‘So I do, but old Daggs, the chap I bought the farm from twelve years back ’ad sold’n the place, so I can’t do nothin’ about it, see? ’Twas this way. Daggs was a proper old soak, an’ let the farm go right to pieces. Then ’e started sellin’ bits an’ pieces. Why, the land that bungalow Watchers Way’s on, is Twiggadon land b’rights. An’ ’e even let off a field for an ole car dump up yonder. Still, ’tis an ill wind as they says. If the place ’adn’t bin to pieces twouldn’t’ve bin in my price range, an’ that’s a fac’. An’ Stobart ain’t no trouble. ’As ’is milk an’ eggs off the missis, an’ pays on the nail. ’Alf the time ’e’s out on the moor birdwatchin’ an’ roamin’ around, lookin’ for all the world like a bleedin’ great daddy-long-legs, ’e’s that tall an’ spindly.’

  Derek laughed, and held out his cigarette case.

  ‘The farm looks in pretty good shape now.’

  Gratified, Reg Bickley expanded this theme with some complacency.

  ‘How did you get on in that awful winter?’ Derek asked him. ‘It must have been grim out here.’

  ‘Didn’t lose a beast. I’d stocked up well with feed, and got ’em into the yards and home fields, in good time, same as anyone else could’ve done. We didn’t need no ’elicopters droppin’ supplies, an’ sendin’ in bills after as long as yer arm.’

  ‘You must be a good weather prophet. I should have thought most of you hill farmers were.’

  For some reason Bickley seemed discomfited by the turn of the conversation.

  ‘There’s some as are,’ he replied briefly, and glanced round as the twins came out of the barn. ‘There won’t be no trouble with Stobart, Mr Wainwright, see, so long as the kiddies keeps clear of the cottage an’ the bloody old cat. ’E’s ’mazed about it. Anyone care to come along an’ lend a ’and with the ’ay in the mornin’?’ he asked the children. ‘Baler’s due afore dark.’

  They accepted with enthusiasm, the encounter with Henry Stobart already almost forgotten. That night, however, he troubled Clare’s dreams, symbolized by confused shapes of terrifying height and length. She tossed and turned in her sleep, and once cried out.

  TWO

  The following morning was fine and still, promising a perfect August day. Sounds of the hay baler at work came floating up from Twiggadon Farm, and the moment breakfast was over Philip and Clare melted away. Derek Wainwright, reluctantly putting on a collar and tie, collected a file of correspondence and set off in the car for the solicitor’s office in Bridgeford, twenty miles distant. Rachel had agreed that nothing was to be gained by sorting the contents of the house at this stage, and having ascertained that Nora Pearce’s helper had arrived, made for the garden and the rare luxury of an undisturbed and absolutely free morning.

  She found a pleasant spot and installed herself in a deck-chair with a newspaper. In the intervals of glancing through it she gazed across at the moor, which was already quivering in a heat haze. Derek was beginning to accept the situation more easily, she thought with satisfaction. What an incredibly marvellous difference a reasonable amount of money made to one’s life. Her thoughts drifted happily from the improvements to be made to their house at Wrilburn, to the question of schools for the twins, and on to the alluring prospect of a completely new autumn outfit for herself… It was with dismay that she suddenly heard the clink of china, and turned to see Nora Pearce approaching with a laden tray. There were two cups on it, and she roused herself to be welcoming.

  ‘How lovely,’ she said untruthfully. ‘Do bring another chair for yourself.’

  As they sat drinking coffee Rachel wondered if it were a good opportunity to enquire into Nora Pearce’s future plans, with a view to asking her to stay on, at any rate until the sale of the furniture had taken place. She decided on some tentative probing.

  ‘It seems so extraordinary that neither my husband nor myself ever saw Miss Wainwright,’ she remarked. ‘I expect you know that there was a frightful feud between the two branches of the family. And now she has simply transformed our life through her will.’

  Nora Pearce set down her half-empty coffee cup on the tray with meticulous care.

