An idea. A brilliant one.
He wheeled round and raced back up the stairs.
The smallest cottage on Crag Lane was ablaze with light, a beacon against the darkening night beyond it. Not wanting to be in the office when Samson came back, Delilah had returned home early. She’d also wanted to make the most of her precious last few days with Tolpuddle. It was Friday evening. Neil would be arriving on Sunday and then she would be living life without a dog. Without this dog.
She put an arm around the grey shape taking up a large slice of the couch next to her and heard a sigh of contentment. Tolpuddle thought it was Christmas all over again. She’d cooked him some chicken for tea. He’d followed that with some dog biscuits. And now he was lying crashed out on the sofa with his head on her lap and the wood-burner going full blast. He was in doggy heaven. The only thing that could make it more perfect . . .
Bloody Samson. Despite his blissful state, Tolpuddle jumped at every sound, a log falling on the fire, the wind rattling at the back door. He was on tenterhooks, hoping that Samson would appear after the best part of a day without seeing him. The dog was pining for the black sheep of Bruncliffe.
Delilah fondled the dog’s ears, wondering if she was being over-dramatic. Frank Thistlethwaite hadn’t offered any evidence; just a whispered condemnation of a man everyone was quick to denounce, thanks to his past. Herself included. She’d been amongst the not-so-welcoming party that had met Samson on his arrival back in Bruncliffe, seething about his casual disregard for her brother, Ryan, his supposed best friend. Samson’s unexplained absence from Ryan’s funeral two years ago had been compounded by compete neglect of his godson, Nathan, as the lad tried to come to terms with the loss of his father. Combined with his outrageous behaviour prior to his departure from town fourteen years before, it had been enough to condemn Samson in the eyes of the Metcalfe family. And most of Bruncliffe.
But from what Delilah had seen of him over the last four months, the present-day Samson O’Brien didn’t deserve such vilification. He’d saved her business from certain ruin, stopped the malicious incidents at Fellside Court and offered to help her thwart Neil’s ambition to take Tolpuddle. He’d also developed a good relationship with Nathan, the teenager always keen to spend time with his godfather. What’s more, Bruncliffe’s returned reprobate was a model tenant.
Surely present conduct was far more important than previous transgressions when passing judgement on someone?
Easing the dog’s head off her legs, Delilah stood up slowly, not wanting to disturb him. When she was satisfied he was still asleep, she crossed to the kitchen and opened the fridge. There wasn’t much she missed from her years living with Neil, but the evenings when they’d cooked together was one of them. Making lasagne seemed pointless when she was the only one eating it. Yet in a moment of exasperation at her single life, she’d bought the ingredients that morning on her way home and there they were, sitting on a shelf in the fridge staring back at her. Beside them, a ready-made cottage pie.
She reached for the pie, resigned to having another meal for one, when out of the corner of her eye she saw Tolpuddle jerk upright, head twisted towards the small back yard that wrapped around the cottage.
He barked. Sharply. A warning. Then he leapt off the sofa and raced towards the back door. He was there before the knocking began.
‘It’s okay, boy,’ she said in an attempt to soothe the dog, his loud woofs echoing off the walls. ‘Just someone at the door.’
On a Friday evening. She rarely had callers. Never of an evening. With a hand on Tolpuddle’s collar, Delilah stepped into the porch and saw a bedraggled figure in running shorts and a T-shirt standing out in the yard, the rain streaming off him.
‘Samson,’ she exclaimed as she opened the back door, beckoning him in. ‘What on earth . . . ?’
‘I’ve got it!’ he said, a grin on his face, arms spread wide. ‘I’ve got a way to save Tolpuddle.’
She didn’t hesitate. She threw her arms around him and hugged him.
She started making the lasagne while Samson was in the shower. It had been an automatic response to the excitement his words had triggered: the soothing routine of putting ingredients together while her brain whirled in anticipation.
