It was perfect. More of Ralph than of the farmer, which was no bad thing. Delilah checked the back of the frame and saw the sticker for a photographer she knew from the shows. She’d contact him for a digital copy. One without thumbprints on it.
‘Anything else?’ Clive Knowles asked.
‘This should do the trick.’ Delilah got to her feet, aware of her boots sticking to the floor.
‘Good, good,’ he muttered. He held out a hand, shaking hers furiously. ‘Thanks, lass,’ he said. ‘I reckon this might work.’
Finding the farmer’s sudden optimism heartbreaking, Delilah busied herself with slipping her Surface Pro back into her bag and waking up a reluctant Tolpuddle. For the reality was, no matter how clever her profile and no matter how her client tried to spruce himself up, there was no way any woman would be willing – or stupid enough – to marry Clive Knowles. Not when the hovel that was Mire End Farm was part of the package.
The car started first time. Shivering with the cold, Delilah cranked the heating up high, apologising to Tolpuddle on the back seat who was regarding her dolefully, no doubt wondering why he’d had to be ripped away from a blazing fire. She wasn’t sure herself. The snow was falling hard now, the tracks from her arrival already covered on the lane, drifts reaching almost to the top of the stone walls that edged the road.
It would be a trickier drive home.
Taking her time, Delilah eased the car back onto the track and turned it round, careful not to edge too far into the deeper banks of snow that lined the roadside.
‘Home soon,’ she promised the dog as she put the Micra into second gear and pulled away from Mire End Farm.
Soon wouldn’t be soon enough. The weather didn’t look good, black clouds overhead, the flanks of Pen-y-ghent obscured by the flakes falling thick and fast. The windscreen wipers were having trouble keeping up. And the narrow lane was getting even narrower.
Stupid! She was stupid for having come out in this. It was the kind of thing newcomers did, not realising the risks. It would have been far wiser to have told Clive Knowles she couldn’t make it, despite his threats, and then she wouldn’t be trying to drive through a blizzard in a vehicle not entirely suited to the conditions.
‘Home soon,’ she muttered again. Reassuring herself as much as the dog.
But when a rabbit ran out across the road ahead of her, a brown smudge of fur against an expanse of white, she knew it would be a while before she’d be going anywhere.
It was instinctive. Slamming on the brakes. In slow motion the car began to slew across the track, tyres struggling and slipping on the icy surface. It pirouetted full circle while skidding sideways towards a deep bank of snow. There was a muffled yelp from the back seat, a curse from the front, and a crumpling sound as the bonnet buried itself in the snowdrift.
‘You okay?’ Delilah was already checking the dog, who was adding indignant to his repertoire of expressions. She patted him, just to make sure, and he rewarded her with a lick on the hand.
He was fine. As was the miscreant who had caused the crash, the small rabbit skittering along the road in the distance.
More in hope than expectation, Delilah restarted the car and put it in reverse. The whine of a wheel spinning uselessly was her reward.
Unclipping her seat belt, she got out to survey the damage.
‘Damn!’ She thumped the roof of the car in exasperation. The Micra was stuck nose-first into a wall of white in the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by the bleached landscape, the silence wrapping itself around her, Delilah remembered the sharp crack of the air rifle the week before. She felt her skin prickling in concern.
20
‘How frustrating.’ Matty Thistlethwaite finished his coffee and placed the mug on Samson’s desk. ‘And there was I thinking this would be straightforward.’
Samson shrugged. ‘Sorry, but there’s not much more we can do. I’m going to set up a Facebook group to see if we can get in touch with friends of Livvy who have moved away. Perhaps that will yield something. But other than that, we really don’t have anything to go on.’
‘So Livvy Thornton has effectively become a missing person,’ Matty mused. ‘A missing person we suspect may have met a dreadful end. In which case, we need to think about formally notifying the police.’
‘You sound like Delilah,’ said Samson dryly. ‘She’s been pestering me to get the police involved. Personally, I don’t think they’ll have any more success than we have.’
‘You’re probably right. But we have an obligation to tell them if we suspect a crime may have been committed. And that’s what you’re suggesting, isn’t it?’
