Ann Granger (22 page)

‘Have you seen anything of the Brennan woman?’ I cried out as he ran off.

‘No one!’ came the shout back to us, barely audible against the cracking of wood and the growl of the flames as the fire took hold of each new patch of heather and gorse.

After that it was all hands, I can’t say ‘to the pump’ because sadly a pump was what we didn’t have. But it was everyone to the task. We worked steadily. The sweat rolled off me. My boots grew hotter and hotter from contact with the smouldering ground and the pain in my feet would have been torturing if I’d had time to concentrate on it. I knew my face and clothes were getting as filthy as those of the men to either side of me. My arms ached with swinging the birch broom. From time to time my weapon itself would catch fire and I’d have to beat that out. But gradually as time wore on we drove the conflagration back and eventually it began to splutter and die down, as Beresford had predicted. The ground was soft beneath my feet and rank brown liquid oozed up through the mud. We had reached the boggy area.

At long last, late in the afternoon, we rested our brooms, or what remained of them, on the ground and drew deep ragged breaths. Our throats were sore. We could barely speak and croaked at one another. We were a band of identical brothers in blackened clothing and smeared faces. To me, who had begun life as a pit boy in my native Derbyshire, the experience was extraordinary. I was transported back to the scenes of my youth, when the shifts ended and the colliers emerged, black from head to toe with coal dust, from the belly of the mine.

‘I’m grateful to you!’ said Beresford hoarsely, coming up to me. He held out a blackened hand and briefly grasped mine. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t greet you very civilly back there.’

‘You had more important things on your mind,’ I gasped back. ‘I was intending to call on you but now I’ve met you here. This isn’t the time to talk, however.’

‘Come to dinner tonight,’ he invited me. ‘Come about eight, or whenever you’re ready. You’d better get yourself off back to The Acorn and have them heat you a bath.’

‘I can’t leave yet,’ I told him. ‘Greenaway says the widow of the murdered man was at their camp, just about here. I must find out what happened to her.’

‘We’ll search the area!’ said Beresford promptly.

He rallied his weary troops and they set off again, slowly and methodically covering the area of the fire. After a while Greenaway and I, standing at the edge of the fire where the ground was soggy with underlying water, saw a man approaching us, carrying something wrapped in a piece of clothing.

He held it out as he reached us. ‘Looks like a saucepan, sir. Mind now! ’Tis mortal hot.’

The article was gingerly passed to Greenaway who immediately took it a little way off and dropped it into what looked like a puddle of water. To my surprise, with a loud sizzle, the pot disappeared completely beneath the surface. Greenaway reached in and pulled it, now cooled, out. He handed the waistcoat, as the piece of clothing proved to be, back to its owner, and the pot to me.

It was still very warm, despite its bath.

‘That’s a very deep hole,’ I remarked, indicating it.

‘Ah, that’s not natural,’ returned Greenaway. ‘That’s what we call a gypsy well.’

I must have looked puzzled because he explained. ‘Say you’re camped near here where there isn’t any running water. What do you do? There’s water under the surface, so you dig a deep hole. You go away for a while and when you come back, the water will have filled your little pit. But mind! That water is no good, it’s foul. So you ladle it out until the hole is empty again and go away and wait again. The second time you come back, the water will have filled the hole like before, but this time it’s fit for use, to drink or cook with. The first water seeped through the soil and took out all the badness, filtered it. See…’ He scooped up some water from the hole and sipped it, before rubbing it over his grimy face.

Rather uncertainly I followed his example. The water had a brackish taste but wasn’t undrinkable.

Greenaway nodded. ‘That’s what we call a gypsy well. That’s what the travelling people do if they haven’t any other water source.’

‘So gypsies dug this?’

‘Very likely,’ said Greenaway.

‘Might Brennan have dug it? He was camped near here?’

‘He might.’ Then, looking down mournfully at the excavation, Greenaway went on, ‘Ah, that’s a danger to a horse, though. If a horse puts a foot in that down he goes and can break a leg. If it’s a ridden horse, then off comes the rider and will be lucky not to break his collarbone or neck.’

Beresford joined us. ‘There is no sign of the woman,’ he said, ‘only that pot and a couple of tin plates, warped by the heat.’ He stared directly at me. ‘We found a charred body but it was that of a pony. It must have been dead before the fire caught it, I fancy. The ponies can generally outrun a heath fire and only rarely get trapped. No human remains, at any rate.’

