deepbriar was ruffled by his display of nerves. ‘Did you come through the fence?’
‘Yes. Sorry,’ Harry said again, ‘I didn’t think you’d mind. I followed you.’ He grinned. ‘The whole village knows this is where Bert hid the pig. You know, I think plenty of other people know the way in. Billy Tapper and his mates have been ferreting up here more than once, and George Hopgood knows somebody who’s been rooting about looking for scrap metal.’
‘If that’s true he could find more than he’s bargained for,’ Deepbriar said, ‘that’s why the fence is there, because there’s unexploded bombs all over the place.’
Harry shrugged. ‘He never had much in the way of brains. Serve him right if he blows himself up. But you’ve not come looking for unexploded bombs. Did Bert hide something else up here?’
‘That’s no business of yours, even if he did,’ Deepbriar said sharply. ‘As it happens I’m concerned with more serious business than Bert Bunyard’s feud with Ferdy Quinn.’
‘You’re still looking for Bronc.’ Harry’s eyes shone with detective fervour. ‘You think this is where the murderer hid the body, is that it? The aerodrome is an awfully big place for one man to search on his own, Mr Deepbriar, can I help?’
‘Certainly not. This is a police matter, Harry. You’re trespassing, and I can’t allow you to stay. This isn’t like looking for a man who’s worst crime is leaving a couple of gates open. You’d best get off home.’
‘Right you are.’ Crestfallen, Harry turned his bicycle round and rode slowly back the way he’d come. Deepbriar watched him go, feeling mean. If there was an official search then there was every chance they’d be calling for volunteers before the next week was out, it wouldn’t have hurt him to tell Harry that, instead of sending him off with a flea in his ear.
Then he recalled the notice he’d seen in the file Jakes had borrowed to fool Bert Bunyard. If the county authority decided to lower the regulation height for police officers then Harry would qualify; his dream of joining the police force could finally come true.
Deepbriar opened his mouth to call the young man back, then he had second thoughts and closed it again. Time enough to share the good news when it was certain; it would be heartless to give the lad false hopes.
Somehow the episode with Harry had plunged Deepbriar back into gloom. He no longer felt any enthusiasm for the search, it all seemed pointless. Which is what it proved to be, because although he explored several miles of overgrown roads he found no further trace of the vehicle. As he faced the problem of getting his bike back through the gap in the fence his misery deepened. He decided he’d been chasing a red herring, and that the tracks would turn out to belong to some official Ministry car.
*
‘I thought Mary would be back by now,’ Mrs Emerson said tartly, standing in Deepbriar’s doorway, solid and immovable. Obviously she had no intention of leaving.
With an internal sigh Deepbriar attempted a smile and asked the woman if she would like to come in and wait, praying that she would refuse. Yet again that day he was to be disappointed. With a decisive nod she shouldered her way past him.
‘I know dear Mary will want to see me, I’ve been going through my libretti, and I’ve brought three for her to look at.’ She bustled thro
ugh into the living-room with Deepbriar following disconsolately at her heels. ‘We have far too much talent to waste our time on Gilbert and Sullivan. Are you familiar with the works of Verdi? There’s one aria from Aida I simply adore. Let me sing you a few bars, I know you’ll recognise it.’
‘Oh no,’ Deepbriar said hurriedly; his day was going from bad to worse. ‘Not without warming your voice properly, don’t risk straining anything.’ He searched frantically for some subject to distract her. ‘Tell me, Mrs Emerson, was your husband keen on opera?’
She shook her head. ‘Poor Edgar, I’m afraid he wasn’t musical, although the dear man always encouraged me with my art.’ Her face took on what she obviously thought was a wistful expression and she leant towards the constable as if sharing a confidence. ‘I miss him, you know, Thorny. Life can be hard for a widow. One gets so lonely.’
‘But you have many good friends, I’m sure.’ This was barely better than listening to her singing. ‘You and Mr Emerson lived somewhere north of Belston, didn’t you?’ he asked.
‘At Overside,’ she said. ‘The manor house.’
