Fate Worse Than Death (24 page)

Sawdust on Websdell's clothes, sawdust in Sandra's car; and Websdell had disapproved of his daughter's proposed marriage.
The facts fitted in the Chief Inspector's mind with a jigsaw puzzle click. ‘The girl's
father
? Didn't you –'

But then he saw an unfriendly chill in Sergeant Lloyd's expression. Oh hell … women were so touchy. He might have known that she'd take exception to any hint of doubt about her competence, and the last thing he wanted was to antagonize her. ‘Sorry, Hilary. Yes, of course you checked. Geoff Websdell was a natural suspect as soon as his daughter disappeared.'

‘Yes,' agreed Hilary coolly, ‘I checked his movements that day, and on the evening she died, and I'm satisfied that he wasn't involved. But he's not the only forester in the village.'

‘That's true. But foresters always work in gangs, so it would have been almost impossible for any one of them to have got away on the day of her disappearance. Unless of course he was on holiday, or off sick … It's certainly worth running a check on absentees. Another snag, though, is that timber from the plantations is softwood, and the lab says that the sawdust in the car is hardwood … Ah, wait a minute! The logs you saw piled in Charley Horrocks's shed – which were they?'

Hilary was floored. ‘Sorry, sir. I've no idea.'

‘That's all right,' said Quantrill, glad that she was both fallible and prepared to admit it. ‘Doesn't matter – the chances are that the logs are a mixture. What we really need to know is whether they were cut by a chainsaw or an axe.'

‘It must have been a chainsaw,' said Hilary. ‘The cut ends of the logs were smooth, I remember that. And there were dribbles of sawdust where they'd been barrowed from the garden gate to the shed.'

‘Right,' said the Chief Inspector, draining his tea mug. ‘You were going to find out from the woodman when he made that delivery, weren't you? I'll come with you. If there's a conspiracy over Sandra's abduction and death, it begins to look as though he might be a part of it.'

The cottage where Christopher Thorold lived was as isolated as Howard Braithwaite's boathouse and Charley Horrocks's lodge. It was situated somewhere between the two, just off the dirt lane that led from Fodderstone Green by way of Stoneyhill wood to the plantation where Sandra's car had been found.

The woodman's cottage, once part of the Fodderstone Hall estate, was built of the same grey brick as the fire-ruined house in the middle of Stoneyhill wood. It too stood in a large clearing, ringed by mature oaks and beeches. But the whole of this clearing was in current use, partly as woodyard, partly as vegetable garden and orchard, and partly as barnyard for free-ranging poultry.

Of the original one-storey cottage itself, not much was visible from the dirt road except the blue-grey pantiles of the roof. Successive occupants had, over the years, enlarged the accommodation by tacking on makeshift extensions and porches, so that the detectives' first impression was of a huddle of tarred planks, cucumber-frame windows and corrugated-iron roofs. Elsewhere in the clearing were various sheds of similar construction, though with chicken-wire rather than glass in their windows.

Quantrill left his car in the shade of the trees. He and Hilary approached the cottage across grass worn so bare by the poultry that only well-pecked tussocks of it remained. In craters between the tussocks, basking hens shifted in their dust baths and made querulous complaint about the intruders; but apart from the grumbling of the hens and the persistent hum of insects, the whole of the forest clearing was heavy with heat and silence.

And then the still air was ripped by a high, nerve-grating scream, agonizingly prolonged. Hilary started: ‘God, whatever –?'

‘Chainsaw,' Quantrill reassured her. He made off in the direction of the woodyard, following the scream that rose to a metallic crescendo and then stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

The woodyard looked rather like a deserted Red Indian encampment, with the trimmed trunks of larch trees set up in teepee form so that the resinous wood could dry. Between the teepees, rosebay willow herb grew tall, its pink blossoms lively with butterflies. Heavy logs of deciduous wood lay in a great pile, behind which was parked an old pick-up truck. Christopher Thorold was there at work, methodically reducing a tree-trunk to chumps of manageable size.

When he saw that he had visitors he stood disconcerted, open-mouthed, nervously changing his grip on his heavy-duty chainsaw. His shock of grey-fair hair was dark at the roots with sweat, but his only concession to the heat had been to undo the top button of his flannel shirt and roll up his sleeves.

