Bury in Haste (5 page)

‘Are you all right, Mr Crimmon? Something wrong?’

‘No, nothing at all.’ The undertaker gave an unctuous half smile. ‘We see all sorts, of course, I don’t know why this should have shocked me. I beg your pardon, most unprofessional.’

But, Deepbriar thought, it hadn’t been the sight of the shattered head that had brought the man up short. Only the dead man’s hand and arm had been uncovered in that first smooth motion. When the gun had fallen from Pattridge’s grasp, his nerveless hand had dropped to the arm of the chair. Deepbriar hadn’t noticed anything odd about it, but now, coming closer, he saw that the third and fourth fingers of the right hand were slightly webbed, making them appear shorter than the others.

‘Strange, that,’ he said, pointing. ‘I’ve known Mr Pattridge for years, but I’d never noticed it before. Was that what surprised you?’

‘Well, yes.’ Crimmon nodded. ‘How very astute of you, constable. It’s just a coincidence, I believe I remember seeing a similar hand on another of our clients. I dare say it’s a common enough thing, a little abnormality like that appearing now and then. Mr Pattridge must have been related to a lot of people in this area, even if he doesn’t have any close family still living.’

Lunch, like breakfast, was a silent affair, with Mary slapping a plate of bread and cheese and pickle down in front of her husband then returning to her laundry without a word. Deepbriar stared down at the food, not seeing it. His mind was still full of the scene at Oldgate Farm. He wondered if Tony Pattridge would turn up, like the proverbial bad penny, once he heard what had happened. Would he shed a tear for his father? Folk often didn’t know what they’d got until they lost it; maybe he’d come to regret his neglect of the old man, now it was too late to do anything about it.

Deepbriar listened to the sounds from the back of the house, identifying the moment when Mary picked up the peg bag and a basket of washing to take into the garden, letting the door slam. He had to find some way to appease her, but so far all his attempts to apologise had been rebuffed.

Of course what he’d seen and done that morning was official police business, but he’d always been able to share a little of the burden of such things with his wife, knowing he could trust her not to gossip. He ate his meal without really tasting it, then made a pot of tea, taking a cup through to the scullery.

‘Thank you,’ Mary said stiffly. ‘Put it down there.’ She nodded to the shelf above the wringer.

‘Listen love,’ Deepbriar began awkwardly. ‘I’m really sorry …’

‘Not now,’ she said, elbowing him aside on her way to the door. ‘I’m busy.’

With a heartfelt sigh Deepbriar retreated to his office. There were still a few things to do before he cycled in to Falbrough to give his weekly report, and the best remedy he could think of for a spot of melancholy was hard work.

Deepbriar sat staring at Alfred Wriggle across the table in Emily Spraggs’s kitchen. He’d summoned the builder’s merchant with a telephone call, suffering no pangs of conscience when he exaggerated the Doctor’s concern for Joe’s state of health, insisting that Wriggle must fetch the ancient Atkinson, since Joe wouldn’t be fit to drive the lorry for another day at least.

Wriggle was a spare man, with fine thin hair and skin stretched tight over his facial bones, as if his parsimony extended to the matter of his own flesh. He wore a threadbare jacket fastened with one remaining button, and a worn flat cap lay in front of him on the scrubbed boards.

‘You didn’t do that vehicle of mine any good yesterday, constable,’ he said, jerking his head towards the window. ‘Easy to see you don’t know much about motors. Reckon it’ll be needing a de-coke.’

‘Is that so?’ Deepbriar consulted his notebook. ‘Then while that’s being done you might like to get the headlamp fixed. Otherwise you could be getting a summons.’

Wriggle looked innocently puzzled. ‘What headlamp’s that then?’

‘The one that’s been broken since midsummer,’ Deepbriar replied. ‘I notice it’s not even got a bulb in it, so I’m fairly sure it won’t be working. Consider this a warning, and make sure it’s fixed by the end of the week, eh? But I didn’t come to talk about that, I need to ask you a few questions about what happened to young Joe.’

Pursing his lips, Wriggle shook his head solemnly. ‘The pranks these youngsters get up to. Wasn’t like that in my day, we were too busy earning a crust to go messing about playing practical jokes.’

