Bury in Haste (11 page)

‘It’s Simon’s day for working at the Manor,’ the Colonel explained, ‘and there’s something he was telling me that I thought you should know. In fact I got the Humber out p.d.q. and drove him in, although in this weather we’d have been as quick on our feet.’

Deepbriar got them both seated and gently closed the door that led into the rest of the house, satisfied to hear the faint murmur of female voices from the kitchen, before settling himself at his desk and picking up a notebook and pencil. ‘Well?’

‘Don’t rightly know where to start,’ Witherby mumbled.

‘It’s probably quicker if I explain,’ Brightman said, ‘military mind and all that. The thing is, when Simon was working in Mrs Emerson’s garden on Monday he found some clothes. He thinks they belong to Bronc.’

‘Found them? Where?’ Deepbriar asked.

‘Pushed into the bottom of the bonfire. It sounded a bit fishy to me, so when Simon told me about it I thought we’d better come and report. I’ve known Bronc a good few years, and I can’t see him throwing away a serviceable coat, not without a very good reason. And since I’d heard you’d been looking for the old boy I thought you’d better hear about it.’

‘You said clothes, it wasn’t just his coat?’ Deepbriar turned to Witherby. The gardener shook his head.

‘There’s two coats. One of them looks near new. I don’t know where that might have come from, but I’ve seen Bronc wearing the other one many a time.’

The old car crept through the fog, the light from the head lamps barely showing the side of the road. Deepbriar sat beside the Colonel, keeping a watch for the telltale dips in the verge where there was a gateway. Mary’s protests were still ringing in his ears; only the Colonel’s assurance that he would personally escort the constable to Mrs Emerson’s house, and bring him back again, had finally dissuaded her from telephoning Sergeant Hubbard. And Mrs Emerson had approved the scheme, enjoying the drama of the occasion, and eager to avail herself of a ride home in the Colonel’s car.

‘This is quite exciting,’ Mrs Emerson said, leaning forward to tap the constable on the shoulder. ‘Do you really think Mr Witherby has found something suspicious? I didn’t think that awful old tramp would dare come into my garden, these people have such a nerve.’

Deepbriar didn’t bother to answer; the woman had been saying the same thing in a dozen different ways ever since Colonel Brightman explained why they wanted to take a look at her bonfire. The big car crawled into the gateway at The Lodge and stopped in the drive. Deepbriar took a deep breath before he got out, fighting down the dizziness that struck him. Following the Colonel, who in turn was following Simon Witherby, he made it safely along the gravel path to the end of the garden, glad that they were walking slowly. Mrs Emerson twittered along behind, occasionally treading on his heels.

‘Here we are,’ Simon Witherby declared, arriving beside a heap of garden rubbish nearly five feet high. ‘Getting a bit out of hand, it was, with all the wet weather we’ve had. I decided to have a go at burning it anyway, I thought it’d go well enough if I once got it alight. T’other side had caught before I noticed these and pulled them out. When I saw what they were I put the fire out again, just in case there was anything else. I had a bit of a poke with my pitchfork, but I couldn’t see owt.’

The two coats were draped across the ruins of a wheelbarrow. Deepbriar recognised them both, the ancient Burberry with the ragged tear where a strip had been torn off, and the nearly new tweed overcoat Harry Bartle had given to old Bronc less than three weeks ago. He picked the latter up gingerly in a gloved hand, holding it high so the garment unfolded.

‘Oh my goodness!’ Mrs Emerson’s voice squeaked with excitement. Along one side of the collar, and splashing the breast, was a large rusty coloured stain.

‘Couldn’t be helped, Sarge,’ Deepbriar said, standing stolid and unmoving under Hubbard’s glare. ‘With Giddens called to that accident on the arterial, I had to go and take a look.’

Hubbard grunted. ‘You were on sick leave. You should have called it in to us, not gone traipsing about in the fog like a flipping boy scout.’

Ignoring this gibe, Deepbriar asked the question that had been on his mind ever since the previous day, when he’d entrusted the coats to Giddens for delivery. ‘Has the analysis been done, Sarge?’

‘You’re to see Inspector Martindale, he’ll tell you.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the Inspector’s office. ‘Missing blooming Spraggs, now missing blooming tramps,’ he muttered, just loud enough to be heard, as Deepbriar turned away. ‘Missing a few screws if you ask me.’

‘Constable,’ Martindale waved him to a chair. ‘Good to see you back on your feet. Are you fully recovered?’

