Malice On The Moors (2 page)

The beaters were only about a hundred and fifty yards out now and getting within range of the guns. Settle was about to blow his horn—to signal, for reasons of safety, that the guns must now only shoot behind them—when all hell broke loose.

A large covey of grouse erupted with whirring wings from the heather, uttering their characteristic
go-beck-beck-beck,
as if they realized, too late, what was in store for them. The guns rose as one and started firing. In a few seconds a dozen birds were down, several of them beating death tattoos on the heather with their wings.

Harry Settle's attention, however, was elsewhere. He stared straight ahead, transfixed. Strange elflike figures were materializing on the moor before his very eyes. A longhaired sprite ran towards him, screaming something unintelligible. “Gawd Almighty,” Settle whispered. Then he leapt to his feet, shouting amidst the fusillade, “Hold your bloody fire! Stop shooting!”

There was considerable confusion amongst the guns at first, but as the message was shouted down the line of butts, the shotgun blasts became sporadic, then, a few seconds later, ceased entirely. Several of the beaters had begun to run towards the butts. With a garbled scream, one of them stumbled and inexplicably vanished. Settle watched in numb disbelief. The longhaired creature—he realized now that it was a young woman—had stopped ten yards from him and produced a camera. She was snapping pictures of a wounded grouse that lay twitching spasmodically in a patch of dead bracken. She looked up at him. “Murderer,” she said.

There were about half a dozen of them, another woman and three scruffy young men waving their arms and shouting at the guns. A fourth man, who appeared to be directing the operation, was recording the proceedings with a video camera.

Suddenly, something caught Settle's attention—one of the beaters, Jack Long, the son of a local farmer, was closing in fast on the group of protesters. Uttering a bloodcurdling cry perfected on the rugby pitch, he tackled the man with the video camera from behind, sending him and his equipment crashing to the ground. The other interlopers then piled onto Jack, just as the rest of the beaters arrived to join the melee. A wild scrum ensued with boots flying and bodies grappling in the heather. The dogs of the pickers-up strained at their leashes and barked excitedly. One of the women screamed as someone pulled her off the pile by her hair. There was derisive cheering from the butts. Utterly disgusted, Settle pointed his gun in the air and fired first one barrel then the other. The reports echoed across the moor like recriminating claps of thunder.

Judging by the reaction, he had made his point. The combatants disentangled themselves and scrambled to their feet looking embarrassed. Settle shook his head in amazement. A feeling of grudging respect crept over him as he realized how this ragtag group of guerillas had pulled it off. About thirty yards in front of the butts, a number of pits had been dug in the moor. The holes had been covered over with squares of plywood then camouflaged with cut blocks of heather. It was into one of these that the beater had fallen. The protesters had concealed themselves in their foxholes, waiting for the right moment to burst out and confront the guns. Settle looked them over with disgust on his face. “Well, what do you lot 'ave to say for yourselves?”

He heard a sharp voice behind him. “It's a bit late for that, Settle, don't you think?”

He turned and looked into the red face of his employer. “I'm sorry, Mr. Dinsdale, I—” He was interrupted by a commotion behind the butts. Mick Curtis, his assistant, was striding over with another man and four uniformed constables in tow. Settle felt like he'd been kicked in the gut.

“Good work, Curtis,” Dinsdale said smartly, ignoring his head keeper. “I can see that I should have put you in charge from the start.”

Mick, with an obsequious smirk, caught Settle's eye and said, “Thank you, Mr. Dinsdale.”

“Hello, Dickie,” said the man accompanying the constables.

“Jim, good to see you,” Dinsdale replied heartily. “Shall we get on with it?”

The man smiled. “Always happy to help rid the moors of vermin.”

He nodded at the ringleader, a bearded lad with matted dreadlocks, and then spoke to one of the constables. “Leave him with us.”

“Yes, Mr. Braughton.”

The policemen proceeded to handcuff the other protesters together and then herd them towards a waiting police van. One of the young men insisted on being dragged by his arm, cursing and kicking, over the rough ground. The young woman with the long hair was screaming obscenities.

Dinsdale addressed the assembled members of the shooting party. “I'm afraid there will be no more shooting today, but we'll make it up tomorrow. I suggest we all retire to the shooting box for a drink.” He turned to Curtis, once again ignoring Settle. “Mick, see to my father, would you?”

“Yes, Mr. Dinsdale.”

“As for you, Settle, I'll deal with you later.”

“Yes, sir,” the gamekeeper mumbled, cringing with embarrassment.

As the guns and beaters and flankers and pickers-up with their dogs straggled back to the vehicles, Braughton turned to face his captive. “Hello, Stumpy.”

The young man glared defiantly at him, saying nothing.

“You've heard of Stumpy Macfarlane, Dickie—the fearless tree-hugger.”

“Sod off,” Stumpy said.

Without warning, Dinsdale lunged, thrusting the butt end of his gun stock into the protester's solar plexus.

The young man gave an agonized grunt, then fell to the ground, gasping raspingly for air.

“Have a little respect for the inspector, lout,” Dinsdale snarled.

Braughton shook his head sadly. “Wandering about on the moors can be hazardous to your health, Stumpy.”

Stumpy looked up at Dinsdale, tears streaming from his eyes. “You son of a bitch!” he whispered hoarsely. “You'll pay for this.”

“Uttering threats won't help you,” Braughton said. “I am placing you under arrest for aggravated trespass and interfering with the lawful activity of others contrary to section sixty-eight of the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act. What have you got to say for yourself?”

