As a veteran of the lambing season, Delilah was impressed. It was like a hospital. Clean. Organised. Even Will Metcalfe, the most conscientious farmer she knew, would have approved; Oscar Hardacre knew how to look after his sheep. He even had bags of Maltesers and liquorice allsorts on a shelf for those shifts in the wee hours when instant sugar was needed.
But she didn’t linger to admire the farmer’s set-up. Instead, leaving the dirty bottles by the sink, she moved across the room to the door at the back and turned the handle.
It was unlocked. The door swung open and, out of sight of the barn, Delilah entered the farmhouse.
By nine-thirty Samson was walking back down High Street. The meeting had gone well, despite Delilah leaving him in the lurch, and he’d drawn up a detailed security plan which the social club had accepted, asking him to oversee the installation of the system the following month. The Dales Detective Agency had a new client.
That the investigation into his alleged gross misconduct might well be under way by then and his position in Bruncliffe tenuous, to say the least, Samson hadn’t made public to the club’s management. He was living each day as it came, on a constant knife-edge of expectation that the lid was about to be blown off his past.
Delilah’s erratic behaviour of late wasn’t helping. If Rick Procter was privy to Samson’s looming trouble, he hadn’t told her. Not judging by her demeanour over the last couple of days. Since the snowball fight at Horton, she’d been her old self. Less distant. Apart from her odd disappearances. Like now.
He took out his mobile. Should he call her? He had every right to, given that she’d cancelled their appointment and he knew she was lying about the reason. But what if she was with Rick?
He ducked into the doorway of the bakery once again, phone in hand.
A few minutes of frantic searching in the Hardacres’ kitchen, which had felt more like a year with her heart galloping and her palms sweating, and Delilah had found nothing. She’d opened cupboards, peeked into drawers and even rifled through a wallet lying on the table by a vase of daffodils. Not that she knew what to look for. A pair of scissors and a pot of glue next to some writing paper perhaps? Or a picture of Samson with a target drawn on his chest?
It had been a stupid idea. And she’d been gone long enough for Oscar to be wondering where she was. Plus she didn’t think her nerves could take any more. It was time to make up the milk bottles and return to the barn.
She turned towards the door that led to the lean-to and in her haste, kicked a plastic container on the floor by the bin, sending it flying.
‘Damn!’ she muttered, scrabbling to pick up the papers and magazines that had come tumbling out. She was stuffing them back in the recycling bin when her hand froze.
On the slate tiles in front of her was January’s edition of the Dalesman, a snowscape of white stone walls and rolling fields on the cover. Stretched over the top was the magazine’s masthead, in vibrant yellow.
She stared at it, thinking of the jagged characters that had formed the second threat. Fingers trembling, she took out her mobile, flicking through her photos to find one of the anonymous letter. There.
She zoomed in and held it against the magazine. The ‘a’ of ‘Dalesman’. It was identical to the ‘a’ of ‘alone’. And the yellow ‘s’ matched the final two letters of ‘miss’.
The letter writer had used the Dalesman to help form the threats. And Oscar Hardacre, chief suspect, had access to a ready supply of the magazine.
A quick glance out of the window showed an empty yard. No sign of Tom and Annie coming back from the market. No sign of their son.
Delilah rifled back through the papers and magazines she had just replaced, pulling out copies of the Craven Herald and several editions of Yorkshire Life, until she came to the compact form of another Dalesman.
December. Masthead in bright red, with snow decorating the tops of the letters. None missing.
She carried on, aware of the clock on the wall ticking in the silence. Aware that the sands of her luck were slipping out, grain by grain. It had to be here . . .
There. Caught up inside a Farmers Weekly. February’s edition of the Dalesman. Yellow masthead.
It was minus a letter.
A very neat hand had cut out the letter ‘a’.
Heart truly thumping now, she flicked through the magazine. It was intact. Apart from that gap on the front. She looked at the masthead again. It was definitely the same. Was it proof? Enough to pin the blame—?
