Bury in Haste (6 page)

‘Maybe you ought to hide yourself on the farm,’ he suggested, ‘be ready for him.’

‘It’s too big an area,’ Deepbriar protested. ‘The fire wasn’t even in sight from the farmhouse, nor were the gates that were left open.’

‘Well, you’d better think of something. Mr Quinn’s got influence. He’s threatening to go to the Chief Constable if we don’t get something done, and I wouldn’t put it past him.’

‘I’m doing my best, Sarge,’ Deepbriar said, stifling another yawn. ‘But a man’s got to sleep sometimes.’

They were interrupted then, a constable calling for Sergeant Hubbard to help at the front desk. ‘It’s this woman,’ he said. ‘Reckons her husband’s gone missing. I was looking for Sergeant Jakes, but there’s nobody in the CID office.’

‘Is there ever?’ Hubbard grumbled, getting to his feet. ‘That’s all we need, another flipping Walkingham. All right, Thorny, go home and get your head down, we want you fresh as a daisy out on watch tonight.’

Detouring to the canteen for a cup of tea, hoping it would wake him up for the journey home, Deepbriar passed the interview room, where the door had been left ajar. He could hear Hubbard’s voice, raised to frustration pitch. ‘Look, I’ve told you, we can’t go rushing around looking for a man who may have just decided to go AWOL for a few days holiday.’

Deepbriar paused, enjoying Hubbard’s discomfort.

‘I’ve already told you,’ the woman replied, shrilly, ‘my Joseph’s not the sort to go away without telling me! He wouldn’t—’

‘Deepbriar!’ Inspector Martindale came shooting out of his office as if on springs. Deepbriar jumped guiltily, thinking he’d been caught eavesdropping.

‘The very man!’ The inspector thumped him on the back. ‘Come in here a moment, will you?’

‘Yes sir,’ Deepbriar said, obediently following his senior officer, his heart sinking, and the image of his welcoming bed vanishing before his eyes. ‘Something I can do for you?’

‘More like something I can do for you,’ Martindale said cheerfully. ‘Chance for a bit of overtime, not to mention being a bit more interesting than chasing poachers, or whatever it is you’ve been up to. They’ve got a crisis over at Belston, flu epidemic. Half their men are down with it. I told them I’d send some of our chaps to fill in. You’ll have heard about the trouble they’re having with the drivers at Rondvale’s depot; that strike shows signs of turning nasty. Fact is, we’re a bit pushed here as well. That’s why I thought I’d pull in one or two of you village bobbies.’ He laughed. ‘Not as if you’ve got much serious crime on your hands, eh?’

‘But I’m working nights, trying to catch this man who’s been up to mischief on Quinn’s farm,’ Deepbriar objected.

‘Mmm. Tell you what, I’ll see if we can send one of our new patrol cars, it’ll give them something to do once the pubs have turned out and it’s gone quiet, taking a run round Minecliff. You never know, two pairs of eyes instead of one and all that, could be the case will be solved by the time you get back. You keep watch tonight, then I’ll see they take over on Saturday.’

Martindale smiled, taking Deepbriar’s arm and steering him back to the door. ‘Make sure you get a rest on Sunday, there’s a good chap, won’t do to have you getting sick too. Report to Sergeant Parsons here at seven on Monday morning. We’re arranging transport to Belston.’

An hour later Deepbriar dropped on to his bed with a groan, and was instantly asleep. He woke, starving hungry, and went downstairs, but he was in for the cruellest blow of the week when he sat down to his dinner. Instead of the usual tasty battered cod served with a heap of hot chips, he found himself facing a pallid dish of steamed plaice and mashed potato.

Enough was enough. He pushed the meal away untasted. ‘Can’t seem to fancy that,’ he said. ‘Always makes me think of being ill when I was a boy; invalid food, my father called it. I’ve people to see at the pub, maybe Phyllis Bartle will have time to make me a sandwich.’ Mary heard him out without comment, merely nodding as he pushed his chair back from the table. He made a last bid for her sympathy. ‘I’ll be out half the night again, up at Quinn’s farm.’

