Dead Ground in Between (8 page)

Mady nodded. He was a skinny, round-shouldered young fellow with a squint in one eye. That, together with his flat feet, had meant he hadn't been conscripted.

“What do you want for us to do, Inspector?” asked Wickers. “You said two hours' work. We've got chores piling up on the farm so we'd like to get going.”

“How nice to see you so eager,” said Tyler. “All right. First off, this floor needs a good mopping.”

“It's pouring rain out,” said Wickers with a jerk of his head. “People are going to be tramping in and out in their muddy boots.”

“All the more reason to stay on top of it, then. We don't want the public to think we police officers live in a pigsty. Oldham, you can start with the floor. Wickers, you can tackle the
WC
It's been getting a bit whiffy of late.”

“That's skivvy work,” snarled the young man.

“Is it now? Well then, good thing you're here because we don't have a skivvy.” Tyler placed a hand on Mady's shoulder. “You'll answer to Constable Mady. If I hear one peep of disrespect coming out of your mouths, I will personally lay charges. And you won't get soft treatment this time, I promise you.”

He knew that Wickers would love to have protested further, but all he could do was glower.

“All right then. On the double. Even you, Oldham. Hop if you have to. Constable Mady will show you where to get your mop and brush. I will inspect the job before you leave. If it's not satisfactory, you will do it again. The cows will have to cross their legs.”

Mady started for the rear door and the two men began to meander after him.

“I said
on the double
!” Tyler yelled. They jumped and quickened their pace.

Rowell had come out of Tyler's office and seen most of this display.

“Brazen pair, aren't they.”

“Wickers is. Oldham is just a follower. Well, I'd better speak to Mrs. Cartwright.”

“I warn you, sir, she's in quite a tizzy. She wants us to go out and search for the old man right away.”

“Fat chance of that. We haven't got the manpower. Who's on duty besides Mady?”

“Biggs is doing some sorting in the storage closet. Chase called in sick, he's got the flu.”

“Constable Mortimer?”

“She's over at the school. The headmaster asked if we'd send somebody to talk to the nippers about safety during the blackout. She should be back soon.”

Tyler went into his office and took a seat behind his desk. Mrs. Cartwright had removed the sou'wester, revealing greying hair smoothed into a bun at the nape of her neck.

“Good afternoon, madam. My sergeant tells me that you're concerned about your father-in-law.”

“Yes, I am. We haven't seen him since last evening. I'm afraid something might have happened to him. I want to report him as missing.”

“Has he ever disappeared before?”

“Yes, but never for more than three or four hours at a time.” Her gaze shifted. “We didn't miss him right away. He doesn't always come down for breakfast, you see. Depends on how he's feeling. So this morning I didn't bother to check on him. Then he didn't answer to the midday dinner call, and that isn't like him. I sent my son up to take a look and he could see that Jasper – Mr. Cartwright – must have gone out in the early hours. He hadn't even got dressed. There were no sign of his pyjamas, you see, and his daytime clothes were still on the chair.”

Tyler looked at her. “That doesn't sound too good. Dreadful weather last night. Any reason you can think of why he'd go out in his night clothes? Do you have an outdoor privy, for instance?”

“No, we've got a proper indoor one. He didn't have any need to go outside.” She clicked her tongue. “My father-in-law is not himself is the problem. He gets confused.”

“Do you think it's possible he's taken shelter somewhere – with a neighbour, perhaps – and is waiting out the gale?”

“Any neighbours would have come and let me know. They'd know we'd be worried.”

“Where did he go when he wandered off before?”

“Usually he just goes to the fields or to the barn, but then he forgets how to get back. My husband has had to go fetch him more than once.” She took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped at her eyes. “I'll never forgive myself, Inspector, if something has happened to him. He's an old man. He shouldn't be out in this weather.”

Tyler tapped his fingers on his desk. He hardly had enough men for a search party. On the other hand, he couldn't in all conscience leave matters unexplored.

“Have you made any attempts to find him yourself?”

