Malice On The Moors (19 page)

“You have me convinced. What about Michael?”

“I think Michael has come to the realization that he can't spend the rest of his life lying down in front of bulldozers. He'd already decided to do a graduate degree in biology when we met, and I've had him out here to look at the farm. He seems to be impressed.”

Listening to her, Powell couldn't help but be impressed himself. “I can see why he would be,” he said. But was she being entirely forthright? “There's just one more thing, Katie. What do you know about this Hull Water Corporation business?”

“Michael told me about it.”

“Before it hit the newspapers?”

She nodded.

“Do you know how he found out about it?”

“I know all about Chloe Aldershot, if that's what you mean. It's over between Michael and her—that's all I care about.”

“I imagine you know that the protest on Dinsdale's grouse moor had nothing to do with cruelty to animals but was intended as a warning to Dinsdale to back off on the water scheme?”

“Dinsdale was willing to put half of Brackendale, including this farm, under thirty feet of water simply to line his own pockets!” Katie said fiercely. “When Michael explained the real reason for the protest, I understood why he had to do it.”

Powell persisted. “Michael told me that he had plans to escalate the campaign, to do whatever it took to stop Dinsdale. Do you have any idea what he had in mind?”

“Are you asking me if he intended to kill Dickie?” she asked indignantly.

Powell didn't think a reply was necessary.

The young woman shook her head stubbornly. “If you really knew Michael, you'd realize how absurd the suggestion is.”

Powell got to his feet. “Does your father know about you and Michael?”

She looked slightly uncomfortable. “I haven't found a way to tell him yet.”

As Powell drove back to the village through a steady drizzle, he couldn't help wondering what Lord Alder-shot's elusive daughter, Chloe the aristocratic anarchist, thought about Stumpy turning all respectable and falling for a farmer's daughter.

That evening, Powell, Sarah Evans, and Sir Reggie drove into Kirkbymoorside for dinner. Later, cozily ensconced in the bar of the King's Crown, a former seventeenth-century coaching inn presided over by a charming landlord who looked like Inspector Morse, they got down to comparing notes. Or rather Powell and Sarah compared notes. Sir Reggie—who, at irregular intervals and without any hint of a warning, sneezed explosively, causing his companions and the other unsuspecting patrons to jump—was sulking. His large red face was even redder than usual and he snuffled noisily into a damp handkerchief. “Damned weather in these parts,” he muttered.

Sarah seemed worried that Sir Reggie held her responsible for his present state. “We could have caught our death up on that moor,” she agreed with the pathologist.

“Nonsense, exposure to the elements is the best restorative for the soul,” Powell rejoined.

An ominous rumble from Sir Reggie.

She glared at Powell. “After we located Dinsdale's shooting butt, we undertook a
thorough
inspection,” she said, obviously making a point.

“Don't know how anyone could have missed it,” Sir Reggie grumbled.

“Missed what?” Powell asked, in spite of himself.

“A loose stone in the front wall of the butt about a foot above the ground,” Sarah said. “When you slide it out, there's a sort of cavity in the wall, extending back perhaps two feet.”

“This is interesting, Evans. Tell me more.”

“With the stone in place, the size of the cavity would
be about a foot wide, six inches high, and a foot and a half deep.” She paused to let this sink in. “Just about big enough for an adder to squeeze into, I expect.”

“That's just what I was thinking,” Powell said.

“There's more,” Sir Reggie interjected gruffly. “On the inside walls of this little grotto, I noticed a few small dark stains. Could be blood.”

“I've got the scene-of-crime team coming out from Pickering tomorrow to check it out,” Sarah added.

“Brilliant work, you two,” Powell pronounced. “This calls for another drink, I think.” He went up to the bar and returned with a pint for himself, a hot buttered rum for Sir Reggie, and a tonic-and-lime for Sarah, who had volunteered to be their designated driver for the evening.