Delilah hadn’t given him a chance to explain. Having extricated herself from his damp embrace, embarrassed at how she’d reacted, and with Tolpuddle jumping up at him in a frenzy of happiness, she’d decided it was best to impose a bit of calm before Samson revealed his plan. So she’d sent him upstairs with a towel, told him where to find a box of Neil’s clothing – a box that still hadn’t found its way to the charity shop in town – and had set about making something to eat. She was stirring the ragu as he came down the stairs. Wearing a pair of Neil’s joggers and an old hoodie and with his wet hair curling on his shoulders, Samson looked disconcertingly different. And younger.
‘That smells amazing.’ He sniffed appreciatively while putting a hand down to the shadow that had appeared at his side. ‘Doesn’t it, Tolpuddle?’
The dog followed him into the compact kitchen, lying on the floor at his feet as Samson took a chair at the small table against the back wall. Delilah placed a cup of tea in front of him, lighter than her usual brew in rare deference to his taste, and set out cutlery. For two.
Samson looked at the table and up at her. ‘I’m staying for tea?’
‘Have you got somewhere better to be?’ she asked, the words coming out more brittle than she’d intended.
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘Nowhere other than home to a meal for one.’
‘Well then. You might as well stay and we can discuss this scheme of yours.’
She put the ragu in the oven, took her tea over to the table and sat down opposite him. She was trying hard to act naturally at having this man sitting in her kitchen but her hands weren’t getting the message, beset with tremors. She clasped them around her mug before he noticed.
‘Fire away,’ she said. ‘But bear in mind that I’m not an accomplished liar. So if you need me to play a part in this plot, it’s probably better if you don’t give me all the details. Neil knows me too well and he’ll spot it a mile off if I’m bluffing.’
Samson grinned and leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to do anything. Leave it to me and Tolpuddle.’
‘Sunday morning at the office, then,’ said Delilah, standing in the porch in bare feet as she saw him out, Tolpuddle leaning against her leg.
‘Be there by eleven,’ said Samson. ‘Both of you. That should be plenty of time.’
‘And that’s all I need to do?’
He grinned, sensing her desire to know the details. Recognising the truth of what she’d said – Delilah Metcalfe being as easy to read as the first signs of spring in the Dales. Samson hadn’t told her anything about his plan to scupper her ex-husband’s custody attempt, apart from asking her to bring Tolpuddle to the office on Sunday morning. Being kept in the dark was killing her.
‘Just bring Tolpuddle to me. That’s all you have to do.’
She glanced down at the dog and then back up, biting her lip. ‘You’re not going to do anything illegal? Anything that would get you into trouble?’
‘Me?’ he asked with the innocence of a choir boy. ‘Would I?’
She laughed softly, a flutter of sound in the quiet of the night. It was gone midnight, the evening having passed in a comfortable blur of good food and easy conversation. They’d discussed the Thornton case, Delilah insisting that Samson bring her up to date. So he’d told her about his visit to Matty – omitting all mention of the warning letter – and had relayed his conversation with Mrs Walker, including her memories of lovesick Oscar Hardacre, which Delilah had found heartbreaking. Then they’d talked about what the next step should be. And while Delilah hadn’t been able to help Samson pinpoint whatever it was that had been nagging at him since his visit to Fellside Court, she had been able to tell him the whereabouts of the el
usive Ida Capstick. The cleaner was over in Bridlington on the east coast, her cousin having been recently bereaved. Ida had gone to offer support. And no doubt clean the woman’s house from top to bottom.
From the topic of work, they’d moved on to the past, their childhood and their memories of her brother Ryan, the best friend Samson had ever had. They’d also talked about Delilah’s failed marriage, Delilah opening up in a way that surprised Samson, as though being in the security of her own home had lowered her natural guard.
Her story hadn’t flattered Neil Taylor. The man had taken Delilah’s heart and stomped on it from a height. Two affairs that she knew about, the last with a student from Leeds. And then walking out and leaving her burdened with two business loans and a mortgage on the cottage. To compound it all, out of the blue he was demanding Tolpuddle back. It wasn’t going to happen if Samson could help it. And he was pretty sure he could.
