Scaring Crows

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘Mr Rowan,’ Joanna moved her face closer to his so she could see right to the back of his brown eyes. ‘When we know who the father of Ruthie’s child is we shall almost certainly know who wiped out the rest of her family.’

  ‘You’ve no right to threaten my husband like that.’ Arabella had returned to speak from the doorway.

  Neil Rowan was a coward. Joanna watched him shrink from his wife’s sharp crack of a voice. He looked frightened. His wife shot him a glance of pure disdain and then ignored him, taking up the challenge of Joanna’s smoky blue eyes instead.

  ‘So what line of questioning are you pursuing now, Inspector?’

  ‘Well, Ruthie Summers died of natural causes, Mrs Rowan.’

  Joanna could have sworn Mrs Rowan already knew that by her flat reaction. But she had not told her husband.

  ‘She was pregnant.’

  Oddly, Arabella Rowan’s face displayed faint amusement. Either she knew her husband was in the clear or else she didn’t care. She could throw him to the dogs, carry on with her life unimpeded by a philandering husband.

  Joanna continued. ‘Naturally we connect her death with the murders of her father and brother.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Maybe Arabella Rowan was extremely brave, or a good actress. Or she could see a flaw in Joanna’s reasoning. It unnerved the detective.

  She glanced across at Neil Rowan and realized he was relaxed now. Sit back and let the wife sort it out. Then Joanna realized. It was talk of the baby that had relaxed him. It was the double shootings which had unnerved him.

  Joanna was even more confused and floundered with her questions. ‘Tell me something about the workings of a farm like yours.’

  The nervousness had returned. He was completely thrown off balance by the question without realizing it had been blindly asked. But then Mike too was confounded, staring at her as though she was crazy. She gave him a tiny smile meant to reassure him of her control.

  ‘It’s a good, profitable concern,’ Neil Rowan said shortly. ‘What else do you need to know?’

  Joanna deliberately turned her face towards him to cut out Mike. She had an idea where she hoped her questions would lead. He didn’t.

  ‘Dairy or beef?’ she asked idly.

  ‘Both.’ His answers were short to the point of rudeness and a flush was creeping up his neck.

  ‘You have calves?’

  ‘Of course.’ His face was suffused now. ‘All dairy herds have calves. You can’t help it. They’re a byproduct of milk production.’

  ‘A bull?’

  To her side Mike stiffened.

  ‘I had one.’ His forehead was glistening now. ‘Now I...’ His wife’s eyes were on him, mocking, disdainful, uncaring, disliking.

  And now Joanna knew. Pinkers and Rowan had both helped themselves to the animals from Hardacre. They had fleeced their poverty-struck neighbour, increased his run of bad luck, reduced his livelihood to a mere scratch. His good fortune had become theirs.

  So what about Ruthie? How much had she discovered? She had been the clever one, the natural manager of the old farm. The theft of the bull as well as the cows would have meant more to her sharp brain than to her father who was dying of cancer and her brother who would never be capable of managing the farm alone. But Ruthie? It had been her livelihood too. She had worked, selling eggs, cleaning. Hardacre had been important to her. And Joanna knew instinctively that it was the farm, its animals as well as its future that had lain in Ruthie’s heart rather than a man.

  So how much had the girl worked out about the fate of the missing cattle? Had she found Doric, the bull she had so fancifully named? One morning as she walked to work had she peered inside the barn and seen the animal which had been stolen? And why the hell had they kept him there, so near the road?

  The answer flashed through her mind. Because there was joint responsibility. While the Rowans had owned the barn Pinkers had been the one to use it. So who would she have told? Again the answer was obvious. A woman would confide in her lover. But who had he been? What part had he played in the looming tragedy? And why? Had the farm been of such importance to him too? Had he been someone like Shackleton who must have seen the farm as potentially profitable? Or had it been the delicate woman herself with her heart-shaped face and romantic features that had seduced the man?

  In other words had it been Mothershaw? Had the artist found a piece of rural England he had longed to possess and keep? And with that land had come the farmer’s daughter to entice him with her singing and her honest, country ways? Had he been seduced by the illusion of a girl collecting eggs, herding cows, singing, singing.

