The Valentine Murder Page 3

“Well, I forgot too,” she said. “I think I can survive without Valentine’s magic.”

  O’Harris reached out and took her hand, discreetly so no one would notice. Clara took a step a little closer to him, relishing his presence beside her. She didn’t need a Valentine’s card to know he loved her, or to know that she loved him back.

  “I still don’t see how any of this has got anything to do with me,” Annie persisted.

  “Well, there could be a madman on the loose,” Tommy explained. “Someone who would kill a defenceless old man has to be insane and who knows who he shall come after next. I had to warn you to be careful.”

  Annie did not seem convinced, but Ellen gave him a warm smile.

  “You said he was a gentleman, Annie, he is definitely worth keeping,” she cooed.

  Tommy was so taken aback that he blushed. Annie, who until this point had been looking quite stern, softened and smiled.

  “He is a very good man,” she told Ellen as if Tommy was not even there. “I can’t fault him for caring about me.”

  “I think it is a fine thing him coming all this way just to make sure you are safe,” Ellen added. “You should have told him we were on the telephone, then he need not have bothered. He could have just rung.”

  Annie opened her mouth, but for once she had overlooked something and was a little put out, so she said nothing. Luckily, the kettle then boiled.

  “You’ll stay a bit?” Ellen asked them. “Father will be back in a while and we can have some dinner together. Can’t see you going home on empty stomachs.”

  “We wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” Clara said swiftly.

  “Nonsense,” Ellen replied. “I am always cooking for a crowd. Normally we have a dozen workers on the farm, mostly day labourers, rather like old Mr Beech. I always cook them a good dinner. But we have asked them to stay away while Gus is sick, as we don’t want anyone else getting poorly. It’s a hard thing to do, but some of them are old men living on their own and if they got ill who would take care of them?”

  In their mad dash to get to the farm, spurred by Tommy’s intense fears, Clara had overlooked that they were heading to a place where a man was seriously sick. Spanish influenza had been a scourge just a few years ago, killing more souls than the war had. The ‘flu was still around, catching out people from time to time. People who suspected they had it were told to stay home and avoid company, so as to stop it spreading. And now Tommy, Clara, O’Harris and Jones had waltzed into this house and exposed themselves to the sickness.

  A bleak thought came to Clara’s mind. What if O’Harris or Jones were to catch the illness and then pass it on to all the men at the convalescence home? What of the staff there? It could be a disaster if they all became sick. Clara winced inwardly. How stupid they had been, but what was done, was done.

  At that moment, the sound of someone coughing and retching came from upstairs.

  “I’ll see to him,” Ellen told Annie, putting her now settled baby back in the crib with his or her (Clara was not sure yet of the sex of the infants) sibling.

  Annie brought two large brown teapots to the table, measured out tea leaves into them and poured over the boiling water.

  “You don’t need to worry about me, you know,” she said to them. “I have a sensible head on my shoulders.”

  “I never doubted that,” Tommy assured her. “My concern was that some monster was on the loose who did not have any sense, and who would strike out at an innocent just because he could.”

  Annie returned the kettle to the range.

  “I remember William Beech,” she said. “He helped on my parents’ farm on occasion, before we moved into Brighton and left the farming life behind.”

  Annie drew her brows into a deep frown.

  “He was a nice soul. Quiet, inoffensive, bit of a loner though. Preferred animals to people.”

  “I can understand that,” Tommy said as Bramble bounced up at his leg. “Animals are a lot less demanding than people, a lot kinder too.”

  “Hm,” Annie was only half-listening to him. “Mr Beech was said to be able to charm the birds from the trees, and people meant it, it was not just an idle phrase they repeated. They told all sorts of stories about him, but I doubt most were true. Is that what Ellen meant by a witchcraft killing?”

  “You mean, someone killed him because he was a witch?” O’Harris said. “Isn’t that far-fetched in this day and age?”

  Annie shook her head at him.