‘From the little we’ve uncovered, it does seem likely that Carl Thornton had something to do with Livvy’s death. But there’s no proof.’
‘And what about the letter warning you off? Any developments there?’ asked Matty.
‘Nothing new,’ said Samson, lying with practised ease, aware that the risk-averse solicitor would have him and Delilah off the case if he knew someone had taken shots at them. ‘Probably someone messing around. I’m not exactly Bruncliffe’s most popular person.’
Matty leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin in his characteristic manner as he thought about the unexpected mess that the Thornton case had become. ‘How curious. No death certificate. No record of burial or cremation. No newspaper reports,’ he murmured. ‘It makes you wonder . . .’
‘Why Mrs Thornton left Livvy in the will in the first place?’ Samson was nodding. ‘I’ve been thinking that. Did she do it deliberately, knowing we would uncover this mess?’
‘You mean that’s what she wanted?’
‘Why not? What other explanation is there for a mother bequeathing half her estate to her dead daughter.’
‘Half her estate and a shoebox,’ stated Matty.
‘What?’
‘Along with fifty per cent of her mother’s assets, Livvy inherits a shoebox and its contents.’
Samson stared at the solicitor. ‘Any particular shoebox?’
‘It’s explicitly stated in the will. One from Beryl’s Shoes in Skipton.’
‘Do you know what’s in it?’
‘According to Jimmy, some letters from Livvy, baby memorabilia, postcards from a penfriend . . . that kind of thing.’
‘You haven’t seen it yourself?’
Matty shook his head. ‘I mentioned it to Jimmy and he’s put it to one side. You think it might be important?’
‘Put it this way,’ said Samson, ‘Mrs Thornton had her own reasons for including Livvy in the settlement. So anything she stipulated in that document might be worth a look.’
‘You could be right,’ agreed Matty. ‘Give Jimmy a call and tell him I’ve authorised you to collect the box.’
‘Will do. And I’ll take Delilah with me,’ Samson added, thinking about the state they’d left the farmer in and that he might be more receptive if Delilah was there.
‘Good idea. In the meantime, I’ll have a word with Sergeant Clayton later this week. Tell him what we suspect and let him take it from there.’ Matty rose from his seat and pulled his coat on, looking out onto Back Street with a grimace. ‘It’s getting worse,’ he said, taking in the thick flakes of snow falling outside. ‘I’d leave it a day or two. No point going out in this if you don’t need to.’
‘Don’t worry,’ laughed Samson. ‘I’ve no desire to test my winter driving skills. Especially not on a Royal Enfield.’
Matty wound his scarf around his face, looking every bit like the infamous Turpin, as opposed to the staid solicitor of the same name whose business he’d taken over. ‘Let me know how you get on,’ he said as he headed for the door.
Samson stood on the doorstep watching the solicitor disappear into the awful weather. ‘Only idiots would go out in this,’ he muttered, shivering as he closed the door and hurried back into his office.
She was an idiot.
After fifteen minutes’ hard work trying to shovel out the fr
ont wheels of the car with no success, Delilah was hot, bothered and more than cross with herself. It wasn’t simply that she’d ventured out into bad weather in a small car. It was more the jittering nerves that had overwhelmed her in the short time she’d been stranded.
This was her countryside. The place she felt at home in. Safe in. Yet here she was casting apprehensive glances at the fellside above, scouring the landscape for the sign of a marksman, her stomach in knots.
It was daft, she admonished herself. Apart from the fact that no one other than Clive Knowles had known her itinerary for the day, who in their right mind would venture out in this weather on the off-chance of stumbling across her? Besides, Samson was right. He’d been the focus of the mystery letter writer’s wrath. She had nothing to worry about.
‘Bloody hell,’ she cursed, aiming a kick at one of the tyres that wouldn’t do anything more than spin and slip, digging the car even further into the snowdrift. Accepting defeat, she threw the shovel back in the boot and pulled her coat back on, trying not to think about the great target it made, a red flare of colour in the surrounding snow.
She was going to have to ask for help. And in doing so, she would have to admit to others just what an idiot she was. Reluctantly, she considered her options.