“Let's say, just for the sake of argument,” Powell mused aloud, “that our hypothetical murderer managed somehow to capture an adder and keep it imprisoned in the wall of the butt until the day of the farmers' shoot. At some point during the proceedings, he or she slips some poison to Dinsdale; when he collapses in his butt, the villain lets the snake out to nip poor Dickie as a diversionary tactic.” He looked questioningly at Sarah.

“Or perhaps he forced Dinsdale's hand into the hole in the wall where the snake was? That would explain the bloodstains,” Sarah suggested.

Sir Reggie sniffed indignantly. “I think this is all highly speculative and furthermore—” His face suddenly turned an alarming shade of purple. “Ah-ah-c/ioo!” he bellowed.

“Bless you,” Powell and Sarah said in unison.

“When we get the results of the toxicological tests tomorrow,”
Sir Reggie continued as if nothing had happened, oblivious of the startled reaction his latest sternutation had caused in the bar, “we'll know for certain what we're dealing with.” He looked first at Powell and then at Sarah. “The truth, as they say, is in the crumble.”

CHAPTER 18

Powell and Detective-Sergeant Evans took advantage of the hiatus afforded by Sir Reggie's departure for the gents to continue down the same speculative road.

“Assuming that Dinsdale
was
in fact poisoned,” Sarah ventured, “and assuming that the adder was part of the plan, how could the killer have known that Dinsdale would end up in the right butt? Don't they draw lots or something?”

“That's the normal drill. However, according to Harry Settle, it was no secret that Dinsdale preferred that particular butt because it generally provided the best shooting. And since there weren't any paying guests to offend, he evidently just commandeered it. We should confirm that with Mick Curtis, however.”

Sarah frowned, obviously not satisfied. “I keep coming back to that damned snake. It just seems too clever by half. Why not just poison him and be done with it?”

Powell's reply was interrupted by the pathologist's clamorous return. Time to change gears, he decided. Sir
Reggie was right. Idle speculation was getting them nowhere fast. “Apart from showing up my shoddy detective work, did you manage to accomplish anything else today?”he asked.

Sarah nodded eagerly. “I managed to dig up some dirt on Mick Curtis.”

Powell put down his glass, his interest piqued. “What do you mean?”

“After we finished up on the moor, we paid a visit to Blackamoor Hall. I wanted to have a word with Francesca Aguirre. I left Reggie in Mrs. Dinsdale's charge to dry off in front of the fire then—”

“Perfectly charming woman,” Sir Reggie volunteered.

“Anyway, Francesca and I had an interesting chat. She was obviously upset about something and it was a bit of a struggle getting her to open up. She and her husband, Luis, have only been over here from Spain a couple of years,” she added parenthetically. “To make a long story short, it seems that she and Mick Curtis had a relationship.”

“A relationship?”

“Well, sort of. I mean, on one occasion, anyway.”

Powell affected an air of shocked amazement. “You mean he shagged her in the scullery?”

“You could put it that way,” she said frostily.

“Why is this relevant, Evans?”

“Francesca claims that he took advantage of her.”

“What do you mean,'took advantage'?”

“Forced himself on her, like.”

“Sexually assaulted her, you mean?”

“She implied as much but refused to go into details. They'd both been drinking, apparently.”

“Come to the point, Evans,” Powell said impatiently.

“The thing is, sir, according to Francesca, Curtis threatened her, told her if she said anything to anyone, he'd accuse her of stealing and have her thrown in prison or deported or something. I think the poor woman is more afraid of her husband finding out and blaming
her
for what happened. Isn't it bloody typical?”

Powell sighed. “Spare me the speech, Evans. Is she willing to bring a complaint against him?”

“I wouldn't hold my breath.”

Powell lapsed into silence. “I can't help wondering why she decided to tell someone about it now,” he said eventually.

Sarah shrugged. “Maybe she just wanted to get it off her chest.”

“Or maybe she wants to stick it to her former boyfriend for taking up with Felicity. But, giving her the benefit of the doubt, I can understand why Curtis, the fair-haired boy, would want to keep it from his employer.”