A door banging. In the lean-to.
Panicked, Delilah thrust the magazines in the bin, shoved it back into place and was heading for the kitchen door when she heard footsteps in the hallway beyond. It was too late. She was trapped.
She spun round, reached for the kettle and, when the door slammed open, forced herself to breathe calmly.
‘What the hell are you up to in here?’ growled Oscar Hardacre, blocking the doorway, face dark with suspicion.
‘Cup of tea?’ asked Delilah, turning towards him as she filled the kettle, sweet smile in place.
It took all of her effort to maintain it. Oscar Hardacre was holding an air rifle.
Voicemail. She must have her mobile turned off.
Samson shoved his phone back in his pocket. Where was she? First thing on a Thursday morning wasn’t exactly a time for romance. Especially as Rick Procter was a busy man. Surely she couldn’t be with him.
Forgetting his promise to treat himself, Samson turned from the bakery window to walk up the lane to Back Street. Perhaps he’d been too cavalier with those threatening letters? Dismissed them too easily? If whoever was behind them was desperate enough to break into Quarry House, then maybe they’d resort to other means to prevent the past from being uncovered.
Which would mean anyone investigating the Thornton case could still be in danger. Delilah included.
Where the heck was she?
With a growing sense of unease, Samson emerged onto Back Street, the office building opposite. When he saw PC Danny Bradley standing on the doorstep looking grave, he started to run.
‘I don’t have time for tea,’ muttered Oscar, laying the gun on the table. Delilah tore her eyes away from it, her smile rigid.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I suppose not.’ She made a show of checking her smartwatch for the time, felt her throat constrict to see a missed call from Samson. She could do with him here. Now. ‘Goodness,’ she said breezily. ‘I really had better get on.’
She moved towards the doorway, Oscar still between her and the only exit.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he growled, stepping in front of her. A large hand grabbing her upper arm, fingers digging in through her coat.
She froze. Thought of all the things she could have been doing this morning instead of putting herself in danger. Then Oscar was reaching towards the table. Towards the gun.
Fear soured her throat. She glanced out of the window, hoping to see a car turning in. Nothing.
‘Here,’ he said roughly, shaking her arm. ‘Take it.’
She turned back to see he’d grabbed the wallet lying next to the weapon and was holding out a twenty-pound note.
‘Put me down for that bloody date night.’
‘Will do,’ said Delilah weakly.
She took the money with trembling fingers and left, her feet moving quickly across the snow-streaked yard. Collapsing into the driver’s seat of the Micra, she turned on the engine, shoved the car into gear, and pulled away. It was only when she was some distance from the Hardacre farm that she reached up under her coat and pulled out a copy of the Dalesman – the February edition with its yellow masthead.
Her foolish gamble had been worth it after all.
‘It’s human blood,’ Danny Bradley announced, sitting at Samson’s desk.
‘They’re sure of that?’ asked Samson. He’d ushered the constable into the office, half-expecting to hear some dreadful news about Delilah. So Danny’s revelation about the stained T-shirt they’d fou
nd with Red’s bones was met with some relief.
Danny nodded. ‘Definite. It’ll take a while longer to know if it’s Livvy’s or not. But it’s looking likely, given that it was found on her clothing.’
‘So what now?’
‘Sarge has been pushing for a more detailed search of the grounds up at Rainsrigg, on the basis that Livvy Thornton is effectively a missing person. Now we know it was blood on the T-shirt, there’s more chance of that happening.’
‘Poor Jimmy,’ Samson murmured. ‘What a thing to have to go through.’
‘At least he’ll get closure this way,’ said Danny. ‘He’ll find out one way or the other what happened to his sister.’
One way or the other . . . This case which had started out as a search for a piece of paper had taken a macabre twist. One Samson wasn’t enjoying.