  ‘I, too, owe her more than I can ever say,’ she replied at last. ‘All these years in this dear place…’ She broke off, her voice uncertain, and sat gazing down the valley. ‘And now this wonderful legacy. I do hope that neither you nor Mr Wainwright think…’

  Rachel hastened to reassure her. They were both delighted about it. ‘Money isn’t everything,’ she went on, ‘but it does make a difference, let’s face it. Derek and I haven’t had too easy a time, you know. He’s the Curator of the Wrilburn Museum, quite a good job as they go, but curatorships aren’t very well paid on modern standards. I worked, too, when we were first married, but then the twins came along and put a stop to that. And we’ve had a lot of bad luck one way and another, especially over illness. Last year I was pregnant again, and had a very bad miscarriage. To crown it all, just before I came out of hospital we found dry rot in the house we were struggling to buy through a mortgage. It’s been a terribly difficult year — at least, until we heard what Miss Wainwright had done for us.’

  Nora Pearce’s eyes were moist with sympathy.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Wainwright, what a terrible struggle you both have had! And to think that you can put it all behind you now! Of course, your health is the very first consideration. You must have a complete rest … the moor air is such a wonderful restorative … and not concern yourself with the housekeeping at all. I really think this is the moment for me to put my little plan to you. For the future, you know, in case you are worrying about how to manage when you can’t be down here.’

  With dismay Rachel realized what was probably coming, but before she could speak Nora Pearce had hurried on.

  ‘Well,’ she said, clasping her hands so tightly that the knuckles were whitened, ‘it’s like this, you know. One can’t leave these moor houses empty for long — certainly not in the winter months. It’s most unwise. They soon get very damp without fires and regular airing. Now, I should be so happy — so very happy — to become your resident caretaker. You are such dear, kind people. Without salary, of course. I shouldn’t think of taking a penny. Just in return for light and fuel, and you can rest assured that I should be most economical. And with part of my legacy I should buy a little second-hand car, and take a part-time post in Bridgeford. And you would be able to run down for a visit whenever you could manage it, and find everything in apple-pie order!’

  She raised her clasped hands, let them fall back on her lap and smiled at Rachel like an excited child.

  While listening to the spate of words Rachel had hurriedly searched for the kindest way of breaking unwelcome news.

  ‘It’s most awfully good of you, Miss Pearce,’ she said, when at last it came to an end, ‘and I know Derek will appreciate it as much as I do, but the fact is we’ve come to the conclusion that it really wouldn’t be sensible for us to keep on the house, and we’re going to put it up for sale.’

  An unbecoming deep red spread over Nora Pearce’s face, slowly ebbing to leave a startling pallor. Dreading an emotional scene Rachel plunged into speech once more.

  ‘You see,’ she hurried on, ‘it’s so far from home for the twins’ half-terms and any odd weekends Derek can take. The traffic’s really frightful in summer, too. We think a much smaller place nearer home would be more practical, although this is an absolutely lovely part of the world, of course. But please don’t think there’s any hurry at all for you to make plans. We’re hoping you’ll be able to help us for some months ahead, if you feel you can.’

  She suddenly realized that Nora Pearce had not heard a word, but was completely absorbed in mentally contemplating a situation which she found quite shattering. Acting on impulse she touched her gently on the knee.

  ‘We’re most anxious to help you in every possible way when the time comes to make a change. We wondered if, perhaps, you’d care for some of the furniture for a little flat?’

  The professional mask of a housekeeper-companion dropped over Nora Pearce’s face with an almost audible click.

  ‘It’s so kind of you to take such an interest,’ she said brightly. ‘I shall have to put on my thinking cap, shan’t I? Stupidly it had never occurred to me that you wouldn’t be keeping on the house. Now, I must be running along to see how Mrs Steer is managing in the kitchen.’

  She gave a quick nervous smile, gathered up the tray and hurried off.

  Finding herself unable to recapture her pleasantly relaxed state of mind, Rachel presently set off for a stroll. Turning left on leaving the garden she wandered up the lane, considering possible ways of helping Nora Pearce to launch out on a new life. She had forgotten the existence of the bungalow called Watchers Way, and started on being spoken to by someone standing at the gate.

  ‘Oh, good morning,’ she said, feeling foolish. ‘Such a beautiful one, isn’t it?’

