Neil Taylor would be arriving in an hour and a half. Her ex-husband. She hadn’t seen him properly – apart from fleeting glimpses around town on the odd occasion when he was back visiting family – since he’d fled two years ago, worried about the legendary wrath of Will Metcalfe. He’d been right, too. Will had been livid when he’d found out about Neil’s infidelity. From all accounts, her overprotective brother had been in the Fleece when Rick Procter had told him. How the hell Rick had found out, Delilah didn’t know. But perhaps it was just as well it had been Rick who was the messenger, as anyone else would have struggled to hold Will back as he went charging for the door, intent on finding Neil. As it was, Rick had needed the assistance of Harry Furness, the livestock auctioneer, to restrain her brother and talk some sense into him.
That Will had been the one to break the news to Delilah had only added to her mortification at having been duped a second time by her cheating husband. Wisely, with two enraged Metcalfes on the warpath, Neil had left for London with Abbie, his new woman. Girl. Not woman. The slip of a thing had barely been out of her teens.
And very shortly the pair of them would be waltzing in here and demanding Tolpuddle.
Delilah’s throat constricted at the thought. She wasn’t ready to face them. She certainly wasn’t ready to lose Tolpuddle.
A quick check of her watch told her she still had an hour and a quarter left to wait. That was a lot of time to fill with pacing.
She forced herself to sit at her desk. Clive Knowles. If finding him a wife couldn’t distract her, nothing would. Clicking open the profile for the lonely farmer that she’d begun compiling, she skimmed through the text, making a few changes. Nothing significant. Nothing that would yield success.
Five minutes later she was back on her feet, wearing a track across the floor. There was nothing that could take her mind off the magnitude of what lay ahead. Nothing that could reassure her that Samson’s plan – whatever it was – would work.
‘Will it work?’ asked Seth, casting a sceptical glance at Tolpuddle after hearing the detective outline his idea to keep the dog in Bruncliffe.
‘It’s all I’ve got,’ said Samson. He shrugged. ‘It’s not like we have a lot of options open to us.’
‘We could kill that peacock Taylor,’ muttered Will, a murderous look in his eyes.
Samson didn’t dare ask if the suggestion was a serious one. ‘Legal options,’ he added for clarification.
Will grunted and took a swig of his beer, leaving Samson to eat some of his breakfast, which had arrived and which Tolpuddle was watching avidly with a keen expression of hope, tracking every movement of Samson’s knife and fork as sausage, bacon and egg passed from plate to mouth.
‘But will it work?’ demanded Seth a second time. He’d been as shocked as Will to hear that Tolpuddle’s life in Bruncliffe was under threat and astounded to learn that Neil Taylor was the cause of it.
‘We’ll know in an hour or so.’
‘Is that when the Taylor runt is arriving?’ asked Will, shaking his head. ‘His father should be ashamed of him.’
Seth snorted at the mention of Bruncliffe’s mayor. ‘I doubt our esteemed leader would care one way or another. That man is only bothered about lining his own pockets. It’s no wonder his son is a waste of space. Poor old Delilah getting mixed up with that one.’ He shook his head in dismay. ‘I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen.’
‘That’s Delilah,’ said Will with exasperation. ‘Stubborn as hell. The more she was warned about that bloody idiot, the more she mooned over him. She won’t take telling.’
Samson felt a sudden sympathy for the youngest of the Metcalfe brood. It was bad enough growing up in Bruncliffe, where everyone considered themselves your extended family, without having five older brothers watching your every move as well. There was something to be said for being an only child, after all.
‘Anyway,’ said Will, finishing off his pint and signalling Troy Murgatroyd to fetch him another, ‘I’ll be in here for a while yet, waiting for the kids to finish at football practice. So if your plan doesn’t work out, give me a shout and I’ll come over and make Neil Taylor change his mind.’
‘I’m sure it won’t come to that,’ said Samson, relieved for once not to be the one in Will Metcalfe’s crosshairs.
‘But thanks.’
Will grunted, the closest he had come to approval of the black sheep of Bruncliffe. ‘Thanks are due to you, I reckon.’