‘Thanks for a lovely evening,’ he said, meaning every word. When he’d noticed how late it was he’d had to tear himself away, reluctant to leave the cosy cottage, the sofa where he’d been sitting with Delilah, Tolpuddle splayed out between them, the wood-burner ticking over and the lights of Bruncliffe sprinkled across the darkness beyond the window. ‘And thanks for the clothes. I’ll get them washed and back to you.’
She waved a hand, dismissing his thanks. ‘No hurry. They’re destined for the charity shop anyway.’ Then she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. ‘That’s for Tolpuddle,’ she said, a smile creasing her cheeks.
‘Right.’ He coughed. Looked over the low wall at the town splayed out beneath him. Turned back to Delilah and knew that if he stayed a moment longer, he would do something they would both regret. ‘See you Sunday.’
He turned from the porch and the dog and the young woman, and headed into the night. Towards a sleeping bag on a borrowed bed in an empty building, telling himself the whole walk back that, with his past about to catch up with him, it was better this way. Less complicated. For him and for her.
Delilah Metcalfe had had enough failure in her life. She didn’t need another man letting her down.
‘Bad news indeed,’ she muttered, closing the door to the porch and leaning back against it.
But not in the way Frank Thistlethwaite had meant. Samson O’Brien was bad news for her sanity. And for her heart. She’d had to fight every instinct not to grab hold of him and pull him back inside the house as he stood there saying goodbye.
So much for taking a step back after Frank’s warning.
‘And so much for having a guard dog,’ she murmured, her gaze falling on the shape of Tolpuddle in his basket by the fire, head on paws, eyes already closing.
He’d had the best evening of all.
Hoping that Samson could ensure there would be many more of them, Delilah started up the stairs to bed. Even though she knew she wouldn’t sleep a wink.
12
‘You ready?’
Delilah nodded and passed Tolpuddle’s lead to Samson. Sunday morning, eleven o’clock on the dot, the scarlet-and-chrome motorbike had already been parked in the back yard of the office building when she’d come through the gate with the dog. With the rain having finally stopped, a fragile blue sky was peeking through the white puffs of cloud above, a bitter wind blowing from the east, reminding the people of Bruncliffe that winter hadn’t finished with them yet.
Inside the office of the Dales Detective Agency, the cold that Delilah was feeling came more from fear than from the temperature outside. She leaned against Samson’s desk, her fingers drumming nervously on its surface.
‘Promise me you’re not going to do anything stupid?’ she asked, her imagination having provided numerous scenarios in the intervening hours since Samson’s visit to her cottage.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said with a wicked smile. ‘I’m not planning on getting any of us arrested. Text me when they get here.’
She nodded. Then she knelt down and wrapped her arms around Tolpuddle, lying her head against his. ‘Just in case . . .’ she murmured. Feeling tears forming, she stood, wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and forced a smile, the dog’s amber gaze regarding her solemnly.
‘Be good,’ she said to him. ‘You, too,’ she added in Samson’s direction.
‘We’ll try.’
Samson led the Weimaraner to the front door and Delilah had a moment’s panic, worried that she was sacrificing her final hours with Tolpuddle for the sake of some foolhardy attempt to save him that would end in failure. It was only her grip on the desk that stopped her from flinging herself at him.
‘It’ll all work out,’ said Samson. No trace of a smile. Totally understanding the torment she was going through. ‘Trust me.’
She stared at him and then at the dog. ‘Go, quickly,’ she muttered. ‘Before I change my mind.’
The front door opened and closed and she heard a muffled bark from the other side. It was enough to start her crying.
Two hours. More than enough time for Samson to activate his plan. With a glance over his shoulder at the windows spanning the front of the office building to make sure Delilah wasn’t watching, he hurried across the road, Tolpuddle beside him.
‘Let’s see how this goes down,’ he muttered, pulling open the door of the Fleece and slipping inside.
