Bury in Haste (9 page)

Hurdles Farm lay deserted in the bright Sunday morning sunshine. Ferdy Quinn had threatened to visit Falbrough police station again unless Deepbriar promised to question Bunyard once more. Leaving his bike down the lane Deepbriar walked the last fifty yards; he’d assure himself, once and for all, that neither the old rogue of a farmer, nor his son, had been out on the prowl the night before.

He trod carefully, weaving from one side of the track to the other as he scanned the ground for boot prints; there were plenty, but none that matched the pattern he’d seen up in Quinn’s copse. Continuing his search in the yard he studied the gateway then went up to the back door. Common sense told him that Bert Bunyard couldn’t be Quinn’s tormentor, not this time, but at the back of his mind a nagging doubt persisted.

Deepbriar stood precariously on one leg, balancing on a narrow drain cover, while he inspected the patch of mud beneath an overflowing gutter. A loud guffaw sounded behind him and he whirled round, having to put his other foot down quickly to avoid losing his balance. Wet mud splashed on to his trouser leg.

‘I saw you move,’ Humphrey Bunyard said, pointing at him in childlike fashion and grinning. ‘Statues,’ he went on. ‘We played that at school.’

‘Hello, Humph. Good at playing statues were you?’

The big head nodded and the grin widened. ‘I liked playtime. Got any chocolate?’

‘Not today. Do you know an old man called Bronc, Humph?’

Humphrey nodded again. ‘Boys used to shout at him.’

‘Have you seen him lately? In the last few days?’

The young simpleton thought for a long while. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t go to school any more.’

Deepbriar extricated himself from the mud and walked over, taking a good look at Humphrey Bunyard’s boots. They were very large and well worn, almost scuffed through at the toes.

‘You got any more boots, Humph?’ Deepbriar asked.

The young man shook his head. ‘Got some shoes,’ he said proudly. ‘Black ones. Me Dad gave them to me.’

Abandoning this line of questioning Deepbriar turned to look at the house. ‘I came to see how your Dad’s getting on. When are they going to take that plaster off his leg?’

Instead of looking blank, as Deepbriar expected, the childlike face was suddenly wary. ‘Dunno.’ Without another word he turned away and slouched across the yard to the cow shed.

Deepbriar went to the back door. Ducking under the low lintel as he pushed his way in, he was lost in thought. There had to be an answer here. Humphrey Bunyard couldn’t possibly squeeze his feet into size nine boots, even if he could be persuaded to leave Hurdles Farm. None of the marks in the mud resembled those he’d found at Quinn’s place, although it looked as if Bert’s feet were a couple of sizes smaller than his son’s. Only there were no right prints. How could there be, when Bunyard’s right leg was in plaster? Yet again he made a mental tour around the village, trying to dredge up the guilty party, but try as he might he couldn’t think of anybody else who would set out to persecute Ferdy Quinn.

Deepbriar stood in the big kitchen and shouted, receiving an answering call from somewhere above. He clumped upstairs, and found Bert Bunyard in the first room at the front of the house, lying in a huge old fashioned bed, his back against blackened brass rails. The old man was half propped up on two grubby pillows, his neck at an uncomfortable angle, and the pair of crutches lying beside him on the floor, his plastered leg a lump under the blankets. His face was damp with sweat and he was breathing heavily.

‘Never thought I’d be glad to see you, Thorny Deepbriar,’ Bunyard growled. ‘Got meself stuck here, can’t get up nor down. Give us a heave, will yer?’

Half an hour later, having found himself brewing the invalid a pot of tea and making him some toast, Deepbriar escaped thankfully back into the fresh air. On his way out he’d inspected Bunyard’s boots which lay by the kitchen door. They were size nines, almost new, and while the left was damp as well as dirty, the right one was caked hard with dry old mud, and the pattern on the sole was nothing like the one he was looking for.

As he made his last call of the morning, Deepbriar made no attempt to look for boot prints; Mrs Emerson’s drive was immaculate, no mud dared show itself in her neat garden. Besides, in the year since Mrs Emerson moved to Minecliff there had been no evidence of a man in her life. An image of Mrs Emerson wearing oversize boots and rampaging around the countryside carrying a pig flitted through Deepbriar’s mind. It took him a while to get his expression back under control, then he lifted the shiny brass door knocker.