‘I suppose that’s good news,’ I said. ‘Thank you for organising the search. But I’d dearly like to know where she is.’

‘I must get back and my fellows too,’ said Beresford. ‘I’ll see you later, at eight.’

*   *   *

Greenaway and I rode slowly homeward. Previously I’d felt somewhat at a disadvantage looking up from my pony to the groom looming over me on the bigger horse. But now there was a relaxed atmosphere as between those who have shared an arduous task. I wouldn’t get a better opportunity to talk to him than this.

I began, ‘Tell me about Brennan. I understand he wasn’t much liked, although there was no real reason for it.’

‘That’s true, sir. Some people round here, especially the older ones, are inclined to be a bit superstitious.’ Greenaway threw me an apologetic glance. ‘They thought he brought bad luck. It was because he made his livelihood out of rats, most likely, that and his being an outsider. Some of the mothers, the more foolish of them, would even threaten their naughty children with “Jed Brennan will take you away!” Even the most difficult child was as meek as a lamb afterwards.’

‘What sort of bad luck?’ I persisted.

Now Greenaway was obviously embarrassed and mumbled ‘Ah…’ two or three times before declaring, ‘Most of it was nonsense like I said. If a maid broke a jug while he was in the neighbourhood, she’d blame it on the rat-catcher. Any little thing like that, if he was nearby or not! Of course if anything did happen and he
was
there…’

The groom’s voice trailed away and he leaned forward to pat his horse’s neck.

‘Such as?’ I asked as casually as I was able.

‘Nothing of any interest, sir.’

‘But?’ I persisted gently.

Greenaway shifted his seat in the saddle. ‘One of his terriers killed the kitchen cat at Shore House.’

‘How did that happen?’

‘Blessed if I know, sir. Cook swore she had shut the cat in. We’d had a couple of rats about the stables and the ’catcher came with his two little dogs to flush them out. They were very neat and quick about their business, those dogs. Fair marvel to watch them at work and the speed of them you wouldn’t believe. One of ’em would jump in and grab a rat, give it a quick shake or two to snap its neck and the vermin was dead. Then the dog would drop it and dash off after another. They cleared the stables in no time.’

Greenaway broke off his narrative and didn’t appear disposed to add to it.

On the face of it there ought to have been little to add, except for the cat, which had yet to figure in the story. I urged him to go on.

Greenaway stroked the horse’s neck again. ‘Ah…’

Nervousness on the part of a witness, in my experience, means you are getting to the nub of the matter. I waited.

Greenaway burst out, ‘Suddenly young Joe – that’s the stable lad – shouts out “That’s not a rat!” Brennan and I ran to see what was amiss and there were the two dogs, tugging at something between them. Brennan roared at them to drop it and when they didn’t he fetched them a kick or two. They let it go then and I saw it was a dead cat, our cat. I knew it because it was black with white paws and a white bib in front, neat as you please. Only it wasn’t so trim now, a real mess it was, all bloodied and torn about.

‘Brennan started to swear in a way no Christian man ought to know how. Of course, he was afraid he’d blamed. He reckoned the cat was dead when the dogs found it. The cat scent had got them excited and that was why they’d been tossing it about and worrying it. He pointed out they hadn’t worried any rat’s body like it. Well, whatever had happened, it was dead. Sam Callow, the gardener, buried it somewhere. He told me the skull was all smashed in. Those dogs have strong jaws.’

‘But Cook insisted she’d shut the animal in the kitchen?’

‘She didn’t want to be blamed either, I reckon,’ observed Greenaway. ‘Likely she did shut the creature in, but cats being cats, if they want to get out and they see half a chance, they’re gone.’

‘Quite,’ I agreed. I hadn’t expected more on the subject from Greenaway as it seemed it was one he was anxious to drop. But to my surprise he spoke again.

‘Thing is, sir, we called it the kitchen cat, but really it was Miss Lucy’s – I should say Mrs Craven’s – pet. When she first got it she made a real fuss of it and was very attached to it. Only Miss Roche—’

‘Go on,’ I encouraged.

‘I’ll be speaking out of turn, sir.’ His voice was obstinate.

I wondered whether insisting I was a police officer would impress him. I fancied not. But he did have something more to tell. It might turn out to be trivial, but I wanted to hear it all the same.

