Malice On The Moors (13 page)

Powell smiled benignly. “Mr. Curtis, I presume? My name's Powell. I believe you spoke to my colleague, Detective-Sergeant Evans.”

If Powell had been hoping for a reaction, he was not disappointed. Curtis's demeanor changed instantly.

“I do apologize, Mr. Powell. We've been having problems with poachers lately. I was down the road spreading
grit when I heard the warning gun go off and naturally assumed…”

“No harm done,” Powell said crisply. He declined to point out that he might well have crippled himself as a result of Curtis's booby trap. “But now that you're here,” he said, “I would like to have a word, if it's convenient?”

Curtis looked mildly relieved. He broke open his gun and laid it on the seat of the Land Rover. He reached into his right pocket for a set of keys. “Why don't we go inside?” he said.

Powell looked at the gamekeeper across the table. “And you're absolutely certain you didn't hear a sound out of Mr. Dinsdale?”

“Not until I decided to make the rounds. It wasn't until I got to within a few yards of his shooting butt that I heard him sort of groaning, like.” Curtis shook his head. “If I'd only checked on him earlier, maybe things would have ended up differently…”

“Go on.”

Curtis took a deep breath. “I called his name, but he didn't answer. Then I walked around to the back and saw him lying there. It was bloody gruesome, I can tell you. I was about to see if there was anything I could do for him—” he swallowed hard “—when I saw the snake. It was in the corner of the butt near his—near his outstretched hand. I reacted instinctively, I guess, and blew the bloody thing's head off.”

“Witnesses heard two shots…” Powell observed.

Curtis nodded. “I wanted to make sure.”

“At any point did you touch Mr. Dinsdale?”

“No—no, I don't think so. I can't really remember.”

“I'm curious, Mr. Curtis. Had you ever seen an adder before?”

“I've seen the odd one sunning itself on the moor.”

“Do you remember what happened next?”

Curtis frowned. “It's all a bit of a blur. I remember standing there, just bloody shaking. I have this thing about snakes,” he explained. “The next thing I remember is Katie Elger appearing out of nowhere. I was sick after that and don't remember much else. Sorry.”

Powell smiled reassuringly. “I understand you got on well with your employer.”

“He was a progressive man and he appreciated my ideas. He expressed his confidence in me by appointing me head keeper.” It sounded like he was giving an acceptance speech.

“I thought it had something to do with the protest,” Powell said.

Curtis stiffened. “Yeah, well, that was just the final straw. Mr. Dinsdale had warned Harry about the protest; he should have been able to head it off.”

“Stumpy Macf arlane is a pretty sophisticated operator.”

“Whatever. The fact is, old Harry is past it and should have retired years ago,” Curtis said coldly.

“You're aware that the local police view Mr. Dins-dale's death as suspicious?”

Curtis nodded soberly.

“Can you think of anyone who might have borne a grudge against him?”

Curtis hesitated. “I suppose it's no secret that Mr. Dinsdale tended to rub some people the wrong way. Like I said, he had a lot of new ideas for Blackamoor and
people around here tend to be fairly conservative. But I can't think of anyone who disliked him
that
much.”

“What about Harry Settle?”

“Old Harry's basically harmless.”

“And Stumpy?”

“I wouldn't put anything past that bastard, but it wouldn't make a lot of sense, would it? His way of getting back at Mr. Dinsdale was to drag his good name through the tabloids.”

“Ah, yes, that reminds me. You were there on August twelfth. Perhaps you can tell me exactly what happened between Stumpy and Mr. Dinsdale?”

Curtis folded his arms and stared defiantly at Powell. “I didn't see a bloody thing.”

When Powell reached the bottom of Blackamoor Bank he decided on the spur of the moment to follow up on Sarah's visit to the Settles. He crossed the beck and turned into the lane leading to the Settles' cottage. He urged his Triumph along carefully between the ruts and through several mud puddles. As he drew up in front of the cottage yard, a graying, barrel-shaped man, with a black Lab at heel, walked across the yard to meet him.

Powell climbed out of his car and introduced himself. “Mr. Settle, I'm here to ask you a few more questions.”

“Oh, aye?” Settle said gruffly. He looked like a man sentenced to be hanged.

A woman's shrill voice called from the door of the cottage. “Who's there, Harry?”

“Never mind, woman!” Settle shouted. Then he stood there, shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. The mud beneath his boots made a queer sucking sound.