‘Dr Smythe had nothing to say against me coming in,’ Deepbriar said, side-stepping the fact that he hadn’t actually seen the doctor, who’d therefore had no chance to comment. ‘I’m feeling much better.’

‘Good. Sorry that duty in Belston turned into such a roughhouse. So, this strange business of the missing tramp. I understand you’d been looking for him?’

‘Yes, sir, I thought he might help with my enquiries, although it wasn’t actually official.’ Deepbriar hesitated. He could see no alternative, he had to tell him about Joe Spraggs’s disappearance, and that he’d continued his investigation in defiance of Sergeant Hubbard’s orders, since that was what had led him to search for Bronc in the first place.

‘So you see, sir,’ he finished, ‘I was hoping Bronc might have remembered something about the black car, because I’m fairly sure it must have been used to kidnap Joe Spraggs. I explained all this to Sergeant Hubbard, but since Joe turned up again, and he hadn’t come to any harm, he didn’t think the case was worth pursuing. That was before this business with the other Joseph Spraggs, but maybe that’s been cleared up by now. I – er – I haven’t been able to ascertain whether he turned up again, since I’m not officially back on duty as yet.’

Martindale turned the start of a grin into a grimace of sympathy. He had joined the county force only a few months before, moving out from an inner city area. ‘I’ve heard about the sergeant’s dislike of missing person cases,’ he said. ‘However, in your shoes I think I’d have wanted to know how and why your Joseph Spraggs was kidnapped. I can’t blame you for looking into it. As for the other Joseph Spraggs, I gather Sergeant Hubbard has satisfied himself that there’s nothing suspicious about his disappearance. It’s not that unusual, men often decide to walk out on their wives without any warning.’

‘Yes sir, but considering what happened to the local lad, it seems a mighty big coincidence, them having the same name.…’

‘Strange things do happen, Constable. Anyway, perhaps we can go into that later. You’d better tell me a bit more about this tramp. Bronc is it?’

‘Yes. There’s not a lot. Nobody seems to know his full name for a start, he’s always been known as just Bronc. I was wondering if anyone had gone to pick up that parcel he left in the garden shed at The Lodge, there could be something in it that would help.’

‘That’s being dealt with,’ Martindale said. ‘And we’ll be raking through the rest of that bonfire, too. Stick to the point, constable. Any idea of the man’s age?’

‘Definitely over seventy, maybe close to eighty,’ Deepbriar replied. ‘I’d have said he was still pretty fit though.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘He’s been around as long as I can remember, always coming through Minecliff at the same time of year, heading south in autumn, north in spring. Like the birds, he used to say. And he always stopped at the same places, mostly where they’d let him do a few odd jobs in exchange for a place to sleep, but with some it was purely charity, especially as he got older. He’s a harmless old soul.’

‘But I gather this Mrs Emerson didn’t care for him. And she didn’t know he’d been sleeping in her garden shed?’

‘No. Mrs Emerson has only been in the village about fifteen months. She turned Bronc out this time last year, and she thought he didn’t turn up in spring, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Simon Witherby didn’t let him in and make him welcome, which probably explains how Bronc’s things turned up there this time, I’d guess he moved into the bothy after dark on the Saturday.’

Martindale looked down at the papers on his desk, sorting through them. ‘Witherby’s the one who found the coats, isn’t he. But he wasn’t in any hurry to report it.’

‘He knew I’d been looking for Bronc, and although I told him the old man wasn’t in any trouble he probably thought he was doing him a favour by keeping quiet.’ He shrugged. ‘Even law-abiding citizens prefer to keep us at arm’s length sometimes.’

‘Is Bronc likely to have made any enemies in the village? Other than Mrs Emerson?’

‘As far as I know he’s been travelling over the same route for more than forty years without any trouble. He’s always been pretty predictable, if anybody meant to do him harm they’d find him easily enough.’

Deepbriar stared at the piece of paper Martindale had picked up from the desk; it was a laboratory report.

‘I take it that’s not good news, sir.’

‘No.’ Martindale paused. ‘The stain on both coats was human blood. There was a lot of it. In fact, according to the police surgeon, that amount of bleeding suggests a mortal wound.’ He looked solemnly across at Deepbriar. ‘Since we don’t have a body and the man wouldn’t have been able to move very far after sustaining such a serious injury, I think we can rule out an accident or suicide. It looks very much as if Minecliff may be harbouring a murderer.’

