Miss Pink Investigates- Part Four

by Gwen Moffat

  There was a pause. ‘She didn’t tell me,’ Miss Pink said.

  Mabel looked at her sharply, considered the proprieties, and took the plunge. ‘She wouldn’t, but then you’d have heard soon enough from someone. Gossip runs through this dale like a moor fire. A letter went round from some government office telling folk they were about to be interviewed by food inspectors if they’d had any truck with Jollybeard because of people going down with salmonella poisoning after they’d eaten there. It were published in local paper. And there weren’t a word of truth in it!’

  Miss Pink was shocked. ‘You’re saying it was a hoax?’

  ‘From start to finish. ’Course Eleanor, she went storming into town, made the editor print a long piece t’following week saying it were a lie, but damage were done by then. Folk would be saying there’s no smoke without fire. That were Easter time and her trade’s not recovered since. I feel sorry for Eleanor, that I do.’

  ‘Had she upset someone?’

  ‘No.’ Evidently Mabel felt that was too abrupt. ‘Not to my knowledge,’ she amended. Her mouth twisted. ‘Now, if it had been Phoebe … even himself … Farmers and tourists are always at each other’s throats. He were driving cattle up lane last back-end and a car come down and tried to push through. One old cow felt herself being crowded and she jumped up and come down on t’car bonnet.’ Mabel chuckled. ‘New car too. You can imagine the language on both sides.’

  ‘But elderly spinsters don’t have confrontations with their customers.’

  ‘You’re right. Eleanor wouldn’t. Now if it had been Phoebe …’

  Toiling up the quarrymen’s track on automatic pilot Miss Pink thought what a nasty trick it had been, and how clever to send out letters purporting to come from a local government department, and how devastating the result for the victim. It implied forgery and theft, and action by a civil servant or by someone who had access to official letterheads. This was more than a practical joke, here was a vicious mind at work. The somewhat shabby condition of Eleanor’s house suggested that there wasn’t much money to spare at Jollybeard. What could she have done to be targeted so ruthlessly? The more intricate the plot, the more disturbed the plotter. Disturbed, deranged? Dark thoughts for an idyllic morning.

  She came to the fell gate and the open moor and suddenly all the larks were trilling as they climbed towards a cerulean sky. Curlews wailed and bubbled, the sun was hot on her back, the stony ground gave way to a peaty path and everywhere there were yellow stars of tormentil. That reminded her of Phoebe’s goal which had been the orchids below Gowk Pass but this too was orchid territory and the woman could well have strayed from the path to investigate a wet flush. However, a few steps to one side put paid to that theory; the path was the only dry route through bogs, and ‘dry’ was relative up here. Obviously ‘clarty’ meant mud. How far had Phoebe gone before she diverged from the route? She was a small woman, according to Eleanor, so she’d have taken a small boot size. That was a help because the two rescuers who had come this way last night had large feet; their prints were plain in the peat and it was there that, not always overlaid, a boot – probably a size 5 – had left its mark. Useful. It seemed likely that Phoebe had reached Closewater.

  Miss Pink lingered at the top of the escarpment above the lake, regarding the nearby beck with suspicion. In places the cascades would be close to the line of descent: slippery crags, deep pools under waterfalls. Had Phoebe approached the water looking for spring flowers, taking photographs?

  As she hesitated she became aware of spots of colour in shadowed depths below. People were moving up the bed of the stream. The rescue team, or some members of it, had had the same idea. She relinquished the hazards of steep wet rock to people better equipped to cope with them and she continued to the lake.

  Police, rescue vehicles and a number of unmarked cars were parked at the head of Closewater but she could see no people in the vicinity. Several paths took off from here but she dismissed the one running down the far shore of the lake, and another heading due north into the central mountains. It was the southern route, between here and Borascal, that must be eliminated first. There was a possible alternative, a path going due east to a ridge. Had Phoebe taken it, she would – could – have turned south to a hill called Blaze Fell and dropped down to Gowk, thus extending her walk by doing three sides of a square instead of one. And then Miss Pink remembered the orchids. Phoebe would have gone straight to Gowk and then climbed a peak. That is, if she had climbed any peak.

