Malice On The Moors (9 page)

She smiled. “Good night.”

Powell retired to the pub to contemplate a time long ago when lions roared in the forests of Yorkshire and hippos basked in the warm waters of Ryedale.

CHAPTER 7

Blackamoor Hall was a sprawling pile of dark gritstone with a Tudor wing added on, a riot of complicated roof angles, and an impressive number of jutting chimneys (which had something to do, one assumed, with the long and bleak moorland winter). Built in the seventeenth century on the site of a twelfth-century nunnery (the irony of which would soon become evident), the house was situated on what was known as West Moor, high above upper Brackendale and west of the Blackamoor Rigg Road. It is said that the nuns of neighboring Rosedale Abbey used to make the pilgrimage to the nunnery at Blackamoor to contemplate the deeper realities. Interestingly, the austere and purifying landscape upon which they came to meditate was a creation of the monastic movement itself, a sort of spiritual application of Heisenberg's uncertainty principle. For the North York Moors, now considered one of Britain's beauty spots, is in reality a devastated wasteland, despoiled by
the same hands that built the first and greatest of the Cistercian abbeys at Rievaulx.

Starting with the first modest efforts of Bronze Age hunters who began clearing the forests to make hunting easier, followed by Iron Age craftsmen who needed wood to stoke their primitive blast furnaces, the process of deforestation was greatly accelerated by the monks of Rievaulx Abbey who cleared the valleys for cultivation and turned vast herds of sheep loose on the uplands. The great forests were eventually replaced by grass, heather, and bracken—the only plants capable of growing on the impoverished, acidified soils. Nowadays the moors are actively maintained in this condition by a few wealthy landowners for the benefit of sheep and grouse.

Powell had learned from Robert Walker that the Blackamoor estate comprised some forty-five hundred acres, which included upper Brackendale, most of the village, and two thousand acres of grouse moors. There were a dozen or so tenant farmers like Frank Elger, each farming two hundred or so acres in the dale and grazing their sheep on common moorland. He got the impression from Katie Elger that the position of the tenant farmers was a bit dodgy, depending as it did on general economic conditions as well as the inclinations of the landlord.

Dickie Dinsdale had, according to Walker, run the estate into the ground through mismanagement, while at the same time raising the rents of his tenants to the point, if one believed Katie, where good farmers were finding it difficult to survive. Hardly a recipe for social harmony. Then Dinsdale turns up dead under circumstances
that could be considered highly unusual, to say the least.

Such were Powell's thoughts as he mounted the broad stone steps of Blackamoor Hall. The black-haired woman who answered the door could have been any age from thirty to forty. She had a cadaverous complexion with dark, nervous eyes and spoke with a Spanish accent.

“Mrs. Dinsdale is expecting me,” Powell said.

The woman averted her eyes. “Yes, sir. Please come this way.”

Powell followed her from the entrance hall, through a large high-ceilinged and oddly shabby-looking room— which he guessed had served as a ballroom in better days, complete with spiral staircase—then down a long passage leading to the Tudor wing.

The woman stopped at a door on the left side of the corridor, knocking lightly before opening it. “Chief Superintendent Powell, madam,” she announced.

Another woman's voice answered, “Thank you, Francesca.”

As Powell entered the room—either a large study or a small library—a razor-thin woman with a bouffant hairstyle rose from her writing table to greet him. Behind her, a large window provided a splendid view of the dale below. She extended her hand and smiled pleasantly. “Welcome to Blackamoor Hall, Chief Superintendent. I'm Marjorie Dinsdale.” A trace of an accent indicated that she was no stranger to the sound of London's Bow bells.

Powell took a seat across the table from his host. Immaculately coiffed and made-up—quite striking in an ostentatious sort of way—Marjorie Dinsdale looked to
be in her late fifties and obviously spent a considerable amount of time and effort on her appearance. “Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice, Ms. Dinsdale,” he began. “I wish to offer my condolences. I know this must be a difficult time for you—”

“It's
Mrs.,”
she interrupted. “I'm not one for political correctness, Mr. Powell.”

Powell smiled fleetingly. “One has to tread carefully these days, Mrs. Dinsdale,” he said. “I'll try to make this as brief as possible. As I explained on the telephone, due to the unusual nature of your son's accident, I've been sent up from London to assist the local police with their inquiry into the matter.”

