A Short Time to Live (Miss Pink Book 4)

by Gwen Moffat

‘Perhaps he’s gone off with George Harper’s daughter,’ Grannie put in comfortably and they turned to her in astonishment.

  Arabella’s face was blank. ‘That’s it,’ she agreed coldly, ‘he’s gone with Caroline; I wonder Lucy didn’t think of that. It’s obvious.’

  ‘He took his van,’ Rumney said. ‘He parks it on the green.’

  Arabella said in the same cold voice: ‘He’ll have left that in Carnthorpe and gone to London in Caroline’s car: more sporting.’ Miss Pink’s heart bled for her.

  ‘He’s well out of our lives,’ Grannie said.

  ‘He has to come back for his possessions,’ Miss Pink pointed out.

  ‘Oh, he’ll come back,’ Arabella assured her. ‘There’s Lucy, you see. He’ll tell her he’s been to Scotland.’

  ‘So who broke into Coneygarth?’ Rumney asked.

  ‘Why, he did: on Friday night, not last night; he’d forgotten the front door key.’

  ‘And went away Saturday morning and left all that valuable gear lying around? I’m bolting and chaining that cottage this morning or we’ll have vandals in and the place on fire.’

  *

  ‘I don’t like it,’ he told Miss Pink as they went out to her car. ‘If he broke in himself, he only had to put the chain back, using different links; it was long enough. And he had the key of the padlock.’ He stared up the dale. ‘Those sheep worry me. Of course it couldn’t have been Wren; he has no dogs, no wagon, nothing.’ He turned to her. ‘In fact, he had no experience of shepherding. He helped me a bit but it was only a matter of opening gates, that type of thing.’

  ‘Perhaps it was that type of thing for Mossop: opening gates, putting up the tailboard of a cattle truck?’

  He nodded slowly. ‘What d’you say to going along to Storms and tackling him now?’

  ‘He’ll stall.’

  He looked up at Coneygarth. ‘Yesterday he was lying to you and you didn’t ask him about my sheep. Let’s do a Box and Cox act and see if that’ll soften him up a bit.’

  ‘It’s only eleven o’clock; he won’t be open.’

  ‘He’ll be open for us.’

  *

  There was a red Aston Martin on the gravel sweep in front of the hotel.

  ‘Is that what he runs?’ Miss Pink asked, switching off her ignition.

  ‘Oh no; he’s got a Citroen Safari.’

  She glanced inside the other car but it gave no clue to its owner.

  The curtains at the window on the right of the entrance—the cocktail bar—were still drawn; there was a gap at the side where they didn’t meet. Someone had been stinting on material. The front door was closed but not locked. As they entered the hall, Mossop came down the stairs. Their appearance seemed to worry him.

  ‘The—the bar’s closed,’ he stammered.

  ‘We’ll go in there all the same.’ Rumney strode across the room where the only light came from the gap in the curtains, and pulled them back. The priest still hung above the counter and Miss Pink noticed that the carpet was black, or very dark blue: a colour that wouldn’t show the dirt—or blood. She had been wondering about that.

  Mossop had entered by the door behind the bar. ‘You want a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Why? Are you serving?’ she asked in surprise.

  ‘I’ll give you a drink. I mean—’ there was a trace of belligerence in him now, ‘—you shouldn’t—I shouldn’t do it; we’re not open till twelve. It’s Sunday,’ he added lamely.

  ‘Where’s Jackson Wren?’ Rumney asked.

  Belligerence was replaced by blank astonishment, then something approaching relief. Mossop wiped the counter carefully. ‘Wren? I haven’t seen him.’

  ‘Where would he go?’ Rumney snapped.

  ‘How the hell would I know?’

  ‘Where didst tha sell my sheep?’

  Mossop’s eyes wandered. ‘Your sheep?’ he repeated stupidly, ‘what about your sheep?’

  ‘Tha put t’wagon in t’forest an’ brought ’em down Whirl Howe!’

  ‘But someone saw it,’ Miss Pink put in.

  ‘No, not me.’ Mossop’s voice was low. ‘You’ve got t’wrong chap. Not me. Keep your voice down, Zeke; I’ve got residents. Shut that door.’