  She passed a notice requesting off-road vehicles not to use the track when it was wet – ‘clarty’ she thought, pleased with the new word, and was immediately disheartened when she realized that the rescue team considered itself an exception. Several vehicles had gone ahead of her, their ruts gouging the peat.

  She found the orchids, or rather what was left of them, and was horrified to find all but one or two squashed out of existence, the colony annihilated by a morass of ruts. She climbed the last few hundred feet to the pass mentally composing a scathing letter with copies to the National Park, the local Environmental Agency, the British Mountaineering Council … A Land Rover was parked on top, a rescue vehicle. Still fuming, she glared up the slope of Blaze Fell and, thinking that the rescuers would be there, she turned in the opposite direction. At this moment she had no wish to meet any rescuers.

  Morosely she tramped through thick heather making for an outlying hill called Scoat Pike. She came on a small tarn where a sandpiper took off piping frantically and a fox had left its prints in white sand. She looked for the mark of a size 5 boot, but if Phoebe had been here yesterday she hadn’t touched the sand.

  From the summit of Scoat Pike and with the aid of binoculars she could see people on Blaze. They seemed to be wandering at random among peat hags which showed deep and ragged across the southern slope: bone-breaking traps for the unwary in mist. But the old climber and wilderness traveller described by Eleanor wasn’t unwary; she’d be less likely to fall over a peat bank than would Miss Pink. She sighed, she was no nearer discovering the woman’s whereabouts than she had been when she started. She looked glumly at Blaze, knowing that the scattered nature of the figures meant that they’d been equally unsuccessful. Why didn’t they mount a sweep search? The answer was obvious: because they had no idea where to sweep. Once something were found – a rucksack, a hat – then the search would concentrate on the immediate area.

  She looked towards Gowk and thought that if she reversed her steps towards the sandpiper tarn she might descend diagonally to intercept the Borascal path without having to retrace her steps. And she was right; there was a pleasant grassy ridge which she dropped down without trouble until, at an intrusion of mossy bedrock, she turned aside to avoid it and, glancing rightwards, pulled up in astonishment. A short distance below was a titanic chasm: rock walls dropping for what looked like a hundred feet: vertical, even overhanging. Through the shadowed cleft there was a glimpse of sunlit pastures in the dale above Borascal.

  Her first thought was that she had found Phoebe, or rather, the spot where she’d come to grief, but her second was that no mountaineer would go near this place even if, like Miss Pink, they had forgotten that a quarry was marked on the map.

  She continued to descend with a wary eye on more canyons and cavernous slopes coming into view, now seeing with relief that she was approaching a high wall, beautifully built, and the stones so carefully aligned that even a young climber would have had difficulty surmounting it. If Phoebe had come down here she would have turned and followed the boundary, not crossed it.

  The wall came to a beck, stopped, and started again on the far bank. The gap was closed by a robust watergate of poles and vertical slats which would allow nothing but water to pass. The carcass of a small sheep was pressed against the slats, prompting speculation on the source of Borascal’s water supply.

  The beck was high after the recent rain and she was forced to wade. After the water and the rough ground outside the wall she was rel
ieved to see a level green path ahead, leading almost certainly to the Borascal track – and then she recalled the map. And here was the padlocked gate in the wall and a notice, red on white, saying ‘Danger. Keep Out. No Trespassing.’

  A man was striding along the green level, a collie at his heels. He had long, reddish hair – a foxy colour – and in the moment that Miss Pink thought the hair was rather too stylish for a man she saw that this was a tall woman.

  ‘The quarry’s been searched,’ she said as she came up.

  Miss Pink considered the full pack, the boots, the gaiters peat-stained to the knees. ‘You’re with the rescue team.’

  The other nodded. ‘You weren’t thinking of going into the quarry? I mean, it’s full of pitfalls for –’ She stopped, disconcerted. Miss Pink’s advanced age and bland stare could have that effect on people.

  ‘I’m keeping an eye open,’ she said pleasantly. ‘I haven’t found anything. My name is Pink, and I’m staying in Borascal.’

  ‘I know. I live at Elfhow, next door to Ashgill. I’m Jean Blamire.’

  Miss Pink extended a hand, amused by the formality in this place. ‘There’s no sign of her?’ She nodded to the slope of Blaze Fell.

