Bury in Haste (3 page)

‘Yes, I walked round with the dogs at ten, same as always, so he must have come later than that.’

‘Then this morning your heifers were gone.’

‘Yes. Alan went up to the corner and there was the top gate open too, on to the lane. He was getting right worried by then, and he shouted for Bob to fetch me. I tell you I was in a state, thinking my beasts had been stolen. It was in the paper a month back, how a farmer over at Woolbarton lost a dozen prize Herefords that way. But once we got up top we noticed Will Minter’s gate was open too, and there they were.’ His face creased in indignation. ‘Twenty two pure-bred Jersey heifers let loose with Minter’s Aberdeen Angus bull! I’ll skin that man!’ Quinn shook his fist in the direction of Minecliff, so furious he was barely able to form the words.

‘If you’re talking about Bert Bunyard,’ Deepbriar said levelly, looking up as he finished making his notes, ‘you’ve got it wrong this time. He’s got a leg in plaster. He can barely hobble out of his own front door.’

‘What?’ Quinn’s face, already flushed, turned the colour of beetroot. ‘That’s impossible!’

‘I saw him myself yesterday. Whoever it was let your cows out, couldn’t have been Bert Bunyard.’

The farmer looked about ready to spontaneously combust. His two men backed off a little to get out of range, as if an explosion was a real possibility. ‘Then he must have persuaded somebody else to do it, or … or he paid somebody,’ he finished desperately.

The idea that Minecliff’s meanest man would pay anybody for anything was so laughable that the constable didn’t even bother to consider it. ‘Can you think of a single soul who’d do Bert Bunyard a favour?’

‘What about that son of his?’

‘Humphrey hasn’t been off the farm in five years,’ Deepbriar said, snapping his notebook shut. ‘Somebody’s played a nasty trick on you, Mr Quinn, but it wasn’t Bunyard, not this time. No other damage was done? The gates were opened, not broken?’

Quinn shook his head. ‘No. But look, it must have been Bunyard,’ he added, almost pleading. ‘There’s nobody else would do a thing like this.’

‘Two miles across the fields with his leg in plaster? It’s impossible, even a young man couldn’t do it.’

‘He could’ve ridden that old nag of his,’ Quinn suggested.

‘Doubt if he’d even make it on to her back. Easy enough to tell. The ground’s wet, a horse would leave hoof prints. Either he’d have come up the lane, or through that gate.’ Deepbriar pointed and they went together to check. There were signs of large-booted feet, but nothing to indicate that a horse had passed that way recently.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Quinn,’ Deepbriar said, heading back towards his bicycle, ‘I have to say, even if we find the culprit, there’s not a lot to be done. Criminal damage would be hard to prove, seeing it’s Minter’s bull that may or may not have done the harm.’ He half turned. ‘Was old Bronc here yesterday?’

‘Yes, he called in for a chat and a spot of tea.’ Quinn was dismissive. ‘He was on his way before dark, this is nothing to do with him.’

‘I didn’t think it was. Tell me, did any of you happen to see a big black car on the road any time during the afternoon? Or maybe a while after Bronc left?’

The old man and his grandson shook their heads in unison, still apparently struck dumb.

‘Not that I recall,’ Quinn said. ‘What are you getting at? Nobody’s going to go trying to steal animals in a car, they’d be in a lorry. Anyway, nobody stole them did they, just let them in with Minter’s bull. There’s no knowing what might come of this. My heifers …’

‘I don’t need instructing in the ways of the birds and bees, thank you, Mr Quinn,’ Deepbriar said, raising his hand to interrupt him. ‘But I’m blowed if I know what we could charge anybody with, even if we prove who let your heifers out. I’ll call on Mr Minter tomorrow, see if he’s got anything to add to what you’ve told me.’

He focused his gaze sternly on the excitable little man. ‘I’ll need your word you won’t go making any more wild accusations in the meantime. Bert Bunyard’s done his fair share of daft things and he steps over the line now and then, I won’t deny, but this time you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

A little hot and bothered from cycling nearly three miles in ten minutes, Deepbriar sat down at the organ in Possington’s ancient church. With a wink he tossed a threepenny bit to young Nicky Wilkins, and the boy returned happily to his place in the choir.

With a nod to Miss Lightfall, her plain face expressing her relief at his arrival, Deepbriar launched into the first hymn. As usual the joy of releasing music from beneath his hands and feet lifted him above the cares of the day, and the earlier part of the morning was banished from his mind. A rare smile spread across the constable’s flushed face as the sound swelled to fill the ancient building.