The Chief Inspector introduced himself and his sergeant. Christopher Thorold glanced with embarrassment at Hilary, placed his chainsaw on the ground and buttoned his shirt to the neck in a gesture of deference and courtesy.

‘Y-you'll want to see Pa,' he burst out, blinking his thick pale eyelashes. ‘He's indoors. He can't get about any more.'

Quantrill explained that they had come to enquire whether he had recently delivered a load of logs to Mr Horrocks at the lodge. Christopher Thorold said that he had done so on Monday. Yes, he was sure it was Monday. It would be in the account book, which his father kept. No, Mr Horrocks hadn't exactly ordered the wood: he always had a load at that time of year, and Christopher delivered it when he had it ready.

‘Is Charley Horrocks a friend of yours?' said Sergeant Lloyd.

It was a question that Quantrill, knowing the rural social structure, would have had no need to put. Christopher Thorold looked shocked. ‘Why no! Mr Horrocks's Grandpa was the third Earl. My Pa worked for the family at the Hall, and his Pa afore him. I couldn't be a friend to Mr Horrocks. ' Twouldn't do.'

‘Who are your friends, Mr Thorold?' asked Quantrill. ‘Where do you spend your evenings? Do you go to the Flintknappers Arms?'

Flustered, Christopher said that he always spent his evenings at home. He didn't drink, didn't go to the Knappers, had no need of any company except his Pa's.

Yes, they sometimes had callers. People came from the village to buy eggs, or to order wood. Yes, he knew Stan Bolderow and Reg Osler – had known them all his life. But they'd always tormented him at school, so he didn't seek their company. Yes, he knew by sight Mr Braithwaite from Fodderstone Green and Mr Goodwin from the Flintknappers Arms, and their wives to deliver wood to; but that was all.

‘Do you know any young women?' asked Quantrill.

‘No,' he said simply. Then he added with dignified reproach, as though his status were as much a calling as the priesthood, ‘I'm a bachelor.'

‘But you knew Sandra Websdell, didn't you?'

Christopher's eyelashes went on the blink again. Sandra was a relation, he said. That was different. He hesitated; then added, ‘She's dead.'

‘Yes,' said Quantrill. ‘But how did she die?'

‘I don't know.' A single large tear rolled out of one of Christopher's pale blue eyes, broke against the first outcrop of stubble it encountered, and spread a patch of damp over his rough cheek. ‘We're wholly upset about it, me and Pa.'

‘When did you last see Sandra, Mr Thorold?'

‘I don't know.' He wiped his cheek with the back of his fist, and picked up his chainsaw. ‘I can't rightly say. Pa will tell you.'

‘Did you bring her here, three weeks ago? Did you keep her here, somewhere in the house or in one of your sheds?'

Christopher Thorold seemed not to hear the question. He had lifted his head, listening to something else. His eyes searched the apple trees that grew just beyond the woodyard, and suddenly he pointed, his solemn face alive with pleasure.

‘Look,' he whispered hoarsely. ‘See there, on the trunk of that ol'Bramley? Hear it drumming for insects? That's a lesser spotted woodpecker – see, red on its head, black an'white splodges on its back. They're shy birds, you hardly ever see 'em. Wait'til I tell Pa!'

‘I asked you a question, Mr Thorold,' said the Chief Inspector sharply. ‘Have you been keeping Sandra Websdell here?'

‘I heard you, Mister,' said Christopher, his eyes still on the bird. ‘No, I haven't. I couldn't do a thing like that without Pa knowing, and he'll tell you I haven't. If only he could come out and see this woodpecker! Look, there it goes –'

Countryman that he was, Quantrill was no birdwatcher, either on or off duty. He snorted, and marched off to the house. But Hilary Lloyd, interested in the change that had come over Christopher Thorold as soon as he was on his own territory, lingered for another word with him.

‘I've never seen a woodpecker before,' she said. ‘Thank you for showing it to me.'

Embarrassed again, Christopher hung his head and shuffled his heavy boots.

‘You're very lucky to live in a place like this, on the edge of the forest,' she went on. ‘All the birds, and the butterflies … I can understand why you spend all your spare time at home. You've got everything that you could want here, haven't you?'

