The Nidderdale Murders (A Yorkshire Murder Mystery)

by J. R. Ellis

  ‘For what?’ Saunders was distracted as he considered the implications of his opponent’s move.

  ‘For the moor.’

  Saunders looked up, rather surprised. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve always fancied owning my own grouse moor. It will consolidate my position as a prominent Yorkshire landowner.’ Symons chuckled.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit, sort of, early to be talking about that? Sandy’s not even buried yet.’

  ‘Well, old boy, the early bird and all that. Maybe you could mention it to Mrs Fraser when you call in.’

  Saunders was now quite shocked. ‘James, don’t you think that would be insensitive at a time like this?’

  ‘Not really, she might be quite pleased that there’s someone ready to take the grouse moor off her hands who can pay cash. After all, I’ve heard rumours about Sandy.’

  ‘What rumours?’

  ‘Ah, you see, you’re away in London so you’re not tapped into local gossip about your friend and mine.’

  ‘Well, what are people saying?’ Saunders moved his rook out into a place where he hoped to mount an attack on Symons’s king.

  ‘Just that Sandy’s finances were, well, not very sound. It may be that his widow has debts to pay off.’

  ‘The police were asking me about that. I told them that I wasn’t aware that he had any money worries. Anyway, even supposing he had, surely you can’t see that as an opportunity to advance yourself?’ He looked at Symons, and for the first time noticed that his blue eyes were very cold.

  ‘And you a banker,’ said Symons. ‘I’d have thought you’d have known that the world rewards those who seize their opportunities.’ He suddenly moved a knight that had been lurking at the edge of the board. ‘Checkmate, I’ll think you’ll find, old boy.’ He grinned at Saunders, who felt a shiver run through him.

  Oldroyd easily found John Gray’s studio down a short lane off the green. It was in a small extension to a cottage and there was a sign outside saying ‘Nidderdale Art’. The word ‘Open’ was displayed on the door, so Oldroyd went in. Inside, the walls were hung with watercolours in the style he’d seen at Tony Dexter’s barn, and there were racks of prints, some available at a reduced price. In a corner, Oldroyd saw a man working at an easel.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said.

  The man turned round. He had long greying hair tied back in a ponytail, and a straggly beard that was also grey. He was wearing a paint-smeared checked shirt and old corduroy trousers.

  ‘Hello, please feel free to browse round and ask me if you need any assistance,’ the man said, in a standard RP accent. Then he turned back to the easel and began to hum a tune.

  Oldroyd persisted. ‘I do want to have a look at your paintings, but I would also like to ask you a few questions.’ The artist turned round again. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Oldroyd, and I’m investigating the murder of Alexander Fraser. Are you John Gray? If so, I understand you knew the victim.’

  Oldroyd presented his ID, and Gray put down his paintbrush and got up from his chair. Oldroyd could see that he was working on a dales landscape scene.

  ‘Yes. I am John Gray. It’s a nasty business. Please sit down. Can I get you a herbal tea?’

  Oldroyd declined.

  ‘To answer your enquiry: yes, I did know Sandy Fraser, but not well. He used to come here quite regularly, and he was always very complimentary about my work. His daughter also used to come in when she was visiting from London. He bought an original watercolour and some prints. He asked if he could pay in instalments, and I didn’t want to say no as he was a local. It hasn’t been easy for me to establish myself here. You need to get recommendations from local people. He was a bit slow with his payments, but he got there in the end. So if you’re looking for motives, I’m afraid I haven’t got one.’

  ‘So you didn’t know anything else about him?’

  ‘No. He owned a grouse moor, didn’t he? Got wealthy people to pay to come and shoot birds. Very unpleasant. What did Oscar Wilde say, “The unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable”? That was fox hunting. I suppose in this case they do eat the game. I hope they get the shot in their mouths!’ Gray laughed.

  ‘You’re not the only person in the village who dislikes blood sports. I presume you know Liz Smith and Tony Dexter?’

  ‘I’ve met Tony Dexter, he bought some prints from me. Is Liz Smith the caravan woman? Animal-rights activist?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘They’re both much keener than I am in opposing these things. I just find it very distasteful, but I’m not an activist; too much of a coward. I wouldn’t go to prison for my beliefs, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No. I just want to ask where you were on Friday evening. We’re asking everyone who knew Mr Fraser.’

