Death at Hallows End (6 page)

“Yes. Joel Stonegate. Has a cottage just down the road here. Looked after by his daughter.”

“Does he come here?”

“Not often at lunchtime. But he's in the public bar most evenings. The police went to see him the day before yesterday.”

“What for?”

“Because he's the only one who saw that chap in the car, so far as anyone knows. It appears that Stonegate felt ill that afternoon and left his work about four o'clock. As he was cycling down the Church Lane that leads from Monk's Farm to the village he saw this car by the side of the road. He says the man in it was asleep. You can ask him about it tonight, if you like. He'll talk about it for hours if you let him. He's told the police and the press, so I'm sure he'll tell you. We don't get much happening round here sensation-wise.”

“You said just now the Neasts go to market at Cashford on Mondays. That's an unusual day for a market, isn't it?”

“Tradish,” said the landlord. “Cashford Market's been held on Monday for centuries, I believe. Yes, they usually go.”

“Do you know if they went that Monday?”

“I seem to remember Joel Stonegate saying so, but I can't be cert. I'm not too hot, memory-wise. But you can ask him yourself this evening.”

“Thanks. I will.”

“Take it you're CID?” said the landlord.

Carolus reflected that this was the first time anyone had made that mistake.

“No,” he said. “But I've been asked by his partner to try to find Duncan Humby, the man who has disappeared. That's what has brought me here.”

“Sort of private investigator?”

“Something like that. What can you do about some lunch?”

“Well, we're pretty slack at this time of year. I'm afraid there's not a fire in the Tudor Dining Hall. But food-wise we're all
right if you like to have it here by the fire. Fact the wife said she had something pretty delish for today.”

“That's fine. As soon as it can be managed then.”

The landlord disappeared and presently his wife, a rather sullen young woman, appeared, to lay a cloth on one of the glass-topped tables. She did not seem to enjoy her work.

“There's only sheep's hearts,” she said.

“Thank you,” Carolus smiled. “I like them very much.”

“It's a good thing you do because that's all we've got. It's no good laying a lot in at this time of year.”

“Of course not. Very kind of you.”

“You can have some soup first if you want it,” she melted sufficiently to say.

“Excellent.”

“And there's a treacle-roll for afterwards.” She was brightening rapidly. “But I don't expect you care for that.”

“I love it,” said Carolus truthfully and wondered what Mrs. Stick would say.

“Like some sprouts with your heart?”

“Thank you.”

“There's a nice Stilton, too.”

“It's a banquet,” Carolus told her.

“I knew there'd be suffish,” put in the landlord. “Catering-wise the wife's terrif, really. Only she doesn't shout about it.”

“No, and I don't call a twelve-by-twelve little dining-room the Tudor Hall and then have to ask people to eat in the Saloon. And I don't put up a notice saying lunch being served now, when there's not a soul in the house,” she retorted, her irritation returning with a rush.

As she went out, the landlord grinned at Carolus.

“That's the way they are,” he said. “But I don't expect I have to tell you that. Woman-wise I bet you're pretty expier.”

I
T WAS A COLD AND
gloomy afternoon of low clouds and a threat of rain when Carolus left the Falstaff Hotel and took the road to Hallows End. He wanted to have a look round the village and the road to Monk's Farm before meeting any of the people with whom he intended eventually to become acquainted.

The road was not wide and its many curves were not made easier to take by the high hedges which ran on each side of it. But he passed nothing except a small farm lorry, which obligingly pulled hard in and waved him past. Even so, it took some twelve minutes to cover the four miles.

The village, when he reached it, appeared to be a rather dreary collection of small houses with one or two larger ones hiding behind dense shrubs. It had an overgrown and neglected look and its streets were almost empty of pedestrians. There was a pub, the Ploughman, and a few shops, including a post office, general store, a butcher's and a family grocer's, all of which would have benefited from a coat of paint. No church was visible and if the Rectory was here, it was indistinguishable from other larger houses.

However, he decided not to spend time on enquiries at the moment but to take the road out to Monk's Farm, the road beside which Duncan Humby's car had been found. He had to ask the way to this and stopped beside a gnomish little man
hobbling along with a twisted stick, a de la Mare creature with sharp eyes under thick brows.

“Monk's Farm?” the gnome said. “What you going there for?” Amused, Carolus told him he had business.

“Oh,” said the gnome and stared at him without giving any information.

“Could you…”

“You going to see those Neasts?”

“Yes,” said Carolus, without impatience.

“Queer lot,” said the little man and stared again.

“The same road leads to the church, doesn't it?”

“Church is beyond the farm. I don't know whether you'll find those Neasts about up there. Police have been to see them.”

“I can try,” said Carolus, “if you'll tell me …”

“They've just lost one of their men. Old Harold Rudd. Lived in a cottage near the churchyard. Died over at Swanwick in the Ospittle. His old woman's still in the cottage.”

“Really? Which way do I go?”

“Those Neasts have just come into a lot of money from their uncle.”

“Yes. I know. Is this the road to their farm?”

“He was Took too. Funny, isn't it? Just after old Harold Rudd. Then there's this fellow disappeared.”

“Quite. If I drive…”

“They don't know where he is and I don't suppose they ever will.”

“You don't? Perhaps you know where his car was found?”

“I know all right. Just opposite where there's three elms standing together on the road to the farm.”

“But which
is
the road to the farm?”

“That's where they found his car. But they can't find him. How could he have got away from there without anyone seeing him? That's what I want to know.”

Carolus resigned himself.

“Is it a big farm?” he asked.

“Not extra. They pulled the old house down years ago. Otherwise it would have fallen down. Rotten all through, they said. Neasts built themselves a bungalow when they came here.”

There was a pause and Carolus made a last desperate attempt.

