Palmer-Jones 04 - A Prey to Murder (7 page)

Richard Mead came to speak to him but was too concerned about his wife and daughters to talk much sense. ‘Speak to George,’ he said. ‘ He’s a private inquiry agent, Eleanor hired him. He’ll tell you what it’s all about.’ Then he had gone to phone a doctor because Veronica would not stop sobbing and there was nothing he could do to comfort her.

So when George returned from the hill Alan Pritchard was asking for him. He was less concerned about George’s unofficial status than he might otherwise have been and was only grateful that in this confusion of birds and weeping women he had found someone who could explain what was going on.

They had their first discussion in the conservatory. They sat among the plants on white wicker chairs. It was warm and humid and quite quiet. It was an incongruous setting to discuss a murder, George thought, far too old-fashioned and genteel. They should have been a vicar and his curate discussing sermons over tea and thin slices of Victoria sandwich. But perhaps it was an apt place to talk about Eleanor’s murder. It suited her.

‘I don’t understand any of this,’ Pritchard said, breaking in on George’s thoughts. He was big, round-faced. He had been a rugby player in his youth but he had drunk too much and put on weight. George thought from the beginning that Pritchard was a clever man, confident enough of his own ability and position to be informal, not to be worried about breaking a few rules, yet something about his manner irritated George. He seemed to have no sense of urgency. He was too detached. The policeman stretched in his chair and stifled a yawn. ‘ You’ll have to tell me what it’s all about.’

But George did not answer directly.

‘Was Eleanor Masefield wearing both shoes?’ he asked. ‘ I didn’t notice. Perhaps I should have done. But I was looking at her face. I was rather upset.’

‘She was only wearing one shoe,’ Pritchard said.

‘Then I know where she was murdered,’ George said. ‘At the end of the lane by the barn. Just on the other side of the stile on the hill there’s a ditch. The other shoe is caught in there.’

He had expected some immediate reaction, a flurry of activity, but Pritchard did not move.

‘Explain what you’re doing here,’ the policeman said comfortably. ‘It might help me to understand the background to all this.’

Briefly and logically George explained his connection with the Masefield family, how his experience of working in the Home Office had led him to form the advice agency, the summons from Eleanor and her concern that the peregrine chicks might be stolen.

‘I didn’t have the opportunity to talk to her in any detail,’ George said, remembering with regret their last meal together. ‘The local Wildlife Trust held its Open Day here and she said she was too busy to discuss the peregrines until it was over. I presumed she was worried that some unscrupulous falconers were planning to steal the birds, either for their own use or to sell. Of course that’s illegal under the Wildlife and Countryside Act.’

‘Of course,’ Pritchard said, and smiled. He was so relaxed that he might have been in the pub, a glass of beer on the table, discussing last Saturday’s football match. George could not tell if he had even heard of the Wildlife and Countryside Act.

‘I’ve been on to the hill,’ George said. ‘ That’s how I found the shoe. I’m reasonably sure that the young birds have been stolen.’

‘You think the old lady was killed because of a few birds?’ The policeman seemed to think it absurd.

‘This isn’t a matter of schoolboys climbing trees and taking thrushes’ eggs.’ George said indignantly. He did not like to think of Eleanor as an old lady. ‘The birds can fetch a considerable sum on the international market. If Eleanor was suspicious, went on to the hill and frightened the thieves, isn’t it possible that one of them panicked and murdered her?’

Pritchard shifted his large bulk in the uncomfortable wicker chair. It creaked dangerously. He seemed to be considering the matter.

‘What made Mrs Masefield so convinced that the birds were in danger?’ he asked.

‘A blue van was parked at the end of the lane for a couple of evenings. She seemed to find that worrying. Her family thought she was making a lot of fuss about nothing and the people she contacted in the conservation business didn’t take a lot of notice of her.’ He paused. ‘I had the impression that she knew something else but was too frightened to say. I thought perhaps she might be in some personal danger.’

‘What sort of personal danger?’

‘I don’t know,’ George said. He felt a little foolish. ‘Perhaps I was making too much of it.’

‘Perhaps,’ Pritchard said. ‘Tell me about these birds.’