  He closed his own door. Miss Pink shut the other and came back. ‘Peta was killed in here,’ she said to Mossop conversationally.

  His hand came up as if to hide his expression then he drew it down his face slowly, staring sideways at the closed door. He shook his head helplessly.

  ‘You found her.’ Miss Pink was implacable.

  ‘I didn’t kill her. I swear it—I didn’t—’

  ‘No; you didn’t kill her.’ She held his eyes. ‘You found her dead and took her down to the road.’

  ‘I couldna’ tell t’police; they’d never believe it!’ There was a flicker in the terrified eyes. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘What time did you find her?’

  He hesitated, cast a glance at the expressionless Rumney and muttered, ‘About two o’clock.’ They waited. ‘I got up to go to t’toilet,’ he whispered, ‘and her bedroom door were open so I looked inside. She hadn’t come to bed. I come downstairs and found her like you said. . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Miss Pink said. ‘Would you mind telling us about it?’

  ‘Nothing to tell. She were lying on t’floor, fallen off her chair and t’chair turned over. Her glass were on t’carpet there, not broken. They’d come in through t’front door; it were unlocked. I’d locked it after she come in.’

  ‘After Peta came in?’

  ‘O’ course.’

  ‘What time did she come in?’

  He thought about it. ‘I don’t know.’ He sounded infinitely weary. ‘Near eleven, I expect. I were having an early night and just going up when she come in.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said she’d have a drink and go to bed.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I went to bed then.’

  ‘She said nothing else to you, or you to her?’

  ‘I told her to remember to put t’lights out, that’s all. Oh, I’d have said to watch her cigarette. That’s probably why I come downstairs; she left cigarettes burning everywhere.’

  ‘But since she hadn’t gone to bed, you knew she must still be down here.’

  ‘That’s right, but she were on sleeping pills; she could fall asleep anywhere. Cigarette could be burning and set t’whole place afire.’

  ‘Was the weapon beside her?’

  ‘No; he must have took it with him.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘You know that. What else could I do but take her down to t’road?’

  ‘You could have called the police.’

  He shook his head. ‘They got to have someone for it, haven’t they? They thought it were me before; what will they say when they hear t’truth?’

  ‘You’re going to be all right. At least,’ she amended, ‘you won’t be convicted of—the other thing.’ He didn’t seem to understand. ‘Did she know that you were being blackmailed?’

  ‘No.’ He wasn’t concentrating on her. He was listening. ‘It’s not nice, having that door shut,’ he said. Rumney was regarding him intently. ‘Look, Zeke,’ he implored, ‘I don’t know nothing about t’sheep; there’s wagons stealing sheep at night all up t’motorway, and tha knows it. Why pick on me? One crate of Scotch and everything that happens within fifty miles of this place will be me from now on, won’t it?’

  Rumney said, ‘If I had proof—’

  The door opened quietly and a stranger looked in, glancing from them to Mossop. ‘Good morning. Is the bar open already?’ He approached the counter, smiling diffidently at Miss Pink. ‘I’ll have a gin and Italian, landlord.’

  He was middle-aged with florid but aquiline features, dark eyes and very thick iron-grey hair, cut short and curling close to his scalp. He spoke with a trace of accent which Miss Pink could not identify but which she thought was not European. He was
short and powerful with wide shoulders and narrow hips flattered by a beautifully tailored grey suit and navy silk shirt. His shoes were hand-made and when he paid for his drink there was a glimpse of a thin gold watch on a crocodile strap.

  Mossop looked at the man’s eyes. ‘This is Mr Cole,’ he said warily, ‘Miss Pink and Mr Rumney.’

  ‘Not Ezekiel Rumney?’ He was delighted. ‘From Sandale House? But this is splendid! I have to see you. At your convenience, of course.’

  Rumney, who was used to meeting all kinds of people, particularly in the summer, was not surprised, only a trifle disconcerted, but that was because his mind was still on sheep.

  ‘I’m a photo-journalist.’ The man produced a card and handed it to Miss Pink. ‘Environmental. I’m working for the David Ramet Institute of Environmental Studies.’ He paused, raised his eyebrows at her but she was reading the card which said: ‘Daniel S. Cole. Photo-journalist’. There was a Hampstead address and telephone number. ‘You’ve never heard of it,’ he said politely, ‘no one has; it’s an American organisation and they commission books on conservation: beautiful productions on rain forests, vanishing apes, the Danube marshes—you know the kind of thing: very lavish, superb pictures, printed in Italy.’ He coughed delicately. ‘I’m only the small fry, of course.’