During the sermon Deepbriar’s mind wandered, but not to Joe Spraggs or Ferdy Quinn. The vicar had chosen to preach on Psalm 145 verse 15: ‘The eyes of all wait upon Thee, and Thou givest them their meat in due season.’ He couldn’t help but think of Mary and her unnatural spell of bad temper, and wonder if there was a roast dinner awaiting him. His mouth watered.

As the sermon came to an end the side door creaked open. Every member of the congregation could be heard holding its breath, listening to the stealthy footsteps as the newcomer tried to walk silently across the flagstones. A meagre man, with nondescript features, came into view. He had thin mousy hair and a feeble stringy moustache, and his eyes were the colour of winter puddles. With his right hand heavily bandaged, and his every movement an apology, Cyril Crimmon crept to the side of the organ, keeping his gaze unwaveringly on the vicar, as if his attention might compensate for causing such a distraction.

Deepbriar had left his helmet on the rail that ran round behind his seat. Doubtless expecting to see Nicky Wilkins, the newcomer finally took his eyes off Father Michael and looked up, to find himself confronted by this symbol of law and order. He gave a violent start, his feet coming off the floor briefly, and jarring back down with an audible thud. A barely suppressed ripple of laughter rang from the choir stalls, with a fainter echo coming from the pews.

Father Michael announced the last hymn, and with a friendly nod to Mr Crimmon, who looked as if he was about to faint clean away, Deepbriar applied himself to his task. Luckily the vicar had chosen ‘We plough the fields and scatter’, and as every voice was lifted to make the most of the cheerful tune, the interruption was forgotten. By the time Deepbriar looked up again from the instrument, the man who usually played it had gone.

Making the most of the trumpet stop, Deepbriar played the congregation out of the church. Glancing at the retreating parishioners he noticed Mrs Wriggle among them; of course, she must be visiting her daughter, who lived in Possington. Seeing the wife of Joe’s employer made him forget Cyril Crimmon’s odd behaviour. Suppose something serious had happened to young Spraggs? Deepbriar was very much aware that he hadn’t yet made a report, but if this was a genuine missing person case the sooner action was taken the better; regardless of Sergeant Hubbard’s inevitable displeasure. Distracted, he missed a note, creating an unpleasant discord.

A few minutes later Deepbriar climbed from the organ’s high seat, having given his all in the final voluntary once the parishioners were mostly out of earshot and wouldn’t complain about the volume. He found Father Michael awaiting him.

‘Thank you so much for stepping in,’ the vicar beamed. ‘I’m sure Mr Crimmon was most grateful. I gather he had some family business to attend to. His brother has been a bit of a trial to the family. Barnabas that is, of course, not Aubrey. Aubrey performs an admirable service for the community, a most discreet sort of a man.’

He looked around as if expecting to see his erstwhile organist, but the church was empty apart from the two of them. ‘Poor Cyril. I’m afraid he suffers from nerves. Our organ has become a passion with him, especially since the renovation. That’s hardly surprising, considering how much of the money he himself raised for the repairs.’

‘It looked as if he’d had a bit of an accident,’ Deepbriar said. ‘He had a bandage round his fingers.’

‘I’ll call on him on my way home,’ Father Michael assured him. ‘If it’s serious we may be requiring your assistance again.’

‘I’m happy to come whenever I’m free,’ Deepbriar replied.

‘Wonderful.’ He shook the constable’s hand enthusiastically. ‘Please pay my respects to the inestimable Mrs Deepbriar. You’d better be on your way, or I shall be unpopular. I wouldn’t like to think of your Sunday dinner getting cold on the table.’

With false confidence Deepbriar told him there was no chance of that, but he wasted no time getting back on the road. Hunger was beginning to gnaw at him; a big frame like his needed frequent nourishment, and he’d missed his elevenses.

Almost against his better judgement, the constable slowed as he approached the track to Wriggle’s yard. He checked his watch. It was two minutes past one. As he hesitated the image of little Emily Spraggs rose up to prick his conscience.

Throwing caution to the winds Deepbriar pedalled fast through the rutted mud. He would just take one more look. The memory of Ed Walkingham’s disappearance haunted him; he must try to see the evidence with Sergeant Hubbard’s eyes, and prove to his own satisfaction that the case needed further investigation, before he made the irrevocable telephone call.

Again he leant his bicycle alongside the one belonging to Joe Spraggs and walked into the yard. At first glance nothing had changed; the tea cup was still in place, the old lorry sagged on its worn tyres.