‘It’s a hard life,’ Mary offered, starting on her own meal. ‘We all have our cross to bear. I suppose you’ve forgotten about what happened to Bella? She’s quite upset about it. You were going to help sort through the props to see what’s missing, but I suppose somebody opening gates up at Quinn’s farm is more important than a robbery at the village hall.’

‘A robbery?’ Deepbriar snorted. ‘Far as I heard there was nothing missing. Mrs Emerson left the door open, so it’s her own fault if a couple of youngsters got in, and anyway there didn’t seem to be any harm done. I never offered to go and help, either, I suggested she might get a few members of the Operatic Society to do it.’

‘That’s not what Bella says. Did you know the thief pushed her over when he escaped? Imagine if she’d confronted him! She might have been seriously hurt.’

‘Not likely. I bet it was just a couple of 10-year-olds.’ Deepbriar refrained from saying that it might have been a music lover hoping to put Mrs Emerson out of action before the performance of
Madame Butterfly
; relations with Mary were strained enough already.

‘Always thought Bella was a funny name,’ he muttered. ‘Reckon it must be short for Belladonna.’

‘Don’t be so childish,’ Mary snapped. ‘So what shall I tell her? Will you go and talk to her again? It’s been nearly two weeks now, shouldn’t you have taken a statement?’

‘Not if nothing’s been stolen,’ the constable said patiently. ‘Tell her I’ll call in when I’ve got time.’

‘When?’

He sighed. ‘Tomorrow maybe, if nothing else crops up.’ Anything for a peaceful life.

Deepbriar left the house with a head full of uncharitable thoughts concerning Mrs Emerson, the uncaring cause of his marital discord. But for her, he’d have enjoyed the performance at the village hall, and foresworn the temptation of the Bartles’ ale. Murdering great music ought to be a punishable offence.

A
t the Speckled Goose, Deepbriar took refuge in the saloon bar, too embarrassed by his domestic discord to face the pub’s regulars until he’d been fed. Harry Bartle brought him his sandwich and a pint of bitter.

‘Mrs Deepbriar gone to see her sister?’ he hazarded sympathetically. ‘Mother says there’s a second round if you want it.’

‘Thanks, Harry, this is fine.’ Deepbriar took a mouthful and tried to banish the image of a plate of cod and chips from his mind.

Harry rested his elbows on the bar, in no hurry to get back to his work. ‘I hear Mr Pattridge’s funeral’s arranged for next Tuesday,’ he said. ‘Has there been any news of Tony?’

‘Not a word, so far as I know,’ Deepbriar replied. ‘It’s in the hands of the solicitor now, he’ll be trying to track him down.’

‘He was a bit of a wide-boy,’ Harry mused, ‘but he still had a soft spot for Minecliff. I’m surprised he stopped coming home. I remember him saying, one night in the bar, how his Dad always let him come back, no matter what sort of trouble he’d been in.’

‘When was this?’ Deepbriar asked.

‘About eighteen months ago. He stayed at the farm for a couple of weeks, and he came in for drinks a few times. One night he even brought his old man with him.’

‘Well, he’ll have a lonely homecoming if he turns up now,’ Deepbriar said. ‘Folk often don’t realise what they’ve got till it’s gone, that’s for sure.’

‘That reminds me, did you find out what happened to Joe?’ the young man asked, leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘He’s just come in,’ he added, jerking his head towards the public bar, ‘some of the lads are trying to get him to talk about it. Just like one of Dick Bland’s cases, it is, a real mystery.’

‘Reckon it needs Dick Bland to solve it,’ Deepbriar replied. ‘I’m not getting far.’