  ‘No.’ The woman looked distressed. ‘I’m fond of Phoebe, I can’t understand it. I mean,’ she rushed on, ‘I know her. This isn’t like her at all’ – she gestured wildly – ‘getting lost.’ She looked past Miss Pink. ‘They searched the quarry,’ she repeated. ‘Anyway, she’d never climb the wall. She’s not there.’

  ‘Then where is she?’ Miss Pink fondled the collie distractedly. The woman’s vagueness was infectious.

  ‘My husband reckons she went down the wrong side of Blaze – or even Scoat. You were on Scoat. You didn’t see any tracks? She has a small foot, she’s a tiny woman.’

  ‘There were no human prints on Scoat,’ Miss Pink murmured, realizing that the team had been watching her, which was only to be expected: a solitary walker. After all, that was what they were looking for, except that – would Phoebe be walking by now?

  Jean Blamire sighed and the strong features set in ugly lines. ‘She’s nearly eighty, but then it’s how old mountaineers prefer to go. My husband says it’s how he wants to end – eventually.’ She shuddered.

  ‘Your husband is the team leader?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The pride was unmistakable. The expression softened as she turned to stare up the slope. ‘He’s coming down now. Why’s that? Have they found something?’

  ‘Presumably he’s coming down for the Land Rover.’ Miss Pink was tart but the tone was lost on the younger woman.

  ‘That’ll be it. He’ll have sent the others over the hill and someone has to pick them up on the far side.’

  Anyone could have done that, Miss Pink thought, but men were possessive about their vehicles, particularly when the terrain was as rough as that over Gowk Pass. As if she were telepathic the woman said, ‘They don’t need him. Blaze is an easy fell to search and visibility is perfect. If she’s there they’ll find her. It’s not like a cliff rescue when Martin has to be at the sharp end.’

  ‘Where are the cliffs in this area?’

  ‘He goes into the central fells to help out when necessary. He’s an expert guide.’

  ‘Martin Blamire?’ Miss Pink murmured.

  ‘You must have heard of him, he’s always in the papers and on TV.’

  Miss Pink made no response, nor was it necessary; Jean Blamire was watching her husband’s approach with the rapt attention of a lover. He was certainly a pleasure to watch; neat, fast and flexible, he dropped down the steep grass as if he had shock absorbers in his joints. The collie ran to meet him. Behind him, high on the hill, two figures were stationary on the skyline.

  He jumped down to the grassy level and faced them, scarcely out of breath: a good-looking fellow but showing signs of wear. The narrow eyes were too deep in their sockets and there were lines from the nostrils to the corners of the somewhat prim mouth. A fringe of beard followed the outline of a large chin. He wore no hat and his hair, although wet with sweat, was short, with blond streaks. This was a man who took care of his appearance. He smiled and was suddenly engaging.

  ‘You found something?’ he asked of Miss Pink.

  She was surprised. ‘Nothing. You didn’t come down thinking that I had?’

  ‘No. I came down for my truck.’ His eyes slid past her. ‘We searched there.’

  ‘I told her,’ his wife said quickly. ‘We were just chatting.’ She sounded apologetic.

  ‘You can bring a vehicle across the pass?’ Miss Pink sounded curious. ‘I suppose an exception has to be made in the case of Mountain Rescue.’

  He blinked and stared, then nodded slowly. ‘For farmers too. You saw the orchids? What we ought to do is transplant them to some place where they won’t come to any harm.’

  ‘What orchids?’ Jean looked bewildered

  ‘Wild ones on Gowk.’ He was offhand, turning to Miss Pink. ‘I can give you a lift. I’m going down the dale.’

  ‘I’ll walk, thank you. I’m staying in Borascal.’

  ‘This is Miss Pink,’ Jean said. ‘She’s at Ashgill.’

  ‘Oh. Brilliant.’ Miss Pink frowned. ‘Nice time of year,’ he added vaguely. ‘It’s a great centre for walking. You coming, Jeannie?’

  He started diagonally up the slope. His wife threw a quick glance at Miss Pink, raised a hand and followed at the same speed but keeping a few paces in the rear.

  Miss Pink dawdled along the level, glancing into the quarry as more walls and chasms were revealed, thinking that it couldn’t have been exhaustively searched, there hadn’t been enough time – but then there was that wall. Phoebe would never have climbed it.