Deepbriar blinked and stared. The door of the lorry wasn’t quite closed. He ran to look into the cab. There, curled up on the seat, with eyes shut and face as pale as death, lay the figure of a man. It was the missing Joe.

‘J
oe?’ Deepbriar’s fingers, questing at the young man’s wrist, found a pulse. He sighed with relief; he’d known Joe Spraggs since he was a child and just a week ago he’d watched him take his wedding vows. It was good to find him still alive. Even if some small and less admirable corner of his mind regretted that he hadn’t discovered a murder, the unworthy thought was swiftly quashed, as was the reflection that there were other people whom Minecliff wouldn’t mourn: Bert Bunyard came to mind.

Deepbriar held the palm of his hand in front of Joe Spraggs’s half-open mouth and felt the warmth of breath. ‘Come on, Joe,’ he said, giving the shoulder nearest to him a good shake. ‘Wake up, there’s a good lad. Your Emily’s been worrying about you.’

Spraggs didn’t stir. It wasn’t easy to check him over for injuries while he lay curled up in the cab, but Deepbriar did his best. He could find no visible wounds, so he stepped down off the running board and hauled the limp form out of the lorry. Without waking, Joe gave a brief snort and laid his head comfortably against Deepbriar’s broad chest. One thing was sure; however he’d returned, it hadn’t been under his own steam.

The young man was wearing a thick tweed overcoat, and the constable recalled what Emily had said; how, expecting to go straight to the village hall after work, Joe had taken his best coat with him the previous morning. The garment now looked decidedly the worst for wear; there were patches of grey dust on both front and back, and a jagged tear at one shoulder.

It was a puzzle. Joe wasn’t the type to get himself into trouble; as a youngster he’d been inclined to spend his spare time helping his father with his allotment, rarely joining the other boys when they got into mischief. And as far as Deepbriar knew he’d never developed a taste for drink, he hadn’t even made a night of it before the wedding the way most lads did. The constable suppressed a grin; if this was the first time Joe had taken a skinful, he was going to have one heck of a hangover. Deepbriar set his burden down on an old door that lay abandoned and rotting by the fence, to keep him out of the mud. As he straightened he realised he’d noticed no hint of alcohol on Spraggs’s breath. He leant down again, checking that he wasn’t mistaken.

Deepbriar felt himself touched by an undeniable thrill. If Joe wasn’t drunk then what was wrong with him? There
was
a mystery here. Somebody had brought the unconscious young man back here this morning, but where from, and why? He must certainly speak to old Bronc again; perhaps there really had been a car travelling without lights, carrying Joe and a gang of kidnappers. Scanning the entrance to the yard Deepbriar noted that there were new tracks in the mud, overlaying the ones he’d copied so meticulously, and seemingly identical. The villains had timed it well, with everyone in church. As for why they’d abducted somebody like young Joe, at the moment he couldn’t think of a remotely likely reason.

Spraggs’s waxy white forehead was cool; he wasn’t suffering from a fever, though he muttered incoherently at Deepbriar’s touch. The constable sniffed again; a scent of some kind clung to Spraggs’s clothes, a musty stale smell. Where had he been? And why wouldn’t he wake up? It wasn’t the time for speculation though, the detective work would have to wait. Cycling back to the village to call an ambulance would mean leaving Joe alone; unlikely though it seemed, suppose he disappeared again? Besides, it would take a long time, far better to take him straight to the doctor in the village.

Deepbriar had never learnt to drive a motor vehicle. Fortunately the lorry was facing the exit and the crank handle was in place. All he had to do was get it started and steer. It couldn’t be that difficult.

He put the unconscious Spraggs into the back of the lorry. Placing him on an old army blanket that had been stuffed down the side of the cab to keep out the draughts, he tucked the cushion from the seat under the man’s head.

His eye fell on the flowered cup, still standing on the bonnet of the old Atkinson. It looked such a promising piece of evidence he felt it must be preserved; he couldn’t believe Spraggs’s condition would turn out to have some perfectly mundane explanation. Lifting the cup very gingerly with one gloved hand he placed it by the door of the shed.

Deepbriar grasped the crank handle. As a child he had seen a man’s arm broken when a reluctant engine kicked back, and the incident had made a deep impression upon him. Warily he jerked the handle round. Nothing happened.