“Of course we did. When we realized he wasn't in his room, both John, my husband, and my son went out to look for him. They found his lantern in a ditch alongside the north field but no sign of him. So I said we'd got to get the police in on this.”

“You say his mind is going, but how is he physically?”

“Fit as a fiddle. Been a farmer all his life. Tragic it is, really. He's a proud man. Hates the fact that he isn't what he was. I do my best. We all do. This is my second marriage, you see, but from the start I've tried to be a daughter to him. But he can be very trying.”

Something about the way she said that made Tyler think she wasn't presenting the situation as bad as it was.

“Where do you live, Mrs. Cartwright?”

“We're on the Old Pike Road just outside of Bitterley village. I drove here in the lorry. I can give you a lift if you want.”

“Let me just check with my sergeant. I'll be right back.”

Tyler went out to the desk.

“Oliver. It doesn't look too good concerning the old chap who's missing. I'm going to have to take a look for myself. I'll register a report if necessary. I'll leave Mady with you but Biggs can come with me.”

The front door slammed open again and Constable Agnes Mortimer entered. She saw Tyler and grabbed the handle so she could close the door more quietly.

“Sorry, sir. Wind caught it.”

“You came just in time, Constable. I'm going out to check on a missing person. His daughter-in-law is the one making the report and she's pretty upset. The old fella may be sitting by the fire by now smoking his pipe, but given this weather, I'd rather get out and see for myself. I want you to come with me in case we need to take a look around the farm.”

Rowell sucked in his breath. “Just remembered, sir. The Austin is in the shop again. A problem with the starter motor. Won't be fixed until this afternoon.”

“Damn. I keep telling you, Oliver, we need to invest in some reliable Percherons.”

“Does that mean the motorcycle and sidecar, sir?” asked Mortimer.

“For you it does. Mrs. Cartwright has offered me a lift in her lorry. You can bring Biggs. And for God's sake, don't go too fast.”

“I won't, sir. We'll follow behind you.”

“All right. Let's go.”

Tyler considered his young female constable to be a mad driver, but she was positively sedate, he thought, compared with Susan Cartwright. The battered lorry had lost a lot of its suspension and swayed wildly at every curve, so that Tyler expected they might skid into the ditch at any moment. The driving rain obscured the view through the windshield, which sported a long vertical crack. This did not impede Mrs. Cartwright, who drove at breakneck speed. She didn't speak until they had passed Bitterley and turned onto a dirt road.

“We're just over the hill.”

Tyler looked over his shoulder. The motorcycle and sidecar had kept close behind them, although he could have sworn that Mortimer had taken a couple of the turns on two wheels. He pitied Biggs.

The lorry turned off the road and jolted through an open gate and across a muddy, cobblestoned yard. The farmhouse was old, and probably in sunlight, in summer, with roses climbing up the trellis, it would be charming. Now it was bare and tired-looking, and the white-painted walls seemed dingy.

As the lorry pulled up, the front door opened and immediately a man came out. He was clearly a farmer, and Tyler guessed this was Susan's husband. A younger man, smaller and slimmer, stood at the threshold. He could tell by their expressions they'd had no luck in finding Jasper Cartwright.

John Cartwright had an umbrella, which he opened after a tussle with the wind. He came around to the driver's side and his wife rolled down the window. The younger man stayed in the shelter of the doorway.

“Anything?” Susan asked her husband.

“Not a sign. Can't imagine where he's got to.”

Mrs. Cartwright indicated Tyler. “This is Detective Inspector Tyler. He's come to take a look. He's got two constables with
him in that there motorcycle. Apparently, that's all the manpower he could muster up, and one of them's a lassie.”

“Come in't house,” said Cartwright. “We can do a reccy where it's dry, at least. Wait there a minute, sir. I'll bring the brolly.”

He ran around to the passenger side of the lorry, leaving his wife to make her own way. Tyler climbed down stiffly. He would have liked to rub some feeling back into his buttocks but thought it might look undignified. John Cartwright held the umbrella over his head and they dashed to the house.