  ‘Here, Chief Inspector. I live in this cottage and I let out one of the bedrooms to a bloke called Vic Moore. He’s come up here to escape from the city for a while.’

  ‘Was he here on Friday night?’

  ‘Yes. We could vouch for each other. We get on fine and we often share meals together, which we did on Friday evening.’

  ‘Do you have a shotgun?’

  ‘What on earth would I do with one of those, Inspector? I’m creative, not destructive.’

  Oldroyd laughed, concluded the interview and spent some time looking at the paintings. He identified a couple of moody studies of windswept scenes high in the fells that he liked, but decided to go away and think about it for a while. He established that Gray had a website and thought he would show Deborah and discuss it with her before making a decision.

  As he walked back across the green to the inn, he looked up at the fells and wished, as he often did, that he had the ability to paint a scene like that. But maybe there was another way he could capture the landscape and convey his deep feelings for it.

  He also wondered, again not for the first time, whether he might move out to one of the dales someday, maybe when he retired, and settle in a pretty village like this. Many people did, including the victim in their current case. It was tempting in many ways, but much as he loved this landscape, part of him still needed the larger towns and cities for what they could provide in terms of culture and social interaction.

  He always came back to the same conclusion: he was fine where he was at the moment.

  Gideon Rawnsley was indeed, as Symons had said, sulking in his room. He didn’t feel like socialising any more, particularly with Saunders and Symons. He was still embarrassed about his behaviour on Friday night and he was also afraid that he would find it difficult not to convey his pleasure at Fraser’s demise, and that would create suspicion.

  Rawnsley lay on the bed sipping from a glass of water – no more alcohol – waiting impatiently for the go-ahead to leave and make the journey home. He went over possible ways to mitigate any damage he’d caused. He hadn’t expected that they’d be held for so long, and he urgently needed to get back and do something to counter any bad publicity that might occur as a result of his involvement in this unfortunate event.

  In the luxury-car trade, your reputation was everything. He didn’t want anything negative about his relationship with Sandy Fraser to start circulating among his regular customers. He intended to send out an email to them, informing them of Fraser’s death and paying tribute to him as one of Elite Cars’ most loyal and valued customers. That should strike the right note and prevent unpleasant rumours from gaining hold. Yes, that would do the trick; then he would be in the clear. Even though he’d lost a customer, that customer had been troublesome in a number of ways. It was a relief to know that certain problematic issues had died with him.

  A smile came to Rawnsley’s face. He’d decided what to do, and he could now make a fresh start.

  Sheila and Rob Owen were sitting in the living room of their private flat at the back of the inn. It felt very strange to have little to do; the skeleton service being provided by the bar and kitchen could run without them. Paradoxically, it was a break from the intens
e stress of running the inn – something they welcomed, even though they were losing some business.

  They’d been watching a film to take their minds off the trauma of recent days. It had just ended, and Rob got up to make some tea. Sheila yawned and lay down on the sofa. Rob came back with the mugs.

  Sheila yawned again. ‘God! I feel so lethargic. I could lie here all evening,’ she said.

  ‘It’s doing you good. You were exhausted after all the work you’ve put in recently, and the shock at what happened.’

  She sat up and sipped her tea. ‘Is everything all right down there, do you think? It feels weird not to be supervising everything.’

  ‘They’re all fine. They’re only doing basic food for everyone. The restaurant’s not open to the public. All the staff are keen to help. They know you’ve had a shock.’

  ‘That’s so good of them, but we can’t have this going on for too long, can we? We’re losing money.’

  Rob sat down. ‘I know, but I don’t think it will be long now. That DCI seems a reasonable bloke. He won’t keep us shut down indefinitely for no good reason.’

  ‘No. Do you think our reputation will be damaged?’

  ‘I can’t see why. It’s not as if people have died from food poisoning, or there’s been a fire because we breached the regulations. Someone was shot outside the inn. We can’t control that. If we were in the inner city, people might be wary, but here, they know it’s a freak incident. You know what the public are like. We might get an influx of ghoulish types wanting to see where Fraser was shot.’