  The speaker had been an unkempt-looking woman with faded blonde hair and strange, lifeless grey eyes. She could have been any age between thirty and fifty-five.

  ‘I’m Sybil Pendine,’ she said abruptly. ‘No doubt you’ve been well primed about me by the housekeeper.’

  There was no mistaking the malice in the last sentence. Rachel had a flashback to Nora Pearce’s remark at the tea table, that ‘things could be said’.

  ‘Actually, I haven’t heard her mention you,’ she replied coolly.

  There was a silence, and she was on the point of walking away when the woman spoke again.

  ‘I’ve got a message for you — or rather for your husband. From Bertha Wainwright.’

  ‘From Bertha Wainwright?’ Rachel echoed in bewilderment.

  ‘The fact that people have passed over is only a barrier to the earth-bound,’ Sybil Pendine said contemptuously. ‘I and my circle are in constant contact with the Beyond. The message I have to give your husband is that all is forgiven. Henry is there, too, and someone whose name was difficult to make out; the spirit writing often becomes illegible if there are hostile influences at work. It looked like Virtue. That’s all I have to tell you.’

  She turned abruptly on her heel and went up the path into the bungalow.

  Rachel stood staring after her for several moments. Then, feeling that she had had more than enough of eccentricity and odd behaviour for one morning, she retraced her steps and made for the farm in search of the twins.

  Derek was all but late for lunch, and Rachel could only warn him hastily not to mention the sale of the house. To her relief Nora Pearce seemed quite normal, apart from being rather less talkative than usual. Any shortfall on her part was more than made up by the twins, who chattered endlessly about their morning on the farm, and the exciting discovery that there were two young Bickleys, at present on a visit to an aunt, but due home in a few days’ time. They each had a pony, and Mr Bickley had said that he was sure some riding could be fixed up if Mr Wainwright was willing. From this the conversation passed naturally to possible expeditions on the moor.

  After lunch the family went into the garden. Philip and Clare rested under protest for half an hour, and then hurried off again, announcing that they were going to explore the stream. As the gate clicked behind them Derek looked enquiringly at Rachel.

  ‘Did Nora Pearce go through the roof when you told her we were selling the place?’ he asked. ‘Sorry you got landed with breaking it.’

  ‘No, she didn’t blow up, or anything like that. She was just appallingly upset, as if life had suddenly ceased to have any meaning for her. She looked about twenty years older. And when I tried to be sympathetic the bright professional facade descended, and I was quite definitely warned off.’

  ‘Perhaps she’ll be a bit more expansive about what she wants to do when she gets to know us better.’

  ‘I only hope she will: it’s so difficult to know how we can help her. Then, after she’d gone off, I went for a stroll up the lane and met a woman who lives in that bungalow we passed. She seems most peculiar, too. She obviously loathes N.P. — there’s no love lost either way. She went on to say she was in touch with Bertha Wainwright in the Beyond, and had a message for you.’

  ‘Good God! I suppose she’s a spiritualist crank of some sort. What was this message?’

  ‘That everything is forgiven on the Other Side. And there were greetings from someone called Henry, and somebody else whose name she couldn’t quite get, but seemed like Virtue.’

  ‘That’s damned odd,’ said Derek thoughtfully. ‘The family feud started between Bertha’s father, Henry Wainwright, and a cousin of his who was my great-grandfather, and called Vercherre Wainwright. It was an old family name. I wonder how she could have got on to that?’

  ‘I didn’t like her at all. Actually, I thought she was a bit spooky, and she was really spiteful about poor old N.P… Much more important, though, how did you get on with the solicitor?’

  Derek reported a satisfactory morning. Mr Greenwood had been most pleasant and helpful. He had agreed that the house had better be sold, and a telephone call to a firm of estate agents had resulted in an arrangement being made for one of the partners to come out and inspect the place on the following day.

  ‘Greenwood seems quite optimistic that it’ll sell, rather to my surprise. He thinks they may suggest an auction.’

  It was a hot afternoon, and presently their conversation became desultory. Glancing at Derek, Rachel saw that he was asleep. She relaxed in her chair, watching a fuchsia alive with bees. Their comings and goings set up an endless unvarying humming note… She drifted imperceptibly into deep herself.

