Bury in Haste (4 page)

Joe stared at him. ‘I disappeared? That’s crazy.’

‘Maybe, but that’s how it was. Perhaps there’s some simple reason for what happened. You’re back safe and sound, so maybe the hows and whys don’t matter.’ The constable watched as Joe considered what he’d said. ‘If I was you I’d want to know,’ he went on, ‘and I’ll do my best to help, if that’s what you want.’

Slowly the young man nodded.

‘Right,’ Deepbriar said. ‘The man you mentioned. Tell me what you remember.’

Spraggs was silent a moment, gathering his thoughts. ‘I was lying on the ground. It was dark. And bitter cold; I mean, it’s been cold for days, but this was worse somehow, right into my bones. I felt sort of funny, my arms and legs were all weak, like I’d been ill or something. After a while I managed to sit up and I groped about a bit. Couldn’t see a thing. I tried shouting.’ Joe shuddered. ‘It was like I was buried, deep underground. My voice didn’t sound right.’

‘What do you mean, it didn’t sound right?’

‘Quiet. Sort of echoing, but muffled. I thought it was because it was so dark, like nothing could get through. I wasn’t exactly wide awake, but I was scared that I’d run out of air.’ The young man shook himself and tried to smile, but without much success. ‘Sounds daft.’

Deepbriar shook his head. ‘Not at all. Any idea how long you were in this place?’

‘No. It seemed like forever. But then I saw light, just a bit of a glow. I wanted to get up and go over to it, but my legs wouldn’t work properly. I suppose that’s when I decided it must be a dream, though when I tried to wake myself up I couldn’t. Then suddenly this man appeared. There must have been a bit of light coming in, not much though, because he wasn’t much more than a shape looming over me. He seemed to come out of nowhere.’

‘Did you see his face?’

‘No. I tell you, he was just a shadow.’

‘Was he tall? Thin or fat?’

‘Not small. I’m not sure. I was scared half out of my wits.’ Joe flushed, a deep shade of pink spreading across his face. ‘All this could have been a nightmare, couldn’t it?’ He looked at Deepbriar pleadingly.

‘It could, but I don’t think it was, and you don’t either, not if you’re honest with yourself.’ He gave the young man a searching look and Joe shook his head miserably.

‘The ground you were lying on, what did it feel like?’

Joe considered for a while. ‘Hard. And rough. Like stone.’

Deepbriar nodded thoughtfully. ‘That matches the dust on your coat, it had to come from somewhere. I’m sure you weren’t dreaming, Joe. Go on, this man appeared, then what?’

‘He threw something over my head, and then these hands grabbed me.’

‘You mean the man took hold of you?’

‘I don’t think it was him, not at first. There must have been more than one of them. I tried to fight and I was shouting at them to let me go. They got me rolled up in a blanket or something, and it was so tight over my face I could hardly breathe. There was a funny smell, sort of sickly. I don’t remember much more after that.’

‘You didn’t hear anything? These men didn’t talk to each other?’

‘No.’ Joe shook his head. ‘Hang on, though. Right at the end I was in a bit of a panic, I was going fair crazy. Somebody yelled. I think I might have kicked one of them. I hope I did,’ he added fervently. ‘I hope I got him right where it hurts.’

Dusk was falling as Constable Deepbriar opened the door of the police house. There was still an ominous silence within. The telephone rang, and he went to answer it.

‘Good afternoon, constable.’ Father Michael’s cheerful voice greeted him. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

‘Of course not,’ Deepbriar replied, ‘what can I do for you?’

‘I had a word with Mr Crimmon, and I’m afraid it will be several weeks before he’s able to play the organ again. I gather he shut his hand in a door. I’ve asked young Nicky to play for evensong today, but we’ve a couple of weddings coming up, as well as the regular services. I’d be grateful if you could fill in for us.’

‘My pleasure. I’ll have a word with my sergeant, and see if I can arrange my duty to leave me free when I’m needed, if you’ll let me have the dates.’

‘Excellent! I’ll ask Miss Lightfall to contact you with the details.’

‘Tell Mr Crimmon I’m sorry to hear about his hand. I thought he looked a bit upset this morning.’

‘Ahh yes. He’s inclined to be a little jealous of his position, I don’t think he likes to see other people sitting in his place, as it were. No matter, a little hardship is good for the soul. Give my regards to Mrs Deepbriar.’