Christopher raised his head and gave her a shy smile. ‘It's beautiful,' he said simply. ‘There's deer, too, roe an'fallow … I don't want to leave here, ever. I wouldn't leave here. I – I'd rather die.'

Christopher Thorold set to work again, splitting the still air with the scream of his chainsaw and emitting a jet-stream of sawdust. Hilary crossed the dusty grass of the barnyard, avoiding the most recent poultry droppings, and joined the Chief Inspector. As they approached the wide open porch door of the woodman's cottage, a hen that had been pottering about inside took fright at their intrusion and came out flapping and squawking.

The doorway led into a corrugated-iron porch that housed the essentials of serious country living: heavy rubber boots, old greatcoats, a hurricane lantern, a spade, sacking, spare rat traps. Through the porch, another open door led into a lean-to scullery that sheltered both the original cottage door and the cast-iron water pump. On a bench by the pump stood an enamel bowl with cut-throat shaving tackle beside it, and also a paraffin-fuelled cooking-stove. The scullery smelled of paraffin, and of the ancient border collie, too deaf to lift its head, that lay panting and twitching on the doormat.

The original door was also open. Through it, the detectives could see an old man, his flat cap on his head, his eyes closed, sitting upright in a wooden armchair beside a large square pinewood table. A house fly had settled on his chin, and others were walking over his hands, but he remained completely immobile. The only sounds from the room were the tick of a long-case clock and the worried cluck of a white hen that was standing on the table facing the visitors, its head on one side, observing them with a single beady eye.

Quantrill and Hilary exchanged glances, speculating on whether the old man was deeply asleep or dead. They retreated to the porch, and Quantrill rapped loudly on the outer door. The hen's clucking increased in frequency and anxiety; it trod up and down the table, jerking its raised claw at every step, working itself into a state of hysteria. The detectives, expecting it to fly in panic for the door, prepared to duck.

But then the old man spoke, ‘All right, my beauty, all right,' he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep. ‘I can hear y'. Quieten down, now.' He lifted the hen on to his knee and stroked its scaly feathers, soothing it into stillness, though it continued to make quirking sounds of unease. ‘Come you in,' he called drowsily, catching sight of his visitors in the doorway. ‘You'll be wanting eggs, I daresay?'

Albert Thorold had the same heavy, solemn features as his son, the same innocent pale-blue eyes. Age had put tremors in his voice, his lips and his hands, but he had none of Christopher's shyness or nervous mannerisms. He was dignified, calm, as independent as his infirmities would allow him to be.

The detectives stepped over the dog and into the airless living-room. ‘You must help yourselves,' said the old man, pointing to a big mixing bowl, brimful of brown eggs, that stood on the table. Beside the bowl was an assortment of clean crockery and cutlery, the day-long requirements of two men, left ready to hand; also ready for use at the appropriate meal were jars of jam and pickled onions, and the makings for tea. Above the table dangled a flypaper, already too black with captives to trap any more, though a score of them hovered round it.

Apart from the flies, and some evidence that the pet hen was not completely housetrained, the room was moderately clean; not dusted, but kept tidy and given an occasional sweeping. Unlike Charley Horrocks, the Thorolds seemed capable of looking after themselves.

Albert Thorold heard who his visitors were, and the subject of their enquiries, without any trace of unease. He spoke about his late wife's cousin's daughter with composure, although his lips trembled rather more than usual. ‘That feller from London,' he asserted. ‘He must ha'carried her off.'

‘When did you last see Sandra?' Quantrill asked him.

The old man paused for thought, caressing the hen's white ruff. It closed its fleshy eyelids and settled on his knee, half-asleep. ‘Why, it'ud be two months or more ago. She came to tell us that she was getting wed.'

‘Did your son mind about that?' asked Hilary.

‘Mind, Miss?' Albert Thorold turned his head and neck in one stiff movement, so that he could look straight at her. ‘Why, no. Why should he?'

‘Christopher seems to have been very fond of her.'

‘That he was. We both were.'

‘Yes. So I wondered whether perhaps he'd hoped to marry her himself?'

‘Marry? Our Christopher? Oh no, Miss, he wouldn't think o' that. He's always been wholly shy wi'women.'

‘But you do need a woman here, don't you?' said Quantrill. ‘Two men, living on your own – you need someone to cook and clean for you.'