  She laughed and gave him a hug. ‘You’re always so optimistic! So good for morale.’

  ‘Yes, well, we’ll survive it all, even if we’ve temporarily lost a good contract. I’m sure whoever takes over running the grouse moor will want to patronise us too. There isn’t really anywhere else to go.’

  ‘To be honest, I was getting heartily sick of Fraser.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. That last salvo against your cooking was completely out of order. Anyway, he’s been taken care of now.’

  She pulled away from the hug and looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’m not having a man upsetting my wife like that, so I’m the one who took a contract out on him.’

  She spluttered with laughter. ‘Rob! That’s not really funny when someone’s been murdered!’

  ‘Why are you laughing, then?’

  She hit him playfully as he collapsed into laughter himself. They had a brief pretend fight but the laughter subsided because, however distasteful and unsettling the thought was, it couldn’t be denied that their lives would be easier now that Sandy Fraser had gone, as long as they could fill the gap financially.

  Rob was very pleased to see her so relaxed. He was determined that she should remain like that, so there were certain things about Fraser she would never need to know.

  It had been a long day, but there was still one interview to do: with the farmer Wilf Bramley. Oldroyd and Andy ended the day as they had begun, labouring up a track out of the village – but in the opposite direction from Dexter’s barn. Rob Owen had told them where Bramley’s farm was: halfway up the fellside in the direction of Pateley.

  ‘Lovely view, sir,’ observed Andy as they gazed down the length of Nidderdale.

  ‘Absolutely,’ replied Oldroyd, as he followed the sweep of the dale with its pattern of drystone walls and farms dotted around the hillsides. He looked up the track. They were walking towards one such farm: small, stone-built with a barn attached and stone tiles on the roof. There was a tree behind the farm, planted long ago to provide some meagre shelter. The fell rose steep and dark behind the isolated building, up to the moorland tops.

  It reminded Oldroyd of the iconic Top Withens on the moors above Haworth: the now-ruined farmhouse which had almost certainly been the model for Wuthering Heights in the eponymous novel by Emily Brontë. This one was far from ruined, however, and Oldroyd always admired the sheer grit with which farmers eked out a living in such hostile circumstances. The winter conditions, with wind, rain and snow, must be hard to endure, especially with the sheep living out on the hillsides. He’d heard many stories of farmers having to dig sheep out of snowdrifts in the worst weather.

  As they got closer to the farm, they noticed that one field near the house seemed to be full of vehicles or machinery. A closer inspection revealed tractors of various colours, sizes, ages and states of repair. Some had been there so long that grass had grown through the rusting wheels and bodywork. Not many seemed to be in working order and some were half dismantled. There was a huge pile of old tractor tyres and engines in one corner of the field.

  ‘I think we can safely say that Mr Bramley collects tractors,’ observed Oldroyd, wryly.

  Andy found it beyond comprehension. He shook his head as he looked at the field of rusting metal carcasses. ‘Bloody hell, sir, I’ve never seen anything like this. I know people collect some funny stuff, but tractors!’

  ‘Well, I’m sure they mean a lot to him. He’s probably worked with them all his life. It’s nice that you can see them here in the fields. It’s not like the musical instruments those collectors had in that case we investigated in Halifax. They were all hidden away, remember?’

  ‘I do, sir, but at least they were worth millions. What do you think this pile of crap is worth?’

  ‘Oh, that’s not the point, is it?’ Oldroyd threw up his hands in mock despair. ‘It’s the sentimental value and probably a fascination with the different designs and so on.’

  ‘It beats me, sir. I mean, I remember collecting Pokémon cards, and I had a friend who collected football stickers . . . but we were just kids. You grow out of it.’

  ‘Obviously, not everybody does and—’ They were approaching the farmyard and there was suddenly ferocious barking from at least two dogs. ‘Oops! I think we’re going to get the traditional welcome at an isolated farm. Let’s wait here. He’ll know from this early warning system that someone’s here.’

  Oldroyd was right. It wasn’t long before a voice was heard shouting at the dogs. ‘Bob! Ben! Shut thi bloody noise! Get in there! Go on!’