‘Don’t you worry, Mr Deepbriar,’ Harry said, ‘I bet you’ll crack it. Talking of mysteries, I’ve been asking around about Bronc. Nobody seems to know where he’s gone. Funny, he’s a great one for sticking to a regular route, but he’s vanished this time. After The Goose he used to go The Lodge, but that’s out of bounds since Mrs Emerson moved in. His next port of call is usually Goldings. They let him sleep in the barn in return for sharpening a few tools, but I asked George Hopgood last night, and he says he’s not turned up there yet.’

‘It doesn’t matter anyway,’ Deepbriar said morosely. ‘I’ve been told to leave it alone. The sergeant says there’s no harm done, and he doesn’t like missing persons’s cases. They give him indigestion.’

For a second Harry looked baffled, then enlightenment dawned. ‘You mean after what happened with Mr Walkingham. The local gossips had a field day on that one.’ He gave a sheepish grin. ‘It was a bit of a joke.’

‘Oh yes, very funny. We were the laughing stock of every police force in the country.’ Deepbriar bit into his sandwich again; it was ham and pickle, fairly tasty but a poor substitute for a proper dinner. He was beginning to feel very sorry for himself.

‘What this village needs is a fish and chip shop,’ he said. For a second he considered cycling to Falbrough, but there had been rain in the air as he left home. Bad enough that he was expected to patrol Ferdy Quinn’s boundaries again; he didn’t want to be wet through before he even went on duty.

For the next ten minutes Deepbriar regaled his patient listener with his opinion of irresponsible nitwits who went around opening gates and burning down barns, not to mention his superior officers who believed a single village bobby could be in ten places at once.

‘How about,’ Harry said, looking uncannily like the little boy Deepbriar had once clipped round the ear for playing knock down ginger, ‘I’ll come out tonight and give you a hand. We could cover twice as much ground. Got a new front lamp for my bike,’ he offered, as an added inducement, ‘a battery one. It shines all the way from our door down to the post office.’

‘You know I can’t let you do that, Harry,’ Deepbriar said. ‘It’s no job of yours.’

‘But if I was a gamekeeper you’d let me chase after poachers. And there’s nothing to stop a member of the public helping the police, if they just happen to be passing by when a crime’s being committed,’ Harry argued. ‘I could just choose to take myself for a cycle ride, with or without your say so. There’s no law against it.’

Constable Deepbriar sighed. Harry Bartle had been heartbroken when he failed to grow to the required height to enter the police force; it was hard that the lack of half an inch of leg bone could exact such a punishment. He still had dreams of becoming a detective, which was why he devoured vast amounts of crime fiction.

‘I tell you what,’ Deepbriar said at last, having taken a long pull at his beer. He wasn’t given to breaking the rules, but after the week he’d had he was ready to try anything if it got the sergeant off his back. ‘I’ll be cycling along the Falbrough road when I leave here tonight, turning down by the wood and then over the bridge at Moody’s corner, through Will Minter’s and back past Quinn’s gate. Suppose you just took a fancy to have a word with me, you might feel like setting off so we’d meet, come round in the other direction as it were. And if you saw anything suspicious you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? No harm in that.’

Harry’s face lit up as if somebody had turned on a hidden switch, his cheeks glowing pink. ‘Of course, Mr Deepbriar. I’ve been wanting a chance to try that new lamp on a dark night, reckon now’s as good a time as any.’

‘Long as you don’t mind the rain,’ Deepbriar said gloomily. ‘The way my luck’s going it’ll be blooming cats and dogs by midnight.’

Emotions straggled across Harry’s open features as he hunted for something heartening to say. ‘You’ve not had time to read that Mitch O’Hara mystery yet then?’ he asked. ‘A real good one that is. I couldn’t put it down.’

‘No.’ Deepbriar refused to be cheered. ‘Got the new Dick Bland from the library too, be due back before I even start it at this rate. Never did like working nights. I’m snowed under with flipping paper work. And next week they want me to go and help out in Belston! The Inspector says he’ll send a patrol car to keep an eye on Quinn’s place. Fat lot of good that’ll do, couple of young lads still wet behind the ears who don’t know a shorthorn bull from a five bar gate.’