Not Will. Definitely not Will. He’d never let her out of his sight again if he knew. No point calling Ash, either, as the youngest of the Metcalfe lads was working over in Skipton, fitting kitchens for Procter Properties.
Her father? She looked at the thick snow falling around her. Did she really want to drag him out in this? Besides, calling her father would mean Will finding out for sure, as her father would need to use the Land Rover to pull her out.
And as for Samson? A week ago he’d have been top of her list. But now . . .
So who then? Clive Knowles? She shuddered. It was the only alternative. Better that than standing around out here twitching at shadows. She sighed, reaching into her coat pocket for her mobile. It started ringing before she even laid a finger on it, the sudden trilling in the eerie silence sending her heart scampering.
‘Samson?’ she said, answering the call with a burst of relief, a slight tremble in her voice.
‘Dee . . . is everything okay?’
She heard the old nickname, his instant concern, and she felt a rush of affection for this man who infuriated her.
‘Fine,’ she muttered, not willing to admit how vulnerable she was feeling.
There was a pause at the other end of the line and Delilah had to fight the urge to tell him. To blurt out how much she wanted him to come and fetch her.
‘I was calling to ask if you could come down to the office,’ he continued. ‘I need your help with something.’
She looked at Tolpuddle sitting in the car and then up to the heavens, wondering which deity was taunting her. ‘Sure,’ she said, finally grasping the lifebelt she’d been thrown. ‘But I could do with a bit of help myself first . . .’
Jimmy Thornton didn’t allow something like the weather to stop him. He was used to working in inclement conditions and had the vehicles to cope with it. So when he decided he’d had enough of the whole fiasco surrounding his mother’s will, he didn’t think twice. He got in the Land Rover and drove over to Rainsrigg, passing not a car on his journey.
Bruncliffe had gone into hibernation. Over a bit of snow. It was ridiculous.
At Quarry House, he cleared the path to the back door and then lit the range in the kitchen, trying to get a bit of warmth into the property as he set about completing the task he’d abandoned the week before. Dishes, glasses, tins of food and jars of home-made jam. He boxed the lot, leaving the cupboards bare. When he was finished he moved upstairs, bagging and boxing what was left in the bedrooms after his initial attempt to clear them a full two weeks ago.
A fortnight. How had it taken that long? And still the issue of the will wasn’t resolved. Burning with resentment at the insinuations Samson O’Brien had made about his father and frustrated at his mother for leaving such a mess behind, he worked like fury. Before long, the hallway was lined with stacks of boxes and Jimmy Thornton felt he was finally getting somewhere.
He’d take it to Age Concern tomorrow – Matty Thistlethwaite be damned! It was time to move on.
Heading back into the kitchen, he noticed the falling snow, the heaviness of it. That’s when his eyes fell on the spade, outlined in white. He’d left it there when he’d gone to dig up the rhubarb the week before.
Berating himself for treating the tool so neglectfully, he pulled on his boots and coat and slipped out into the quiet of the garden. It was beautiful. The rock face that normally scowled down on the house had been transformed into a soft backdrop filled with ripples and patterns where the wind had blown the snow. Beneath it, the bare earth of the vegetable patch had been merged with the path and the old barn had lost some of its menace, the scene more like the innocent interior of a snow globe than a place filled with sorrow. And death.
Perhaps even worse, if Samson’s beliefs were to be trusted.
Was there any credence in them? Jimmy had been tormenting himself with that question all week, ever since Samson and Delilah had called in and dropped their bombshell.
None of it made sense. Not just the lack of documentation for Livvy’s death, but also what had happened at the time of her accident. He’d never thought about it until now, when, confronted by the brutal facts, he’d had no option but to reassess his childhood; to view his parents in a different light.
The funeral. Why hadn’t he been allowed to go? And why would his mother have claimed Livvy was cremated in Leeds if that hadn’t been the case? Where had she been cremated? He remembered the ashes, brought home in an urn by his mother, who had scattered them in Hawber Woods amongst the wildflowers Livvy and Red had loved walking through. Mother had taken Jimmy with her, his hand clasped in hers, the urn held tight against her chest as they walked up the hill into the trees. They’d stood on a carpet of fading bluebells, the smell of wild garlic scenting the air, and Mother had solemnly opened the urn and let the ashes be taken by the wind. Father had been at work.