‘When I see her,’ the constable muttered gloomily, as he replaced the receiver. Feeling like a martyr he made himself a cup of tea in the deserted kitchen and sat down at the table, staring at the new Dick Bland which lay on the dresser where he’d put it the previous day. Alongside it was the package Harry Bartle had given him. He got up and fetched it, unwrapping the brown paper to reveal a garish paper-covered book.

A woman of the less respectable kind, wearing a red dress that showed off far more of her figure than would be considered respectable in Minecliff, glared at a dark man in a homburg hat. A cigarette dangled from her painted and pouting lips. ‘Mitch O’Hara and the Thousand Dollar Dame,’ the title proclaimed.

Like Deepbriar, Harry was an avid reader of detective stories, and devoured all he could get his hands on; this book was a gift to the young man from his cousin, a local girl who had married a GI during the War and now lived in Wisconsin.

Deepbriar placed this new offering alongside his library book. He usually enjoyed a good read on a Sunday afternoon, but today his mind was too full of his own mystery.

On the other side of the hall was the little room that served as Minecliff’s police station. Deepbriar decided to write his report about the disappearance of Joe Spraggs while it was still fresh in his mind. Since Joe was back home and apparently unharmed, the case probably wouldn’t be taken seriously by his superiors, not with the affair of Ed Walkingham still hanging over them. But there could be no doubt Joe had been the victim of assault; if the abduction had been a practical joke it was a pretty heartless one, and it had definitely gone too far.

Deepbriar stared blankly at the paper in the typewriter. Why, he wondered, would somebody want to drug Joe Spraggs and hold him captive overnight? There was no sign of any other mischief being done at Wriggle’s yard.

It might have been easier to understand if only Joe wasn’t such a sober and sensible young chap. He wasn’t the kind to have upset anyone, and Deepbriar was sure he was an honest man. There wasn’t much of a criminal element in Minecliff, and although Falbrough and Belston had their share of rogues, Spraggs didn’t mix with bad company. What possible motive could anyone have for kidnapping him? No answers came to mind and Deepbriar sighed. When it came to real life mysteries he didn’t have the Dick Bland touch.

Monday morning brought the first white frost to the fields around the village of Minecliff, but the cold air outside was nothing compared to the atmosphere inside the police house, which hadn’t warmed up since the previous day. After he’d eaten his breakfast, the constable was relieved to receive another summons from Ferdy Quinn.

On second thoughts he wasn’t quite so sure it was a welcome development; the reappearance of Joe Spraggs had completely driven the matter of the straying heifers from Deepbriar’s mind, and when he heard Quinn’s irate tones at the other end of the line, he steeled himself to admit that he hadn’t yet reported the affair to his superiors. He needn’t have worried; the farmer was no longer concerned with his cattle, he had something else to complain about.

‘Get out here!’ Quinn bellowed, almost incoherent with rage. ‘He’s gone too far this time!’ As his voice rose to an hysterical squeal, Deepbriar winced and held the handset away from his ear.

‘Take a deep breath, Mr Quinn,’ Deepbriar advised, ‘or you’ll be giving yourself a heart attack. I’ll be along, just as soon as I can.’

He telephoned Sergeant Hubbard and explained why he wouldn’t be making his report in Falbrough until the afternoon, then he wheeled his bicycle out on to the road, calling a farewell as he went. There was no reply from the scullery, where a rhythmic splash and thud told him that Mary was tackling the week’s wash.

If Ferdy Quinn had appeared furious the previous day, this morning he looked almost insane with rage, his face redder than his hair as he paced to and fro, his two dogs keeping a wary distance from his stamping feet, reminding Deepbriar irresistibly of the men who had acted in similar fashion the previous day. They were evidently making themselves scarce; sounds of metallic hammering came from one of the sheds, while the cows were milling about in the yard as they left the dairy. Will Minter stood by the cattle byre, watching his irate neighbour and looking as if he’d prefer to be somewhere else.

‘About time!’ Quinn snapped as Constable Deepbriar free wheeled in through the farm gate. ‘Come on!’ He stomped across the yard and off up the hill without another word, waving an arm to call Minter and the constable to join him, evidently too furious to explain where they were going.

‘M
orning, Thorny,’ Will Minter nodded. A slow-thinking, slow-moving man, he fell into step beside Deepbriar. ‘Been a bit of a fire.’

‘A fire? Here?’

