Malice On The Moors (11 page)

“What about Mrs. Dinsdale?”

“The exact opposite. Although she's originally from London, she fit right into the country life: secretary of the local hunt club, keen gardener and birder—that sort of thing. Much like her husband.”

“You seem to know her quite well,” Powell observed.

Braughton rubbed his hand over the top of his head. “Not really.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have had it in for him?”

“You're asking the wrong person.”

Powell scrutinized Braughton closely. “What do you think happened to him?”

“I think a snake killed him,” the inspector said slowly. “End of story.”

CHAPTER 9

Sarah Evans eventually located the gamekeeper's cottage about half a mile north of the village. At the point where the road turned sharply east to cross over the River Merlin, a rough road, made muddy from the recent rain, took off to the left towards a cluster of buildings set on the bank of the river. A small faded sign affixed to the corner of the stone wall at the turning simply stated
ROSE COTTAGE. AS
Sarah's car lurched along the track, the wheels churning and slipping through the miniature lakes that had formed in the potholes, she had visions of getting stuck and having to get pulled out. Not an auspicious start to an official visit.

She eventually made it, however, and pulled up in front of the house, a tidy stone cottage with a large garden in front that would have looked bright and cheerful on a good day, she didn't doubt, but today looked rather forlorn and dreary. A black Labrador retriever sat on the step watching her. Behind the cottage was a series of long, low pens constructed of posts and wire mesh, containing
hundreds of colorful cock pheasants. The birds milled about and clucked nervously as Sarah got out of her car. The dog began to bark halfheartedly.

As she walked up to the door of the cottage, she marveled at the bewildering variety of outbuildings, as well as the various bits of machinery, equipment, and containers scattered around the yard, the functions of which were a complete mystery to her. She was a city girl through and through and didn't mind admitting it. She cautiously held her hand out to the dog who snuffled at her with its grizzled muzzle.

An older woman opened the door. Sarah introduced herself and explained the purpose of her visit.

“You'd better come in, dear, or you'll catch your death,” Mrs. Settle said.

She escorted Sarah into a small sitting room overlooking the river. The room was rather starkly furnished with a settee, a matching wing chair, and a small coffee table. It was strangely devoid of the normal bric-a-brac and mementos one would have expected an older couple to have accumulated over the years. A number of cardboard boxes sat on the floor.

“Please forgive the mess, Miss Evans. The moving van will be here next week,” Mrs. Settle said by way of explanation. “You 'ave a seat and I'll get us a nice cup of tea.”

Sarah smiled. “I'd like nothing better, Mrs. Settle.” After her hostess left the room, Sarah had a look around. She glanced into one of the open boxes and was surprised to see a photo of a smiling Mr. and Mrs. Walker amongst the other knickknacks. She sat down in the chair and turned to look out the window. Across the river she could make out some red-roofed farm buildings,
indistinct in the mist. Dale End Farm? she wondered abstractedly. She knew she should remain emotionally detached, but she felt sorry for the Settles. Mr. Settle losing his job and being forced to leave his home after all these years, because of a silly protest that had been beyond the former gamekeeper's power to prevent. And with Dinsdale dead, the whole thing now seemed so unnecessary. But the die had been cast, she supposed, and—

Her thoughts were interrupted by the return of Mrs. Settle who was accompanied by a heavyset, stolid-looking man with thinning gray hair.

“Now, don't get up, dear,” Mrs. Settle admonished. “This is my husband, Harry. Harry, I'd like you to meet Sergeant Evans. She's a detective from Scotland Yard,” she added significantly.

Sarah smiled and exchanged greetings with Mr. Settle. She attempted to make small talk as Mrs. Settle arranged the tea things and a plate of homemade shortbread on the coffee table. When everything was to her liking, Mrs. Settle nestled on the settee beside her husband.

Sarah was wondering how to handle the potentially delicate subject of the Settles' present situation during the interview. Best to get it over with and clear the air, she decided. She took out her notebook and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “Mr. Settle, I understand that you were head keeper at Blackamoor until recently.”

Settle's expression darkened. “That's so.”

“I'd like to ask you some questions about what happened on September thirteenth of this year, the day of the farmers' shoot.”

“Oh, aye?” he rumbled.

“I understand that you were present on East Moor that day.”

He grunted in what she took as the affirmative. Mr. Settle was clearly a man of few words.