‘Seems like a lot of Bruncliffe have been thanking you lately, young man,’ said Seth with fatherly pride. ‘Heard you’re working to help Jimmy Thornton out of a spot of bother.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ protested Samson.
‘Is it true then? Mrs Thornton listed Livvy as an heir?’ asked Will.
Samson nodded, knowing he was giving nothing away that wasn’t already common knowledge.
‘Why on earth would she do that?’
‘Search me. Perhaps she wanted to acknowledge her daughter. But to be honest, that’s not what I’m focusing on,’ said Samson, deliberately neglecting to mention that Delilah was on the case with him. He didn’t need to give Will a fresh reason to get het up – and considering the way the last two cases Delilah had been involved in had ended, her brother had ample reason to be worried. Even more so if he got wind of the threatening letter that had landed at the Dales Detective Agency. ‘I’m only bothered about finding a death certificate for Livvy,’ he said.
Both men stared at him.
‘There’s no death certificate?’ Seth asked.
‘None that’s surfaced so far.’
‘Bizarre,’ muttered Will. ‘Perhaps it’s just lost after all this time?’
‘It’s not that simple.’ The detective finished his breakfast, offered a grateful Tolpuddle the last piece of sausage and pushed the plate aside. ‘Did you know Livvy well at school?’
‘Not as well as I’d have liked,’ admitted Will with a sad smile. ‘She was something special, was Livvy.’
‘I hear Oscar Hardacre had a soft spot for her.’
Will laughed. ‘Him and every other lad in town. We were all besotted with her. Even though we knew we didn’t stand a chance.’
‘So Oscar never went out with her?’
‘No way.’
‘Do you have much to do with him nowadays?’ asked Samson, knowing how tightly knit the farming community was.
‘A bit. We catch up at auctions and the like. Why? What’s Oscar got to do with any of this?’
Samson shrugged. ‘I just wondered if he talked about her at all.’
Will shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard him mention Livvy Thornton. Not since she left town. But then I haven’t heard anyone talk about her in years. Not until you started going around asking questions.’
‘Not even Jimmy? He doesn’t speak of her?’
‘Not to my knowledge. Although I’ve always wondered if that’s why he left his job at the Hardacre place so suddenly.’
Samson kept his sudden interest hidden behind a casual lift of an eyebrow. ‘What do you mean?’
‘There was bad blood between him and Oscar. Ever since Jimmy was young. Oscar used to tease him. Pick on him, you know? So when Tom began handing over the reins of the farm to Oscar, Jimmy quit.’ Will took a sip of his pint before continuing. ‘I don’t know the cause, but I’ve always thought it was connected to Livvy somehow.’
‘What about Livvy’s home life?’ asked Samson, making the most of this outburst of conversation from the normally taciturn Will Metcalfe. ‘Did you know anything about that?’
‘Nothing more than the usual. I knew her parents to see around town, but they didn’t mix too much. They were offcumden,’ Will added, using the term as a statement of fact rather than an insult. Although Samson suspected the insult was intrinsic whenever the expression was applied. ‘Mrs Thornton seemed nice enough. I hear he had a bit of a temper, though.’
Seth was nodding. ‘You heard right. Carl Thornton
was a mean-spirited bugger. Wasn’t he, Troy?’
The landlord looked over from the far end of the bar. ‘Wasn’t who what?’
‘Carl Thornton. What do you remember of him?’
Troy Murgatroyd’s face darkened as he walked towards them. ‘Bad lot, that one,’ he muttered. ‘I wouldn’t wish anyone dead, but there was no sadness in here the night he passed.’
‘Was he a troublesome customer?’ asked Samson.
‘Aye, and some. Couldn’t set foot in the place but he had to try and start a fight. Many’s the time I watched Father chuck him out. And there weren’t many folk Father would turn away if it meant making a bob or two.’
‘Was Carl Thornton violent at home, too?’
‘I never heard directly. But after all my years working behind this bar, I’ve yet to meet a man who doesn’t show his true nature after a sup or two. And Carl Thornton’s nature wasn’t a pretty one.’
‘True enough,’ vouched Seth. ‘There was never anything said in the open about what went on up at that quarry cottage, but given how the man behaved down here . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Draw your own conclusions.’