‘Over yonder.’ he pointed. ‘Was me what found it. Smelt smoke when I come out this morning and sent one of my lads to have a look.’

‘It’s my barn, down in the hollow,’ Quinn bawled, half turning round but not stopping. ‘Burnt to cinders, along with what was left of last year’s hay.’

‘Bit hidden down there,’ Will Minter added, ‘nobody would have noticed, any road, not in the middle of the night.’

‘I hope you’ve not been trampling over the evidence,’ Deepbriar said. ‘If the fire was set deliberately they might have left signs.’

‘ “Set deliberately”?’ Quinn looked ready to explode. ‘You danged fool, of course it was set deliberately! It was Bunyard! Who else could it be?’

‘We went through this yesterday, Mr Quinn,’ Deepbriar said stolidly. ‘You could get yourself into trouble if you go slandering people. I agree Bert’s done a few things contrary to the law in his time, but he’s only human. He can’t walk two miles on a broken leg, and that’s a fact. We’ll go and take a look at the damage, and meanwhile I’d thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head.’

Ferdy Quinn took a deep shuddering breath. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I’m sorry, constable. But I just know Bunyard’s behind all this somehow. He must be!’

The three men walked on across the fields with Quinn muttering angrily under his breath until the steepening slope silenced him. A few wisps of smoke became visible, rising over the crest of the hill. At last the barn came into sight, or all that was left of it. A steep-sided valley sheltered a smouldering heap of charred wood.

‘Lucky I didn’t have any beasts in here,’ Quinn growled, kicking at a blackened doorpost.

‘Last year’s hay, you said.’ Deepbriar began writing in his pocket-book. He glanced up to see a range of emotions flit across Quinn’s flushed face, and quickly looked down again to hide his smile. The farmer was regretting his honesty; given time it might have occurred to him to claim something of more value had gone up in smoke; until now he’d been too upset to think about the insurance.

‘That wasn’t all,’ Quinn said, picking up a stick and poking at the ruins, uncovering what might have been a large metal buckle. ‘Kept my old harness in here, too.’

‘If there’s any evidence of foul play you’re going a fair way to destroy it,’ Deepbriar commented, and the farmer threw down the stick and retreated a few steps.

‘Thought you didn’t keep horses any more.’ Minter put in.

‘I don’t.’ Quinn was defensive. ‘But that doesn’t mean I can afford to lose that gear. Might have needed it again some time. Or I could have sold it.’

Patiently Deepbriar wrote down the items Quinn listed, then he walked round the site of the fire, studying the ground, sniffing at the ashes. Not that anyone would need petrol to set a hay barn ablaze. ‘Could be the fire brigade might want to come and have a look,’ he said, having satisfied himself that the frozen ground hadn’t preserved any footprints. ‘Nothing more I can do here.’

‘Never mind, Ferdy,’ Will Minter said cheerfully as Deepbriar finished his inspection, ‘let’s face it, that barn was pretty old, it would have fallen down in a gale one of these days, any road.’

Quinn scowled at him. ‘Easy enough for you to say, you’re not the one getting picked on. Suppose he comes back to do the same to the rest of my buildings?’ He glared at Deepbriar. ‘Who’s to stop him?’

‘I’ll be talking to Bert Bunyard later today,’ Deepbriar said. ‘But unless the man can fly I can’t see any way he could have got here.’

‘What about Bunyard’s son?’ Quinn growled. ‘You say it wasn’t him, but where’s your proof?’

‘Humphrey’s too scared of the outside world to come all the way over here,’ Deepbriar assured him. ‘But I’ll check, like I said.’

‘I’ve not seen that boy in years,’ Will Minter said. ‘Not quite all there, is he?’

‘He’s harmless enough. If it wasn’t for Humphrey looking after their beasts I reckon him and Bert would have starved by now,’ Deepbriar said. ‘He might not have been overly bright at school, but he always had a way with animals, did Humphrey Bunyard. There wasn’t a dog in Minecliff wouldn’t tag along behind him when he was a boy. But I can’t see him coming over here at night, I remember his mother telling me he was terrified of the dark. That would only be three years or so back, not long before she died.’

‘People can change,’ Quinn said. ‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to, when respectable folks can’t sleep in their beds without scoundrels opening their gates and setting their property on fire.’