T
o his disgust, Deepbriar was excluded from the search of Mrs Emerson’s garden and the surrounding area. While Martindale was sympathetic to the constable’s pleas, he claimed he could do nothing to help.

‘The case is being turned over to the CID,’ the inspector explained. ‘You could try asking Inspector Stubbs, but until the doctor has signed you off I doubt if you’ll be allowed back on duty. If I were you I’d maintain a low profile, keep an eye on things from your end as it were. If that tramp doesn’t turn up soon, or there’s some innocent explanation as to how all that blood came to be spilt, they’ll be into a full-blown murder enquiry. Then you’ll be the man on the ground, the one with the local knowledge the plainclothes boys are going to need.’

A little later Deepbriar left the station and walked to the bus stop. He’d only been there a minute when a decrepit lorry pulled up alongside, belching smoke.

‘Can I offer you a lift, Mr Deepbriar?’ Joe Spraggs called, ‘I’m going back to the yard, but I can drop you in the village first.’

‘Thanks, Joe,’ Deepbriar said, heaving himself into the cab, and doing his best to get comfortable on the heap of sacks which served as a cushion.

‘I heard that knock on the head you got was a bit nasty. Are you fit and well now, Mr Deepbriar?’ the young man asked, selecting a gear and pulling away from the kerb with an ease the constable couldn’t help but admire.

‘I’m fine. You know what these doctors are like, making a lot of fuss. They won’t let me ride my bike yet, that’s why I was waiting for the bus. How about you? No more nightmares?’

‘Well, not so many,’ Joe replied. He gave a slightly embarrassed laugh. ‘Still jump when I hear somebody behind me, and I gave up making tea at the yard.’ He patted a bulky canvas bag at his side. ‘Emily makes me a flask. And to give Mr Wriggle his due, he’s letting me take the lorry home when I’m late back.’

Deepbriar nodded and sat silent for a while, grabbing hold of the door handle as they swung round a bend at twenty miles an hour. The modern pace of life took a bit of getting used to; he supposed youngsters like Joe took it for granted.

‘Joe, do you happen to know another man by the name of Joseph Spraggs?’ He said at last. ‘You remember, when we were talking to Peter Brook about what happened to you, he suggested that it might have been a case of mistaken identity. Something’s happened that makes me think he wasn’t so far off the mark. You don’t have a cousin with the same name I suppose?’

‘Not a cousin, but there is another Joseph Spraggs. He lives the other side of Belston somewhere, he’s my Dad’s cousin’s son, though he’s closer to Dad’s age than mine. We don’t have much to do with that side of the family, my Mum doesn’t approve of them. They spend too much time and money in the pub for her liking.’ He grinned. ‘She was never too keen on me going into the Goose for a shandy, it’s lucky Emily’s not inclined the same way. Did I get nabbed instead of this Joseph?’

‘Just a thought,’ Deepbriar said. ‘What else do you know about him?’

‘He was the black sheep of the family, got into all sorts of mischief when he was a boy, I remember my Dad talking about him, though they didn’t meet up much. I don’t think he’s changed either, I heard there was some trouble over forged ration books just after the War. Do you think he’s been up to something more serious?’

‘Maybe. I heard that he might have left his wife. And that it was all a bit sudden.’

Joe’s chin came up suddenly, and he stared fixedly out of the windscreen. ‘Are you saying he’s gone missing? Like I did?’

‘I don’t know.’ Deepbriar ran a hand over his hair. He’d been unable to get anything more out of either Hubbard or Martindale regarding Joseph Spraggs’s possible disappearance, only that they were satisfied the man had left of his own free will, so there was no need for an investigation by the police. He probably shouldn’t be talking to Joe about it, but the lack of information was frustrating. Two weeks had gone by since he’d first heard Mrs Spraggs report her husband’s disappearance; if she was right and he hadn’t gone voluntarily, then somebody ought to be looking for the man, even if he was a villain.

‘Fact is, I was wondering if he’d turned up again, and I thought you might have heard something, with you being family.’

‘We’re not exactly close,’ Joe grinned. ‘They did come to our wedding though, you might have seen them; he’s nearly six foot tall, and going bald. He was wearing a very sharp suit. His wife was dressed up to the nines, too, reckon he made a fair bit of money during the War.’ He was silent for a moment.

‘Mum still sees a few of Dad’s relatives when she goes to town on a Saturday,’ he said at last. ‘She hasn’t mentioned Joseph recently, but I’ll ask her if you want.’