By the sixth attempt Deepbriar was red in the face and running out of breath. He removed his gloves, spat on his hands and took a firmer grip. This time he flung all of his considerable weight into the task. He met resistance and exerted more force. The handle spun then stopped abruptly. Caught off guard Deepbriar slipped in the mud and sat down hard.

The Atkinson, having given a rather amused cough, juddered a little. The engine spluttered and the machine rocked rhythmically, blue smoke belching from the exhaust. Deepbriar hastily lifted his bicycle alongside the recumbent Spraggs, climbed into the cab and sat down, instantly discovering why Joe had used the cushion, as a metal protrusion dug into an area already tender as a result of his fall.

Ignoring the discomfort, the constable studied the controls; it looked simple enough. He released the hand brake and put a tentative foot on the right hand pedal. The engine coughed again, derisively. Recalling that the vehicle had to be in gear in order to move, Deepbriar waggled the gear lever. The Atkinson screeched in torment, and the constable snatched his hand back as if it had been scalded.

Deepbriar thought, staring at the various buttons and levers. Finally he looked beneath his feet. Of course. There was another pedal. He had to engage the clutch. Pressing down with his left foot, he tried the gear lever again, and it settled into a new position. He let out a pent-up breath, and eased his left foot up, while gradually increasing the weight on the right.

The elderly lorry leapt forward with a snort, like a startled horse. Deepbriar, clinging hard to the wheel and wincing at the pressure on his rear end, thrust both feet to the floorboards. The engine roared but the vehicle rolled to a halt. He then lifted his foot from the accelerator. Grumbling throatily, the engine subsided.

His second attempt sent the lorry hurtling through the open gates, the cab shuddering around him, before he once more thrust his size ten boots to the floor.

He decided to experiment with another gear, stirring the ancient lever until it settled again. This proved to be less than successful, since his next leap was made backwards, the Atkinson’s mudguard barely missing the gate post.

The constable took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and tried again. Slowly the Atkinson wheezed forward, its bare tyres skidding a little in the mud as it ground along the rutted lane.

Knuckles white, forehead creased in concentration, Deepbriar eased the lorry out on to the road and headed it towards Minecliff. It took him twice as long to reach the village as it would have done on his bicycle, but finally the Atkinson arrived outside Dr Smythe’s house. Deepbriar lifted both feet from the pedals, and with a violent jerk the lorry came to a halt and the engine died. At least that solved the problem of how to turn off the motor. He heaved on the hand brake and wiped a film of sweat from his face.

‘Strange,’ Dr Smythe mused, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. ‘He’s had something he shouldn’t, but I’m blowed if I know what.’

‘Poison?’ Deepbriar asked, his eyes widening at the thought. Dick Bland’s last case had involved a triple poisoning; very nasty.

‘No, no, just something that’s sent him to sleep, I’d say. He’s showing signs of coming round, though I doubt if you’ll get much sense out of him for an hour or two.’

‘All right if I leave him with you then, Doctor? I’ll pop along and see his wife. And mine, come to that,’ Deepbriar added, as his stomach rumbled hungrily. The thought of roast beef made his mouth water, and he’d forgotten his earlier fear that there might be none awaiting him.

The Doctor nodded. ‘No rush I think. Come back about three. And tell young Emily she can call in a little later, with luck he’ll be able to go home this evening.’

Emily Spraggs was tearful when she opened the door. It was a relief to be able to offer her reassurance, though by the time Deepbriar left a few minutes later she was looking baffled. That made two of them, the constable reflected, for he too was mystified.

‘Mary?’ Deepbriar called tentatively as he let himself in at the back door of the police house. The silence told him the worst; nobody was home. On the cold cooker stood a plate, covered with a saucepan lid. He lifted the lid and looked sadly at the congealing gravy that failed to disguise the overcooked state of the meat. The shrivelled potatoes and limp Yorkshire pudding didn’t look very appetising either.

He found the note on the hall table, brief and to the point, with no affectionate greeting or signature; Mary had gone to visit her sister at the other end of the village.

Having eaten his meal, Deepbriar returned to the doctor’s house as agreed. Joe Spraggs’s face was no longer so pale; he looked now as if he was merely asleep.

‘His eyes are moving more,’ Dr Smythe commented. ‘He’ll be with us shortly.’

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Joe stirred, half turning over.

‘Back in the land of the living then?’ Deepbriar quipped. At his words the young man came abruptly bolt upright, his eyes wide with terror.

‘What’s going on?’ Spraggs demanded wildly. For a long moment he stared at Deepbriar then at the doctor with an expression of horror on his face, showing no sign of recognition. Slowly the glazed look left him. He gulped convulsively.