‘I’ll be getting off home, Ferdy,’ Will Minter said. ‘Got a day’s work to do. So long, Thorny.’ He winked cheerfully behind his neighbour’s back and headed off across country towards his own farm.

‘Bye, Will.’ The constable sighed, resigning himself to Quinn’s grumbling all the way back; it was almost as bad as listening to Mary’s reproachful silence. They were trudging across the last field when a shrill call cut across Ferdy Quinn’s lament.

‘Telephone!’ Mrs Quinn’s voice, trained over the years to reach her husband as he went about his work in the fields, carried clearly. ‘For Constable Deepbriar.’

Deepbriar increased his pace, happy to leave the farmer’s tirade behind.

‘It’s Ada Tapper,’ Mrs Quinn said disapprovingly, as the constable hurried up the steps into the house, ‘but she won’t tell me what it’s about.’

Deepbriar picked up the receiver. Ada Tapper was a local character. Charlady for half a dozen households in and around Minecliff, she was to be seen almost daily walking the lanes with her huge, elephantine legs encased in thick Lyle stockings, and her big frame wrapped in an ancient army greatcoat which had probably seen service in the First World War. She carried the tools of her trade in a decrepit basket, which she protected on rainy days with a large umbrella.

‘This is Mrs Ada Tapper,’ she announced, delivering the words into the telephone slowly, but at maximum volume, as if she had to make them travel the three miles without benefit of wires. ‘I’m in the telephone box on the corner, by the church. I telephoned to the police house first, and they said to try at Quinn’s farm.’

‘This is Constable Deepbriar, Ada. There’s no need to shout. I can hear you quite well. What’s the trouble?’

‘It’s Mr Pattridge. I went to do for him at nine o’clock this morning, same as always on a Monday, but I can’t get in. He’s got all the doors locked. I think he’s in the parlour.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘There’s a gap in the curtains. I can see one of his legs. I’ve been knocking and calling, but he hasn’t moved.’

‘I’ll come and take a look,’ Deepbriar said. ‘It’ll take me about ten minutes to get there.’

‘I don’t think it’ll make much difference how long you take, constable. His shotgun’s on the floor beside him.’ And with that she put the receiver down.

Deepbriar scowled at the telephone as he dialled the number for Doctor Smythe’s surgery.

‘I’ve got one more patient to see,’ Smythe said, once Deepbriar had explained. ‘I’ll meet you out there.’

They arrived at Oldgate Farm simultaneously, the constable turning in just ahead of the doctor’s car. Ada stood, stolid and immobile, outside the back door. ‘There’s nothing open,’ she said, as Deepbriar tried the door handle, ‘I’ve been all round.’

‘I have to check for myself, Ada,’ Deepbriar said, ‘so I can write it down in my report.’

‘Writin’!’ Ada sniffed dismissively, with all the contempt of the unlettered. ‘Never felt the need of it.’

The catch on the kitchen window yielded to the force of Deepbriar’s penknife, and he climbed in, then opened the door for the others. ‘Stay in the kitchen,’ he told Ada.

She sniffed again. ‘Won’t be nothin’ I ain’t seen before.’

When he entered the parlour and saw what awaited them there, Deepbriar doubted that. In nearly twenty years of police work he’d never seen such a scene. Often, he thought bleakly, the heroes of detective stories discovered the bodies of suicides, or more often, since they concerned works of fiction, apparent suicides. The phrase, ‘he blew his brains out’ was a familiar cliché, but he’d never imagined it being so graphically exact. A double barrelled shotgun did an efficient job. The contents of Colin Pattridge’s skull were scattered over half the room.

‘Found ’is dog,’ Ada said from the doorway. ‘Dead in its bed in the pantry, an’ stone cold. Bin poorly a week or two, it ’ad, reckon it was the only reason ’e went on this long, kept ’im goin’ like. Blimey,’ she said dispassionately, coming to stand at Deepbriar’s side. ‘That mess’ll take some clearin’ up.’

‘I told you not to come in,’ Deepbriar said.

‘Seen worse,’ she sniffed. ‘I was in France during the war, the first lot, ’elpin’ out in an orspital. Only a slip of a girl I was. Used to be sick sometimes at first, the fings we ’ad to deal wiv, but you got used to it in the end.’

That probably explained the greatcoat. It was hard to imagine the solidly built Ada as a slip of a girl, but Deepbriar no longer doubted the strength of her stomach.

