Malice On The Moors (15 page)

She looked at him with those expressionless blue eyes. “I want you to know that Dickie was a frigging pervert,” she said in a voice oddly devoid of emotion. “He used to have it off, spying on me having sex with my boyfriends.”

CHAPTER 13

Robert Walker was just opening up the pub when Powell arrived back at the inn. He inquired after Sarah and learned that she had gone up to Dale End Farm. Walker seemed uncharacteristically subdued.

“Tell me, Mr. Walker, what do think of this water scheme I read about in the paper yesterday?”

“First I'd heard of it,” he said quickly. “But I wouldn't have put it past him. Flood the whole bloody dale and screw the tenants, that was his style.”

“Do you think they'll still go ahead with it?” Powell asked, testing the figurative waters.

“You tell me. Mrs. Dinsdale seems like a decent sort, but I imagine there's quite a bit of money involved…”

Powell looked puzzled. “I must admit to being a bit surprised that word of the scheme didn't leak out before this.”

Walker blinked slowly. “Yeah, well, I expect these sorts of things are kept pretty hush-hush.”

Powell wasn't convinced that Walker was being entirely
forthright. “Mr. Walker, what exactly would happen to the estate's tenants—the farmers, people in the village like yourself—if the land were to be sold?”

Walker shrugged. “There would have to be some compensation, of course, but, for most of us, it wouldn't be nearly enough to pick up and start all over again.”

“If word of Dinsdale's negotiations with the water company
had
leaked out, how do you suppose people in Brackendale would have reacted?”

“I can only speak for myself, Chief Superintendent.”

“Yes?”

Walker's expression was emotionless. “I would have done everything I could to stop him.”

Powell decided to drive up to Dale End Farm to see if he could intercept Sarah. They had much to talk about before he could finalize his plans for an excursion to York the next day. He climbed into his TR4 and turned the ignition switch. Nothing happened save an ominous and all-too-familiar
click.
He held his breath and tried it again with the same result. Cursing creatively, he put the car in gear, got out and rocked it backward and forward. He climbed back in and turned the switch.
Click.
Before he could feel too sorry for himself, he recalled the assertion of an American friend that the reason Brits drink warm beer is because the inner workings of their refrigerators are manufactured by the same firm that makes electrical parts for their cars.

The man at the garage nodded sagely. “Aye, sounds like t' starter, all right. T' worm gear's probably jammed
on t' flywheel. Any road, tomorrow's Sunday, so I won't be able to get t' parts until Monday.”

Powell sighed. It was just what he needed. “Fine. Here's the keys. Do you need a hand pushing it over here?”

The mechanic grinned toothlessly. “It's all part of t' service, sir.”

As Powell walked back to the Lion and Hippo, he wondered how much this latest chapter in the long, sorry tale of his obsession with impractical and unreliable cars was going to set him back. At the very least, he would have to alter his travel plans. When he got back to the inn, Sarah's black Vauxhall was back in the car park.

“That is a shame,” Sarah said when she heard about Powell's car. “And British racing green is such a lovely color,” she added innocently.

Powell scowled. “I'll need a lift to the train station in Malton, first thing in the morning.” He explained about his planned visit to York. “In the meantime, I've got some phone calls to make. What's on your agenda this afternoon?”

She smiled ruefully. “I'm still going through my to-do list.”

“I'm afraid I've come up with a few more things to add to it.” He smiled. “We'll have a strategy session this evening, after we've both done a proper day's work.”

Powell went up to his room, rang up Detective-Sergeant Black, and issued a series of instructions relating to Ronnie Dinsdale's London solicitor. He then managed to track down Sir Reggie in his garden in Hampstead.

“Do you realize it's a bloody weekend, Powell?” Sir Reggie thundered.

Powell could imagine Sir Reggie hurling his mobile phone into the compost heap if he wasn't handled carefully. “I do apologize, Reggie.” (The senior Home Office pathologist refused to be addressed by his title, at least by those he got on with—unlike Merriman, who reveled in his own like a dog rolling in a rotting carcass.) “I just thought I'd touch base to see if you'd given any further thought to my invitation,” Powell said casually. “I'm traveling down to York tomorrow—I could pick you up at the station. You could catch an afternoon train, if it's convenient.”

An ominous silence on the other end of the line, followed by snatches of muffled conversation then a raised feminine voice. A few moments later Sir Reggie was speaking in the manner of a conspiratorial whisper. “As a matter of fact, I
had
decided to lend a hand. I wasn't going to leave until Monday morning, but my wife has planned some infernal dinner party tomorrow evening that I'd just as soon avoid. I've told her that an emergency has arisen in connection with the case, requiring me to change my plans and leave a day early, so mum's the word, eh, Powell? I'll be on the three o'clock train.” He rang off.

Powell smiled. A personality strong enough to intimidate Sir Reggie didn't bear thinking about. Feeling at loose ends—and a trifle guilty for leaving Sarah to toil alone in the fields—he decided to spend the rest of the afternoon making inquiries around the village.

That evening, the pub was as busy as Powell had seen it. A number of couples were seated on the terrace, so Powell and Sarah Evans secluded themselves in the snug, where they might have a measure of privacy.

Sarah was warming to her subject. 'According to Katie Elger, most of the time there was some dispute going on between Dinsdale and his tenants. If he wasn't accusing someone of poaching or stealing, he was raising the rents or just generally making life difficult. Katie thinks he was trying to force the farmers off their land so he could redevelop the estate for commercial purposes. The Hull Water Corporation scheme seems to bear her theory out.”

“It's certainly consistent with what we've been hearing over and over again, which always makes me suspicious. What did her father have to say about all of this?”

“Not much.”