  So what had her lover thought when she had vanished? What would he have thought of Neil Rowan’s clumsy attempts to seduce such innocence? Would he have taken up the bludgeon in defence of her innocence and the stolen cattle? Joanna pictured him as she had first seen him, in yellow trousers and pale shirt and she doubted it. To Titus Mothershaw cattle would have been artistic props, rather than practical, bread and butter objects of value.

  She looked helplessly at Mike. There were still too many unanswered questions and she was impatient to know who was the father of Ruthie’s child.

  Neil Rowan spoke. ‘Where did you find her?’

  For the first time she could believe he really cared. His forehead was wrinkled with earnestness and he had stopped looking at his wife with quite such apprehension.

  ‘Behind the wall in the back of the larder.’ Joanna had decided to spare neither of them. ‘Her body was partly decomposed. She’d been there about a month.’

  She thought Neil Rowan was about to be sick.

  Even Arabella turned white. ‘I wondered ...’ She had to start again. ‘I wondered. She hadn’t turned up. Work. I thought ...’

  ‘That your husband’s attempted philanderings had put her off?’

  Arabella Rowan nodded dumbly. She gave a loud, inelegant sniff and collapsed into the kitchen chair, her head dropped on to her folded arms. But she wasn’t crying. Joanna sensed the woman felt too much anger for that.

  Neil Rowan crossed the room to touch his wife’s shoulder, timidly. ‘It was only a bit of fun,’ he said. ‘Nothing serious. She was just a young woman.’

  His wife raised her face. ‘You fool,’ she said softly, but strangely, not without some affection. ‘You are such a fool, Neil.’

  Then she held the bookings cards out to Joanna and her voice steadied. ‘She last worked here on June 16th.’

  ‘And did she seem all right?’

  Arabella Rowan frowned. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not really. As far as I can remember that day she left here early. I think she said she had a stomach ache. I could see she wasn’t well. We did offer her a lift home but she said it was OK, that the walk would do her good. And I saw Aaron and Jack the following Monday at market. They said she wasn’t too grand and she wouldn’t be in for a week or two.’ It took a minute or two for the facts to sink in before she added in a small voice. ‘Did she die then?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  Mrs Rowan ran her fingers through her hair and looked years older, control finally lost. ‘How awful,’ she said. ‘How bloody awful.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  But Joanna was watching Arabella Rowan very carefully. ‘Didn’t you wonder why she didn’t come back?’

  Mrs Rowan looked embarrassed. ‘To be honest,’ she said, ‘I thought she must have said something to either Aaron or Jack about...’ She eyed her husband. ‘Well. I thought she must have said that Neil was being over-friendly. I made up my mind to manage on my own in future.’

  It was a clear, sad picture, a woman working hard to make a success of a business. She had help to do the work. But her husband was a Romeo. So Arabella must manage on her own.

  Chapter Sixteen

  7.15 p.m.

  The heat was draining out of the day, leaving a cool breeze to play with the landscape, rustling trees, waving long grass, stroking the flowers with subtle movement.

>   Mike took the wheel and they drove down the winding lane towards the barn standing square against the road, a grey scar on the landscape. An ancient barn. Yet it was in good repair. There were no tiles missing from the roof and the door looked as though it had been freshly painted.

  Mike pulled the car into a passing place and together they swung the five-barred gate open and approached the barn.

  They could hear the bull bellowing as they got within five yards. He was kicking the door. They watched in fascination as it shuddered. This must be some animal, large and strong who wanted to be in the fields enjoying himself, not cooped up in such a small space.

  Mike backed away. ‘I’m not going in there. What’s it got to do with the case anyway?’

  Joanna didn’t know but felt such relief at having tracked down the missing animal she couldn’t resist teasing him. ‘Come on, Mike,’ she said briskly. ‘You don’t expect me to enter, do you? You see it might not be Doric.’

  He gave her a quick, worried glance. ‘I mean it, Jo,’ he warned. ‘It sounds dangerous to me. I’m not going in.’

