Malice On The Moors (22 page)

“But cyanide acts fairly quickly doesn't it? We were all with Mr. Dinsdale in the shooting box—I don't see how anybody could have given it to him at lunch.”

“You have a point, assuming that's when he was poisoned.”

“You mean it could have been done some time before that?”

“It's possible.”

“Come to think of it, Mr. Dinsdale did arrive a bit late. He didn't say where he'd been, so maybe…” He left the rest unsaid.

“There's another possibility, of course. He might have been slipped the cyanide up here on the moor.”

Curtis appeared to ponder this for a moment. “That's possible, I suppose. It was foggy enough that anyone could have visited Mr. Dinsdale's butt without being seen. But it doesn't make any sense does it?”

Curtis's analysis evoked Powell's interest. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I can only assume from what you've said that the
crime was planned in advance. How could the murderer have known what the weather was going to be like? Without the cover of the fog, he'd run the risk that somebody would see what he was up to when he slipped Mr. Dinsdale the cyanide.”

“I've asked myself the same question, Mr. Curtis. And the same problem rears its ugly head when we try to explain the snake.”

“I'm not sure I follow you.”

“I'm convinced that the snake was part of the killer's plan—a diversionary tactic—and not just a gruesome coincidence. But to administer the poison, wait for it to take effect, then somehow contrive to have the adder bite the victim, all without being seen—well, it beggars belief unless you factor in the fog. At least that's the way it appears on the face of it.”

Curtis looked doubtful. “Maybe the snakebite was just a coincidence. Stranger things have happened.”

“I wonder if you could tell me again exactly what you saw when you found Mr. Dinsdale in his butt that afternoon?”

Curtis frowned. “I've already told you…”

“Please bear with me.”

The gamekeeper shrugged. “Like I told you before, he was lying on the ground, sort of curled up in a fetal position. Except his right arm was stretched out. The snake was in the corner of the butt, near his hand. Without even thinking, I put a couple of loads of bird shot into it. That's when Katie Elger turned up.”

“That's what's got me puzzled, Mr. Curtis. You behaved perfectly normally, as one might expect a gamekeeper to do under the circumstances. I imagine you
have to shoot quite a few predators in your line of work, and you reacted instinctively when you saw the adder. You raised your gun and fired. You've probably done the same sort of thing a hundred times before. But Katie Elger describes you as looking petrified—white as a sheet, or words to that effect. I keep asking myself why.”

“I have this thing about snakes,” he said, edgy now. “And Mr. Dinsdale was lying there, twitching and groaning. How would you expect me to look?” He absently rubbed the back of his right hand through his fingerless glove.

Powell was still not satisfied. “Perhaps you saw something else you haven't told me about.”

Curtis seemed to relax slightly. “Look, Chief Superintendent, I've already told you what I saw.”

Suddenly it hit him. Felicity had lied to him. Powell knew now who murdered Dickie Dinsdale. The why, the how, and the wherefore. At some level, he realized that he'd known all along. It was as if a dozen apparently unrelated facts simmering away in the ferment of his unconscious had suddenly boiled over into his conscious mind.

“Now, will there be anything else?” Curtis was asking, an element of impatience creeping into his voice. “I do have work to do.”

Powell's eyes settled momentarily on the ridge behind the gamekeeper. He decided to take his chances. He looked at Curtis. “Why didn't you just say that the adder bit you when you tried to help your employer? It would have been so much simpler.”

Curtis turned deathly pale. “Wh-what are you talking about?”

“You rigged it so you drew the butt next to Dinsdale's. After you got him settled in his shooting butt, you slipped him the poison. How did you do it, Mick? Did you offer him a dram of whisky laced with cyanide from your own flask?”

Curtis's face tightened. “Keep going, Chief Superintendent. This is starting to get interesting.”