‘Thanks, lad, I’d be grateful.’ Deepbriar sighed. When he returned to duty he’d have plenty to do, without risking Martindale’s displeasure by pursuing the Spraggs affair. The business at Quinn’s yard didn’t have the same urgency as a suspected murder, but it needed sorting out, he really didn’t have time to investigate a possible kidnapping as well.

Come to think of it, the hunt for Bronc had become another missing person case, except that this time they had evidence in the shape of two bloodstained coats. That certainly made it look like a matter of foul play, yet Bronc as a murder victim seemed unlikely, it was hard to imagine why anyone would want to kill the old tramp. Joseph Spraggs, on the other hand, might have made many enemies, since he was involved with the criminal fraternity. Deepbriar was very much afraid that Falbrough CID were about to start investigating the wrong crime.

By doing as Martindale advised and keeping his head down, Deepbriar found he was far better informed than if he’d been out with the poor unfortunates combing through Minecliff’s fields and gardens. He was also a great deal more comfortable, since a relentless drizzle fell all weekend, leaving the searchers damp and discouraged. The police house became the centre of operations, and the pungent odour of wet wool mingled with the pleasanter smells that issued from the kitchen as Mary prepared countless mugs of hot soup for the hapless officers. Deepbriar was much in demand for his knowledge of the people and places involved in the search, all pretence that he was still on sick leave being abandoned by Sunday morning.

‘We’ll need to make an early start again tomorrow,’ Inspector Stubbs said, glowering out of the door at the fast-approaching darkness, then turning back to face Deepbriar, stifling a yawn. ‘I’m going home to get some sleep. You’re lucky, your bed’s nice and handy.’

Deepbriar grinned. ‘Yes sir. But I’m afraid I shan’t be available first thing in the morning, I’ve got to go to the hospital. I’m seeing the doctor there; once he’s signed me off I’ll be officially back on duty.’

Stubbs grunted. ‘I suppose you have to go then. We’ll put Constable Giddens in here for the morning. But get back as soon as you can, I need you.’

‘I’m not supposed to ride my bike yet. I’ll be back all the quicker if I get a lift,’ Deepbriar hinted.

‘I’ll see what I can do. Call at the station once the quacks have finished with you, I expect there’ll be people coming and going all day,’ Stubbs said, lifting his battered felt hat off the stand and heading back to the door, ‘can’t get far without our local man, not in a case like this.’

The drizzle finally relented, but next morning the fog returned. A grumbling clutch of policemen were huddled outside the house in the cold when Deepbriar went out to catch the bus. Mary kissed him goodbye at the door, to his great embarrassment, before handing him a big square tin. ‘That’s for Sister Hunt, she enjoyed the little piece of fruit cake you gave her, you really should have shared it. Anyway, I said I’d send one for the nurses.’

Deepbriar tried to tell her that he’d only eaten two slices before his contraband was confiscated, but she was busy counting heads, and thinking of cups of tea. ‘I hope I’ve got enough milk,’ she said absently, ignoring his protest. ‘I’ll need to borrow another kettle.’ With that she bustled away.

The fog was thick on Falbrough High Street, and Deepbriar almost bumped into the little man who shot out of the hospital entrance just as he turned in.

‘Sorry.’ They both spoke simultaneously, then recognised each other in the same instant.

‘Mr Crimmon.’

‘Constable Deepbriar.’ The organist’s hand was wrapped in an even larger bandage than before.

‘Still not fit to play, I see,’ Deepbriar commiserated.

‘I’m not even able to give lessons,’ Cyril Crimmon replied, ‘the wound turned septic. I was sorry not to see you in church yesterday, we were left at the mercy of Nicky Wilkins.’ He pulled a sour face. ‘It was most unsatisfactory.’

‘I’ll hope to be there next Sunday,’ Deepbriar said, ‘but only if I’m not on duty. We’re a bit stretched for manpower just at present.’

‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to let Miss Lightfall know if you’re not coming, we may be able to find somebody else. There has even been talk of Mrs Emerson playing for us.’

‘And leaving Minecliff in the lurch?’ Deepbriar was indignant. He’d heard that in his absence she had refused to play the organ at Colin Pattridge’s funeral, but luckily a friend of the vicar’s had been persuaded to come from Belston.

Crimmon’s smile was almost a smirk. ‘Well, given the chance to play a far superior instrument, you can understand the temptation for a musician of her calibre …’

There was the sound of an engine, muffled a little by the fog, and a large dark shape, dimly seen, slowed by the kerb on the opposite side of the road. As the mist swirled and thinned for a second, Deepbriar realised it was a hearse, its polished black paint work dulled by a sheen of damp. The car rolled to a standstill, its engine purring, and Aubrey Crimmon looked across at them from the driver’s seat, lifting a hand in greeting.