  The barking subsided and Wilf Bramley appeared at the gate. He looked at them suspiciously. ‘Yer not reps, are yer? If y’are just tae thi hook – ah don’t want nowt.’ He turned away.

  ‘Mr Bramley? We’re police officers: DCI Oldroyd, and Detective Sergeant Carter. We’d like to ask you some questions about the murder of Sandy Fraser.’

  Bramley turned back to see Andy and Oldroyd brandishing their warrant cards. His brow furrowed. ‘Oh, reight. Well, ah know nowt abaht it, so yer wastin’ yer time.’

  ‘Well, if we could just come in and talk to you. I also want to ask you about your fine collection over there.’ Oldroyd pointed to the tractors.

  Bramley’s face lit up. ‘Oh aye, well, come on right in then. Ah’ll put t’kettle on.’

  Oldroyd smiled at Andy, who shook his head at his boss’s wiliness as they followed Bramley, who called back: ‘Never mind abaht t’dogs. Ah’ve put ’em in t’shed.’ He led the way into a yard flagged with ancient cobblestones. There was a tall narrow shed with a door, which Oldroyd suspected was an outside toilet, and two cows in a pen were leaning over a gate drinking water from a trough.

  Bramley opened the back door and they went into the kitchen, which was a bit on the rough-and-ready side but very cosy and comfortable. It was clear that little had changed in the farmhouse for generations. There was an ancient Rayburn warming the kitchen, some dusty sofas up against the walls, and a large, bare wooden table. The kitchen units were not fitted, and the peeling Formica worktops reminded Andy of some of the hipster cafes in Leeds. Bramley grabbed a blackened kettle, filled it with water at a solid-looking porcelain sink, and slammed it on to the hot plate.

  ‘Sit thisens dahn then.’ He indicated the sofas and they all sat down around the table. ‘Ah’m mostly here by misen these days. Ah lost me wife five years since. Me son comes up to hel
p me but he lives down in Pateley. Me daughter moved to Leeds – she’s a nurse. There’s not much for t’younger folk round here if they’re not farmin’.’

  Andy looked around the isolated, old-fashioned farmhouse, thinking that he too would have wanted to escape pretty quickly from here once he’d hit his late teens. The kettle whistled and steam billowed out from the spout. Bramley spooned loose tea into a big brown teapot and stirred it up. He rummaged in a tall wooden cupboard and produced a half-empty packet of ginger snap biscuits. He put the packet on the table.

  ‘No, I’m sure the old way of life is a struggle for you, Mr Bramley,’ said Oldroyd. ‘Anyway, we’ve come to ask you about Mr Fraser, who I understand was your landlord, and also what you can tell us about the evening of his murder.’

  ‘Aye, just a minute.’ Bramley put a milk bottle and a dirty sugar bowl on the table. He poured dark brown tea into three discoloured mugs. ‘Help yourself to sugar and a ginger biscuit.’ He put three spoonfuls of sugar in his own tea, took a drink of it and wiped his mouth on his sleeve and continued. ‘Ah wor in t’Dog that neet – that’s what us old uns call t’pub. There were a few others there: young Ian Davis, he’s a gamekeeper; Peter Gorton who runs t’shop; and that Geordie chap who’s been here a while now . . . Alan . . .’

  ‘Green,’ prompted Oldroyd.

  ‘Aye, that’s it. We were all just havin’ a quiet pint and all those posh shooters started comin’ in dressed up to t’nines and drinkin’ gin before their fancy dinner.’

  ‘So I imagine you all said one or two things about them?’ suggested Oldroyd, who noticed Andy struggling with the strong tea and with Bramley’s broad Yorkshire speech.

  ‘Hmm . . .’ muttered Bramley. ‘Aye, we did, but nobody likes ’em, swaggerin’ round showin’ off their brass. And they show other stuff off as well, accordin’ to that lass behind t’bar.’

  ‘Kirsty Hemingway?’

  ‘Aye.’ Bramley told them about Jeanette finding the man naked.

  Andy smiled and perked up at hearing about that incident, despite not following all the details of the story.