Powell smiled without humor. “I'll assume I'm on the right track, then. By the way, breaking into the pesticide shed to divert attention away from yourself was a nice touch. But getting back to the afternoon of the farmers' shoot: After Dinsdale took the drink, you left him alone for fifteen or twenty minutes to give the poison time to act, then you came back to check on him. The poor visibility that day was a fortuitous development but not essential to your plans. You knew, due to the nature of the terrain, that neither Dinsdale's shooting butt nor your own could be seen from the next butt over. It wasn't a pretty sight, was it, Mick? Mr. Dinsdale lying there on the grass, convulsing in his own vomit. That's when you went to phase two of the operation. You removed the loose stone from the wall of the butt where you'd previously imprisoned an adder. Then you took Dinsdale's right arm and thrust his hand into the cavity. The snake, predictably incensed at having its territory invaded, did its job. That's where it started to go wrong, isn't that right, Mick?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Curtis said evenly.

“Either you were careless or the snake got away from you, but you ended up getting bitten, as well. On the right hand, I suspect. Katie Elger distinctly remembers
you raising your left arm to point when she asked you what was wrong that afternoon, yet I've seen myself that you're right-handed.”

Curtis sneered at him. “Tell me something, Mr. Sherlock bloody Holmes: Why would I want to murder my employer? It'd be a little like killing the goose that laid the golden egg, wouldn't it?”

Powell nodded. “That is a bit of a poser, all right. It struck me right from the start that you were the only person to have anything good to say about him. But then you didn't have any reason to complain, did you, Mick? He'd promoted you to head keeper—not because you deserved it, but to punish Harry Settle. And you'd even managed to insinuate yourself into his stepsister's bed. I'd say you had a good thing going.”

The gamekeeper's eyes narrowed. “You know something? You're beginning to get on my frigging nerves.”

“So why
would
you want to kill him?” Powell persisted. “It wasn't the water scheme, was it? You couldn't care less about the impact on the residents of Brack-endale. In fact, you would benefit from the development. Recreational Director at the Blackamoor Hall Hotel in the scenic North York Moors National Park, offering traditional grouse shooting on the moors and a range of water sports on our newly created lake. Personal instruction can be arranged. I could write the brochure.”

Curtis smiled, but his eyes were cold. “Not much of a motive for killing him, then, is it, Chief Superintendent? “

“I think it's true you and Dinsdale got along famously—you were two of a kind, in fact—each using the other to further your own interests. The one thing you didn't count on was Dinsdale's highly developed
sense of class consciousness. It's ironic, isn't it, since he was new money himself, but to Dickie you were just another one of the hired help. When he found out you were having an affair with Felicity, even though there was no love lost between them, he viewed it as an affront, if not an actual threat to his position. He told Felicity he was going to sack you at the end of the shooting season when he no longer needed you. It's my guess that she told you about his plans.”

Curtis, stone-faced, said nothing.

Powell shook his head. “All your prospects down the drain. You couldn't allow that to happen, could you, Mick? By getting rid of Dinsdale you'd kill two birds with one stone. Keeping your position and ensuring that Felicity eventually inherits the estate. If you'd played your cards right, you might well have ended up lord of the manor someday. You only made one mistake. When Katie surprised you after you'd killed the snake, you reacted by attempting to cover up the fact that you'd been bitten. It worked in your favor at first, creating the impression that you were so upset about Mr. Dinsdale that you got physically sick. In actual fact, you were displaying the classic symptoms of an adder bite.”

Curtis laughed harshly. “It's an interesting theory, I'll give you that, but you don't have a shred of proof. None of it would stand up in court.”

“Perhaps you can call Francesca Aguirre as a character witness,” Powell commented.

Curtis shrewdly regarded Powell. “You do get around, Chief Superintendent.”

Once again Powell's gaze took in the rolling expanse of moorland beyond the gamekeeper. “Why don't you
just confess, Mick, and save the taxpayers a lot of bother?” he said. “If you show sufficient remorse, you could be out in fifteen years.”

Curtis seemed to mull this over for a few moments. Then he sighed. “All right, you win. I'll come along quietly.” He thrust his shovel into the mound of grit and then looked at Powell. “You have no idea what it's like for people like me, do you? I spent my bloody youth in Sheffield on the dole, without a hope in the world of finding decent work. As a boy I used to spend the summers working on my uncle's farm in Wensleydale, so I knew a bit about shooting. When I got the job of assistant underkeeper at Blackamoor, it was a chance for a fresh start, to work myself up and make something of myself.”

Powell could think of nothing to say.

Curtis walked over to his Land Rover. “I'll give you a lift back to the shooting box.” He reached for the door handle and opened it.