  “Maybe in Brighton, in the town, yes, but I know people around here who get the heebie-jeebies if the corn bends over a funny way, or a black cat crosses their path. My father owned two black cats, you know, just for the delight of worrying folks. He had a devilish streak to him.”

  They all fell silent as this information sank in.

  “Still,” said Annie, after a moment, “can’t see why anyone would so savagely kill Mr Beech. He had his funny ways, but he never hurt a soul. In fact, he was the first man you called if ever a horse or cow became sick. He was a fine cowman in his day.”

  “Not now?” Tommy asked.

  “Age caught up with him,” Annie shrugged. “You need quick reactions when you work with cows. I think he had a problem with his back. Rheumatism.”

  “The more we learn, the more it seems a cruelty how he was attacked and killed,” O’Harris said with a shake of his head. “I doubt he could have put up much of a fight.”

  That was a thought to make them all sombre. Annie finally shrugged her shoulders and rose to tend the range.

  “Hopefully, the police will have the killer sooner rather than later,” she said, taking a big copper pot from a shelf and then assessing a sack of potatoes for quality. Satisfied that they were edible, she took out a large handful and loaded them into her apron to bring to the table. “Now I know you are bored…”

  “I’m not bored,” Clara and Tommy said in unison.

  Annie gave them a mischievous look.

  “I was referring to Clara, but Tommy is the same. You are bored, your recent cases have consisted of mundane problems most people could solve themselves within an hour. They might pay the bills, but they aren’t stimulating you, then there comes this murder and without knowing it, you are instantly drawn to the possibility of a proper crime to solve.”

  “I have no intention of stepping on the Inspector’s toes unless someone asks me specifically to investigate this case,” Clara said firmly.

  “We’ll see,” Annie said knowingly.

  “We shall not,” Clara replied.

  They were interrupted from further discussion of the matter by someone whistling as they came down the back path to the house.

  “That would be Ellen’s father, Mr Blyth,” Annie explained.

  At that moment, an older man opened the kitchen door and stepped inside. He saw the guests and nodded to them.

  “Hello, visitors?” He said.

  “Friends of mine, Mr Blyth. I think you may remember me mentioning Tommy and Clara Fitzgerald?” Annie said. “And this is Captain O’Harris and Jones, his driver.”

  Mr Blyth cast his eyes across the group at the table.

  “Pleasure to meet you all. Excuse the mud, I’ve been doing the pigs.”

  Mr Blyth actually looked surprisingly clean and tidy for someone who had just been dealing with animals.

  “How is Gus?” He asked Annie.

  “Much the same,” Annie admitted. “Ellen is up with him.”

  Mr Blyth pulled a face.

  “I feared as much and I have a dilemma now too, for Gus’ dog has gone off by itself. Should I tell him?”

  “He ran off?” Annie asked.

  “Yes, suddenly like, while I was tending to those heifers in the big field. Like he caught a scent of something and was gone. I called and called, but he don’t come back. I had hoped he might be here,” Mr Blyth glanced around the kitchen as if the dog might suddenly materialise.

  “You mustn’t tell Gus, not yet, he dotes on that dog,”
Annie said, looking worried.

  “Then what shall I do?” Mr Blyth asked miserably.

  Tommy caught Clara’s eye and she gave him a surreptitious nod.

  “Mr Blyth,” he said, “might I suggest we organise a dog hunt?”

  Chapter Four

  They set out to the big field, as Mr Blyth referred to it. It was certainly a large expanse of grassland with a herd of black and white cows grazing peacefully at one side. They looked up at the new arrivals and wandered over to see if they were going to get fed.

  “Stood right there, he was, when he ran off,” Mr Blyth pointed to a large patch of old thistles, dead and brown, they filled a dip in the ground, undisturbed by the cattle. “He was sniffing around, as he does, then he lifted his head, raised a paw and before I knew it, he was gone.”

  “Which direction?” Tommy asked.

  Mr Blyth indicated towards the boundary of the field where a trio of old oak trees grew.

  “There is a cut in the hedge there, with a stile. I guess he went through but I could not see him on the other side.”