‘Thorny! How lovely to see you. Do come in.’ A small soft hand with painted fingernails grasped his sleeve and practically hauled him over the threshold. Deepbriar gritted his teeth; only friends, or acquaintances who’d known him a very long time, were allowed to use his nickname, and Mrs Emerson didn’t qualify.

‘It’s such a shame,’ the woman gushed. ‘I hardly ever see you. And Mary and I are such close friends. Let’s go into the library.’

‘I shan’t keep you long Mrs Emerson, just a word or two about that person you found in the village hall.’

‘Oh please, I’ve told you before, do call me Bella.’

‘Not while I’m on duty if you don’t mind, Mrs Emerson.’ He followed her into a room where a single shelf of leather-bound classics was overwhelmed by cabinets stacked full of knickknacks and trinkets.

‘Oh Thorny,’ she turned on him, simpering, ‘you’re always so very upright and correct. As if anyone would know, when we’re here all alone. Do have a seat. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘No thank you.’ He took out his notebook, leafing back to find the entry he’d made the day she’d reported the incident. ‘Now, when I spoke to you before, you didn’t think this person had deliberately knocked you over. I recall I asked you that. Ah, here we are “… he must have been behind the door, and when I pushed it open it hit him, quite hard. I was surprised when it bounced back, and it knocked me down. Somehow I fell on my hands and knees, and I didn’t see him when he ran out of the building.” Is that how it happened, Mrs Emerson? Only from something my wife was saying I gather you may have changed your story.’

‘Oh, no, not exactly. I’m sure I didn’t. Perhaps she didn’t quite understand. I was only saying how lucky it was that I hadn’t been hurt. I mean, imagine, with the production so close, it would have been a disaster!’

‘And you’re quite sure there’s nothing you can tell me about this person? He didn’t say anything when the door hit him? There was nothing you heard, or saw, that might help us to identify him?’

‘Well no,’ She spread her well manicured hands in a helpless gesture so that the light caught on the many rings she wore. ‘There was a sort of grunt, that’s all. I didn’t see a thing.’

‘And nothing was taken.’ Deepbriar was already slipping the notebook back in his pocket.

‘I can’t be sure of that,’ she said, her tone a little sharper. ‘After all, there are a great many costumes and props in the Society’s store. I only moved to Minecliff a year ago.’

‘So you did.’ Deepbriar nodded. ‘Somehow it seems much longer. That reminds me, Mrs Emerson, there’s a man who used to call on Mr Plummer and do a few odd jobs. He generally spent a couple of nights in one of the sheds in the garden. Has he been here recently? Everyone knows him as Bronc—’

‘That tramp!’ She interrupted him indignantly. ‘I found him trying to break into the gardener’s bothy last year, only a few weeks after I arrived. I assure you I gave him short shrift, he’s not likely to show his face on my property again.’

‘You’ve not seen him since then.’

‘I have not. And if I ever catch him in my garden I shall most certainly inform you. I have no sympathy with beggars and vagrants. My poor dear husband worked hard for his money, I have no intention of defiling his memory by wasting it.’

‘Perhaps you’d allow me to take a look at this bothy, just to make sure he hasn’t been there without your knowledge.’ Deepbriar suggested.

‘Very well. It’s behind the
ligustrum ovalifolium
.’ She indicated a privet hedge to one side of the lawn. ‘Mr Witherby is here this morning, so it won’t be locked. He doesn’t usually come on a Saturday, but the dead leaves make the place look terribly untidy, so I asked him to work a few extra hours.’

‘Thank you, I’ll have a word with him first, then. As to the Operatic Society’s property, if you find anything’s missing, perhaps you’d let me know.’ He nodded, turning away quickly to avoid shaking her flabby hand again. Everything about the woman rubbed him up the wrong way; her phoney friendliness; the bolster-like figure tied tightly into expensive clothes; her cut-glass accent, but most of all Mary’s inability to see through her. That particular weakness seemed to be shared by half the village.

D
eepbriar found Simon Witherby in the garden, the old man’s round face pink with effort as he pushed a wheelbarrow full of leaves up the steep grassy track.

‘Morning, Simon.’

‘Mornin’ Thorny,’ Witherby huffed, lowering the barrow and straightening his back with a groan. ‘Come to see the Duchess have you? You’ll not find her out here, gardens are grubby places, she might get her hands dirty.’