  ‘What’s brought you to Sandale?’ Rumney asked.

  ‘Vernacular architecture, sir!’ His face lit up with enthusiasm, and gold fillings flashed. Miss Pink’s brain worried away at the accent: Egyptian? Syrian?

  ‘. . . not concerned only with externals,’ he was babbling on, ‘but interiors too: spice cupboards, stone stairways, spinning galleries.’

  ‘You’ve come to the wrong place,’ Rumney told him, ‘the spinning galleries are at Hartsop.’

  ‘I’ll go there too. But Sandale House is seventeenth century, isn’t it?’

  ‘And Thornbarrow. That’s next door. Then there’s—’ Rumney glanced at Miss Pink.

  ‘Yes?’ Cole hung on the other’s words.

  ‘A longhouse.’

  ‘Not a longhouse! Unspoiled? No picture windows or central heating, an open fire?’

  ‘It’s got an iron cooking range.’

  ‘Well, they have their own charm.’ He was disappointed but he rallied. ‘When can I see these places? I may see them, mayn’t I?’

  Rumney nodded glumly. Cole sensed a lack of enthusiasm and turned to Miss Pink as an ally. ‘It’s the epitome of Lakeland,’ he insisted, ‘the low flat fields, the stone walls, woods, mountains. . . . Mr Mossop says there are mountains when the mist rises.’ He glanced out of the window at the rain driving down the valley again. ‘Oh dear, there’s no light.’

  ‘How long are you staying?’ Miss Pink asked.

  ‘That’s immaterial, dear lady; my employers are very rich.’ His gaze sharpened as he turned back to the window. ‘Some sun, and drifting rain showers . . . the grass is still green . . . those grey rocks. . . . Would you care to see some of my work?’ He was poised to dart away: not a light man but highly mobile.

  ‘I’d like to, but—’ as he made a movement, ‘—I have a call to make. Later today perhaps?’

  *

  Rumney and Miss Pink drove away from Storms in silence. It was she who spoke first.

  ‘Do I run you back to Sandale—or—?’ She drew to a halt in the drive out of sight of the hotel.

  ‘Or what?’

  She turned and looked at him. ‘The police?’

  He considered. ‘What would they do?’

  ‘Look for the killer.’

  ‘They’re supposed to be doing that now. Would they thank you if you told them this story? You’re basing the theory of Peta being killed in the bar on the priest and that gap in the curtains: that someone saw her drinking alone and persuaded her to open the front door. Won’t the police be working on that line, now that they’ve let Mossop go?’

  ‘The police don’t know that she was killed in the bar. I’m afraid that if we go to them, they’ll pull Mossop in again.’

  ‘And you think he didn’t do it.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have left the priest there, Zeke; at least he’d have wiped it.’

  ‘Won’t the police think that way?’

  They regarded each other. ‘All right,’ she said heavily, ‘we’ll leave it for the moment, but are other people at risk?’

  ‘Mossop’s fairly safe with Mr Cole around.’ He snorted. ‘A formidable fellow, that; what did you make of him?’

  ‘Where does he come from? What’s his accent?’

  ‘Greek? Rumanian?’

  ‘Farther away than that. It’s an odd coincidence that he should show up at this moment. He could have come here with an entirely different assignment from what he claims.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Why, the murder. An illustrated feature on the murder of a girl in a remote Lakeland dale would go down well with Paris-Match or Oggi.’

  ‘But he’d never stay with Mossop!’

  ‘Where else?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’d better get back. Will you run me home? I want to get Coneygarth secured.’

  As they drove up the lane he said: ‘Mossop went to pieces. He must have thought over what you said yesterday and come to the conclusion that you knew a great deal more than you do. I’ve never seen him so rattled. It shook him rigid to see you again, didn’t it? And then, your returning with me: he knew it was something important. He told you too much yesterday, he knew he didn’t stand a chance of bluffing you today. You meant business. He’s in an awkward position despite what you say about that priest. He could be a very subtle fellow, you know, and not a rather stupid one as you think.’