‘I thought …’ he began, then broke off, looking round the room before bringing his gaze back to the constable. ‘Mr Deepbriar?’ he said uncertainly. ‘What happened?’

‘We were hoping you might be able to tell us that,’ Deepbriar replied, taking out his notebook. ‘You were saying you thought …’

Spraggs swallowed again. ‘Sounds daft,’ the young man said hoarsely. ‘I thought I was dead. Until the man came back.’

‘Drink this,’ the doctor urged, holding out a glass. ‘It’s only water,’ he added as his patient hesitated.

Spraggs drank thirstily, draining the glass. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know I was so dry. How did I get here?’

‘The constable found you, in your lorry I gather,’ the doctor said, taking the young man’s wrist to check his pulse. ‘How are you feeling now? No pain? How about your head?’

‘A bit muzzy, that’s all.’ He looked from one man to the other. ‘I haven’t smashed up the lorry, have I?’

‘No, no.’ The doctor raised his eyebrows. ‘He’s with us, I think. You can go ahead and ask your questions, constable.’

Deepbriar nodded. ‘Let’s begin at the beginning, Joe. Saturday afternoon. You were working late, is that right?’

‘Yes, I normally finish about four on a Saturday. I’d already done one delivery to Falbrough, then there was a rush job, taking a load of timber to Gristlethorpe. I’d told Emily I’d be late, and I was going to meet her at the village hall. She wasn’t too happy, what with this weekend being sort of a honeymoon.’ His brow furrowed as he tried to work things out. ‘I’ve missed it, haven’t I?
Madame Butterfly
? Emily’ll be upset. She was keen, because her auntie was in it.’

‘Yes, I’m afraid you have missed it.’ He refrained from further comment, keeping to the business in hand. ‘What time did you get back to the yard?’

‘Must have been about a quarter to seven. Emily had given me something for my supper, a nice bit of meat pie. I was going to sit in the cab and eat it. I went to fetch my coat first though, from the office. And that’s when I saw it.’

‘Saw what?’

‘Tea. Already made. A whole pot of it, steaming hot. I thought Mr Wriggle must have just left. I poured a cup and took it back to the lorry, because I was checking the plugs. I remember I drank it after I’d eaten the pie …’ a puzzled expression drifted across his face.

‘That may well be it,’ the Doctor put in, ‘hot tea, especially with plenty of sugar, will disguise quite a strong flavour.’

Deepbriar nodded, still watching Spraggs. ‘Would that be normal, your boss leaving tea for you?’

‘No, not really, but I didn’t think much about it. I mean, the office wasn’t locked either, but he forgets sometimes.’

‘You locked it then, did you?’

‘No, not much point. I’d be putting the cup back, wouldn’t I. Only …’ he faltered. ‘I don’t remember doing it.’

‘You remember drinking the tea though,’ Deepbriar prompted. ‘What happened next?’

‘Blowed if I know.’ Spraggs rubbed a hand round the back of his neck. ‘Did I have an accident?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Deepbriar confessed, ‘but I don’t think so.’

‘This is rum.’ The young man lifted his head and stared out of the window. Bright sun slanted across the village green, lighting up the red and gold of the fallen leaves. ‘What’s the time?’ he asked.

‘A quarter past three,’ the doctor told him, ‘on Sunday afternoon.’

‘You’re kidding!’ Joe leapt to his feet. ‘My Emily will be worried sick!’

‘No, she won’t,’ Deepbriar said, putting a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ve seen her, and told her you’re here. She’ll be along in a while and the pair of you can go home. Just you sit yourself down. Let’s get back to when you finished work. You didn’t see anything when you drove into the yard? Or along the road?’

‘Like what?’

‘Another lorry maybe, or a car?’

Joe shook his head. ‘It’s always quiet, Saturday teatime. Didn’t see a soul.’

‘All right. What about when you first came to?’ Deepbriar consulted his notes. ‘You said … “I thought I was dead. Until the man came back.” What was that all about?’

Joe gave him a guarded look. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe it was just a dream. My head’s in a proper muddle. I don’t understand half of this. Can’t I go now?’

‘In a minute. Fact is, Joe, you disappeared. At half past ten this morning I searched all over Wriggle’s yard and you weren’t there, but when I got back for another look just after one o’clock I found you lying unconscious in your cab. If there’s anything else you can tell me, no matter what, it could help us find out what has been going on.’