But now Samson was telling him that Mother had lied. About the cremation. Had she lied about the accident, too? Was the truth behind Livvy’s death a lot more sinister?
A burn of anger and frustration caught at Jimmy’s chest. Bloody family. So dysfunctional. He strode across to the upright spade and pulled it from the ground, the shock of dark soil on its blade a contrast to the snow. He thrust it back into the earth, feeling a release in the physical effort. Damn his parents! And damn Mother’s precious rhubarb.
Another shove. Another levering of soil. The earth beginning to yield, the snow falling from the dying plant, the crown exposed.
Damn all of them. Samson. Matty. Every bloody last one of them!
Another plunge of the spade. More soil lifted up, his anger fuelling each furious strike. No thought of the rhubarb now, the plant tipped to one side by the frenzied digging. Jimmy Thornton was only aware he was crying when he felt the tears on his cheeks. And when he had to blink to focus on the hole he’d created.
What was that? Something in the soil.
He crouched down for a better look, hand still on the spade, and saw a black bin bag. Ripped open by the sharp edge of the shovel. A piece of fabric was sticking out of the jagged edges. Fabric he recognised. And protruding from it was what looked like . . .
Horror propelled him back onto the path, scrabbling crablike away, the spade falling over into the snow.
While Delilah was sitting in the car, engine running and heater on, anxiously awaiting rescue, Samson had been on the phone arranging suitable transport. As time ticked by and Delilah got out of the car, stomping up and down in the snow to keep the blood flowing to her feet and her nerves at bay, Samson was being driven out of town towards Horton. Fifteen minutes later, her annoyance at feeling so helpless having brewed into a temper, Delilah heard the sound of an engine coming along the lane
.
Visibility was poor so it was a while before she could make it out. A grey tractor. Small. No cab.
A Ferguson TE20, affectionately known as a Little Grey Fergie, owned and lovingly restored by George Capstick, who was steering the vehicle through the snow with a broad grin on his face. Standing behind him was Samson O’Brien.
‘Hello!’ Samson called out, waving at her as if she wouldn’t see them. As if arriving on a bloody vintage tractor made them invisible. ‘Are you the damsel in distress?’ he enquired with a laugh as the tractor pulled up and he jumped down into the snow. He had the sense to stand well back as he asked it.
‘Not exactly subtle,’ she muttered, glaring at the vehicle and knowing that the entire town would now be aware of the rescue mission, the arrival of the Ferguson in Bruncliffe to collect Samson not being something people would miss. Whatever the conditions. Consequently it wouldn’t be long before everyone knew about her stupidity, too.
‘It’s not the weather for subtle,’ Samson replied, as George started attaching the tow rope to the Micra and Tolpuddle deigned to emerge from the car, greeting their rescuers with far more cheer than Delilah had. ‘It was either this or ask Will.’
Delilah folded her arms, conscious that she was being churlish but smarting at having had to ask for help. Smarting at having everyone know she’d ventured out ill-equipped. And awkward at facing Samson properly for the first time since their argument.
‘Besides,’ added Samson with a lopsided grin, showing no signs of being ill at ease in her company, ‘I had George pick me up at Hardacre’s farm. Is that discreet enough?’
Hardacre’s farm. On the Horton Road. Samson had walked across town to ensure that George Capstick hadn’t needed to drive through the marketplace and attract attention.
‘Thanks,’ muttered Delilah.
‘You’re welcome,’ said Samson. ‘Are we ready, George?’
‘Twenty-horsepower Standard wet liner in-line four-engine more than ready,’ George replied, hands on his hips and beaming with pride.
It didn’t take long for the Little Grey to extract the Micra from the snow, with George steering the tractor, Delilah behind the wheel of the car and Samson standing well back, a hand on Tolpuddle’s collar.
Date with Mystery Page 24