  But she wasn’t going to let him off the hook yet. ‘I’m afraid, Sergeant.’

  ‘You must be joking.’ And then he caught the gleam in her eyes and they both started to laugh.

  ‘We can peep through the window, can’t we? Give me a leg up.’

  The window pane was smeared but she could still see the animal clearly, pawing the ground. Doric was enormous, pale in colour, almost cream skinned and very heavy with huge shoulders and a great bag of testicles dangling between his legs. This was where Pinkers had been early on Tuesday morning. He had got up late but the milking took less than an hour. They left the bull to graze at night. But the animal must be hidden throughout the day. And as Joanna’s mind began to unblock she turned around. ‘Mike,’ she said, pointing. ‘Look around you.’

  It was the wide, green panoramic sweep of the valley. And Hardacre was clearly in view, nestling at the top end of the lane just before it curved towards Brooms and petered out in the footpath. Joanna shielded her eyes from the sinking sun. Titus Mothershaw’s sculptured wood was hidden behind the house, a dark-green area with only the pinnacle of the Owl Hole visible. To the left stood Fallowfield, looking slightly ramshackle and picturesque. She could see exhaust spouting from the top of the tractor, hear a cockerel’s noisy crow far in the distance, a dog somewhere far away barking wildly. She turned back towards Hardacre and thought how dead it seemed. There was no movement and no noise. Even the animals were quiet. The place looked deserted. She and Mike turned away from the barn, climbed the five-barred gate and returned to the squad car, Mike watching her enquiringly.

  ‘We’ll get the vet up,’ she said finally, ‘for positive identification.’ She grinned at Mike. “This is the beginning of the end, Mike.’ But she couldn’t resist a final tug at his leg. ‘So shall we return to the safety of the station?’

  She felt a strong urge to speak to Matthew as soon as they walked inside the station. She was missing his frequent calls and visits. This was the first time since he had left Jane that they had drifted so far apart and she was feeling lonely and unsettled. The insecurity was deeply disturbing and uncomfortable. She must speak to him. Yet the distance between them seemed so wide she felt she needed an excuse.

  She finally tracked him down at home and instantly recognized the distant, guarded tone in his voice.

  Yet he was polite. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I wondered if you had any results back from the lab?’

  ‘I’ve got the grouping but the DNA will take longer.’ He paused before adding gently. ‘I did tell you, Jo.’

  ‘So what are the results of the grouping?’

  ‘As we thought. Neither Aaron nor Jack could be the father of Ruthie’s baby.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘You’ve probably got a duplicate report on the rug ...’

  ‘Not that I’ve read yet.’

  ‘Accelerants. Diesel fuel. Plenty had been splashed around it.’

  ‘Right,’ she said idly. There was a long pause before Matthew spoke in a quiet, reproachful voice. ‘You don’t even try with Eloise. Joanna, it isn’t going to work unless you make some effort.’

  ‘I do try.’ She was instantly furious. ‘Haven’t you noticed how she ignores me?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ he said irritably. ‘You’re like a pair of adolescents. For my sake will you try and get on with her. It’s making life very difficult. She is my daughter.’

  She dug her nails into her palm. ‘And have you had this conversation with her?’

  ‘Yes.’ But he hesitated. ‘Using slightly different words. But remember. This whole situation has come about because of our relationship. I was married to her mother.’

  Suddenly her anger boiled over and she slammed the phone down, her hands shaking.

  She buried her face in her arms and struggled to hold back the tears. She tried to excuse him. Perhaps it is natural always to defend your own flesh and blood. Guilt was forcing him to shovel blame on to her. She lifted her head and stared at the brick wall view from her window. Surely ... surely he did love her, didn’t he? Memories flooded through her hotly, all the times he had begged her to see him, to meet with him, to sleep with him. Something like a creeping horror took hold of her.

  Surely he did still love her?

  But the horror was swiftly replaced by something fierce.

  She would never forgive Eloise Levin for the way she drove a wedge between her and Matthew.