‘You must get some time off,’ Harry suggested hopefully. ‘What about the weekend?’

‘Be playing the organ at St Peter and St Paul’s on Sunday,’ Deepbriar said, looking increasingly downcast as he picked the last crumbs of bread from his plate. ‘And I suppose I’ll be expected to play at the service for Colin Pattridge, since funerals don’t suit Mrs Emerson’s artistic temperament. That’s if the Inspector will let me off duty. Just have to hope I can keep my eyes open, seeing I’m getting no sleep.’

Harry gave up on a lost cause. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you come into the public bar for a while? Have a bit of company.’

The regulars in the public bar of the Speckled Goose hardly noticed when the constable came in, all their attention being on the two men by the fire, one of them slumped on the only bench that sported a cushion, a pair of crutches propped beside him, the other standing by the hearth, a half pint of shandy held tight between his two hands, his cheeks flushed almost to the colour of Bert Bunyard’s red neck-cloth.

‘I think,’ Joe Spraggs was saying, a little diffident but very dignified, ‘you shouldn’t go making remarks when you know nothing about it, Mr Bunyard.’

‘Lot o’ daft nonsense, pretendin’ you’d gorn an’ disappeared,’ Bunyard scoffed, before burying his face in his pint mug, then emerging with a wet froth of foam on his top lip. ‘Had two glasses o’ that cat’s piss you’re drinkin’ an’ didn’t dare go ’ome to that pretty young wife, thass what it was.’

‘That’s a lie, Bert,’ somebody spoke up from the crowd gathered round the bar. It was George Hopgood, Emily’s father. ‘Young Joe’s a good lad, he wouldn’t go upsetting our Emily like that, and don’t you go spreading no nasty rumours to the contrary.’

‘Aye, watch your tongue, Bert,’ Don Bartle put in, ‘we’ll have nobody calling names in my pub. As for folks having too much and not being fit to go home, reckon you’re a right one to talk. Or maybe that wasn’t how come you fell down the market steps in Belston. Maybe you broke your leg because you tripped.’

‘Thass right, tripped I did,’ Bunyard said indignantly. ‘All uneven them steps are.’

‘Aye, they tend to jump up and down a bit sometimes, too,’ Hopgood said, ‘especially after lunch on market day.’ There was a laugh at this, and a general buzz of conversation, until a new voice broke in, one that Deepbriar didn’t recognise. He eased his way forward to take a look, and saw a florid faced man in a shiny dark suit that set him apart from the countrymen around him, most of whom were in their working clothes.

‘You’re not taking this very seriously,’ the stranger said. ‘If I was you I’d be getting worried. I wasn’t surprised to hear what happened to this young man last Saturday night. There’ve been some right peculiar goings on, and not just around here. When you get to travel the country as much as I do you hear things, you know.’

‘Hear young Joe snorin’ while ’e was sleepin’ it off did you?’ Bunyard scoffed.

‘It wasn’t what I heard, it was what I saw,’ the man said. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anybody else to back me up, since it was so late at night, but I tell you, it was enough to make a man’s blood run cold.’

‘See a few pink elephants, then?’ some wag suggested.

‘Who’s that?’ Deepbriar asked Harry quietly, under the cover of laughter at this sally.

‘Agent for a farm machinery firm, Jenkins, his name is. He’s staying for the week because of that big show they’ve got on in Falbrough market hall. Come to think of it he was very late coming in last Saturday, must’ve been well past midnight. He’d missed the last bus and his boss ran him back out here in his car. I had to get up and let him in. Don’t think he was drunk though.’

‘You can laugh,’ Jenkins was saying, ‘but it doesn’t change what I saw.’ He shuddered as he turned to speak directly to Joe Spraggs. ‘What happened to you was no practical joke. You’re lucky to be here. Not everyone gets away so easy.’

He had the attention of the whole room now, and he paused for effect, taking a long slow mouthful of his stout.