Deepbriar nodded. He’d recognised the picture he’d seen on the wall when he and Inspector Stubbs had visited to ask about Bronc. ‘That’s a very beautiful old place. It must have been hard to leave.’
‘But it had to be done.’ She gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Overside Manor was our home for nearly twenty years. For me it holds too many memories. It’s never a good thing to cling to the past.’
Deepbriar nodded. ‘I’m sure you go back sometimes. It must be a comfort to go to the churchyard and know your Edgar is there, close to the home you shared.’ This, he thought, was safer ground; all the widows he knew attached great importance to the ritual of tending their departed husband’s grave.
Mrs Emerson’s face suddenly went a bright shade of pink, and her breathing seemed to be troubling her. Deepbriar looked at the woman in confusion.
‘Is something wrong?’ he asked, wondering if she was about to have a seizure.
‘No, of course not, I’m quite well, thank you. Whatever makes you think …’ The words tumbled out, as her plump face cycled rapidly through a range of emotions. After a moment she regained control and offered Deepbriar a wintry smile. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, it’s my artistic temperament. Talking about such things is so distressing. Ever since I was a child I’ve preferred not to dwell on unhappy events.’
She turned away from him and began rooting in the bag she’d brought. ‘Do let me sing a little of this aria for you,’ she gushed, ‘it won’t take me a moment to do some exercises and warm up my vocal chords …’
The sound of the back door opening had never been so welcome. ‘That will be Mary,’ Deepbriar said thankfully, ‘I’ll go and tell her you’re here.’ He made his escape, and a few minutes later was safely hidden in his office. It was only when he read the first paragraph of a new chapter of ‘Mitch O’Hara and the Thousand Dollar Dame’ for the third time, that he realised he couldn’t get the woman’s strange behaviour out of his mind. Mrs Emerson’s greatest pleasure in life was to talk about herself, and she happily dramatised the least little event in an attempt to appear more interesting, yet only now did it occur to Deepbriar, that in all the time he’d known her, she had never said one word about her husband’s death.
Later, joining his wife for lunch once their visitor had gone, he asked Mary about it.
‘Now you come to mention it, that is odd,’ Mary said. ‘Bella has told me every detail of her father’s last illness, she had to nurse him for nearly two years, you know, it was very hard on her, but she’s never told me much about Edgar. I expect it’s still too fresh in her mind.’
‘But it must be more than a year ago,’ Deepbriar said. ‘And most people love talking to you about their trials and tribulations, you’re such a good listener.’
‘Flatterer,’ she said, doling an extra spoonful of soup into his bowl. ‘I’m sure there’s some perfectly simple reason why she prefers not to talk about him.’
Back in his office an hour later, Deepbriar picked up the telephone, and dialled the number of the vicarage at Overside. It just happened that Father Gregory, the vicar there, had once done a spell as curate in Minecliff; he and Deepbriar shared an enthusiasm for church organ music, and it seemed like a good moment to get back in touch. After ten minutes of enjoyable reminiscences, Deepbriar came to the point, and was greeted by total silence at the other end of the line.
‘Father?’ he prompted, wondering if the connection had gone dead.
‘Yes, I’m here, Thorny. But do you know, I don’t think I can help you. Edgar Emerson isn’t buried in my churchyard, because he didn’t die in my parish.’
‘Didn’t he? But he was one of your parishioners?’
‘Oh yes, he was a regular churchgoer, more so than his wife. But he died in Peru.’
‘Peru?’ For a moment Deepbriar thought he must have misheard. ‘You did say Peru? South America?’
‘That’s right.’ Father Gregory sounded a little uneasy.
‘Did he travel a lot then?’
‘No. It was all a bit odd. The Emersons hadn’t been in church for a couple of weeks, and I hadn’t seen them in the village either, so I decided to call. Mrs Emerson answered the door herself, which was unusual, because they always kept a maid, even through the War, though then the girl was an evacuee. Anyway, I asked after Mr Emerson, and she stared at me in the most peculiar way, and then told me he was dead. Naturally I offered my condolences, and asked how and when it had happened. And that’s when she said he’d died in Peru. As far as I know neither of them had ever travelled abroad before, even during the War Mr Emerson had never been further away than Norfolk.’