The organist returned the salute. ‘Ah, I was hoping my brother wouldn’t be long. You’ll excuse me, constable.’

Deepbriar’s brows lifted, he’d forgotten about their connection; it was an unlikely relationship, the two men were physical opposites. Cyril Crimmon looked far more like an undertaker than the rosy-cheeked Aubrey, nearly always wearing a suitably sombre expression. ‘Of course, we’re always quite happy with your playing,’ Crimmon condescended as he turned away, ‘when you’re free. Excuse me, I mustn’t keep Aubrey waiting. Good day.’

‘And a good day to you too,’ Deepbriar muttered as the man climbed into the sleek black car and vanished into the fog. ‘And as for Mrs Emerson, as far as I’m concerned Possington is welcome to her.’

Once he’d seen the doctor and been given a clean bill of health, Deepbriar sought out Sister Hunt. She looked no less formidable, and Deepbriar, feeling about two feet tall, wished he’d worn his uniform. However, the cake having been duly inspected and approved, she unbent enough to grant that Deepbriar almost redeemed the citizens of Minecliff in her estimation.

‘I’m glad you don’t still see me in the same light as Bert Bunyard,’ the constable replied.

Sister Hunt gave a brief decisive nod. ‘A totally unpleasant man. I was very grateful that he only stayed one night. If it had been up to me I wouldn’t have admitted him in the first place, the state he was in. A man has no business being inebriated at that time of day, it’s a disgrace. There’s not much we can do about bruising anyway.’

‘Bruising?’ Deepbriar stared at her. ‘Didn’t he have a broken leg?’

‘Of course not!’ She was shocked. ‘No matter what kind of man he was, I’d hardly suggest sending a patient away with broken bones!’

‘We are talking about the same person here?’ the constable asked. ‘Thickset and untidy, always wears a red neck cloth. He fell down the market steps.’

‘That’s the one. And it’s no wonder he fell, the amount of alcohol he must have consumed. He positively reeked of it.’

‘Bert Bunyard, you old rogue!’ Deepbriar breathed. ‘Well, I hope the nurses enjoy their cake. Thank you again, Sister.’

‘Only doing my job.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘You’ll have to excuse me now, constable, it’s nearly time for matron’s rounds.’

Deepbriar sat beside the young driver as the police car nosed its way towards Minecliff through the fog. He was hardly able to believe his luck. Falbrough’s finest might be no nearer to finding Bronc, but thanks to Sister Hunt he’d solved a case. Or, to be more precise, he’d solved two, for he now knew exactly what had been taken from the Operatic Society’s store in the village hall, and why.

A rare smile curved Deepbriar’s lips as he remembered Minecliff’s one attempt at farce. Most of the biggest laughs had come at the wrong times. In those days Mary had been responsible for props; it must be ten years since she’d persuaded Doctor Smythe to help her make that mock plaster cast.

Ferdy Quinn had been right all along, and although it would bring Deepbriar great satisfaction to confront Bert Bunyard, it would be no fun admitting his mistake to his neighbour. Deepbriar decided he must soften the blow. Perhaps if he found a way of returning the missing pig … That thought stopped him dead. Last time he visited Hurdles Farm, the day after the animal disappeared, Humphrey Bunyard had proudly, and quite innocently, shown the constable every one of his four legged charges. There were no pigs.

‘Deepbriar, thank heavens you’re back,’ Stubbs met him at the door of the police house and ushered him into the office. ‘We’ve got a problem. Man by the name of Bunyard, doesn’t want us searching his farm. I don’t want to bring in the heavy mob, we’re still short-handed anyway, but it could turn nasty if he’s not handled right.’

‘Bert?’ Deepbriar rubbed his hands together. ‘I’ll deal with him inspector, there’s a little matter of a stolen pig to answer for, not to mention arson and criminal damage. I was planning to go out there anyway, it’s time him and me had a word.’

‘No, the name’s not Bert,’ Stubbs interrupted, consulting the piece of paper he held. ‘The man we’ve come up against is Humphrey Bunyard. According to this report he’s built like a brick privy and is just about as unmovable.’

‘Humphrey?’ Deepbriar was taken aback. ‘He’s just a lad, I can’t imagine him being much trouble, though you have to know how to talk to him,’ he conceded.