‘I was looking for you,’ Deepbriar replied, hiding his amusement at the nickname the old gardener had bestowed on Mrs Emerson. ‘I was wondering if you’d seen Bronc lately, I know this used to be one of his haunts.’

A wary look came into the faded grey eyes. ‘I’ve never seen him in this garden, not since her Highness turfed him out last year,’ Witherby said. ‘What do you want him for?’

‘It’s all right, he’s not in any trouble, I just think he might be able to help with my enquiries. He sees things, travelling about the way he does. Has he been here?’

Witherby nodded, taking a crumpled packet of tobacco and some Rizlas from his pocket to roll a cigarette before he answered, then looking over his shoulder to check that his employer hadn’t come out of the house.

‘Reckon he spent a couple of nights here,’ he said. ‘I saw him on Saturday morning, when I was fetching some bulbs from Van Hoorns for the Colonel. He was t’other side of Possington, heading this way. He said he was going to call in at Quinn’s, and maybe go to the Goose. Then he asked if her ladyship was likely to be about. Said he was needing a place to get his head down, but that he’d be on his way by Monday night.’ He tilted his head at the bothy. ‘I told him where I hide the key. There’s an old sofa in there, pretty comfy. Used to use it myself for a nap at lunch times now and then.’ He put the finished cigarette, a skinny, rather crumpled looking object, into his mouth and struck a match against his apron to light it.

‘Have a look if you want. Funny really, I thought he’d be back for his things.’

Apart from a rack of tools along one wall, the place didn’t look much like a garden shed inside. It was furnished with an old black stove, a table, two mismatched chairs, and a large sofa, covered with several brightly coloured rugs. At one end of the sofa lay a parcel tied up with newspaper; and a Deerstalker hat.

‘Cosy ain’t it,’ Witherby said complacently. ‘Old Mr Plummer took good care of his staff, I’ll say that for him. Not like her. Lucky to get time for a cuppa and a bite these days, let alone a decent sit down.’

His voice droned on, bemoaning the changes the last year had brought. Deepbriar ignored him and examined the Deerstalker. He found some longish grey hairs on it, which seemed to confirm that it was the hat Bronc had been wearing the previous Saturday night, and although one parcel might look very much like another, he thought the package was the one that had been lying under Bronc’s seat in the Speckled Goose when he’d last seen him.

‘I found the hat out by the compost heap this morning,’ Witherby said. ‘Wasn’t till I brought it in here that I found the parcel. Funny, that. When I was here first thing Monday morning there wasn’t a sign of him. Always carries that parcel, he does, never seen him without it.’

‘I don’t suppose he told you where he was heading next?’ Deepbriar asked. ‘You’ve not found anything else?’

‘Like what?’ Witherby stared at him, his mouth dropping open and the skinny stub of cigarette hanging down, stuck to his bottom lip. ‘You sound worried. Don’t tell me you think something’s happened to old Bronc?’

‘Have you ever known him to leave his belongings behind?’ Deepbriar asked.

Witherby scratched his head. ‘Can’t say I have. Come to that, I’ve never seen him take off his hat.’

On Monday morning Thorny Deepbriar struggled through the crowd of officers waiting for the arrival of the van that was to take them to Belston, and knocked on the door of the CID office, which stood open. He walked in to find a man in his late twenties, sitting yawning at an untidy desk, his fashionable shoes propped on an upturned wastepaper bin. Sergeant Jakes looked a great deal more comfortable than he had when Deepbriar last saw him, out at Oldgate Farm.

‘Whatever it is will have to wait,’ Jakes said, ‘I’m off duty in …’ he consulted his watch, ‘… exactly forty-four minutes.’

‘Forty-four minutes will do, Sergeant,’ Deepbriar replied, pushing the door to behind him, ‘seeing as you plainclothes types can get the use of a car any time you want. I need help with a spot of evidence, and Sergeant Hubbard told me to pass it on to you, said he’d clear it with Inspector Stubbs. Might already be too late, seeing that I couldn’t get anyone to turn out on Saturday, but it hasn’t rained, and I covered it up, so it might still be fit to use.’

‘Exactly what are we talking about here?’ Detective Sergeant Jakes dragged a pad of paper towards him.