  They headed over to the stile, Clara aware of dark clouds looming overhead. It would not be long before the sun set again. Mr Blyth took them directly to the stile and pointed at it somewhat hopelessly.

  “What lies beyond?” O’Harris asked.

  “That land belongs to Mr Spinner,” Mr Blyth said. “He has one of the biggest farms hereabouts. Not that it is his, not really. It belongs to his father and he runs it.”

  “I get the impression you are not too keen on Mr Spinner,” Clara observed, noting the tone of Mr Blyth’s voice.

  Mr Blyth shuffled his feet.

  “Mr Spinner is a funny sort. Not very social,” he said. “He gets right nasty about people going onto his land who are not meant to be there. See here, this is a public right of way, always has been since… since as long as anyone remembers, but Mr Spinner doesn’t like people using it and he threatens them and puts things on the path to block it.”

  “I imagine that is why you did not follow the dog,” Tommy said, already stepping up onto the stile.

  “Well, you see, I have to live around these parts,” Mr Blyth muttered. “I don’t need Mr Spinner making trouble for me.”

  He looked on anxiously as Tommy jumped down onto the far side of the hedge and Clara began to follow.

  “Come on Mr Blyth,” O’Harris turned to the old man. “Are you really going to let this Spinner fellow stop you from finding Gus’ dog?”

  Mr Blyth hopped from foot to foot with indecision, then he gave a sigh and resigned himself to following them. They were soon all on the far side of the hedge and spreading out to try to find the dog. He was named Patch and they called out for him as they fanned out. Clara reflected that it rather looked like when the police formed a line to search a piece of land for clues. She rather hoped Patch had come to no mischief during his adventure.

  They were now in another field, this one long and narrow, running up a hill, the ridge preventing them from seeing the farthest boundary. It was another pasture, but currently unoccupied by animals. Clara avoided an old cowpat as she walked. Their voices rang out, but there was no immediate response from a dog. Then O’Harris, who was on the far right, shouted out.

  “I can hear a dog barking!”

  They hurried to join him and stood precisely where he was to listen to the sound. He was right; somewhere in the distance a dog was making a lot of fuss.

  “Oh, I hope he ain’t caught in a snare,” Mr Blyth bit at his thumb. “Where on earth is he calling from?”

  They remained silent for another moment or two.

  “I would say the noise is coming from that spinney over there,” Clara suggested, pointing to some birch trees at the end of the pasture.

  No one argued with her and they all headed in the direction of the trees. The barking seemed to be getting louder, which gave them hope they were going the right way.

  “Poor Patch!” Mr Blyth cried out. “Don’t worry, old fella!”

  Patch sounded more annoyed than worried. As they drew to the first trees, he seemed to be making a lot of racket for the sole purpose of attracting their attention to him. They headed through the trees, careful to keep their eyes peeled. The sun had dipped low and the spinney was a wealth of shadows making it hard to see anything. Tommy caught his foot on a root and swore as he nearly fell. O’Harris grabbed his arm to steady him. Clara failed to see a rabbit burrow and nearly twisted her ankle. After these few mishaps, they all became much more careful about where they walked.

  Jones was at the far left having drifted away and followed his own instincts as to where the sound was coming from. He began to wave an arm at them and call out.

  “He’s here!”

  They took care as they hurried over, urgency matched by a sense of self-preservation. Mr Blyth was first to reach Jones and stand beside him.

  “Well, I should have known!”

  Patch, a small brown and white terrier with a severe overbite, was stuck in a rabbit hole. By the look of it, he had dug his way in from another entrance to the burrow, followed the tunnel without successfully finding his prey, and then attempted to emerge from a second hole. It was at this point he discovered that the hole was too small for his body. Unfortunately, he had already pulled one leg through the hole, while the other remained pinioned beneath him, and he had ended up hopelessly wedged.

  “This is how terriers end up getting themselves killed,” Mr Blyth wagged his finger at the dog.

  Patch gave him an irate bark and scrabbled at the dirt with his free paw.