‘Peregrines aren’t very rare, though these are rather special. They had sentimental value for Eleanor because her husband was so attached to them. Inland English sites are quite uncommon and there was a peregrine at Sarne in the sixteenth century. That might make the birds more valuable to an interested falconer.’

‘And would …’ Pritchard hesitated and looked at his notes to check the name ‘… would Mr Murdoch Fenn be an interested falconer?’

‘No,’ George said. ‘Really it seems very unlikely. Eleanor invited him to come to the Open Day – she would hardly have done that if she thought he might be intending to rob the nest. His Falconry Centre is the most reputable in the country and I know his captive breeding programme is very successful. He would hardly need the birds himself and I don’t think he’d risk his reputation by selling them. Besides, if he killed her on the hill it would surely be foolishness to put her body in the weathering ground where it would draw attention to himself.’

Pritchard thought again, deeply, with his eyes shut, then changed the subject.

‘Tell me about the family,’ he said. ‘Would any of them have wanted to see the old girl out of the way?’

George wanted to tell Pritchard that he was being offensive, that he should not talk about Eleanor Masefield in such a dismissive way, but instead he considered the question.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I presume that Gorse Hill will go to her daughter Veronica now, but I don’t think that will make any difference to the Meads’ way of life. They seemed to have a joint interest in the hotel. I suppose if Veronica or her husband had a massive debt there might be a motive for murder because Gorse Hill could be sold, but that seems unlikely. Veronica always seemed dependent on her mother and Richard Mead remarkably tolerant of his mother-in-law. There are two granddaughters and I had the impression there was some difference of opinion between them and Eleanor, but some friction would only have been natural.’

‘So,’ Pritchard said, ‘It looks as if it had something to do with those birds.’

He stood up suddenly and George was surprized by the speed and agility of the movement. ‘Stay there, sir,’ he said. ‘ I want to make a few phone calls, tell my colleagues about that shoe up on Gorse Hill. Then I’ve got a feeling that you might be able to help me. I’ll get someone to bring you tea. I’ll try not to be too long.’

Still talking he went out through a white door into the house. Through the open door the house looked cool and shadowy and George felt inclined to disobey the order. He wanted a bath and something stronger than tea. But if he were to find Eleanor ‘s murderer he would need the cooperation of the police, so he stayed, a respectable figure drowsing beside the potted palms in the evening sun.

Pritchard returned about half an hour later. He came quickly into the conservatory.

‘That’s all right then,’ he said. ‘I’ve been talking to a friend of yours from the Home Office.’ He seemed impressed and regarded the older man with amused deference. ‘He said you were sure to help me. In your capacity as a Wildlife Act Inspector, of course.’

‘Of course,’ George said. It was natural that Pritchard would want to check him out, but to get hold of a civil servant on a Sunday took skill and determination.

‘You will help me?’ Pritchard asked seriously. ‘I don’t know the first thing about these birds and they’re obviously important.’

George got to his feet. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you.’

Pritchard opened the glass door into the garden and stood aside to let George walk through first.

‘We’ll talk to Mr Fenn,’ he said. ‘ He’s still sitting in his car. We invited him into the house but he preferred to stay where he was. He says he’s worried about his birds. One of my men has been keeping an eye on him. If he’s got those young peregrines in his car he won’t have had a chance to get rid of them.’

They walked round the house to the field. The weathering ground was screened from view and there were other cars parked close to the Range-Rover. George could hear indistinct voices from behind the screen.

Fenn was red-faced and indignant. When he saw George and the policeman approaching he got out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him.

‘This is intolerable,’ he said, stammering. ‘I demand to be allowed to leave. Why have I been kept waiting in this way?’

The demand obviously cost him considerable effort. He was a nervous man who would dislike making a fuss, and he finished lamely: ‘You see, my daughter will be wondering where I am. She’s going away this evening and I promised to be back before she leaves.’

‘You must phone her,’ Pritchard said, all Celtic concern and solicitude. ‘Just a few words with me and Mr Palmer-Jones and someone will take you into the house to a telephone.’

‘This is terrible,’ Fenn said. ‘ What was wrong with Eleanor? Someone said she’d had a heart attack, but I saw her head. I don’t understand what’s happening. This is like a dreadful nightmare. You must let me get back to Puddleworth.’

‘She was murdered,’ Pritchard said. ‘Not here. Up on the hill. Now why would someone want to put her body near your birds?’