‘Lye,’ I began, ‘you and I have spent the last few hours working together as part of a team to beat out a gorse fire. Murder is like a fire. It springs up anywhere at any time, generally without warning. Sometimes people declare they can think of no cause. It’s a mystery. But there’s always a cause. In the fire we’ve just dealt with it was clear enough: dry gorse and a hot sun. As yet I can’t see a cause for Brennan’s death but there is one, be sure of that. I have to find it. That’s my job. It’s urgent that I’m as quick about it as I can be because murder, like any flame, has a way of spreading. I can’t manage it alone. It’s only by all working together we can put it out.’

‘You’ve got a way with words!’ said Greenaway with admiration. ‘I’ll say that for you. It’ll be coming from London that does it, I dare say. You wouldn’t catch Nat Gosling putting it that way. But I doubt the parson could’ve made a better speech than that.’

I burst out laughing, though it hurt my smoke-sore throat. ‘All right, Lye, don’t overdo it. Just tell me about Miss Roche and the cat. I’m a police officer and I know how to keep information to myself if need be.’

‘Ah, ’tisn’t anything much,’ returned Greenaway, sounding sheepish now. ‘Miss Roche didn’t like having the cat in the drawing room or anywhere above stairs. It climbed on the furniture and up the curtains. She reckoned its claws did a good deal of damage. Cats will scratch at a thing, sometimes, you know, and although their claws are tiny they’re powerful sharp. Also, it wasn’t quite what you’d call house trained. One day it made its mess right in the middle of a Persian rug. “That’s it!” says Miss Roche. “The cat goes.” I can’t say as I blame her.

‘But Miss Lucy, sorry, Mrs Craven didn’t like to think of anyone drowning her pet or any harm coming to it. So in the end, the cat was banished to the kitchen where Cook was pleased to have it, because it proved a fine mouser.’ Greenaway added, ‘I’m all for animals earning their keep, myself. But then, I’m a countryman.

‘At first Mrs Craven was always coming to the kitchen to visit it, playing with it and feeding it titbits. But after a little while, so Cook told me, she seemed to lose interest in it and didn’t come any more. Well, she was getting near her time—’

Greenaway put his fist to his mouth and coughed discreetly behind it. ‘You’ll know what I mean, sir. The young lady would have had other things on her mind. Still, I believe she was sorry when Mrs Williams told her the cat was dead.’

‘That’s it?’ I asked.

‘Yes, sir, that’s it.’

I’ve talked to too many witnesses. I know when there is some little thing still unsaid.

‘Team work, Lye,’ I chided him.

Greenaway fell to fiddling with his horse’s mane. ‘It was just my fancy, nothing more.’

I waited. Greenaway glanced slyly down at me to judge whether I’d given up quizzing him or not. Seeing I hadn’t, he sighed.

‘It was only I wondered if the real reason Miss Roche took against the cat was because Mr Beresford had given it to Mrs Craven.’

‘He had?’ I exclaimed. This was startling news.

‘Yes, sir. It seems not long after Mrs Craven came down here from London for her lying-in, and before her time was due, she was walking on the shore and met Mr Beresford. They passed the time of day and she mentioned being lonely. The next time she went walking there, up pops Mr Beresford, by chance like, you know…’ Greenaway forgot himself so far as to chuckle. ‘“I’ve got something for you,” he says. “To keep you company.” He puts his hand in the pocket of his greatcoat and takes out this biggish kitten. Mrs Craven was delighted. Why, the young lady is nothing but a child. She took it home as pleased as punch. But Miss Roche wasn’t near so happy about it. I’ll always think the reason she wanted rid of the cat was because of where it had come from, if you take my meaning.’

‘I do,’ I said thoughtfully.

‘Ah, now you’ve heard all I’ve got to say,’ declared the groom. ‘There’s no more so don’t waste any of your fine speeches on me.’

Nor did I. I was lost in conjectures. I’d come here to investigate one death. But there had been three at Shore House recently, if only one was murder.

First, Mrs Craven’s cat had died. Then Mrs Craven’s child. Lastly the rat-catcher.

A fire, I thought, had been smouldering here for a good time before Brennan died … and someone had fanned it into life.

‘Lye,’ I said, ‘I have no more questions but I do have a favour to ask. If you would be so good, ask Callow to dig up the cat for me.’

‘Dig it up?’ cried Greenaway, twisting round in the saddle to stare down at me, his eyes popping.

‘Yes, he must remember where he buried it. Tell no one I asked you or him to do this, if you would. It’s a private matter. Tell him too not to speak of it or let anyone see him do it.’