Powell smiled. “I see you're raising pheasants, Mr. Settle. Would you mind if I had a look around?”

Settle grunted in a noncommittal manner then turned and trudged across the yard towards the pens in back of the cottage. Powell followed him. By the time they got there, the dog, which had run on ahead, was sniffing eagerly at the enclosing wire mesh of the nearest pen. The milling flock of pheasants, mostly gaudy cocks, clucked and bobbed their heads nervously, ebbing away from the intruders like a green, red, and bronze tide. A few birds flushed wildly and flew with clattering wings to the far end of the pen. There were three pens, the sides and tops enclosed with wire-mesh netting, separated by low privet hedges, each about fifty feet wide and two hundred feet long.

“How many birds do you have here, Mr. Settle?” Powell asked with interest.

“Couple thousand,” Settle muttered.

“That seems like quite a few.”

“Not like t' old days,” the old gamekeeper said grudgingly. “Used to release upwards of fifteen thousand birds on t' estate.”

Powell whistled.

“Those were t' grand days,” Settle continued, warming to his subject now. “Old Mr. Dinsdale used to bring 'is friends up from Leeds and Sheffield and Newcastle after t' grouse was over. ? used to like takin' t' high birds, did Mr. Dinsdale.”

“I imagine things have changed quite a bit since then,” Powell ventured.

“Didn't have electric hens for one thing,” Settle said.

“Hatched t' chicks natural like and had less disease because of it.” He looked forlornly at the bobbing birds. “Don't know what we'll do with 'em now.”

“Did young Mr. Dinsdale like his pheasants high, as well?” Powell asked.

Settle's expression darkened. “That one didn't know if 'e was comin' or going alf t' time. Ran t' estate into t' bloody ground, 'e did. Just didn't 'ave a 'ead for it. Always cookin' up some 'alf-arsed scheme.”

“What kind of schemes, Mr. Settle?”

Settle muttered something unintelligible. Powell gathered from his diatribe that, unlike his former under-keeper, Mick Curtis, the old gamekeeper was not one for the progressive ideas. Time now to change tacks. “I was up on East Moor to have a look at the shooting butts this morning,” he began, “and I was wondering about something. Who determines which gun gets which butt?”

“Each butt 'as a number. You draw numbers for t' startin' positions, then t' guns move up two butts for each drive.”

“I see. Is that the way it was done for the farmers' shoot?”

“The guns drew for positions in t' mornin', but we only got one drive in. After lunch we switched places. Mr. Dinsdale 'ad already taken 'is place in t' end butt—he allus liked it best—so the rest of us drew for t' other ones.”

“Why did he prefer that particular butt?”

Settle screwed up his face and spat. “T' birds like to hug t' drop-off into Rosedale. ? reckoned 'e got better shootin' in t' end butt.”

“Since Mr. Dinsdale was shooting in the afternoon, I
assume he was one of the beaters, along with you and the others, on the morning shoot?”

“? weren't there in t' mornin'. Turned up at t' shootin' box just afore lunch.”

“I see. Mr. Settle, would you be so kind as to write down the names of the beaters in the afternoon?” Powell produced his notebook and pen then, flipping to a back page, handed them to Settle.

The gamekeeper painstakingly wrote down eight names and returned the notebook and pen to Powell.

“Thank you, Mr. Settle. You've been most helpful.”

A flicker of relief crossed Settle's face.

“There is one more thing. Sergeant Evans felt that you wanted to tell her something yesterday, but you seemed reluctant for some reason. I think it would be best if you told me now.”

Settle stared stolidly at his boots and said nothing.

Powell held his breath. The seconds stretched out like an emotional trip wire. There was a sudden explosion of wings as a pheasant took off, causing Powell to start.

Settle looked up. “Aye,” he said slowly, “it's been eatin' away at me, right enough.” Then he turned abruptly. “Over here, lad.” He led Powell to a small wooden shed with a padlocked door. “It's where I keep t' poisons locked up,” he said. “About a week before Mr. Dinsdale's death, someone broke in—prised off t' hasp. I didn't think much of it at t' time. Nowt seemed to be missin'. Reckoned it was just kids.”

“What kind of poisons?” Powell asked sharply. Settle's words had surged through him like an electric current.

