clients of mine for many years. I don’t feel able to discuss their affairs with you.’
‘So be it.’
‘I daresay that you’ve tried to wheedle the information out of Mr Everett as well. I can see that you failed.’
‘He was as reticent as you, sir,’ said Colbeck, ‘so we’ll bide our time. The priority now is to find and question Michael Bruntcliffe. I’m surprised that his name hasn’t come into consideration before.’
‘It didn’t need to,’ suggested Leeming. ‘When Mrs Tarleton went missing, everyone here seemed to think her husband had killed her.’
‘ We didn’t think so,’ stressed Reader, ‘but you’re quite right, Sergeant. The colonel was the prime suspect and, to most people, he still is. There have even been broadsides published to that effect.’
‘Yes,’ said Colbeck. ‘I read one of them. It was almost as vicious as this.’ He took an envelope from his pocket. ‘This is a poison-pen letter sent to taunt the colonel. Do you recognise the hand, sir?’
Reader studied it. ‘I can’t say that I do.’
‘Take the letter out, if you wish.’
‘There’s no need, Inspector. Looking at the name and address is enough. It’s a distinctive calligraphy. I’d remember it.’ As Colbeck put the envelope away, Reader tasted his drink then ran his tongue over his lips. ‘A malt whisky at the end of a working day is an excellent tonic. So,’ he went on, becoming serious, ‘have you made any progress in the investigation?’
‘We believe so, Mr Reader.’
‘The person we’re after is used to handling a shotgun,’ said Leeming, ‘and you’ve just told us that Bruntcliffe comes into that category. We need to track him down quickly. But what about the people with whom the colonel went out shooting? You were one of them, I presume.’
‘Oh, I was hopeless with a weapon in my hands,’ said Reader, modestly, ‘so I rarely joined a shooting party. I love eating game but take no pleasure from killing it. I could name several people who often made up a shooting party but there was only one person who went out alone with the colonel.’
‘Oh?’ said Colbeck. ‘Who was that?’
‘A rather unexpected marksman,’ replied Reader with a smile. ‘To look at him, you’d never believe that he knew one end of a shotgun from the other, but I have it on good authority that he is a dead shot.’
‘What’s his name, sir?’
‘Clifford Everett.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lottie Pearl couldn’t believe the transformation that had taken place during her short time at the house. Having lost both her employers to frightening deaths, she was now forced to minister to the needs of two guests. Worst of all, she had to do so in a badly dyed black dress that hung in folds off her body, gathered dust on its hem and gave off a musty smell. With a thick apron over the dress, she felt as if she were about to suffocate in the heat of the kitchen. After her long service to the family, Mrs Withers might be truly bereaved, but it soon dawned on Lottie that she herself was mourning the imminent loss of her job. Her days there were numbered. Eve Doel had no need of the house and the girl knew that, even if he stayed, she could never work for the brother. Since he’d been there, Adam Tarleton had either glowered at her or, when he’d drunk half a bottle of brandy, appraised her in a way that made her skin crawl. When she complained about it to the housekeeper, she was told to get on with her job and stop letting her fevered imagination run away with her.
In fact, there was little time for her imagination to become fevered. She was expected to get up early, draw water from the well and help in the preparation of breakfast. Whenever she had a respite, it was swiftly curtailed by Mrs Withers who had a genius for inventing new jobs that had to be done instantly. Lottie had been ready for hard work when she took on the post but the intensity of it exceeded all her fears. That evening, however, she was given a small measure of relief. Instead of scrubbing the kitchen floor as usual, she was sent off to a farm to fetch two dozen eggs. She was undeterred by the long walk there and back. Her concern was that she had to do it in her mother’s dress and face certain mockery from the children when she got to the farm. Because she wore black, one of them had called her a witch and asked her why she hadn’t arrived on a broomstick.
In the event, Lottie was spared any ridicule. The children were playing in the field and the dog that had harassed her on her last visit was nowhere to be seen. Although the girl had money to pay for the eggs, the farmer’s wife refused to take it, saying that it was her small contribution to a house in mourning. After a brief chat with her, Lottie took her leave with the basket over her arm. The walk there had been without incident but hazards lurked on her return journey. The first was a half-hidden rabbit hole into which she put an unsuspecting foot, causing her to trip up and fall. While she wasn’t injured, her basket was jolted and a few of the eggs cracked open, emptying their sticky contents. Climbing over a stile also proved perilous. She caught her dress on it and heard an ominous tearing sound.
But it was the third hazard that really upset her because it came in human form. An old pedlar rolled towards her on his cart and eyed her with interest. Tugging his horse to a halt, he leered at the girl and offered her a trinket in exchange for a kiss. When she declined, he hopped off the cart and tried to molest her. Even though she eluded him with ease and ran away at speed, she felt hurt and vulnerable. When she reached a stand of trees, she slipped behind them and sat down to rest, examining the tear in her dress then trying to remove the broken eggs from the basket. Lottie was still trying to wipe her hands clean in the grass when she heard the approach of horses. Fearing that the pedlar had come after her, she leapt to her feet and peered around the trunk of a tree.
There were two riders and, from their carefree laughter, she could tell that they’d been drinking. They reined their horses in only twenty yards from her hiding place. Lottie recognised Adam Tarleton but she’d never seen his young companion before. They were patently happy in each other’s company and loath to part. Lottie watched as Tarleton took something from his pocket and handed it over to the other man. His friend thanked him and made a jocular remark that she couldn’t quite hear. Then they waved farewell and went their separate ways.
The girl was both mystified and excited, bewildered by what had occurred yet feeling that she’d somehow witnessed a moment of real significance. She spent the rest of the journey trying to work out what it could possibly be.
After their ill-starred rendezvous in the dark, Wilf Moxey and Lorna Begg had seen very little of each other. Both had chores that kept them working apart and neither deliberately sought out the other. Because he’d raised the alarm about a dead body, Moxey had acquired a spurious celebrity in the eyes of his workmates on the farm. His name had appeared in the newspaper and he’d been praised in print by a detective inspector for what he’d done. Unaccustomed to such fleeting fame, Moxey found it a burden. He was compelled to repeat the lie about going out in search of rabbits and his mouth went dry every time he did so. That evening, therefore, he snatched a moment to speak alone with Lorna. They met behind the cowshed and, though she gave off the unmistakable odour of stale milk, he found her as entrancing as ever.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he began.
‘So have I. It was a mistake.’
‘No, that’s not true. What we did was right. We were unlucky.’
Lorna trembled. ‘I keep feeling the touch of that hand.’
‘Forget it.’
‘I can’t, Wilf. I’ve tried.’
‘What I’ve been thinking is this. There’s an inquest.’
‘It’s nothing to do with us,’ she said, anxiously.
‘I have to go, Lorna.’
‘Why?’
‘I told them what…what we found.’
‘You said you’d pretend you were on your own.’
‘I did. The detectives believed me. This is different. When I go to the inquest, Mr Higginbottom says I’ll be under oath.’ His face was contorted with apology. ‘I can’t tell a lie. That’d be perjury.’
She was terrified. ‘But everyone will know.’