“Were you still employed by the estate at that time?”

“Nay.”

“When did you leave the employ of the estate, Mr. Settle?”

“End of August.”

“Would you mind telling me why you left?”

“I bloody quit,” Settle said with uncharacteristic emotion in his voice.

Sarah drew a mental breath. “Why did you quit, Mr. Settle?”

With obvious reluctance, he recounted what had happened on August twelfth: the protest by the group of antis, how Dickie Dinsdale had blamed him for it and then humiliated him by giving his job to his former assistant, Mick Curtis.

“It was worse than sackin' im outright,” Mrs. Settle piped in. “Rubbin' my Harry's nose in it like that.” She shook her head disgustedly. “Mick Curtis, of all people! That one doesn't know which way is up, Miss Evans!”

Sarah nodded sympathetically. “I'd like to return now to the day of the farmers' shoot, Mr. Settle. Could you tell me what happened, starting from the beginning?”

Settle didn't speak for a few moments, as if he were organizing his thoughts. “It was right foggy that day,” he began slowly. “Worst I'd seen it this season. There were fifteen of us, sixteen including Mr. Dinsdale. We managed
to get one drive in in t' morning. We broke for lunch around noon and returned to t' shootin' box.”

“Who was there at the shooting box, Mr. Settle?” Sarah asked.

“Every one that was on t' moor that mornin'. The missus—” he glanced at his wife “—and Katie Elger were servin' lunch.”

“Katie doesn't like shootin',” Mrs. Settle commented.

Sarah nodded. “The results of the postmortem indicate that Mr. Dinsdale had been drinking before his death…” She left it open.

Settle scowled. “T' bugger was always drinkin'.”

“You shouldn't speak ill of t' dead, Harry!” Mrs. Settle admonished.

Mr. Settle muttered something under his breath.

“Did you see him drinking that day?” Sarah persisted.

“Aye, he had his share of wine at lunch, I reckon.”

“What about other times—during the shooting, for instance?”

“I didn't notice, but he usually carried a flask with whisky in it.”

“Would you say he was drunk?”

“No more than usual.”

“Right, then. What happened after lunch?”

“We went back up on t' East Moor and—”

Sarah looked up from her notebook. “Sorry, East Moor is to the east of Blackamoor Rigg Road, right?”

Settle nodded.

“Please continue.”

Settle scratched his head thoughtfully. “T' fog was showin' no sign of lettin' up, so we just stayed in t' butts
waitin' for a break. It must of been about a half hour or so when I 'eard two gunshots and then a great bloody kerfuffle comin' from t' far end of t' line of butts. I got down there as fast as I could and found everyone standin' around Mr. Dinsdale.” He paused. “It weren't a pleasant sight,” he said simply.

“Tell me exactly what you saw, Mr. Settle.”

“Mr. Dinsdale lyin' on t' ground, twitchin' summat terrible, 'e was. Katie Elger kneelin' down beside 'im. The rest of t' guns standin' around. Mick Curtis pukin is guts up. And t' bloody adder.” His face tightened.

“Had Mr. Dinsdale been unwell any time up to that point?” Sarah asked.

Settle looked at her with an odd expression on his face. “What do you mean, unwell?”

Sarah shrugged easily. “I understand he had asthma; I was just wondering if he'd had an attack that day, that's all.”

“Oh, that. He was always huffin' and puffin', but no more than usual, I reckon.”

“You're sure?”

“Aye.”

She paused briefly to gather her thoughts. “I want to make sure I've got this straight. You said that there were sixteen of you on the shoot, including Mr. Dinsdale. How many butts are there again?”

“Eight on East Moor,” Settle answered.

“So there are eight guns in the butts and eight other people driving the grouse?”

Settle nodded. “Except for Mr. Dinsdale. He was always a gun.”

“Who determines who's a gun and who's a driver?”

“You mean a beater, lass,” Settle corrected.

Sarah grinned. “Right.”

“We just divided ourselves up at t' beginnin' of t' day, and those that were beaters in t' mornin' got to shoot in t' afternoon.”

Sarah frowned. Something didn't add up. She mused aloud. “If Mr. Dinsdale was always shooting, there would only be seven butts available. Yet you said there were fifteen others including yourself. It seems to me that one person wouldn't get to shoot.”