Before Powell could react, Curtis had picked up the shotgun that was lying across the seat and turned to face him. Powell stared into the twin black holes of the over-and-under's muzzle.

The gamekeeper smiled. “Say your frigging prayers, copper.”

Powell drew a shallow breath. “Don't be foolish, Mick. Sergeant Evans knows I've come up here to see you. You're just making it worse for yourself,” Powell said, with an air of bravado he did not feel.

“I know a little bog where you'll sink out of sight and never be seen again,” Curtis said, his voice chillingly devoid of emotion.

“They'll find my car at the shooting box. They'll figure it out,” Powell argued, trying to buy some time.

Curtis affected an expression of mock concern. “I was up there working, all right, but I didn't see Mr. Powell. He must have got there after I left and wandered off somewhere.”

“No one will believe you.”

“I've got nothing to lose, have I?”

Powell tensed his muscles. “It was a nice try, Mick, but here come my reinforcements now.” He looked over the gamekeeper's shoulder.

Curtis sneered. “You don't think I'm going to fall for the oldest trick in the book—”

A voice suddenly rolled across the moor. “Hello, Erskine!”

Keeping the barrels pointed at Powell's chest, Curtis turned his head to look. A figure was emerging from a dip in the moor about fifty yards off and walking towards them. It was all Powell needed. He brought the gamekeeper down with a flying tackle. The shotgun discharged close to Powell's head with a deafening boom. He somehow managed to get on top, struggling fiercely to wrest the shotgun from his opponent's grasp. As they grappled in the heather, Curtis, with his superior strength, managed to twist the gun around from a port arms position so that it was now pointing between their faces. Slowly and inexorably, he forced the muzzle towards Powell's head. “Say good-bye, mate,” he said between clenched teeth.

The next thing Powell heard was a gruff expletive, and then from out of nowhere a swinging boot caught Curtis on the side of the head with a solid thud. The
gamekeeper's eyes fluttered and he went limp under Powell's body.

Heaving for air, Powell looked up into a grinning, bearded face. “Hello, Alex,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster. “What brings you to the North York Moors?”

The Scot shook his head sadly. “The riffraff they allow on an English grouse moor these days.”

With a painful grunt, Powell rolled off Curtis and pushed himself to his knees. He lifted the gamekeeper's right wrist and pulled off the tatty fingerless glove. There, on the back of his hand, partially healed but still visible, were two small puncture wounds.

EPILOGUE

As Barrett explained it, he had decided, more or less on the spur of the moment, to surprise Powell, whom he reckoned would be sorely in need of a wee break. After arranging a day of walked-up shooting on nearby Rosedale Moor, he'd piled into his aging Escort the day before and driven nonstop from Inverness to the North York Moors. He had rung Marion to find out where Powell was staying, and when he'd checked at the Lion and Hippo that morning, Robert Walker had fortuitously directed him to East Moor. In a celebratory mood in the Lion and Hippo that evening, Powell and Barrett even managed to convince a reluctant Sarah Evans to accompany them on their grouse shoot the following day.

It was a glorious autumn morning and the moor was spread out before them like a tapestry of russet and green; there wasn't a cloud in the sky and a tiny merlin, the first Powell had ever seen, glided gracefully overhead, searching for meadow pipits. The only thing missing was a certain Gordon setter named Misty.

“Over there—to the left!” Barrett shouted.

Powell saw a flash of black and tan as their so-called hunting dog—rented to them for the day by the moor owner—appeared for an instant, feathery black tail waving excitedly above the heather, before disappearing again over the horizon. “I'll see if I can catch up to her,” he called out to Barrett and Sarah Evans as he struck out for the spot where he'd last glimpsed their faithful companion. Walking over springy stems of heather between scattered blocks of gray lichen-stained rock, he climbed towards the crest of the moor.

As he picked his way up the slope, breathing heavily, he couldn't help speculating about the ancestry of Spaun-ton's Regal Mistress, or Misty for short. The Duke of Gordon, the originator of the breed, was reputed to have crossed one of his dogs with a bloodhound to increase the scenting ability of his line. Judging by Misty's turbo-charged performance, Powell suspected that the canny old Scot had slipped in a bit of greyhound as well.