‘Well?’ Bert prompted. ‘Let’s ’ear it.’ There was a general murmur of encouragement.

‘Don’t you read the newspapers? It’s happening in America mostly, but they’ve been here too, more than once.’ He nodded grimly at Joe. ‘Abducted by Martians, you were, in one of those flying saucers.’

There was a stunned silence, broken by Bert’s deafening guffaw. ‘That’s bliddy nonsense,’ he said. ‘Only little green man you’ll see round ’ere is painted on the pub sign at the Woodsman, over by Possington.’

‘I dunno,’ George Hopgood said. ‘I’ve read one or two of them stories. Sends a shiver down my back it does. There’s been folk seen some funny going’s on, that’s for sure.’

‘Yes,’ the salesman said, ‘there have. Like the lights I saw in the sky that night. Floating about they were, right over this very village.’

Harry Bartle turned to look at Constable Deepbriar. ‘Flying saucers?’ he whispered.

‘About as likely as flying pigs,’ Deepbriar replied. ‘But if chummy there saw lights where they shouldn’t be on Saturday night, it could be something to do with Ferdy Quinn’s troubles.’

Once the suggestion that Joe had been abducted by Martians had been thoroughly chewed over by the regulars, and the drinkers in the bar had slipped back into their more usual somnolent state, the constable gave Harry a nudge. ‘Look who’s just come in,’ he said, ‘I’ll bet that’s why Joe’s here tonight, he must’ve known Peter was coming home for the weekend. If there’s anyone Joe will confide in it’s young Brook.’

‘Confide in?’ Harry looked intrigued. ‘Do you think Joe hasn’t been telling the truth?’

‘No, but his memory’s still a bit hazy and he’d be happier letting the whole thing drop. That’s all very well, but I don’t like the idea that somebody can do things like this on my patch and get away with it. If it happens again somebody might get hurt. I reckon if Joe hears his friend saying the same thing he’ll put his mind to sorting things out with a bit more enthusiasm.’

Harry nodded thoughtfully. ‘Peter was always the clever one, too smart for the rest of us. Funny the way Joe tagged along with him.’

‘Did him no harm, nice quiet pair of lads they were, not like you and your little gang,’ Deepbriar said. He dug a ten shilling note out of his pocket. ‘Here, fetch me another pint and tell those two I’m buying them a drink. Say I’ll join them in a bit. Seeing as how Joe’s not used to drinking, even another half of that shandy might loosen his tongue.’

‘You’re sure it wasn’t a joke that went wrong? People do silly things when their friends get married,’ Harry suggested. ‘I mean, if it was, Peter might have been behind it. Things could have just turned out nastier than he planned.’

‘No.’ Deepbriar said. ‘I won’t deny I thought about it. Peter’s clever enough, but I can’t see him playing that sort of trick on Joe. And he’d have been at college. He was home for the wedding, but I didn’t see him around at all last weekend.’

While Harry threaded his way across to the fire, Deepbriar went to join Jenkins, the farm machinery salesman. ‘Can I buy you another?’ he offered.

‘That’s very civil of you constable,’ Jenkins said, draining his glass. ‘Thank you. Mustn’t stay too long, though, I’ve got to put a telephone call through to my boss. He’s already gone back to Manchester.’

‘About done here are you then?’

‘Yes, I’ll be catching the early bus in the morning, we’re packing up at lunch time.’

‘Been a good trip, has it?’

‘Not bad. Made a few sales. Our new tractor’s doing really well. It’s very interesting the way they’ve designed the gearing …’ he launched into a sales pitch, of which Deepbriar only understood about two words in twenty. When the man paused for breath the constable chipped in quickly.

‘Not mechanically minded myself,’ he said. ‘Understand how my old bike works, and that’s about it. I was interested in what you were saying about those lights though. It’s my job to investigate anything strange that goes on around my patch, so if there’s any more you can tell me I’d be grateful.’