It was like stepping back in time to the pubs of his youth. Dark floral carpet, brass hangings on the walls, low beams and a fire burning in the grate. Not a twee reproduction of the past, but simply the result of a tight-fisted owner who refused to waste money on upgrading the decor. And who wasn’t bothered about attracting a more refined clientele. The regulars of the Fleece kept coming back because they knew the pub had the best beer in town.
Glad to be out of the biting wind, Samson paused in the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the gloom of the interior. Despite the relatively early hour, a handful of other people were also taking shelter from the wintry conditions outside. Three hikers were sitting in the corner, maps spread out on the table. Tucked in by the fire were some farmers Samson recognised. And at the bar, Seth Thistlethwaite was talking to Will Metcalfe.
Samson felt his courage fail. This wasn’t an environment he felt comfortable in, the scene of so many of his father’s alcoholic collapses. As a child and teenager he’d only frequented the place in order to drag his father home, and since returning to Bruncliffe in October, he hadn’t entered the pub apart from with Delilah. Standing here on his own, as a non-drinker and someone Bruncliffe hadn’t accepted to its bosom, he was feeling very exposed. Having Will Metcalfe – the oldest of the siblings and one still wary of the returned detective – in the vicinity wasn’t going to help any.
‘Bloody hell!’ Troy Murgatroyd, landlord of the Fleece, was behind the counter drying glasses, a surly expression on his wide face. He’d spotted Samson in the doorway. ‘To what do we owe this honour?’
The greeting was loud enough to override the muted conversations; to make everyone look up at Samson and Tolpuddle.
‘Morning, all.’ Samson crossed to the bar. ‘A coffee and a full English, please, Troy.’
Troy threw the tea towel over his shoulder, glared at Samson and strode off towards the kitchen, forgoing his usual lecture on the hateful habits of people who came in a pub and ordered anything but beer.
‘Reckon he’s missed you,’ quipped Seth, shaking hands with Samson and then leaning down to pet the dog.
‘Morning.’ Will Metcalfe nodded in Samson’s direction and then looked at Tolpuddle, jaw clenching. ‘How come he’s with you?’
Seth, too, was regarding Samson with a raised eyebrow and a definite twinkle in his eye, making the detective realise how it must seem – him walking into the bar at this hour on a Sunday morning with Delilah’s dog.
‘It’s not what you think,’ he stammered, Will still holding him fixed in his fierce gaze. ‘Honestly.’
Seth Thistlethwaite was grinning now, delighting in watching Samson squirm.
‘Why don’t you tel
l me how it is, then?’ growled Will, a strong hand grasping his pint. Trained as a boxer in his youth, Delilah’s oldest brother was reputed to have a lethal right hook. It was a claim Samson didn’t want to put to the test.
But at the same time, he didn’t think the truth was something Delilah would want him sharing with her overprotective brother.
‘I’m just looking after him,’ he said lamely.
Will stood up, placed his pint back on the counter. ‘I’m warning you, O’Brien. I don’t mess around where my sister is concerned.’
Samson glanced at the dog, who was sniffing the carpet, unperturbed, and then over at the office building across the road. Tolpuddle wouldn’t spill the beans, and Seth was the epitome of discretion. So as long as Will could be persuaded to stay quiet, Delilah need never know. But that was the problem. Will was an unknown quantity when it came to protecting his sister. When he heard why Neil Taylor was in town, could the oldest Metcalfe sibling be trusted not to go over and throttle the man?
It briefly crossed Samson’s mind that this would be a more certain solution to the custody problem than the one he was about to attempt.
‘Okay,’ he conceded, taking the risky decision to move closer to the brooding figure, but keeping Seth between them. ‘I’ll tell you why we’re here, but you both have to promise not to let on to Delilah that I told you.’
Puzzlement replacing belligerence, Will nodded, while Seth Thistlethwaite put a finger to his lips. Samson leaned in towards them.
Delilah was pacing the floor. Having confined herself to her office, hoping to use work as a distraction from what the day would bring, she was walking back and forth between the window and the open door, a worried frown on her forehead.
Date with Mystery Page 14