“Did you ask him about the afternoon of the farmers' shoot? Why he changed places with that farmer's son?”

She nodded. “It was the lad's first time, apparently. Mr. Elger was just being kind, I think.”

Powell grunted neutrally. “Did he mention seeing or hearing anything unusual?”

“From what I've been able to gather so far, the beaters remained in position on the moor during the critical period. The idea was that as soon as the fog lifted they'd be able to start the drive quickly. They would have been thirty or forty yards apart, out of sight of each other, and at least a quarter mile in front of the butts. Mr. Elger says he heard the two shots and wondered about it at the time but didn't do anything. He said that he heard some of the other beaters talking back and forth about it.”

“Do you know if he talked to any of the other beaters?”

“He says they met briefly as a group when Mick Curtis dropped them off at the starting point after lunch and again afterward when Harry Settle showed up to tell them what had happened to Dinsdale. So far, I've managed to track down three of the other beaters and they all tell basically the same story.”

“So it's possible that any one of them could have been just about anywhere at the critical time?”

Sarah frowned. “I suppose.”

Powell emptied his pint. “Any news of our missing farmer?”

She shook her head. “I've asked around; apparently it's not the first time he's gone off on a bender for a few days.”

Powell grunted. “My round, I think.” He returned in a few moments with another pint and a glass of white wine. “You know what puzzles me about this business, Sarah?”

“What's that?”

“That someone didn't do for old Dickie a long time ago. The only person I've met so far who's had a good word to say about him is Mick Curtis, and that's only because Curtis was rewarded by Dinsdale at Harry Settle's expense. Not only was Dinsdale a mean-spirited, incompetent Peeping Tom, it now comes to light that he was making plans to destroy half of Brackendale and a traditional way of life, for his own profit.”

“Charming character,” Sarah remarked.

“Furthermore, a storeroom containing a plethora of toxic pesticides is broken into a week before Dinsdale
dies of suspicious symptoms that resemble poisoning. Up on the moor in the fog where no one knows where the hell anyone else is. It's just too bloody perfect.”

Sarah frowned. “If it hadn't been for the adder, I'd be inclined to agree with you.”

He looked at her.
“Latet anguis in herba,”
he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Virgil. Beware the snake in the grass.”

Sarah raised a suspicious eyebrow. “This isn't the first time you've spoken to me in a dead language. I'm beginning to wonder about you.”

“A vestige of the education I spent so much of my life acquiring in order to prepare myself for a life as a copper.”

She laughed then took a sip of her wine. “What's next?”

“I've asked Bill Black to look up Ronnie Dinsdale's solicitor in London. Felicity let his name slip. Evidently, Mrs. Dinsdale used to be his secretary. I'm interested in the content of old Dinsdale's will. For instance, who inherits the estate now that his son is dead? His lawyer doesn't have to tell us anything, of course, but I'm hoping he'll be cooperative. Secondly, I've got great hopes for Sir Reggie. If we can just nail down whether Dinsdale was poisoned…”

“And for me?”

“Carry on with your list of witnesses. And you can add one more name to it: Francesca, the dark-eyed servant at Blackamoor Hall. She's constantly skulking around in the background looking guilty about something. Find out if she knows anything. And, oh yes, I'd like you to
make some inquires about Felicity Jamieson. I get the impression that she, er, rather likes to put it about a bit.”

Sarah shook her head in disbelief. “Why is a woman who likes the company of men always characterized as some sort of tart? If it's a man playing the field, he's just being a lad, isn't he? Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.”

“Ouch! I simply wish to explore the possibility that one of her boyfriends may have objected to her stepbrother's penchant for watching, that's all.”

Sarah blushed. “Sorry, I should have thought of that.”

Powell laughed. “Chalk it up to experience.” He got up and picked up their glasses.

She looked doubtful. “What time did you say you wanted to leave tomorrow?”

“It's Saturday night!” Powell protested. “Just one more for the road?”

She smiled at him. “All right.”

Sitting in this fine public house with a highly agreeable companion, and viewing the world through an imperfect filter of best Yorkshire bitter, it was easy enough to forget that his wife was planning to abandon him for a year, not to mention the fact that the person he despised most in the entire Metropolitan Police Service was poised to take over the top job. Why shouldn't he let his hair down once in a while? He watched Sarah sipping her wine and wondered what she was thinking. “Penny for your thoughts,” he said, as precisely as he could manage it.

“I was just wondering if you had any words of wisdom for someone like me who's just starting out.”

He wagged his finger reprovingly. “Shop talk.”

She smiled ruefully. “Guilty as charged.”

“Words of wisdom? Let me see…” He thought about it for a moment. “The world,” he said presently, “is an unbearably sad place for a policeperson.”

She eyed him warily, not knowing whether he was serious. “A policeperson?”

He stared into his glass. “I started writing a novel, you know. I met a writer recently who inspired me to try my hand at it.” He looked up at her. “I suppose I felt the need to do something creative, to leave something behind a little more enduring than a legacy of departmental memoranda detailing the pros and cons of the latest reorganization proposal or something equally inane.”

“I think I get the idea,” she said wryly.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I started writing this novel. After I'd roughed out the first few chapters, I made the mistake of letting someone whose opinion I value have a look at it. You know what she said?”

“What?”

“She said it read like it was written by someone who'd learned their English from P. G. Wodehouse.” He screwed up his face. “The thing is, I didn't know whether to take it as a criticism or a compliment.”

Sarah burst out laughing. “What's it about, this book of yours?”

Powell sighed. “Water under the bridge.”

“Come on,” she teased, “you can tell me.”

“That's what it's about. How you can't turn back the clock. How our individual lives are simply a microcosm of the larger expanding universe.”

She shook her head in amazement. “What made you decide to become a cop, anyway?”