  Korpanski was watching her from the doorway, tossing up whether to go in, put a friendly arm around her, console her with the statement that there were plenty of men besides Levin. But something held him back and before he could reach her she looked over and caught his eye and he felt embarrassed at being caught. She rubbed her nose with her hand. ‘Yes? What is it?’

  He cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘You all right?’

  And she couldn’t hide her feelings any longer. ‘I hate it when she comes.’

  But his words lit the fire again.

  ‘Well she is his daughter.’

  10 p.m.

  She needed to be alone, in her own, small, secure cottage, away from other people, ringing phones, intrusion. She locked the door, poured herself a glass of cold white wine and flopped into the comfortable sofa. It had been a luxury buy, goose feather filled, covered in heavy, dark red brocade with tapestry cushions lining the back. She settled into it and closed her eyes. Not for long. The temptation was always to take pleasure from the furnishings, pieces of old furniture – some procured at local auction rooms, others inherited from an aunt – and the oil paintings that warmed the walls. Two portraits of Georgian dandies and a still life of a vase of red roses. It all felt as safe and comfortable as a nest. She sat for minutes deliberately allowing her mind to think about nothing until some instinct moved her to stand in front of the glass fronted china cabinet. As though in a dream she opened the door. This was where she kept her collection of Victorian Staffordshire figures also bequeathed to her by her aunt who must have suspected where her interests and future career would lie. For the figures were of criminals mostly, criminals who had been caught, convicted and sentenced. Without even rudimentary knowledge of blood groups, DNA, fingerprint techniques and advanced communications the police had caught their killers. It made her all the more determined. So would she.

  She picked one out believing it was at random before she realized what her fingers had found. Smith and Collier. Farmers from the tiny village of Froghall, Staffordshire. A sleepy hollow of the place served by the Cauldon canal. Smith grasps the shoulder of Collier, Collier grabs back, ready to murder him after Smith has found him poaching on his land. Collier has a double barrelled shot gun. With one discharge he has killed two rabbits. With the other he shoots Smith in the head. A pair of farmers who settled an argument their way.

  Joanna had often felt that handling the tributes made by the potters
of Staffordshire to their villains gave her heart. Their police had not failed then. Nor would they now. William Collier had been hanged on August 7th 1866, the last ever public execution outside Stafford Gaol. She peered even closer at the figure.

  The men stand beneath an arbour. Smith stands on the left, dressed in a round hat, a neckerchief, a long jacket, a waistcoat, breeches and gaiters. His right hand holds a revolver while his left hand apprehends Collier. Collier wears a beaver hat, a long jacket, a waistcoat and breeches. And slung from his right shoulder is the give away, a game bag. He is the poacher. And it is he who holds the long barrel of the murder weapon, a fowling piece. On the floor is further evidence, a brace of dead pheasants and a dog who attacks Collier’s right leg.

  And so, holding it, she used the figure of William Collier and Thomas Smith as a medium uses a crystal ball, as a focus for her mind.

  It would work.

  Her subconscious mind would piece together the seemingly disconnected facts of this case. While she was sleeping it would sift through statements, recall with magic perfection the faces of the witnesses as they gave their statements; whether deceitful or honest.

  She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing right down.

  Sunday, July 12th, 6 a.m.

  She sat up in bed and hugged her knees, sensing there was something different about today almost the second she opened her eyes. Through the curtains she could see what it was. It was dull outside, dark and threatening. The weather was breaking with a noisy, crashing thunderstorm.

  Her eyes moved across to the bedside table where she had carefully stood the pottery farmers in their final death-throe struggle.

  And she smiled and threw the covers off. Today would bring the truth. She knew it would only take a little more concentration before her mind clarified events to crystal quality and thunderstorm or not she could not resist the cycle ride across the ridge before dropping down into the valley of the three farms and scattered cottages.

  During the night her mind had unravelled something. She knew who Ruthie’s lover had been. No, she corrected herself as she stood beneath the shower, soaping her body with the scented gel. I don’t know who the father of Ruthie’s baby was but I shall see something today that will tell me. And Ruthie will speak to me.