Deepbriar studied the man’s face; if Wriggle was dissembling he could see no sign of it. ‘So you think it was a practical joke?’ he said at last.

‘Can’t think of any other explanation. It must have been a couple of his friends, giving him a hard time because he just got married. Not that I’d expect that sort of monkey business with Joe, he’s a quiet lad. He turns up on time and doesn’t whine if he has to work late now and then. What else could it be?’

‘I don’t know,’ the constable said. ‘Suppose it wasn’t Joe they were after? As far as I could tell there was nothing stolen from the yard, but I’ll need you to check. You didn’t have anything special there this week? Anything particularly valuable?’

Wriggle shook his head. ‘Had some marble slabs in for the Colonel, but Joe delivered them to the Manor last Tuesday. Though there’s a lot of stock out there, I wouldn’t want you to go thinking any different. It’d be a fair haul if somebody raided my yard, that’s for sure.’

Having seen the state of most of that ‘stock’ Deepbriar contented himself with a noncommittal nod. ‘No sign of them removing anything. Only Joe. Somehow I don’t think this was any sort of robbery.’ The idea that thieves were responsible for Joe’s disappearance didn’t hold water. They could have waited for him to leave and had the place to themselves. Drugging a man’s tea and leaving it there, hot and inviting, was a strange thing to do. It spoke of careful planning.

Deepbriar got an assurance from Wriggle that he’d look over his stock and let him know if anything was missing, then the old man left, driving the elderly lorry back to the yard, having rather grudgingly agreed to give Joe the entire day off without docking his pay. Once his boss had gone Joe came downstairs, his young wife flitting solicitously along behind him.

‘Hello there, Joe. Feeling better?’ Deepbriar asked.

‘I’m fine,’ Spraggs replied shortly.

He didn’t look fine, the constable thought. There were dark marks under his eyes, and his face had no more colour than when Deepbriar had found him the day before.

‘I heard Mr Wriggle drive away,’ Joe went on, taking the seat his boss had vacated. ‘The old man’s none too good with that lorry. It needs nursing.’

‘He seems to think I damaged it. Says it needs a de-coke.’

Joe grinned. ‘That’s as maybe, but it’s no fault of yours. The old bus is on its last legs. It’s only the way I take care of it keeps it going.’ He covered a wide yawn with his hand. ‘Excuse me. Didn’t sleep too well. Daft really, seeing I still felt so tired. Doctor says I should be wide awake by tomorrow morning.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve remembered anything else?’ Deepbriar asked.

‘No. I’ve been wracking my brains but I can’t think of a thing. If I do then I’ll let you know.’

‘If he does, then I’ll come and tell you,’ Emily put in, laying a proprietorial hand on her husband’s shoulder. The young couple exchanged fond glances.

‘You do that. I’d best be off then. Take good care of him, Mrs Spraggs,’ he said, smiling as the girl blushed on hearing her title; it seemed no time at all since she’d been little Emily, youngest of the Hopgood clan, offering him an apple on her way to primary school.

‘Mr Deepbriar.’ She spoke in an undertone, stopping him as he stepped out of the front door. ‘Is he safe now? Whatever this was about, you don’t think anything else bad is going to happen to him?’

‘I wish I knew,’ Deepbriar said ruefully. ‘I certainly hope not, and I’ll do my best to make sure it doesn’t. Try not to worry. And if he remembers anything else, no matter how small a thing, you be sure and let me know.’

D
eepbriar telephoned Falbrough yet again, to advise them that he was further delayed, thanks to the discovery of Colin Pattridge’s suicide. When he did finally get to the station he’d be in trouble, since there was no hope of catching up with the paperwork; it looked as if he’d be spending the next few evenings in his office. With Mary still barely speaking to him maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

From the road, Hurdles Farm looked like a junk yard, and the view didn’t improve inside the gate. Parked forlornly by the ramshackle barn was an ancient lorry, standing on four flat tyres, and with grass growing up through the rotting wooden floor. An old sofa with the springs sticking out leant against the tumble-down porch, and a scrawny chicken ran clucking from beneath it as Deepbriar approached.

There were sounds of movement on the other side of the door when Deepbriar rapped on it with his knuckles, but they faded rapidly into silence.