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You mean, you think that Dickie's death was not an accident?”

“At this point I'm trying to keep an open mind. On the face of it, there is no reason to think that it was anything other than a freak mishap.”

“I see. You should know for starters, Mr. Powell, that Dickie was not my son.”

“Oh?”

“He was my stepson. I'm Ronnie's—that's his father— second wife. We were married in nineteen-eighty-nine. Dickie was twenty-six at the time.”

“Do you have any children of your own, Mrs. Dinsdale?”

“A daughter, Felicity.”

“I understand, Mrs. Dinsdale, that your husband is not well…”

Mrs. Dinsdale looked out the window as if searching for something amidst the green sheep-dotted pastures.

“He's very frail, very forgetful—he doesn't even know who I am most of the time.”

“I'm sorry.”

She sighed. “He's worked so hard all his life. To end up like this …”

Time to test the waters. “I'd like you to tell me about Dickie, Mrs. Dinsdale.”

She looked at him with an odd expression on her face. “What do you want to know?”

“For starters, did he take an active part in the running of the Dinsdale business empire?”

Mrs. Dinsdale frowned. “Empire? Dinsdale's is a family business, Chief Superintendent, not some sort of faceless conglomerate. Ronnie started out as a greengrocer with a corner store in Leeds, and he built up his business through sheer bloody determination and hard work. Dinsdale's was at one time the largest independent supermarket chain in the north of England,” she said, a note of pride resonating in her voice.

“You said
was.”

She appraised him cooly. “You're very observant, Chief Superintendent. Poor Dickie didn't have much of a head for business. When Ronnie was no longer able to manage, Dickie took over and, well, the last few years have been rather difficult.”

Was there a hint of bitterness in her voice? “What about the day-to-day running of the estate? Did Dickie take care of that as well?”

“Yes.” Her terseness spoke volumes.

“I don't mean to pry, Mrs. Dinsdale, but I've been wondering about the mechanics of running a large estate these days…”

She sighed. “It's a constant struggle. You have to maintain and modernize—keep up with the times, as Ronnie used to say. And most of all, it takes money.”

“I imagine the shooting brings in some revenue,” Powell ventured.

“Yes, if it's properly managed,” she said pointedly.

It seemed like old Dickie was a right cockup. Changing gears, Powell said, “On the day of the accident, I understand that your stepson was participating in an annual event known as the farmers' shoot. I'd be grateful if you could tell something about it.”

“It was something Ronnie initiated soon after taking over Blackamoor. As you may know, the helpers on a grouse shoot—the beaters and so on—are recruited by the head keeper from the ranks of the local farmers and farmworkers. For their trouble, they get a day off from the normal routine, lunch, a bottle of beer or two, and a few quid. However, Ronnie felt that they deserved special recognition for their contribution, so once a year he provided them with a day of shooting.” She smiled faintly. “Ronnie used to pitch in as a beater on these occasions, and I think he enjoyed himself as much as his tenants did.”

“I take it his son carried on the tradition.”

“Yes.” Once again her customary loquaciousness in relation to her husband was reduced to terse, monosyllabic responses when she was asked about her late stepson.

“I understand that Dickie recently promoted Mick Curtis to the position of head keeper,” Powell continued. “I'm wondering about the former head keeper—Harry Settle. Did he retire?”

Mrs. Dinsdale hesitated. “There was an incident this August. Dickie blamed Harry for it.”

“You're referring, I take it, to the protest organized by Stumpy Macfarlane?”

She nodded.

“Did Dickie actually sack Settle, then?”

“Demoted, I think, would be a better word for it.”

“What do you mean?”

Mrs. Dinsdale sighed. “Dickie offered him Mick Curtis's old job of underkeeper. Not surprisingly, he decided to retire instead.”

“When did this take effect?”

“The last day of August.”

“But I understand that Settle participated in the farmers' shoot some two weeks later.”

“Harry organized the event for years. I think he felt he owed it to the others—it was sort of his swan song, you might say.”

“Did you have an opinion about your stepson's decision to replace Settle?”

“I didn't agree with it, actually. I like Harry. He was gamekeeper here when my husband took over the estate, and Ronnie thought the world of him. However, Dickie made all the day-to-day decisions.”