  Actually the wall was breached in a second place, a third if one included the watergate at the top. A bird’s-eye view of the quarry would show a long oval comprising the lower reaches of the beck and one or two feeder streams. The base of the oval was on the floor of the dale where there was a turning circle and the end of a tarred road, narrow and weed-grown now that the quarry was no longer in operation. The Gowk path came down to the turning circle but Miss Pink’s interest was in the main access to the quarry, marked by another padlocked gate and another Danger notice. The curious thing was that here there was a stile in the wall: a stone step-stile formed by projecting slabs of rock. So there was an acceptable way into the quarry, but why had the owners placed a Danger notice in this place? Presumably to cover themselves in the event of an accident.

  She climbed to the top of the stile and studied a patch of mud on the far side. It was unmarked. No one had entered the quarry at this point since the rain of several days ago.

  ‘I’ll drop you at home,’ Blamire said. ‘And you can find me some dry socks. I’ll meet you at the Lamb.’

  Jean’s nostrils flared. ‘What will you be doing?’

  ‘I have to go to Lambert’s. Tomorrow I’m going to need everyone I can get if we don’t find her today.’

  ‘Make sure you leave him a written message then. Isa’s bound to forget. That woman’s as thick as two planks. And why didn’t you take Walter today?’

  ‘Because I thought we’d find her soon enough. I can’t do with novices on a search; they’re a liability.’

  ‘So why take him tomorrow?’

  ‘For God’s sake, woman! Don’t I have enough on my plate without you nagging at me all the time?’

  ‘Marty!’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ He thrust out a hand to her as the Land Rover jolted down the stony track. ‘Look,’ he said softly, ‘I’ve got a missing woman to find and I haven’t a fucking idea where she went, and down there’ – nodding ahead to the dale – ‘the media’s waiting for me. How long will they hold me up?’

  ‘I’ll give Isa the message –’

  ‘It’s quicker for me to see her. You get me some dry socks, we’ll meet at the Lamb, right?’ It was an order.

  Chapter Three

  In the Fat Lam
b Dorcas Honeyman lined up three measures of Famous Grouse on the bar and thought that the profits from this day were well worth the pain of her aching feet. There’d be a brief respite shortly because she’d insisted that Ralph close the bar at three o’clock but they’d be open again at six. She’d need to bring Misella in to help. If the search hadn’t been successful they’d do a roaring trade this evening and tomorrow. She rang up the sale, proffered change, and two pounds were left on the bar. She pocketed the coins without expression; there were advantages to being seventy years old, dumpy and dull and wearing an apron; strangers took her for the help rather than the licensee’s mother.

  The low-ceilinged bar was crowded with reporters and tourists. ‘It’s three o’clock,’ Dorcas told Ralph. He knew if he didn’t call time she would.

  ‘They’ll be away now,’ he assured her. ‘Martin’s come down. I saw him turn up t’lane. You missed un.’ Ralph grinned. It wasn’t often his mother missed anything.

  ‘Tell them he’s back.’ She indicated the customers. ‘They’ll be after un like flies on meat.’

  ‘No need. Here he comes now.’ He raised his voice. ‘Here’s Blamire,’ he told the nearest group. ‘Maybe they’ve found the lady.’

  Eyes switched to the windows and the open door. The bar emptied of reporters, the tourists longing to follow but most restrained by their wives. ‘Three o’clock,’ Dorcas announced in a no-nonsense voice. ‘Last orders, please.’

  As if discharged the remaining customers drank up and crowded outside to hover on the fringe of the group clustered about the Rescue Land Rover.

  ‘Lock the door,’ Dorcas ordered, drawing herself a brandy.

  Ralph turned the key softly, uncapped a bottle of German beer and lumbered after his mother, ignoring the glasses cluttering the bar.

  They sat at the big scrubbed table in the kitchen, mother and son easing their feet, Dorcas feeling her age, Ralph his weight. He was the wrong side of fifty and although his legs were like tree trunks they were out of all proportion to the amount of flesh that they had to support. He didn’t look a healthy man: balding, with small eyes above plump cheeks, a tight mouth: it was as if the features were being compressed by increasing deposits of fat.