‘So given these developments,’ continued Danny with an apologetic look and a gesture towards the desk where the shoebox with its puzzling contents was on display, ‘perhaps that ought to find its way back to Quarry House.’
‘Consider it done. I’ll drop it up today,’ promised Samson.
‘How will you sneak it back in?’
Samson laughed. ‘I’ll think of something.’
‘Did you get anywhere with any of it?’ Danny had picked up the Mother’s Day card and was reading the inside.
‘Nowhere,’ muttered Samson. ‘If Mrs Thornton was leaving us clues, they’re beyond my grasp. I’ve been looking at this lot for hours and still haven’t found anything to link it all together.’
‘Maybe it’s not all meant to be linked.’
‘How do you mean?’
Danny shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps some of this is just . . . camouflage.’ He put the handmade card back in the shoebox and then looked at Samson. ‘I mean, Mrs Thornton kept this whole mess a secret for more than twenty years. She was hardly likely to gather together a bunch of objects which would make that deception obvious straight away.’
‘So you think she put some red herrings in here,’ mused Samson. ‘You could be right. Trouble is, how do we know which is a clue and which is merely a smokescreen?’
Danny scratched his head under his helmet, gave a bemused laugh and got to his feet. ‘Think I’ll stick to formal police work,’ he said with a grin. ‘I’ll keep you posted if there are any updates.’
Samson walked him out and was just closing the front door when the back door slammed and Delilah came rushing round the corner from the downstairs kitchen, face flushed, eyes wide.
‘Samson! I think we’ve got him!’ she exclaimed. In her hand she was brandishing a copy of the Dalesman, a glaring void in the masthead across the top.
Delilah Metcalfe definitely hadn’t been to the vet’s.
26
‘You could have been killed!’
‘You sound just like my brothers. And that’s not a compliment.’ Delilah glared at Samson across his desk, hands on her hips in defiance. ‘You could at least acknowledge I did well.’
Samson sighed, collapsed onto his chair and stared at the magazine on the table. There was no arguing with her. And he had to admit, she had done well. Getting inside the Hardacre household without arousing suspicion. Having the presence of mind to stick the magazine up her jumper when Oscar caught her in the kitchen. And the calmness not to give the game away when he arrived with the gun.
Even so, the thought of what could have happened chilled Samson to the bone.
‘Good work,’ he said grudgingly.
She grinned at him, her anger dissolving in the face of his reluctant praise. ‘And you haven’t heard the best bit,’ she said, brandishing a crisp twenty-pound note as she sat down opposite. ‘I even got him to sign up for the next Speedy Date night.’
Samson burst out laughing despite himself. ‘That really is good work. And you’re saying Oscar had no idea why you were really there?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘Did you get any sense of a motive when you were talking to him?’
She shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t talk about Livvy. Closed the conversation down straight away when I broached it, and I didn’t dare ask again. Especially not once he introduced a gun into the equation.’
‘So we still don’t know why he’s doing this. If it’s him.’
‘It’s got to be him!’ Delilah leaned over the desk and tapped the copy of the Dalesman she’d brought back. ‘How else do you explain this? Oscar Hardacre is our mystery person.’
‘One magazine,’ said Samson. ‘You only found one with missing letters.’
‘Only because I didn’t have time to search the rest properly.’
Samson stared at the gap-toothed title. She was right. The font from the magazine was an exact match for some of the characters in the threatening letters. But something was still niggling at him.
Why? The same old question. What reason did Oscar Hardacre have for keeping Livvy’s death a secret?
‘You don’t believe it, do you?’ Delilah was staring at him in disbelief.
‘Alibi,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s establish whether Oscar was with anyone two nights ago when Danny disturbed the intruder. Or even last night.’
‘Last night? What happened last night?’
‘Quarry House was broken into.’
‘You’re joking! Was anything taken?’
Samson shook his head. ‘No on both counts.’
Already Delilah was looking at the shoebox on his desk, quick on the uptake. ‘Do you think that’s what they were after?’