“What can you tell me about Mick Curtis, Mrs. Dinsdale?”

“Harry hired him about five years ago.” She did not offer to elaborate.

Something was bothering Powell. “Tell me, Mrs. Dinsdale, how does Blackamoor rank in the scheme of things, as far as grouse shoots go, I mean?”

She considered this for a moment. “In terms of the annual bag, smallish, I'd say.”

He looked puzzled. “I wonder why Stumpy would pick Blackamoor to stage a protest? His protests are usually related to environmental issues—why would he turn his attention to the anti-blood sport cause?”

She eyed him shrewdly. “That would depend on what his point was, wouldn't it, Chief Superintendent?”

Powell persisted. “Mrs. Dinsdale, can you think of any reason why a well-known environmental activist like Stumpy would target a grouse shoot at Blackamoor? Could there be something related to the family's other business interests, perhaps?”

“I can assure you that Dinsdale's sells only dolphin-friendly tinned tuna, Chief Superintendent,” she said stiffly.

“I see.” His expression turned solemn. “You're aware that deaths from adder bites are extremely rare, Mrs. Dinsdale?”

“Yes.” Wary now.

“I understand that your stepson suffered from asthma.”

She nodded, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “Oh, yes, he had terrible allergies.”

“Perhaps that explains it,” Powell said carefully.

“Yes, I imagine it does,” she said.

Powell got to his feet. “I won't take up any more of your time, Mrs. Dinsdale. It was very kind of you to see me on such short notice. I'll be in touch if anything comes up.”

“Thank you, Chief Superintendent,” she said vaguely. “Francesca will see you out.”

Standing at the door was the black-haired, dark-eyed servant, who had miraculously appeared right on cue.

As Powell drove back down to Brackendale, reflecting on his interview with Marjorie Dinsdale, he could not suppress the feeling that things were not quite as they seemed at Blackamoor Hall.

Marjorie Dinsdale picked up the telephone and pressed the numbers mechanically. “Inspector Braughton, please.”

After a few seconds, a voice on the other end. “Braughton.”

“It's Marjorie.”

A pause. “How did it go?”

“He asked a lot of questions.”

“What sort of questions?”

“What do you think?” she said acidly. “You're a policeman.”

“Why did you call, Marjorie?” he asked, his manner stiff now.

“Can't you do something about it? I'm concerned about the publicity—you know it would kill Ronnie.”

Braughton resisted the temptation to point out that old Ronnie couldn't tell his arse from a tea kettle in his present state. “Look, Marjorie, you must understand I've got to keep my head down. I'll try to keep you abreast. That's all I can do. I'm sorry. Now I must go.”

“Jim, I—”
Click.

She sat staring out the window for a considerable length of time. She wondered what Ronnie would've done in similar circumstances. She rang for Francesca.

“Francesca, have you seen Miss Felicity?”

Francesca averted her eyes. “No, madam.”

Mrs. Dinsdale sighed. “Have Luis bring the car around.”

“Yes, madam.”

Mrs. Dinsdale returned her attention to the bleak and windswept prospect beyond her window. Low clouds now shrouded the monochrome tops and she could feel the vibration of the wind against the glass. Her sharp features tightened into a frown. What had seemed so simple was now getting complicated.

CHAPTER 8

That evening, Powell and Detective-Sergeant Evans sat in the Lion and Hippo comparing notes. The atmosphere in the pub seemed perfectly normal—the general hum of conversation, a boisterous game of darts in the corner, a young couple mooning over each other in the snug—the sort of scene that was no doubt being played out at that very moment in a thousand other pubs around the country. But for Powell, the mood that prevailed in the Lion and Hippo struck a slightly dissonant note. Here was a group of people whose village, farms, and homes were owned lock, stock, and barrel by a mental incompetent whose only son and heir had just died in the most bizarre and horrible fashion, yet you'd never know it by looking at them. He mentioned it to Sarah.

She shrugged. “Life goes on, I guess.”

“Thanks for pointing that out,” he rejoined dryly. “Still,” he added on a more sober note, “I imagine that the future of the estate—and by extension, the future of
all of Brackendale—must be a bit up in the air. Which reminds me, we need to check the probate registry for the details of Dickie Dinsdale's will. I'd be interested to learn who benefits from his death.”