“One of the farmers, Brian Whyte, brought 'is fourteen-year-old boy along. Normally 'e would have had to share a butt with 'is father in t' afternoon, but at t' last minute, one of t' others offered to give up 'is place for t' lad.”

This caught Sarah's attention. “Who was that?” she asked.

“A local farmer, name of Frank Elger.”

“Mr. Elger would have joined the beaters, then?”

He hesitated for just an instant. “Aye, that's right.”

She took a sip of her tea.

“Do have a bit of shortbread, lass,” Mrs. Settle urged.

“You won't have to twist my arm, Mrs. Settle,” Sarah replied, taking a large piece from the blue willow-patterned plate. She munched away happily for a moment, making appreciative sounds as the buttery shortbread literally melted in her mouth. She tried not to think about her waistline as she helped herself to another piece. She turned to Mr. Settle. “I've been wondering about something. Was it usual for Mr. Dinsdale to participate in the farmers' shoot?”

“It's traditional for t' landlord to 'elp out. Old Mr.
Dinsdale used to beat side-by-side with 'is tenants, but 'e'd never shoot 'imself. ? felt it was t' farmers' day to 'ave some sport.” Mr. Settle screwed up his face in disgust. “Not like 'is bloody son. I think young Mr. Dins-dale came out just to make sure that 'is tenants didn't shoot too many of 'is grouse or drink too much of 'is beer.”

“Harry!” Mrs. Settle warned.

“It's t' truth, woman!” Mr. Settle retorted.

In the interests of restoring family harmony, Sarah remarked that the rain seemed to be letting up.

Mr. Settle grunted disinterestedly. Mrs. Settle appeared to be sulking. Her ample bosom rose and fell in time to a clock that was ticking somewhere in the house.

How to broach a prickly subject? Sarah wondered. Once again, she decided it was best to damn the torpedoes. “And you, Mr. Settle,” she said, “you say you were no longer working for the estate, yet you participated in theshoot. Whyisthat?”

He gave her a look that made her feel guilty for asking the question. Before he could speak, Mrs. Settle rose to her husband's defense.

“My Harry's been runnin' t' farmers' shoot for over twenty years, ever since old Mr. Dinsdale took over t' estate. Believe me, Miss Evans, 'e 'ad to swallow 'is pride, but 'e felt it was 'is duty to 'elp out that one last time. It was like 'is retirement due, in a way.” She looked at her husband sitting beside her, her eyes moist.

Mr. Settle just stared at his large, callused hands folded on his lap.

Sarah took a deep breath. “How long have you worked as a gamekeeper, Mr. Settle?”

“Goin' on forty years now.”

“And how long at Blackamoor?”

“I started 'ere, workin' with my father when Lord Livingston owned the estate.”

“You must know these moors like the back of your hand, then.”

“Aye, I reckon.” A hint of pride in his voice.

“Have you ever heard of anyone being bitten by an adder before?”

“Beasts get bit from time to time, and a walker once on t' West Moor,” he said slowly.

“Would you say that Mr. Dinsdale's encounter with the adder was unusual in any way?”

He looked up at her. “Bloody unusual, I'd say.”

“Unusual how?” she asked.

He returned to an examination of his hands. “Never 'eard of such a thing,” he muttered.

Sarah had concluded by then that she was rapidly approaching the point of diminishing returns and was unlikely to extract any more useful information from the gamekeeper and his wife. She toyed with the idea of bringing up the photograph of the Walkers, but she didn't want the Settles to think she was a snoop. The irony of this concern did not escape her. “I won't take up any more of your time,” she said brightly, getting to her feet. “Thank you for the lovely shortbread, Mrs. Settle. I'll never be satisfied with the store-bought variety again.”

Mr. and Mrs. Settle stood up in unison and stood together awkwardly.

“Oh, there is just one more thing,” Sarah said. “If you
think of anything else, anything at all, you can get in touch with me at the Lion and Hippo.”

Mr. and Mrs. Settle glanced at each other, and Sarah could swear that a guilty look passed between them.

CHAPTER 10

“You didn't want them to think you were being nosy. That's bloody rich.” Powell chuckled. He sat with Sarah Evans on the outside terrace of the Lion and Hippo, a raised brick patio that adjoined the pub and overlooked the river. The afternoon sun had broken through the clouds and now illuminated the dale with a rich golden light.

She frowned. “You know what I mean. They've been through a lot lately, and it seemed like an invasion of privacy.”