  “Here, we should be able to free him easily enough,” O’Harris crouched by the dog. “If we can dig out around his leg, he will probably pull himself free.”

  He dragged at the soil with his fingers, it was hard as rock, and he barely scraped away anything.

  “Very hard soil around these parts,” Mr Blyth noted unnecessarily.

  They all got down to their knees and started to try to work loose the soil around the dog. Patch was obviously grateful for their assistance and licked at their faces whenever he could.

  Tommy produced his pocketknife and tried to loosen the ground with it, this seemed to help, and they were able to release larger clods of earth. It was still a laborious process and Patch did not help by constantly wriggling. No doubt, if they could see his tail, it would be wagging furiously.

  “I hope the rabbit chase was worth it,” Mr Blyth said to him.

  Tommy jabbed his pocketknife into the soil and there was a noticeable shift in the compacted dirt, a big chunk crumbled, and Patch was able to pull his trapped leg loose. With a frantic scurry of legs, he worked himself forward and Clara would later insist there had been an audible pop as the dog thrust itself from the burrow.

  Patch shook off his coat, grey with soil and looked delighted with himself. Aside from a slight limp on the leg that had been trapped beneath him for so long, the dog seemed unharmed from his adventure. He jumped at everyone, wagging his stump of a tail and licking their hands to thank them for freeing him.

  “That’s the last time you chase rabbits,” Mr Blyth told him sternly.

  Patch jumped up at him, nearly sailing into the air by five foot and the old farmer hastily grabbed him mid-leap. Patch licked at his face furiously.

  “You old fool,” Mr Blyth told him fondly.

  “There is something in that hole,” O’Harris said when the celebrations with Patch started to die down.

  Clara turned to see what he meant. He was pointing at the loose dirt just inside the burrow. Patch had been scrabbling with his hind feet to free himself and the soil was very loose and disturbed. Amid the dusty grey earth, almost invisible in the fading light, something round could be seen.

  “Isn’t it just a smooth rock?” Tommy said.

  O’Harris was bending back down to the burrow and grabbed the objected. It was the size of his hand, but rather flat. He dusted it off with his hands and when that proved unsatisfa
ctory, he took out his handkerchief and used that instead.

  “It’s a watch,” he said. “A pocket watch.”

  He held it out to them. It was indeed an old-fashioned pocket watch crafted from brass, with a white enamel face. It was a little battered, but whether the dents and scuffs had occurred before or after it entered the rabbit hole, none could say.

  “This is rather like Alice in Wonderland,” Tommy remarked. “There should be a white rabbit appearing about now, telling us he is very late.”

  Indeed, it did seem somewhat bizarre that a watch should have been just sitting in the rabbit hole.

  “Wonder how it got there,” Mr Blyth said, but he was not really interested.

  With Patch saved, his mind had turned back to his empty belly and supper. He was already heading out of the spinney. The others followed, O’Harris still doing what he could to clean up the watch.

  “It is still ticking,” he observed. “Means it can’t have been down there very long.”

  “Perhaps someone was walking through the spinney and the watch fell from their pocket,” Clara suggested.

  Captain O’Harris was polishing up the back now.

  “There is an inscription,” he said. “I think it is dated 1855, the writing is very faint.”

  “We can look at it better in the farmhouse,” Tommy suggested. He was pulling his coat closer about him; the temperature had dropped and there was a bite to the wind.

  They traipsed back the way they had come, over the stile and past the heifers who once again looked at them optimistically for food. It was nearly dark by the time they reached the farmhouse and the glow of a lantern in the window drew them. They were all shivering and wretchedly cold by the time they were back indoors. Mr Blyth had carried Patch the whole way, the dog exhausted by its misadventure. He now put the terrier down and Patch raced straight to his wicker basket, where he turned a tight circle on his blanket and fell fast asleep.

  Annie was cooking at the range and Ellen had returned. They were talking about whether to put the gaslights on just yet. Gas was expensive and the farm still had plenty of old oil lanterns in working condition.