  The thudding of running feet began to penetrate Rachel’s consciousness. She was at first aware of rhythmic beats, which linked in her drowsy mind with the image of someone in a hurry. Then the urgency behind the beats came through to her disturbingly. She woke and sprang to her feet as the twins began struggling with the unfamiliar gate. Before she could reach it herself it burst open, and they tore towards her, their faces ashen. As Derek came dashing up, Clare grabbed her wildly.

  ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ she screamed. ‘Those awful, awful long fingers!’

  She was suddenly and violently sick.

  Derek dropped on to his knees and took Philip by the shoulders.

  ‘Just tell us what’s frightened you, old man,’ he said quietly.

  The boy’s eyes were unnaturally bright, and his breath was coming in great gasps.

  ‘It’s — it’s a skelerton,’ he gulped. ‘We found some old cars in a field, an’ looked in one of the boots. Its — its arm fell out.’

  THREE

  ‘Fag?’ asked Dr Alan Pulman of the Wintlebury Forensic Laboratory, holding out a crumpled packet. ‘I thought you Yard blokes would be along. It’s leaked out that Bridgeford can’t match up the remains with any of their disappearances.’

  He broke off and stared hard at Detective-Superintendent Tom Pollard of the CID. ‘Hey, wait a bit… I’ve got it! About a month ago in the chattier Press. Youngest Super at the Yard, wasn’t it? On the strength of some of those headline-hitting cases of yours, I take it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ Pollard flicked his cigarette lighter and held it out. He decided that he liked Alan Pulman, a large red-faced extrovert. ‘Anyway, time’s on my side. This is my sergeant, by the way. Sergeant Toye.’

  The pathologist nodded to Toye. Expelling a mouthful of smoke he slapped the file in front of him.

  ‘It’s all here. You’ll find a duplicate at Bridgeford. Nothing more we can tell you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I realize that,’ said Pollard, ‘but somehow it’s more satisfactory to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth, if I may put it that way. So I thought I’d drop in for a few minutes on the way down, if it isn’t wasting your time too outrageously?’

  ‘Not a bit. Pleased to meet you. Besides, it’s a damned intriguing case. And it’s not as though you’re dashing down to salvage perishable clues: the trail’s stone cold after all this time.’

  ‘Between nine and fifteen months, you say?’

  ‘Yes. Within those limits I’m prepared to be definite.’ Alan Pulman opened the file and turned over some pages of typescript. ‘The boot cover fitted badly, but I’ve allowed for that. Establishing identity’s another matter, though, and I hope you enjoy the job. We’d nothing to go on but the more or less bare skeleton and the hair, and I’ve never struck a more uncommunicative set of bones. No dental work, no old fractures or abnormalities. Not a clue as to how the chap was done.’

  ‘I suppose he was done, and not run down accidentally by a car, and then dumped by someone who’d panicked?’

  ‘I’d thought of that one myself, but unless the chap died from shock without receiving fatal injuries there’d have been a fractured skull or staved-in ribs, or some definite evidence. Besides, surely it’s highly improbable that if it had been an ordinary road accident no enquiries would have been made by friends or relatives?’

  ‘What about the smashed face?’

  ‘Only superficial damage: by itself it wouldn’t have caused death. A panic measure afterwards, I imagine, to conceal identity in case some nosey-parker opened the boot too soon. All we can tell you is that the chap was between nineteen and twenty-two, and between five foot four and five foot four and a half inches. He was lightly built, and had long mousey brown hair. All details in here, and endless photographs. Take a look.’

  Pollard contemplated a series of macabre studies of a skeleton. It lay on its right side, with knees drawn up. The left arm hung down out of the car boot as if groping for the ground.

  ‘Bloodstains?’ he asked, examining a close-up of the face.

  ‘Divil a one. We removed the car bodily on a lorry, you know, and brought it up here, and our chaps pretty well took it to pieces. Not a trace of blood or anything else but the usual sort of muck in the boot — dried mud, and what-have-you. Maggots, of course. All nicely analysed and docketed for you, but I doubt whether it’s in the least relevant. No fibres or threads. Looks as though the body was put in stark naked.’

 

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