Constable Mortimer had switched off the motorcycle and was helping Biggs out of the sidecar. She had covered herself in a long waterproof for the drive, but Biggs looked thoroughly chilled. Tyler beckoned to them to follow.

Riding into the strong headwind was hard work and the cold rain was ferocious. It took the two boys more than half an hour to get from school to their hideout. They had only one bicycle, so Jan pedalled and Pim rode on the crossbar. But the sturdy mackintoshes and caps that Mrs. Keogh had bought for them kept them warm and dry enough. The year before they'd left Holland had been one of considerable hardship, and they considered the new clothes the height of luxury.

Finally, panting hard, Jan slowed down and stopped on the side of the road at the bottom of the hill.

“We'd better walk to the hideout from here. We don't want anybody to see us. Let's go and dry off a bit. We can have some rations.”

“What if the old man comes out? He'll have our h-hides.”

“Miserable sot. We weren't doing nothing wrong.”

“I suppose he thought we'd t-trespass.”

Jan shook his head. “I told you, he was hiding something. I bet it was the treasure and he was afraid we'd see him. But we'll find it.”

Pim hung back. “I d-don't feel like going around in circles, Jan. I'm soaked.”

Jan looked around. Early-winter darkness was coming in on the back of the rain.

“All right. We'll come back when the light's better.”

“Maybe it wasn't t-treasure,” stuttered Pim. “Maybe h-he was just getting rid of a stone or something.”

“I tell you, Pim, he'd no need to chase us off the way he did if he didn't have something to hide. He was in a real funk if ever I saw one.”

“Perhaps we should tell C-Captain.”

“We will if we see him. All right, hop off.”

Pim dismounted, and Jan dragged the bicycle over to the hedge and shoved it under the branches. He stood still for a moment, searching the landscape.

“Coast is clear. Come on. We won't stay long, I promise.”

From the crest of the hill, the ground sloped down sharply to the east. Here was a small field, and around its perimeter was a low, thorny hedge. Almost out of sight in the northwest corner stood an old cattle trough. The boys scuttled off in that direction.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” Jan said.

“There isn't a soul in s-sight,” answered Pim. “We're the only ones st-stupid enough to b-be out.”

“Stop mithering. We'll just stash our treasure and head back.”

At the trough, Jan leaned over, brushed away some sodden dead boughs from the bottom, and pulled up on the central strut. He had to tug hard, but suddenly a grill underneath dropped open, revealing a square opening into a wide chimney.

“I'll go first,” he said. “Give me the torch.”

Pim handed it over, and Jan climbed over the lip of the trough and turned so he was entering the chimney feet first. There was a metal ladder fastened into the side wall, and gripping it with both hands, he carefully descended. The torch was tucked under his chin.

Pim leaned over, waiting for his signal.

“Oh bleeding Jesus.”

Before Pim could react, his brother's head reappeared abruptly in the opening. He was sheet-white.

“What? What's the m-matter?” asked Pim.

Entering the Cartwright kitchen felt like stepping into the past. The low ceiling, the dark wooden beams, and the open fireplace looked as though they had been there since Jacobean times. Tyler almost expected to see a pig roasting on a spit over the fire. An uncarpeted flight of stairs led from the corner of the room. Functional, not in any way grand. There was a large oak cupboard beside the sink crammed with cups and plates, and a massive iron stove took up most of one wall. Brightly coloured cushions and shiny brass ornaments arranged along the pelmet showed what Tyler's mother would have called “a woman's touch.” Two or three oil lamps gave off soft pools of light. A lingering, delicious smell of recent baking hung in the air. A scrubbed wooden table took pride of place in the centre of the room.

Susan removed her outdoor things and immediately put on a print apron.

“Please, have a seat, Inspector. I'll make us a pot of tea.” She began to fuss at the stove.

“Give me your hat and coat,” said John.

Tyler sat down at the table, and the young man who had been standing in the doorway pulled up a chair opposite.

“I'm Ned Weaver,” he said to Tyler. “Susan's son.”

He seemed to wink at Tyler, who was startled for a moment. Then he realized that Weaver had a sporadic twitch in his left eyelid.