‘Anybody home?’ he called, knocking again, persisting until he could hear a slow thud, thud, thud growing gradually louder as somebody approached the door from inside. The hinges squealed a loud protest when it swung open.

‘Well?’ Bert Bunyard’s moon-shaped face appeared, glowering. He clung to the side of the door, his other hand leaning heavily on a crutch, the plaster cast on his leg thrust before him like a trophy.

‘Don’t recall invitin’ you to come visitin’,’ the farmer said ungraciously. ‘Hope you got good reason for gettin’ a sick man out of his bed of pain.’

‘Just a routine call, Bert. Maybe I’d better come in. If you’re sick you’ll not want to stand in the cold while we talk.’

The farm kitchen was as messy as the yard, but warmer, thanks to a battered black stove in the chimney breast. Bunyard dropped awkwardly into the only armchair, leaving Deepbriar to fetch a rickety wooden stool from against the wall. He sat himself down and met Bunyard’s gaze.

Minecliff’s most notorious rogue was in his forties but he looked ten years older, the fleshy face criss-crossed with purple veins, his hair a greasy grey thatch. The farmer dressed the same whether he was indoors or out, with a red neckerchief knotted at his throat, and a filthy old stock coat bulging over his stomach and tied round his waist with string. There was one change though; the right leg of his trousers had been cut from the bottom up to knee level to accommodate a plaster cast, already grubby, and splotched in places with dark stains.

‘How’s the leg?’ the constable asked.

‘How d’you think?’ Bunyard favoured him with another glare.

‘Bad break was it?’

‘When you get to my age any break is bad,’ Bunyard growled. ‘If it weren’t for these ’ere crutches I ’ad in me cow shed I couldn’t even get down to the shop. Starve I would, if I waited for me neighbours to come an’ ’elp. What you want? Don’t tell me you came ’ere to ask after me ’ealth.’

‘I came to see if you know anything about what’s been happening over at Quinn’s.’ Deepbriar said sternly.

Bunyard’s eyes widened, his face showing nothing but innocent surprise. ‘Somethin’ goin’ on over there? I don’t know nothin’ about it. Man don’t get to see much when he can’t ’ardly ’obble out ’is door.’

‘You’ve not heard about gates being opened in the middle of the night, or a building set alight?’

The man grinned, showing uneven teeth stained brown. ‘Can’t say I ’ave, but tell me more. That ole misery gettin’ his comeuppance is ’e?’

‘I’m sure you can make it to the Speckled Goose if you want the gossip,’ Deepbriar replied. ‘I won’t deprive you of the pleasure of hearing it with all the trimmings.’ He took out his notebook, though he doubted if he’d wheedle anything useful out of Bunyard, the man was so mean he wouldn’t give his neighbours the time of day unless he thought there was a profit in it.

Flipping the pages open Deepbriar noticed the sketch he’d made of the tyre marks at Wriggle’s yard. To him that seemed a far more important case, though Ferdy Quinn wouldn’t agree.

‘Have you seen a big black car driving through the village any time in the last few days?’ he asked. The question took Bunyard by surprise, and for the briefest moment Deepbriar saw something in the man’s face, before it was once again wiped clean.

‘Can’t say I ’ave. Only been to the shop twice since I got this,’ he said, gesturing at the plaster.

‘Right.’ Deepbriar looked down as if consulting his notes, sure he’d struck some chord. It was frustrating, but he’d get nowhere trying to force the issue, Bunyard could be a stubborn old goat. ‘How about Bronc, have you seen him recently?’

‘No. He don’t come ’ere. Don’t have nothin’ to spare for tramps, enough trouble keepin’ body an’ soul together for me an’ my boy.’

‘Talking of Humphrey, I don’t suppose he’s been out and about? Visiting someone perhaps?’

Bunyard snorted. ‘Last time my boy left the farm was the day they threw ’im out of school. Hasn’t seen no reason since then, likes it better at ’ome. Anyways, he wouldn’t know a black car from a grey one like that old wreck of the Colonel’s.’

Deepbriar nodded. Doris Bunyard had somehow persuaded the school board to allow Humphrey to attend classes until he was fourteen, although he wasn’t capable of learning much. Luckily he’d been a biddable child, not given to disrupting the lessons, happy to sit quietly at the back of the room.