Settle seemed taken aback by Powell's change of tone. “Pesticides. Chemical for t' sheep dip, weed killer for
t' bracken.” He scratched his head. “Rat poison. Sprays for t' wife's roses.”

“Do you mind if I have a look inside?” Powell asked.

Settle extracted a cluster of keys from his trouser pocket, opened the lock, and removed it from the hasp. Then he swung open the door, stepped into the shed, and switched on the light. Powell followed him. The shed was approximately eight feet by ten feet in size with a dirt floor, windowless, and illuminated by a single naked lightbulb. Bags of fertilizer were stacked in a double row along the left side, the back wall was cluttered with gardening tools, and on a wooden shelf running along the right wall at about shoulder height was a neatly arranged collection of bottles, tins, and cartons. Beneath the shelf on the floor were several larger canisters and a tangle of hoses and spray nozzles.

Powell went over to the shelf and perused the labels. It was enough to make Rachel Carson spin in her grave: Bugs Begone, Kill-O-Weed, Rat-Ex, and numerous others. Nothing like the healthy lifestyle in the unspoiled British countryside. “Are you absolutely certain that nothing was taken, Mr. Settle?”

Settle shrugged. “Not as far as I can tell.”

“But you'd have no way of knowing if someone took some pesticide from one of the containers?”

The gamekeeper shook his head.

Powell sighed. “Does anyone else have a key?”

“Just Mick, but like I said, whoever broke in didn't use a key.”

Powell removed one of the bottles from the shelf and looked at the label. “What kind of license do you need to use this stuff?”

“Don't need one if you're usin' it on your own or your employer's property.”

“Really?” Powell was mildly surprised. He replaced the bottle. “Right. I want to make a list of everything here. Give me a hand, would you?”

They went to work, Settle laboriously reading the label on each container and Powell copying down the product name and list of ingredients.

Twenty minutes later they emerged from the shed. Settle relocked the door then turned to face Powell.

“Why did you decide to tell me about this, Mr. Settle?”

The old gamekeeper set his jaw grimly. “I saw Mr. Dinsdale up on t' East Moor before he died …” He paused significantly. “If you're wantin' my opinion, Chief Superintendent, it weren't no snake what was ailin' im.”

CHAPTER 12

When Powell got back to the Lion and Hippo in the midafternoon, there was no sign of Sarah Evans, so he wandered into the pub for a quick sandwich. He inquired after Mrs. Walker and learned that she was still “under the weather,” as Mr. Walker put it. He finished his lunch and went up to his room. He placed a call to London that occupied him for nearly half an hour. Afterward, he lay on his bed and dozed off.

He didn't awake until after six. He showered until he felt half human again and then knocked on Sarah's door, but there was no response. He found her downstairs, chatting with Mr. Walker in the otherwise empty pub.

“We didn't wake you, did we, sir?” she quipped. Then she noticed his slight limp. “What did you do to your leg?”

“It's a long story.” Powell grunted as he sat down at the bar beside her. He ordered his usual pint of Tetley's and glanced out the French doors at a bucolic sunlit view. “Order another drink and we'll go outside,” he said.

“How was your day?” he asked when they were settled on the terrace.

“Frustrating, if you must know. I managed to track down two of the farmers on our list. I'm still working on the other two. One of them, Brian Whyte, is off at a sheep sale somewhere—should be back tomorrow—and there's no sign of the other one.”

Powell tossed her a questioning look. “What do you mean, no sign of him? “

“No one seems to know where he is, not even his wife.”

“Which one is it?” he asked, trying to remember the names on the list.

“Bloke named Albert Turner.”

“Any indications?”

She shrugged. “I got the impression that he has a drinking problem and may be off on a binge.”

Powell took a sip of his beer. “You'd better follow that up. What about the two you did manage to track down?”

“Nothing of interest. They both said they weren't aware of anything amiss until they heard the shots and rushed over to Dinsdale's shooting butt.”

“What about the other one—the young lad who took Frank Elger's place?”

“He's the son of the bloke who's at the sheep sale. According to his mum, he's with his dad.”

Powell nodded. “I turned up something rather interesting at the Settles' this afternoon,” he remarked casually.

This caught her attention. “Really? What were you doing there?” A slight edge had crept into her voice.

He tried to put it as diplomatically as he could. “You
made it pretty clear that you thought the Settles were hiding something. I decided it might be useful to try a different approach. You know, sort of a good cop, bad cop thing,” he added.