  *

  Sarah Noble was alone at High Hollins, Noble having gone next door to the Brights. He was expected back for lunch so Miss Pink hadn’t much time. She declined a drink and they studied each other, the one quite gentle, the other on her guard.

  Miss Pink asked: ‘Have you any idea who is blackmailing you?’

  Sarah answered predictably: ‘What makes you think I’m being blackmailed, dear?’

  ‘It started in September, not June, so it’s been going on for two to three months. How much have you paid to date?’

  Sarah looked round the room. ‘A hundred pounds,’ she said in a flat voice.

  ‘Who’s behind it?’

  ‘Do you know the reason for it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve got no proof.’

  ‘Someone has.’

  Sarah shuddered. Miss Pink said kindly: ‘At the worst, it would be brought in as manslaughter.’

  ‘How many years does that mean?’

  ‘Three, perhaps. Extenuating circumstances would help, with a good lawyer.’

  ‘How did you know there were extenuating circumstances?’ Miss Pink said nothing. ‘How much do you know?’ There was a frantic gleam in her eyes as Sarah wondered if she were being bluffed.

  ‘You hit a hiker on Storms’ bend in September and he died.’

  The little old face crumpled and the bloodshot eyes shifted as she thought about a drink, a cigarette, escape, until they came back to Miss Pink and Sarah started to talk, haltingly and then with relief.

  ‘I wasn’t drinking so much in the summer. God, that’s an age ago! The time’s been so long since. I was sinking a good bit in the evenings though, and one night, this Friday night, I was watching telly, and there was a play: about a married man and a young girl, a tart. . . . Denis was running after Peta then, you see. I didn’t mind Lucy, I like Lucy—’ she smiled weakly, ‘—I’m an old woman and she relieves me of responsibilities; she’s a convenient fixture in our lives, and safe.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘But then Peta came along; she was neurotic, selfish, greedy. I was afraid he might go off with her. I thought I’d put a stop to it—suddenly, on the evening I was watching this play. I’d lost sight of the fact that he wouldn’t be with Lucy on a Friday now that he was having an affair with Peta, and I phoned Lucy. I suddenly wan
ted him home; I wanted to have it out with him. I could make him see sense quite easily; I have the money. I rang Lucy and she said he wasn’t there but he was at Storms. At the hotel! So I—’ She trailed off. ‘This is ghastly,’ she whispered.

  ‘Why did you take the car?’

  Sarah looked at her in surprise. ‘But I was too drunk to walk, dear. I took the car. You know the rest.’

  ‘It might help if you told me.’

  The other nodded. ‘Three years, you said; well, it won’t—it can’t be as bad as the last two months. And I might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. What a proverb for this country! So—the hiker must have been going up to Storms and he was on my side of the road with his back to me. They said afterwards that he was wearing a dark anorak and dark jeans, and my eyes aren’t good at night. I saw him at the last moment and I swerved. There was a bump: far worse than hitting a sheep, more like a crash. I turned in Storms’ gateway and went back and shone the headlights on him. He was quite dead. I came home to ring the police but I had to have a drink first and then I realised that no one had seen it happen, nobody knew except me. So I didn’t ring them.’

  ‘Who mended the car?’

  ‘Mossop got rid of it for me.’

  ‘Ah. And sold you a new one?’

  ‘Second-hand. I paid him five hundred pounds over the cost of the one he brought back—from Newcastle.’

  ‘What happened to the damaged car?’

  ‘He told me they cut it up.’

  ‘Fragmented. How soon did the blackmail start?’

  ‘I had a letter about two weeks afterwards. It said he—the writer—was sorry about the accident—accident was spelt with two “d”s—and that I should have twenty pounds ready and he’d telephone.’

  ‘You said it was semi-literate.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘The spelling was poor, and some nouns began with a capital—like “car” and “pound”. He said pound in the singular. It was signed “A Watcher” with a capital “W”, I remember.’ Her eyes dilated.

  ‘What was the writing like?’

  ‘A sloping forward script difficult to read; it was all strokes. He also said I wouldn’t hear from him again; I suppose he meant after I’d paid the twenty pounds. He said, “I am a lad of my word.” It was vile.’