‘You think this has something to do with your case?’ asked Will, his steady gaze on Samson.
‘Not necessarily. Just trying to see the whole picture. The more I know, the easier it’ll be to solve this mystery.’
‘Huh!’ grouched Troy, staring pointedly at the empty plate and the empty cup in front of the detective. ‘I’d like to solve the mystery of how people expect this place to stay open when they sit over a bloody coffee for an hour or more.’
Samson laughed, glanced at the clock behind the bar and nodded towards the beer taps in front of the landlord. ‘Another coffee, in that case, Troy. And a half of Black Sheep while you’re at it.’
Troy’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. Samson had never ordered an alcoholic beverage in the pub. Never been known to drink anything stronger than tea and coffee in fact. ‘Black Sheep?’ he questioned.
Samson nodded while Seth and Will grinned.
‘You sure? Won’t go to your head, you being teetotal and all that?’
‘Just pour the man a drink,’ said Will, ‘before he changes his mind. He’s in need of a bit of Dutch courage.’
With great ceremony, Troy placed the glass of amber liquid in front of Samson and held out a meaty hand.
‘No discount for first-timers?’ asked Samson with a smile as the landlord’s fingers curled over the money. Troy glared at him and strode off to get the coffee.
‘Is it time, then?’ asked Will.
Samson nodded. Time to put Operation Save Tolpuddle into action.
‘Let’s hope it works,’ murmured Seth.
Samson silently echoed his entreaty. The next couple of hours would decide the fate of the grey shadow lying on the floor at his feet. If it went wrong, would Delilah ever forgive him?
Delilah heard the car pull up outside. From the kitchen window she saw a silver BMW convertible parking at the kerb. Typical. Neil still as flash as ever, but with more money now. His father’s money, no doubt.
Running her hand over her hair, she fought the urge to nip upstairs to the bathroom to check how she looked. Despising herself for it, she’d changed out of her usual attire of jeans and a jumper and instead was wearing a russet woollen dress with black boots. She was fully aware that she was using the form-clinging outfit as a substitute for armour. With an impatient toss of her head, she pulled her shoulders back and headed down to the hallway, where the doorbell was already pealing.
She was ready for them. She only hoped Samson and Tolpuddle were, too.
Through the pub window the occupants of the Fleece watched Neil Taylor get out of the car.
‘Bloody hell,’ muttered Samson, taking in the razor-sharp cheekbones, the mop of tawny hair flopping across the forehead and the effortless grace of the man he’d last seen as a scrawny youth. ‘When did young Taylor turn into a Greek god?’
‘Good looks are skin-deep,’ growled Will, fists clenched on his lap.
‘And easily achieved on his father’s money,’ added Seth.
Neil had crossed to the pavement and was now holding open the passenger door, proffering a hand to his companion.
‘A real gent,’ snarled Will as a pale arm emerged from inside the BMW, delicate fingers latching onto Neil’s hand.
She rose silkily from the car, a vision in a bright-red knee-length coat, the hood pulled up around a beautiful face framed with jet-black hair. Red Riding Hood in downtown Bruncliffe. In a pair of boots that even had Seth shuffling closer to the window for a better view.
‘Wow!’ murmured Samson.
‘Indeed,’ said Will. ‘Still, she wouldn’t last a second in the ring with Delilah. Jaw like glass, that one.’
Samson laughed, slapping Will on the back at his brotherly pride. ‘Right, Tolpuddle,’ he said, the dog stirring himself at the rattle of his lead. ‘Showtime.’
Tolpuddle stretched, yawned, gave a last sniff of the carpet and looked up at Samson.
‘Good luck,’ said Will, reaching down to pat the dog. ‘Make sure you keep him with us. He’s bloody useless as a farm dog but our Delilah would be lost without him.’
With a stirring of nerves, Samson followed the nonchalant dog out of the pub and across the road.
13
She’d done exactly as Samson had requested. With the thermostat set high all morning, Samson’s office was uncomfortably warm as Delilah led Neil and Abbie across the hall and into the room, gesturing for them to take a seat and closing the door behind her.