‘It makes sense. As much of any of this does. Could it have been Oscar?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s lambing time. Oscar’s doing most of the work, which means long stretches out in the barn overnight. He could easily have nipped up to Rainsrigg and back without being seen.’
Oscar Hardacre. He had the history – obsessed with Livvy. He had the gun and the skill to use it. And now they knew he had access to the materials used in the anonymous letters. Samson was willing to bet that if they could pressure him into talking by threatening to go to the police, his motive would soon become clear. And the Thornton case might be solved at last.
‘Although, hang on a minute . . .’ Delilah was leaning forward in her chair, frowning. ‘Oscar mentioned something about having trouble with a ewe . . .’ She stared at the lino, trying to remember what she’d heard the farmer say through the fog of her fear. Then she groaned. ‘Bugger!’
‘What?’
‘Herriot was with him last night,’ she said, referring to James Ellison, the town’s vet – otherwise known as Herriot, for obvious reasons.
‘What time?’
‘Oscar didn’t say. He just muttered something about being up all night with a yow even Herriot couldn’t save.’
Samson already had his mobile in his hand, calling the vet. He heard it ring several times and then the automated tones of voicemail. He left a brief message asking Herriot to call either himself or Delilah, and hung up.
‘He’ll be busy,’ said Delilah with frustration. ‘It’s that time of year.’
‘We’ll just have to wait,’ said Samson, standing up and putting his jacket on. ‘We can’t go accusing someone if there’s a chance they’re innocent. In the meantime, call in on Danny at the station and see if they have a rough idea what time the break-in happened. It could help establish one way or the other whether Oscar is indeed our man.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she quipped, pulling a mock salute. ‘Anything else?’
‘Tolpuddle. I reckon he’s probably had enough of Dad’s company by now.’ Samson was pleased to see the surprise on her face.
‘How did you—?’
‘Delilah, this is Bruncliffe! Of course I know.’
She laughed. ‘And you? Where are you off to?’
Samson was reaching for the shoebox. ‘I’ve got to sneak this back into Quarry House without being noticed.’ He grinned at her. ‘Are you volunteering to help?’
Her look of response
was pure Metcalfe.
It was a sudden decision. The type that often turned a case on its head.
Preoccupied with the prospect of Oscar Hardacre being behind the attempts to stop the investigation, Samson had set off for Rainsrigg on the Royal Enfield. The thought of confronting the farmer didn’t worry him. What did concern him was Delilah Metcalfe and her attempts to go undercover. Until they could establish the veracity of Oscar’s alibi, Samson wasn’t willing to underestimate the man. Or the possibility that Delilah hadn’t been as covert as she thought. Given how poorly she told lies, Samson was afraid that Oscar could have seen through her ruse. In which case, she’d placed herself in danger.
He should have told her, warned her to stay safe. But Samson knew that if he said anything she would dig her heels in and refuse to hide away. So instead he’d tried to steer her into company. Danny’s. His father’s. And he’d tried to make sure that faithful Tolpuddle was back by her side.
It was all he could do until they knew one way or the other.
With concern gnawing at him, when he reached the turn-off for Rainsrigg he made the snap decision to ride straight on.
Over Gunnerstang Brow and down the other side, he turned right at the main road, following the curve of tarmac around fields before taking a left, back on narrow lanes. Past farms and stone walls and sheep. Always sheep. Finally, at a remote crossroads, he turned towards the dark mass of Bowland Knotts.
The land soon changed as he climbed higher up the moor, the patches visible where the snow had melted no longer the softer green of the lower pastures but harsher, browner. It was a lonely place in human terms, isolated houses hidden from the road, the occasional track signifying their presence. Compared to the quarry, however, it was paradise.
Spotting a rough track up ahead, Samson swung the bike off the road and was soon dropping down to a farmhouse nestled in the hillside.
The bones were from a dog. The blood was human, possibly Livvy’s.
Date with Mystery Page 31