‘Boot print. Belongs to somebody who’s been committing acts of criminal damage, robbery and arson at Quinn’s Farm. A photograph would be good, but a cast would be even better.’ Deepbriar handed over a map. ‘I’ve marked the exact spot, and written directions on the back.’

Jakes sighed. ‘OK, I’ll get it done. Is that it?’

‘I’m not sure. I’m a bit worried about an old tramp, goes by the name of Bronc. He was in the Speckled Goose last Saturday week, and I think I know where he spent the next couple of nights, but after that he seems to have gone missing.’

‘That’s what tramps do,’ Jakes said. ‘They move on.’

‘Yes, but not without their belongings; people who don’t have much tend to hang on to what they’ve got,’ Deepbriar said. ‘And this man’s a creature of habit, he has a routine, visiting the same places according to the time of year.’ He had spoken to a few more people in and around Minecliff over the weekend, but had found nobody who’d seen Bronc later than Monday the previous week. ‘I just thought I’d mention it, maybe you’d ask around here, some of the older coppers will know him. He’s used to living rough, but I don’t like to think of him lying outside somewhere if he’s been taken ill. Weather’s getting a bit nippy.’

‘Yes, all right. I take it you didn’t mention this to Sergeant Hubbard? He won’t like it.’

‘Smacks too much of missing persons,’ Deepbriar agreed. ‘Lord knows what he’ll say if I try to organise a search party.’

‘Just make sure you do it when I’m off duty,’ Jakes said. ‘Talking of missing persons, Inspector Stubbs asked me to pass this on to you.’ He produced a letter on heavy duty paper, with an impressive printed heading. ‘It’s from Morton and Childs,’ he added unnecessarily, handing it to Deepbriar.

Stripped of legal jargon, the letter was a request for assistance in tracing the whereabouts of Anthony James Pattridge, once of Oldgate Farm, sole benefactor under the will of his father, Colin, recently deceased.

‘But he’s not been seen in Minecliff for a year,’ Deepbriar protested, ‘how am I supposed to find him?’

‘Local knowledge,’ Jakes replied, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Though to be honest I think this business is being passed around like a hot potato, I know for a fact that Inspector Martindale had this letter on his desk yesterday. I shouldn’t worry, just ask the regulars in the Speckled Goose. You could put a couple of pints down as legitimate expenses.’

‘Hmph,’ Deepbriar grunted, ‘the solicitors can’t have tried very hard, they’ve not even had time to put a notice in the newspapers yet. As if I haven’t got enough to do.’

‘It’s not exactly urgent, just something to do in a quiet moment, eh? The request’s probably got something to do with the Superintendent having been to school with old Archibald Childs. If he asks I’ll tell him I left it in your capable hands.’ Jakes grinned. ‘Nothing else the CID can do for you?’

‘Not unless you want to play Prince Charming once you’ve taken a cast of that print, and find our Cinderella.’

‘I’d say that requires local knowledge too, wouldn’t you, Constable?’ The younger man pushed himself to his feet. ‘Actually this suits me nicely, chance to get away before somebody gives me something else to do.’

Deepbriar followed him out into the corridor, to find that most of the crowd had gone. Sergeant Parsons beckoned from the door. ‘Come on Thorny, you don’t want to miss this. You village bobbies don’t get much fun. Time to see a bit of action.’

‘lt’s not all straying sheep and supervising the hoopla at the vicarage fête, you know,’ Deepbriar said solemnly. ‘Remind me to tell you how I nearly met a Martian.’

By eight o’clock Constable Deepbriar had already had enough of his new assignment. He was crouching uncomfortably in the police van, squashed between Sergeant Parsons and a youngster he didn’t know, a fairly new man who was recovering from flu. Deepbriar found himself thinking longingly of nights spent patrolling the lanes around Minecliff; the young constable had a perpetual sniff, which was beginning to get on Deepbriar’s nerves.

The van swerved round a corner and Deepbriar was bounced off Parsons’ ample frame for the tenth time in as many minutes. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

‘Cosy in here,’ Parsons said. ‘Shame they don’t use WPCs for this kind of job.’

Deepbriar nodded gloomily, reflecting that with his luck, even if they did, he’d be posted alongside a woman like Bella Emerson.

‘They reckon this’ll be settled by the end of the week,’ the sergeant said hopefully. ‘They’re a rough lot though, some of these drivers.’