‘I’d be grateful if you’d brew a cup of tea for when the doctor’s finished, Ada,’ he suggested, ushering her away and closing the door behind her.

‘Not much doubt about the cause of death,’ Smythe said a few minutes later. ‘At a guess I’d say it happened some time yesterday.’

Deepbriar had been inspecting the room. There was nothing to suggest that Pattridge hadn’t taken his own life, including his own knowledge of the man. A small collection of items lay on the table in front of the corpse; three photographs in tarnished silver frames, a letter, the ink rather faded over time, and a pocket watch. A little further away lay a single folded sheet of paper, with the word TONY written in large capitals across it.

The spread of blood and brains had gone in the other direction; only a couple of tiny red specks had landed on the glass of the closest photograph. It showed Colin Pattridge, a good deal younger, smilingly flanked by two boys, each of them grinning at the camera and holding up a watch.

John and Tony. As unalike as it was possible for brothers to be. John had been the one who worked hard alongside his father on the farm, while Tony got into every kind of mischief. And John had been the one who had volunteered for the navy in 1942, as soon as he was old enough, and drowned in the Atlantic after just six months at sea, while Tony had grown to manhood a few years later and sulked his way through national service before drifting into a life of petty crime, coming home only when he was broke.

The old letter was from one of John’s friends, evidently one of the few survivors when their ship was torpedoed. He wrote to apologise, saying how much John had wanted his father to have his watch, but that it had gone to the bottom along with its owner. There was nothing he could send back he said, except memories, and he had filled two pages with stories of the brief time he had known John Pattridge, the ink blurred in places as if he, or maybe the old man, had shed tears over the telling.

‘Tony hasn’t been back in a while,’ Doctor Smythe remarked, straightening from the desk at the side of the room, where he’d been writing the death certificate.

‘No,’ Deepbriar mused, surreptitiously wiping dampness from his eyes and replacing the letter on the table.

‘I hear he’s got in with a thoroughly bad lot. It would have been no wonder if his father turned him out.’

Deepbriar nodded. He picked up the watch. This must have been the one that belonged to the younger son. And while John had treasured his, Tony evidently hadn’t cared enough to keep it with him, though he hadn’t pawned or sold it, and maybe that meant something.

With a feeling of growing discomfort, Deepbriar flicked open the single sheet of note paper. It bore no salutation other than the bald word printed on the outside. ‘It’s all yours now,’ it said, ‘I’ve sold off the last of the stock, and sent some money to the church to make sure John’s memorial is kept in order. With everything you did, I never stopped loving you. I had your watch repaired a year ago, thinking I’d see you. I can’t bear the thought of another Christmas like the last, waiting, hoping you’d find a few minutes to visit. It wouldn’t have hurt you to go on pretending that you cared, for the sake of John’s memory, if not for me. I hope one day you’ll be happy.’ It wasn’t signed.

Aubrey Crimmon looked nothing like his older brother; for a start he was about twice Cyril’s size. He too wore sombre clothes, but he gave the impression that this was only of necessity, because it was expected of an undertaker, or as it stated discreetly on the black briefcase he carried, a funeral director. The huge man had a cheerful air about him as he breezed into the house.

‘Good morning, constable,’ Crimmon extended a large black-gloved hand. ‘A sorry affair,’ he went on, ‘I take it there are no immediate relatives to consult?’

‘No. His surviving son hasn’t been around for a year, and as far as I can make out there’s no other family.’

‘How sad. Perhaps you’d be good enough to give me the few details I need, then, for the paperwork. Unless that’s the job of the plain clothes policeman I saw outside?’

Detective Sergeant Jakes, summoned by telephone as standing orders dictated when a body was found, had arrived five minutes before Crimmon. He had taken one look at the mess inside the house and then gone straight outside to rid himself rather explosively of his breakfast.

‘I’ll see to it,’ Deepbriar said sombrely. He could hardly blame the younger man, he’d been grateful that some hours had passed since he’d eaten his own meal.

It only took a minute, then Crimmon summoned his assistant who had been waiting outside, and they prepared to remove the mortal remains of Colin Pattridge from his home. Deepbriar stood by the window, half watching, though his thoughts wandered. Crimmon took hold of the sheet which Ada Tapper had brought to cover the body and began to remove it. He froze, just for an instant, his plump features tense so that for a few seconds his face looked almost gaunt. Deepbriar came abruptly out of his reverie in time to see that the man’s hands were trembling.