Humphrey would be nineteen by now. Since his mother’s death he’d withdrawn further into himself, forgetting much of the language he’d learnt. Deepbriar had always felt sorry for the boy, teased and bullied by his peers, and exploited by his father. Small wonder he preferred the company of the farm animals and refused to venture into the wider world. It was more likely Bert had found a way to fly across two miles of fields to Quinn’s farm than that Humphrey had been persuaded to go there.

‘Still, I’d like a quick word with him.’

‘He’s in the yard. Got a cow down wi’ the sprindles. Be lucky if it don’t turn into chabby foot.’ The farmer gave Deepbriar a challenging look. The constable kept his own expression carefully neutral. He had an idea that Bunyard invented these outlandish names for his animal’s complaints; he regularly brought out new ones, most notably in the pub when there were strangers in the public bar. Often some gullible city dweller would be impressed by his country yokel act and buy him a drink, thinking he’d encountered a true rural character of that elusive old England he’d come to find. Deepbriar had yet to meet anyone, either veterinarian or farmer, who had heard of any of Bunyard’s diseases.

Deepbriar rose to his feet. ‘I’ll go and find him then.’

‘Close the door be’ind you,’ Bunyard grunted. ‘An’ don’t you go upsettin’ the lad. ’E’s got a lot o’ work to get through, what wi’ me bein’ laid up.’

‘I’m sure he’s run off his feet on that account,’ the constable said sardonically, aware that Bert did very little, even when he was up and about. ‘Don’t worry, me and Humphrey get along all right, I’ll not trouble him.’ He left by the back door, stepping squeamishly over what looked like the inedible parts of a chicken lying in the mud, and squeezing past a rotting wooden cart with a scruffy cockerel glaring beadily at him from the top of one wheel. A dog barked frantically as Deepbriar crossed the yard, straining to reach the intruder as it thrust against the chain tethering it to its kennel.

Humphrey Bunyard was in the cow shed, on his knees beside a cow that lay flat out on its side. The young man was stroking the beast’s head, crooning soft meaningless sounds and rocking back and forth with his eyes closed. Even in repose Humphrey had the look of a bewildered child. As the constable approached the animal seemed to sense his presence, for it lifted its head then hauled itself heavily to its feet. Humphrey got up too, the apprehension on his face turning swiftly to a smile as he saw who his visitor was.

Deepbriar pulled a bar of Dairy Milk from his pocket, bought for the occasion before he left the village; it was lucky the rationing was over at last, he didn’t think Mary would have understood the need to give young Bunyard her weekly supply of sweets, not the way things were between them just now.

‘Hello, Humph,’ Deepbriar said. ‘I’ve brought you something.’

Falbrough police station was dozing in the mid-afternoon lull when Deepbriar arrived. He made the most of his chance, taking over a typewriter and writing his report on the abduction of Joe Spraggs, deeming that more important than the acts of criminal damage at Quinn’s farm. Pulling the last sheet of paper from the machine with a flourish, he turned to find Sergeant Hubbard behind him.

‘Bit busy out your way then, Thorny,’ Hubbard said ponderously, leading the way into the cubby hole that served as his office. ‘I gather that old scoundrel Bunyard has been up to his mischief out at Quinn’s farm again. I’ve had Quinn on the phone twice this morning, seems to think you aren’t taking him seriously enough. In the end I told him if he didn’t get off the line I’d have to charge him with wasting police time.’ He sank into his chair, puffing as if he’d just run a mile, and waved at Deepbriar to take the seat opposite. ‘Reckon you should persuade those two to bury the hatchet.’

Deepbriar didn’t waste his breath explaining the impossibility of that enterprise. ‘It’s not Bunyard,’ he said, ‘not this time. Can’t say I’ve much idea who it is though, not yet, and I haven’t had time to write a report on it. To be honest I was more concerned with what happened to young Joe Spraggs.’

He handed over the sheets of paper and waited for the sergeant to study the typescript, watching the man’s face and seeing the frown appear beneath his dark brows as he read about the events at Wriggles yard.