‘I don’t know,’ Fenn said. ‘I wouldn’t have hurt Eleanor.’ He spoke as if he were offended by such a ludicrous idea. ‘We were very close friends.’

He was dazed now but less hysterical. The shock of the news that Eleanor had been murdered seemed to have calmed him. He answered Pritchard’s question mechanically.

‘Mrs Masefield wrote and asked you to give a display for the Wildlife Trust?’

‘Yes,’ Fenn said. ‘She wrote to me. I was a friend of her husband’s and I’ve always thought her charming. Perhaps if things had been different … I wanted to see her again. I wanted to help her.’

There was a strange dignity in his words. He was trying, George thought, to be a gentleman. It was a disappointing surprise to George to realize that he had not been Eleanor’s only admirer. He felt a stab of jealousy as if they were in some way rivals.

‘Did you know that a rare bird nests on the hill near here?’ Pritchard asked.

Fenn did not question the relevance of the Sarne peregrines to Eleanor’s death, but answered automatically.

‘I knew about the peregrine eyrie,’ he said. ‘Stuart Masefield showed me the site when the birds first returned to Herefordshire. But peregrines are not rare in Britain. Not any more. I’d argue that it should be possible now for recognized falconers to take birds from the wild. The population could stand it.’

He was talking too much, George thought. His nervousness was causing him to repeat what was obviously a pet theory. It made him feel safe to hear the words he had spoken so often before.

Pritchard raised his eyebrows.

‘Is that so?’ he said. ‘Did you know that the peregrine young were stolen this afternoon?’

‘No,’ Fenn said loudly. ‘Of course I didn’t know. I run a legal operation. I would never consider taking birds from the wild until the law is changed.’

He looked at the policeman angrily as if he had been tricked into his opinion about the peregrine population. George looked at Pritchard for permission, then continued the interview.

‘You had an assistant during the display this afternoon,’ he said. ‘Where is he now?’

‘I don’t know,’ Fenn said. ‘I let him go off for an hour this afternoon when the display was over. He has relatives in Sarne. I haven’t seen him since.’ Despite the tragedy there was a trace of petulant irritation in his voice. ‘He’s always been unreliable. I went to sleep in the car while I was waiting for him and didn’t wake until that child came and banged on the window screaming that Eleanor was dead.’

‘So you didn’t see anyone approaching the weathering ground?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘I think,’ Pritchard said, ‘you’d better tell us all about this disappearing assistant of yours.’

‘His name’s Oliver,’ Fenn said. ‘Frank Oliver. He works for me at Puddleworth.’

‘Does he own a blue van?’ George asked quietly.

‘Yes,’ Fenn said, surprized. ‘How did you know?’

George ignored the question. ‘ There was no blue van parked here this afternoon,’ he said.

‘No,’ Fenn said. He looked unhappily at Pritchard. ‘Oliver said the tax was out of date, and he didn’t want to leave it here. He was afraid the policeman controlling the traffic might notice. He brought some equipment for me early this morning then drove the van away again. He was going to fetch it later this afternoon to take some things back to Puddleworth. As I’ve said he left after the display but he didn’t return.’

‘Did Oliver come with you from Puddleworth this morning?’ George asked.

‘No,’ Fenn said. ‘He came up earlier in the week. He had some time owing to him and I presumed he wanted to visit his family. I arranged to bring the birds up myself and to meet him here this morning.’

‘Were you surprized when he didn’t turn up this afternoon?’ Pritchard asked.

‘No,’ Fenn said. ‘Annoyed but not very surprized. Oliver’s a law unto himself. I only keep him on because he’s so good with the birds.’

‘Knows a bit about falconry does he?’ the policeman said.

‘Oh yes!’ Fenn was obviously impressed. ‘He’s a very experienced falconer.’

‘Well, Mr Fenn,’ the policeman said. He sounded very pleased with himself. ‘You’d better give us a description of Mr Oliver and the names and address of his family in Sarne. It sounds as if we need to ask him to help us with our inquries.’

‘I can’t give you the address of his family,’ Fenn said, ‘but Mrs Mead will be able to give it to you. Oliver’s ex-wife works in Gorse Hill in the kitchen. Mrs Masefield always said she was invaluable.’