Silence now, except for Stumpy's labored breathing.

“All right, get up and come along quietly—” The policeman felt a hand on his shoulder and heard Dinsdale's voice.

“That would be too easy, Jim. We need to teach the little bastard a lesson.”

Braughton looked at Dinsdale. “I don't think that would be wise, Dickie.”

Dinsdale smiled. “You needn't be involved. Just leave him to me.”

Then he leveled his gun at Stumpy's head and pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER 1

The great house was quiet except for the creaking of floorboards beneath his bare feet and the faint knocking of pipes somewhere. Or the knocking of something else, he thought lasciviously. He experienced a familiar thrill of anticipation as he crept down the broad hall, his passage illuminated by a line of dim yellow lamps mounted on the wall, giving his soft features a sickly, jaundiced look. Between the lamps were hung a series of portraits.

He paused for a moment beneath the painting of his father. The eyes in the painting stared dully back at him, foreshadowing, he fancied, the dementia that lay ahead. He suppressed a shudder and tried to put the logical implication of this train of thinking out of his mind, consoling himself with the thought that Blackamoor would soon be his to do with as he pleased. His hand absently brushed against the hall table that stood against the wall beneath the portrait. He smiled unpleasantly. Nothing like the silky patina of a rosewood antique to put things in the proper perspective.

He continued down the hall. On his left ran the ornately carved balustrade that had, on more than one occasion, saved him from a drunken swan dive to the ballroom floor below. At the top of the grand staircase, he peered down into the gloom and frowned. He thought he'd heard something. The wind moaning on the moor, or was it just his imagination?

Suddenly he froze. There it was again—a sort of faint sighing, punctuated this time by a burst of feminine giggling. Hardly daring to believe his good fortune, he hurried to her door. He leaned against the wall for a moment to catch his breath. Then he pressed his ear to the thick panel and listened.

There was no mistake. The creaking of bedsprings and a muffled feminine voice, mostly unintelligible, excitedly urging her partner on, the occasional explicit instruction audible. God, she's a wanton bitch, he thought. She behaved as if the entire universe had been created solely for her pleasure. Talk about your Big Bang. He licked his lips—this was going to be good. He opened his dressing gown and pressed his body against the door, the smooth mahogany cool against his skin.

There was a man's voice now. Then the noises in the room ceased. There was a thump, followed by a soft footfall. He leapt back as if the door was electrified. Gathering his gown untidily around him, he flapped down the hall, trying not to rouse the entire household. He ducked into the first room on the left past the staircase. He shut the door behind him with more commotion than he'd intended and fell back against it, wheezing heavily. His interest in his stepsister's latest dalliance, not to put too fine a point on it, had flagged considerably.

At that moment, the woman's door opened and she stepped out into the hall. She looked to be in her twenties. She stood naked in the hallway like a vision of Venus, her appearance, unlike her voyeuristic stepbrother's, unsullied by the lurid light. There was something lying on the floor at her feet. She bent down and picked it up. A silk sash. She frowned and then turned back to the room. She knotted the sash loosely around her neck and tossed her long, dark hair in a seductive gesture. Her eyes, however, were cold. She looked at her companion and said, “There's nobody there. It must have been my imagination.”

Frank Elger expertly fitted the final topstone into place then straightened slowly with an involuntary grunt. He surveyed the repaired section of drystone wall. “That's fixed it, Katie, lass,” he said. “Good as new.”

His daughter, who had been busy laying out the lunch things on the grass, looked up at him, concern in her eyes. “Here, Dad, I'll get you your beer.”

Elger smiled. “That's music to my ears, lass.” He gazed at her fondly. “If only your mother could see you now.”

“Oh, Dad! Sit down and have your lunch.”

He lowered himself stiffly onto the springy turf. Straightening his legs, he leaned back against the wall. He was sweating and the stone felt cool against his back. He took a swig from the long-necked bottle and sighed contentedly. “Soon be time to get t' hay in,” he observed presently.

Katie nodded and handed him a sandwich. She perched herself on the wall. “You know, I think September is my favorite time of year here.” Looking beyond her father,
she scanned the vast expanse of moorland at the head of Brackendale with a naturalist's eye. Climbing steeply to the northern skyline that formed the dark backbone of the North York Moors, with the great valley of the Esk beyond, the moors were still glorious with the purple bloom of ling mixed with the greens and bronzes of crowberry and bilberry. But the deeper purple patches of bell heather were beginning to fade now, presaging the darker and colder times ahead. Below them, nearly hidden in a copse of alder beside a tiny gill was their gritstone farmhouse. Farther down the valley was a Lilliputian sprinkling of red pantile-roofed buildings—the village of Brackendale. Drystone walls, extending up the slopes on both sides of the dale and terminating just below the heather-clad tops, subdivided the green pastureland like the ribs of a great beast.

Katie experienced a sense of contentment, slightly tinged with melancholy, as she took in her surroundings. She only got home on weekends and holidays now, but she still felt like the luckiest person on earth. Like the purple haze of heather, however, she knew that it couldn't last forever. She looked down at her father. Short and wiry—as strong as a horse in his day—he now looked old and frail. His face had tightened into a frown, as if he were puzzling over something.

“What is it, Dad?”

“What? Ah, well, I was just wonderin How much t' beasts will fetch this year.” He left the rest unsaid.