‘So what did he die of?’ Deepbriar asked.
‘I never found out. To be honest I was so taken aback by the news that I rather failed in my duties as pastoral advisor. I was going away on a sabbatical a few days later, and by the time I returned the house was up for sale, and Bella Emerson was moving out. We spoke once or twice more, but I never did learn any more about the circumstances of her husband’s death. But you surely can’t think there was anything suspicious about it?’ Father Gregory gave an uneasy little laugh. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that Bella is getting her widow’s pension under false pretences?’
‘No, of course not,’ Deepbriar said insincerely.
‘Of course, she always had a tendency for self-dramatization, and her singing voice is truly awful, but she’s an honest soul at heart.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Deepbriar replied. ‘Forget I asked, it isn’t important. Tell me, have you been to St Peter and St Paul’s at Possington since the restoration was finished? The organ sounds wonderful. That swell to great coupler …’
If there was something suspicious about the fate of Edgar Emerson, some mystery in Mrs Emerson’s strange reticence on the subject, the constable could think of no way to find out for the moment. There must be officials who dealt with deaths that occurred overseas, and doubtless on Monday he could track one of them down and discover the details of Edgar Emerson’s sudden demise, but for now, short of subjecting the man’s grieving widow to the third degree, he was stuck.
Deepbriar did his best to concentrate on the matter in hand. He tried to think how Mitch O’Hara might have tackled the problem of finding Bronc’s body, but much as he enjoyed reading about the detective’s exploits, when he considered the American’s methods he concluded that they depended very much on luck; any time O’Hara despaired of making any more progress, some previously unheard of character would turn up with exactly the piece of information he needed.
There was nothing wrong with a sizeable slice of good luck. With that in mind Deepbriar decided to patrol the village on foot, making himself available in case anyone had something useful to tell him.
It was a raw December Saturday, and very few of the villagers were out and about. With too much time for his thoughts to wander, Deepbriar’s
ruminations returned to the subject of Edgar Emerson. Outside the shop he met Mr Harvey, a stalwart of the Amateur Operatic Society and one of Bella Emerson’s staunchest supporters. It had been he who discovered the absence of the fake plaster case when he helped check the props cupboard in the village hall.
‘Mrs Emerson called in to see us before lunch,’ he said, when Deepbriar brought her name into the conversation, ‘and I must say Mrs Harvey and I were a bit worried about her, she wasn’t her usual self at all. It’s not like our dear patroness to be so subdued, and she jumped like a cat when the postman knocked at the door. She said she’d been to see you and Mrs Deepbriar, I trust nothing happened to upset her?’
‘Not that I’m aware of,’ Deepbriar replied thoughtfully. Bella Emerson’s behaviour smacked strangely of a guilty conscience.
‘I don’t think she’s been the same since that business with the tramp,’ Mr Harvey went on. ‘It’s very unsettling, a thing like that. I mean, imagine, a murder happening in your back garden! It’s enough to make anyone nervous.’
‘Murder’s a serious business right enough,’ Deepbriar said stolidly, but his mind was jumping wildly to conclusions. Perhaps his earlier supposition was right, and they had a contract killer on their patch! Perhaps the Emerson’s marriage hadn’t been happy. Perhaps the idea of playing the part of the merry widow had persuaded Bella to take matters into her own hands.
Chapter Eighteen
* * *
‘Constable Deepbriar, I am so sorry, I tried to telephone you but the exchange couldn’t get through. I believe there was a fault on the line.’ Miss Lightfall wrung her hands together in an apologetic frenzy. ‘Coming all this way on such a cold morning, it’s so good of you, and finding it’s wasted.…’
‘I’m not needed then,’ Deepbriar said. He could hear the rich tones of the organ spilling through the open door of St Peter and St Paul’s, and it wasn’t Nicky Wilkins playing, because he was larking about with two other choirboys as they bundled through the vestry door. Possington had its organist back.