‘Drivers?’ Deepbriar asked. He had a vague idea Martindale had told him who the strikers were, but he hadn’t been paying much attention, being more concerned about the prospect of getting home to his bed. ‘What’s the company do then?’

‘They run a fleet of lorries, nearly fifty of them. Everything from local deliveries to bloody great trucks going all the way to Scotland.’

Deepbriar recalled that Peter Brook had mentioned outbreaks of violence between drivers of different transport companies when they’d been mulling over Joe Spraggs’s disappearance; perhaps old man Wriggle had upset one of the big carriers by trying to muscle in on somebody else’s business, though with only one run-down old lorry it didn’t seem likely.

Making conversation was a distraction from the continuous sniff on his other side. ‘I’d have thought with such a lot of competition the drivers would have kept their heads down rather than scrapping with their bosses.’ Deepbriar said.

Parsons shrugged. ‘Trouble is, so many men came out of the army able to drive, and a lot of them thought that setting up with a couple of lorries was an easy way to make a living. They’re undercutting some of the bigger firms, and when the big boys feel the pinch they try to save a bit of money on their wages bill. This lot were threatened with dismissal if they didn’t take a drop in pay. They decided to fight, but there’s plenty who’ll do the same job for less, that’s why they set up the picket line.’

The van finally lurched to a stop and Parsons opened the door. ‘Come on, lads. Let’s get to it, here’s a chance to show these Belston cissies what the Falbrough lads can do.’

Deepbriar groaned and Parsons laughed, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Never mind Thorny, at least there’s no chance of meeting any little green men out there.’

For the first quarter of an hour the picket was peaceful, but the numbers around the gate of the transport yard were growing all the time, stretching the line of policemen ever thinner. Obviously the drivers had found some support, probably from men feeling the pinch as Belston’s heavy industry struggled in the tide of closures following the end of the War.

‘This is getting a bit warm,’ Parsons said, as the human barrier wavered under the pressure. ‘Still, I was glad to be getting out of the office this morning.’

‘Why’s that?’ Deepbriar asked, thrusting out a knee to deter a spotty youth who was trying to crawl between them.

‘There’s this woman. Says something’s happened to her husband. She’s hardly left the station all weekend. You’ve only got to mention the name Spraggs and Hubbard’s face turns purple.’

‘Spraggs?’ Deepbriar half turned, but at that instant the pickets lunged forward in a concerted attack, and the police line was in retreat, helpless against the sheer numbers of men heaving and shouting, intent on reaching the entrance to the depot. Two men who were trying to break the strike ran for their lives, taking refuge inside the firm’s offices and barricading the door.

Deepbriar never saw what hit him. One minute he was stepping backwards as the line tried to hold the onrush, his left arm linked with Parsons’ right, then his helmet was knocked over his eyes and he was falling. A flash of light lit up the darkness, and he knew no more.

He was watching Big Jim, the blacksmith, hammer a horse shoe to shape. Nothing unusual in that, the village smithy was a favourite place, and he wasn’t the only youngster who came to stand in the doorway, offering to work the bellows and thus enjoy the warmth of the forge when the weather was cold. But today there was something unpleasantly loud about the ring of metal on metal. It was hurting his head, each strike thudding against his ears like a blow. The fire was uncomfortably bright too, the red and orange glow shot through with painful white lightning. He wanted to leave, but when he tried to turn away his feet wouldn’t move. A small sound of frustration escaped his lips.

‘Thorny?’ The voice was familiar, and pleasant somehow, but it didn’t fit, it didn’t belong here. He tried to think why, and finally worked it out. Mary hadn’t lived in Minecliff as a child, so she’d never been in the smithy, not when Big Jim was alive. With one last reverberating crash of the hammer against red hot metal, the dream burst, and he was back in the present; the pounding became the throb of the pulse in his aching head. Deepbriar screwed his eyes tighter shut against the pain.

‘Mary,’ he whispered. A hand took hold of his, and he squeezed it, taking comfort from the familiar feeling of the roughened skin on her fingers. From somewhere beyond the persistent hammering he heard another sound; she was crying.

‘Don’t, love,’ he said, his voice sounding as if it was echoing from an unimaginable distance. ‘I’m fine,’ and with that he sank easily down into the blackness again.