“You said the road …”

“I didn't say nothing about it. But no more did you say what you wanted up there. Still, I'll tell you. Keep on down here for a bit and you'll see it turn off to the right. It's got a notice up Church Lane. Take that and you'll come to it. Not more'n a mile away. You pass my cottage on the way. The only house you do pass. I've lived up Church Lane for years.”

“Thanks,” said Carolus and drove on.

He found the turning. The road here was truly narrow but after a few hundred yards broadened slightly. He looked out for the three elms standing together and, when he was approaching them, stopped.

Yes, it was possible for a car to be in to the side here and for another car to pass it. But only just. If Duncan Humby was still at the wheel of his car when it stopped here, he must have deliberately pulled it in to leave room for others. There was no sign of any wheel tracks on the grass edges, but that meant nothing, for it had rained since. If there had been anything of the sort, presumably the police would have seen it when they were first informed. He was accustomed to coming too late into an investigation for that sort of evidence and knew that it was not, in any case, his strong point.

He drove on. When he first saw the house at Monk's Farm, he thought that if the old character in the village had not told him that it was a bungalow he would never have recognised it as a farmhouse at all. It was large as bungalows
go, but shoddy-looking and bare, with no attempt at a garden about it. It had the ugliness of a blatantly new building set in otherwise unspoiled surroundings. It was some distance from the farm buildings which were farther down the road, so that it was necessary, presumably, for the brothers to come out of their silly little front gate and walk a few hundred yards on the tarmac road every time they wished to reach the fine old buildings of the farm, which were unspoiled by corrugated iron.

Carolus took this in as he passed slowly on his way to the church that he could see ahead. It was a surprisingly fine Norman building, and, like so many churches in the eastern counties, far too large for its present parish. As he approached it, he saw ahead of him a small clerical figure on a bicycle. They reached the church's gate at the same moment and smiled at each other.

“Come to see the church?” said the Rector, a rotund and cheerful little man in his forties.

“It looks very fine from the road,” said Carolus noncommittally.

“It
is
very fine,” said the Rector, who always spoke with such emphasis that he seemed to think he was giving his hearers a surprise with each new sentence. “I could sometimes wish it was not so fine and large, but a mile nearer the village. I might be able to fill it then. As it is we're lucky if we get a dozen to Mass on Sunday. But we get scores of people on weekdays coming to look at the architecture.”

“You're High Church then?” said Carolus who had no idea the Rector would not care for the expression.

“We're Catholic,” said the Rector smiling. “‘High Church' is a dated term used by Protestants and such. Like to have a look around?”

They entered the church together.

“We're particularly proud of the font,” said the Rector, waving his hand towards it. He went on to speak informatively of ecclesiastical architecture, particularly as exhibited here.

When Carolus could venture to turn the conversation, he asked if the brothers Neast were among the Rector's congregation.

“Unhappily we don't see eye to eye on a number of points. They go over to Swanwick where my colleague Sumper provides them with eleven o'clock service and all that sort of thing. I understand they are very devout in their own way, but they heartily disapprove of what they call my popish practices. The east window …”

Carolus had lost him again.

“I believe you buried one of your parishioners last Saturday,” said Carolus when there was a momentary pause.

“Yes. Poor old Rudd. A dear old sinner who never came near us though he lived a few yards away. His wife is a little better. She does sometimes turn up for Evensong. I came out this afternoon to have a look at the grave, as a matter of fact. Mrs. Rudd wants to erect quite a mausoleum over it, I gather.”

Carolus accompanied him towards the proposed site of this.

“Are you serious about a mausoleum?” he asked innocently.

“No. But it's rather a large affair of the old-fashioned slab kind which will look a bit out of place among more modest gravestones. See what you think.”

They went into the churchyard and saw a fresh grave still earth-covered.

“If I had guessed what she wanted I'd have had Rudd buried elsewhere. I hate ostentation. But farm workers are highly paid nowadays and they can afford this sort of thing. I never expected it of Annie Rudd, though.”

They reached the lych-gate.

“My Rectory is in the village. I know my wife would be delighted to give you a cup of tea if you would care to call. I'm going straight back there.”

“That's awfully kind of you, padre. I'm afraid I can't make it today, though. I have to see the Neasts.”

“Ah,” said the Rector inscrutably.

“Why is theirs called Monk's Farm?” Carolus asked.

“Because it was the monks' farm,” said the Rector with enthusiasm. “This was the church of a fair-sized abbey which was destroyed in Henry VIII's reign. The farmland stretched over the very ground the Neasts occupy now. There was a beautiful old house, I believe, but the Neasts pulled it down when they came. Or so I've been told. It was before my time.”

“They have something pretty hideous in its place.”

“It's not beautiful, is it? But I daresay more convenient. Well, I must leave you, I fear.”

They bade each other goodbye and the Rector was soon cycling vigorously homeward.

Carolus had no intention of calling on the Neasts at this point, but when the Rector was well out of sight, set out on foot for a cottage beyond the churchyard, which he presumed was Rudd's.

A knock brought a tall and powerful-looking elderly woman to the door where she stood arms akimbo.

“Mrs. Rudd?” he enquired.

“Yes.” She sounded dubious and peered at Carolus in the failing light.

“I'm a friend of the man who disappeared from his car down the lane here. I am trying to find out what has become of him,” Carolus explained.

“But whatever has that got to do with me, may I ask?” She was not hostile, but seemed genuinely puzzled.

“Nothing, I'm sure, but I thought I had better see everyone living up this lane.”

“You better come in to the fire, then. We can't stand shivering out here in this cutting wind.”

Carolus followed her into a lamplit kitchen where a coal fire burnt in the range. She told him to sit down and did so herself.

“I don't know why you should ask me,” she said. “I was too taken up with my husband's dying to know anything about it.”