‘I’m surprised you bothered me with this, Thorny,’ Hubbard said at last. ‘It was a practical joke.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Deepbriar said. ‘Joe’s not the type to get involved with the local scallywags. Besides, you saw what Dr Smythe said. They probably used chloroform the second time, but something more serious the first, in a cup of tea, if you please. Where would his friends get hold of stuff that would knock a man out like that?’

Hubbard harrumphed. ‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ he said, tearing the sheets quickly into shreds. He leant across the desk, dropping his voice. ‘You know the sort of things they’d be saying if we start another missing persons investigation!’ he hissed. ‘You might have forgotten the Walkingham case, but I haven’t.’

‘But this isn’t like that,’ Deepbriar protested. ‘There’s got to be a reason.…’

‘The boy’s safe back home, and with no harm done. It was a prank that went a bit too far, nothing more. Drop it, constable. That’s an order.’

The Speckled Goose hadn’t yet opened when Deepbriar knocked on the window round the back. Harry flung open the door. ‘Hello, Mr Deepbriar. You coming in for a quick half?’

‘No thanks, I’m on my way home. I just wondered if you know where Bronc went on Saturday night after he left here. He said he’d got a place to sleep, any idea where that would be?’

‘No, he didn’t say.’ Harry’s brow creased, a light appearing in his eyes. ‘Actually he was a bit cagey about it, you think that means something?’

‘Only that he was probably planning to stop in somebody’s barn without asking permission,’ Deepbriar replied gloomily.

Don Bartle arrived, peering over his son’s shoulder. ‘Afternoon, Thorny. What are you doing out there? Ask the man in, Harry.’

‘I already have,’ Harry replied, as Deepbriar shook his head. ‘He just wants to know where he can find old Bronc.’

‘The old man was a bit mysterious about where he was headed,’ Don said. ‘He stayed till nearly closing time, and he did well for drinks, one or two of the regulars sent something out for him. And Phyllis made him a sandwich.’

‘Did he say any more about that black car?’ Deepbriar asked.

‘We were too busy to stay and chat,’ Don said, ‘there were quite a few strangers in as well as the regulars, I heard one of them say they’d come from the other side of Belston, just for the performance; fancy that, Minecliff’s getting famous. Bronc’ll turn up, don’t you worry. Got a schedule he has, regular as clockwork. In the old days his next call after The Goose was always The Lodge, but he’d get no welcome there since Mrs Emerson moved in.’

‘I suppose not, but I’ll check.’ With a sigh Deepbriar thanked him and set out for home, wondering what sort of reception he’d get from Mary, and heartily wishing he’d never heard of Mrs Emerson, or the Minecliff Amateur Operatic Society.

The week didn’t improve. On Wednesday the night-time marauder visited Quinn’s farm again, turning a tap on in the dairy and causing a flood that made the morning’s milking so late that the milk couldn’t be collected and had to be poured away. Deepbriar spent an hour investigating the crime, if crime it was, with Ferdy Quinn bellowing at him the whole time. He came away no wiser.

When a gate was left open in the early hours of Thursday morning, and a dozen bullocks strayed on to the arterial road over a mile away, the consequences could have been very serious, but luckily a couple of men heading for the early shift at the Falbrough paint works stopped and herded the bewildered animals into a vacant paddock nearby.

Once the loss was discovered, Alan, the cowman, was despatched with old Bob to fetch the beasts home. Faced with compensating the owner of the paddock and buying the factory workers a pint, Quinn drove into Falbrough and spent an hour haranguing Sergeant Hubbard, who in turn gave Deepbriar a dressing down on the telephone. As a result the constable endured a cold and damp Thursday night riding his bicycle along the lanes surrounding Quinn’s farm.

Things were bad on the home front as well. Mary seemed determined not to forgive him, and meals were eaten in silence, nor did the significance of their content escape the constable. There was cold beef, the remains of Sunday’s burnt offering, on Tuesday, not the usual hot cottage pie. On Wednesday he made no comment when there was tripe for dinner, although he disliked it. Next day he sat down to a plate of pigs’ trotters, which he liked even less.

On Friday morning, summoned to report to his superiors, Deepbriar cycled, yawning widely, to Falbrough, his thoughts on little but his bed. Unimpressed by his lack of progress, Sergeant Hubbard urged him to double his efforts to track down Quinn’s raider.