‘I like what you’ve done with the place,’ said Neil with a wide smile, ignoring the invitation to sit as he strode across to the window, hands in his pockets. He was taking in the red-flocked wallpaper, the same old coffee-stained desk, the lino peeling up in the corners and the battered metal chairs that had been there when they bought the building together. ‘Still not had the decorators in?’
Delilah forced a smile. Having graduated in graphic design, Neil had always been concerned with appearances. When they’d set up the website company, he’d insisted that the more pragmatic aspects of running the business be left to her, as though it was beneath him to concentrate on something so prosaic. And they’d had many an argument over his desire to spend money they couldn’t afford on refurbishing the offices.
Memories crowding her, Delilah bit back a retort. Don’t antagonise them. That’s what Samson had told her before he left. On no account make them annoyed.
Easier said than done when Abbie, also a designer, was sitting on the very edge of a chair, as though the seat itself might be infectious, wide eyes scanning the room. If the office was scruffy and unkempt, the same couldn’t be said of her. With her hood pushed back, her ebony hair was splayed out over the red of her coat, making a dramatic contrast with her ivory skin and giving her an ethereal beauty. And below the hem of the coat a pair of killer boots extended, ending in sharp heels. She looked immaculate, everything about her was stylish, making Delilah feel decidedly second-rate in her russet dress.
‘How are things?’ Neil was asking.
Delilah shifted her gaze, letting herself really look at him for the first time. He’d put on a bit of weight. But those cheekbones remained magnificent, giving him Hollywood features, his hair slightly longer on top than when they’d been together. He still had the charm too, the way he was regarding her now, brown eyes focused on her as though she was the only person in the room.
‘Things are fine,’ muttered Delilah, a prickle of perspiration forming at the back of her neck. Bloody stupid woollen dress and the heating cranked up high. ‘You?’
‘Great. I’m working for a dynamic company that’s really going places, and Abbie has almost completed her Masters.’ Abbie smiled sweetly up at him, hands folded neatly in her lap. The perfect girlfriend. ‘We’re planning on setting up our own design business when she’s finished.’
Combined with the heat and her nerves
, it was enough to untether Delilah’s self-control.
‘Let’s hope you don’t run out on this one,’ she snapped.
Neil laughed. ‘Still as feisty as ever, eh, Dee?’
‘Delilah,’ she said pointedly, hating the sound of the nickname Ryan had bestowed on her in childhood coming from her ex-husband’s mouth. Only family – and Samson – got to call her Dee.
Smile undimmed, Neil dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘Fair enough. How are the businesses doing?’
‘Great. Going from strength to strength.’
‘I hear you have a new tenant.’ A cocked eyebrow accompanied the comment. Clearly moving away from his home town hadn’t softened Neil’s judgement of Bruncliffe’s black sheep. ‘I’m surprised you took O’Brien in. After everything.’
‘Everyone deserves a second chance,’ Delilah retorted, chin tilting in defiance. ‘God knows, I gave you enough of them.’
There was a beat of silence, during which Delilah caught herself wishing Samson would walk in the door and save the situation she seemed so intent on spoiling. But then Neil raised his hands in surrender, a grin on his handsome face.
‘Touché,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten how much fun it was to spar with you.’
A delicate cough from Abbie and a glitter of blue eyes as she looked from Neil to her watch, a perfectly varnished nail tapping it gently.
‘Yes, time is pushing on,’ said Neil. ‘We don’t want to put you out any longer. If Tolpuddle’s here . . . ? Abbie can’t wait to meet him.’
‘It’s so true,’ said Abbie with a smile, her gaze turning coy. ‘I’ve been pestering Neil for a pooch for ages, and when he told me about Tolpuddle – he just sounds perfect.’
Perfect. Delilah thought of all the other adjectives she’d use to describe the Weimaraner and a hard lump formed in her throat. Her desire to have Samson there was replaced with a fierce hope that he’d absconded with her dog in tow. ‘Erm . . . he’s—’
‘Afternoon, all!’ The office door opened and in walked her tenant, dark hair curling on his broad shoulders, his new jacket giving him a roguish air, and a sleepy-looking Tolpuddle by his side.
Date with Mystery Page 15