“I don't imagine Felicity would be too thrilled about it either,” she commented.

There was a sudden sonorous
clang
as the landlord struck a bell hanging over the bar. “Time, ladies and gentlemen!” he sang out.

Powell gulped down the last of his bitter. “It's probably a side issue,” he concluded.

The next morning, Powell set out for Blackamoor Hall, leaving Sarah Evans and Sir Reggie behind to await the results of the toxicology tests. The sky was the color of gunmetal and hardly a breath of air stirred. As he climbed the steep incline of Blackamoor Bank Road
through the thickening mist, he had the nagging sense that he was overlooking some small but crucial piece of evidence. He tried once again to sort out the Gordian knot of facts and speculation that threatened to bring his mental process to a grinding halt. Dickie Dinsdale, the unpopular heir to the Blackamoor estate, was found near death in his shooting butt during a grouse shoot, having been bitten by an adder. He died a short time later, but the precise cause of death remained unknown. It subsequently came to light that a shed where deadly pesticides are stored was broken into a few days before Dinsdale's death, raising the suspicion that he may have been poisoned.

If this was confirmed by the toxicological analysis, the next obvious question was, Who stood to benefit? His stepmother, Marjorie, came immediately to mind. With Dinsdale out of the way, she stood to inherit her husband's fortune, enabling her to maintain her lifestyle at Blackamoor Hall. One would have to include her daughter, Felicity, in the same category. However, it didn't appear that either of them had the opportunity—if Powell's idea of how the poisoning was carried out proved to be correct.

There were, of course, other potential motives for murder besides financial gain. Revenge, for instance. Harry Settle, the former head keeper, had a very large ax to grind—sacked, for all intents and purposes, after forty years of loyal service to the estate. Both he and his wife were present at the farmers' shoot. Mrs. Settle had been in charge of the meal at the shooting box and would undoubtedly have had an opportunity to slip something
into Dinsdale's food or drink. And what about the Settles' daughter, the elusive Emma Walker? It was understandable that she would resent the way Dinsdale had treated her father. She, too, had been present at the shooting box and had even provided a dessert that was ideally suited to adulteration by one of the more deadly poisons stored in Harry Settle's shed.

The most intriguing possibility was that Dinsdale's death was related to the proposed scheme by the Hull Water Corporation to flood Brackendale for a reservoir. Dinsdale's negotiations with the company might well have remained secret if Stumpy Macfarlane had not been tipped off by his former girlfriend, Chloe Aldershot. After the events of August twelfth, there had obviously been no love lost between Macfarlane and Dinsdale, and Powell was convinced that Macfarlane was prepared to do whatever it took to stop the project. Powell sighed inwardly. He imagined that just about everyone in Brackendale had a stake in preventing Dinsdale doing a deal with the water company, including the beaters and the other guns who were on the moor that afternoon while Dinsdale lay dying in his shooting butt. Dinsdale had recently raised the rents, causing hardship for tenant farmers such as Frank Elger and Albert Turner—a tactic that was intended, Powell now surmised, to force them off their farms so that the landlord wouldn't have to buy out their leases before selling the land to the water company.

As the little Triumph climbed onto Blackamoor Rigg, Powell switched on the windscreen wipers as if to sweep away the clutter from his mind. The moor was completely obliterated by fog and he could barely make out
the narrow swath of road illuminated by his headlamps. Off to his left, a dark shape suddenly loomed. He slowed the car to a crawl and turned into the graveled drive.

The massive oak door opened to reveal the forlorn figure of Francesca Aguirre. Her face was unnaturally pale and devoid of any expression or emotion, like the brittle image of someone long forgotten in a faded, sepia photograph.

“Is Mrs. Dinsdale in?” Powell inquired.

Francesca shook her head. “She's taken Mr. Dinsdale to see the doctor.”

“How about Ms. Felicity?”