Missing Joseph

Andrew Townley-Young had fully comprehended the extent of the vicar’s low church leanings and cut him off his list of acceptable acquaintances. So why had Sage walked to see Juliet?

The same moth fluttered its wet-winged answer. Sage hadn’t wanted to be seen, just as Colin himself didn’t want to be seen paying a call at the cottage on the very night of the day that New Scotland Yard had come to the village. Admit it, admit it…

No, Colin thought. That was the venomous, green-eyed monster making its attack on trust and belief. Surrendering to it in any way meant a sure death to love and a certain extinction of his hopes for the future.

He determined to think no more about it, and made good that promise by turning off the torch. Although he had walked the footpath for nearly thirty years, he had to concentrate on something beyond Robin Sage in order to anticipate a sudden dip in the land and to find his way over the occasional stile. The stars assisted. They were brilliant in the sky, a dome of crystals that fl ickered like beacons on a distant landmass, across an ocean of night.

Leo led the way. Colin couldn’t see him, but he could hear the dog’s feet breaking through the skin of frost on the ground, and the sound of him scrambling over a wall with a happy yelp made Colin smile. A moment later the dog began to bark in earnest. And then a man’s voice called, “No! Hey, there! Steady on!”

Colin switched on the torch and picked up the pace. Against the next wall, Leo was bounding back and forth, leaping up towards a man who sat atop the stile. Colin shone the light on his face. The man squinted and shrank back in response. It was Brendan Power. The solicitor had a torch with him, but he wasn’t using it. Instead, it lay next to him, its light extinguished.

Colin ordered the dog down. Leo obeyed, although he lifted one front leg and pawed rapidly at the wall’s rough stones as if greeting the other man. “Sorry,” Colin said. “He must have given you a start.”

He saw that the dog had interrupted Power in the midst of a sit and a smoke, which explained why he hadn’t been using his torch. His pipe still glowed weakly, and what was left of the burning tobacco gave off the odour of cherries.

Bum-boy’s tobacco, Colin’s father would have called it with a scoff. If you’re going to smoke, boy-o, at least have the sense to choose something that makes you smell like a man.

“Quite all right,” Power said, extending his hand to let the dog sniff his fingers. “I was out for a walk. I like to get out in the evening if I can. Get in a bit of exercise after sitting behind a desk all day. Keep myself in shape. That sort of thing.” He sucked on the pipe and seemed to be waiting for Colin to make some sort of similar reply.

“Out to the Hall?”

“The Hall?” Power reached in his jacket and brought forth a pouch which he opened and sank the pipe into, packing it with fresh tobacco without having cleared the bowl of the old. Colin watched him curiously. “Yes. The Hall. Right. Checking things. The work and all. Becky’s getting anxious. Things haven’t gone well. But you know that already.”

“There’s been no more trouble since the weekend?”

“No. Nothing. But one can’t be too careful. She likes me to check. And I don’t mind the walk. Fresh air. Breeze. Good for the lungs.” He took a deep breath as if to prove his point. Then he tried to light the pipe with only a moment’s success. The tobacco caught, but the clogged bowl prevented the stem from drawing. He gave up the effort after two tries and replaced pipe, pouch, and matches in his jacket. He hopped off the wall. “Becky’ll be wondering where I’ve got off to. I suppose. Good evening, Constable.” He began to walk off.

“Mr. Power.”

The man turned abruptly. He kept himself clear of the light which Colin was directing his way. “Yes?”

Colin picked up the torch which still lay on the wall. “You’ve forgotten this.”

Power bared his teeth in what passed for a smile. He gave a short laugh. “Fresh air must have gone right to my head. Thanks.”

When he reached for the torch, Colin held on a moment longer than was absolutely necessary. Testing the waters because they needed to be tested, because New Scotland Yard would be doing its own testing soon enough, he said, “Do you know this is the spot where Mr. Sage died? Just on the other side of the stile?”

Power’s Adam’s apple seemed to travel the length of his neck. He said, “I say…”

“He did his best to make it over but he was having convulsions. Did you know? He hit his head on the lower step.”

Power’s glance shifted quickly from Colin to the wall. “I didn’t know. Only that he was found…that you found him somewhere on the footpath.”

“You saw him the morning before he died, didn’t you? You and Miss Townley-Young.”

“Yes. But you know that already. So—”

“That was you with Polly in the lane last night, wasn’t it? Outside the lodge?”

Power didn’t answer at once. He looked at Colin with some curiosity and when he replied, the answer came slowly, as if with some thought as to why the question had been asked in the fi rst place. He was, after all, a solicitor. “I was on my way out to the Hall. Polly was on her way home. We walked together. Is there a problem with that?”

“And the pub?”

“The pub?”

“Crofters. You’ve been there with her. Drinking in the evenings.”

“Once or twice, while I was out for a walk. When I stopped by the pub on my way home, Polly was there. I joined her.” He played the torch from one hand to the other. “What of it, anyway?”

“You met Polly before your marriage. You met her at the vicarage. Did she treat you well?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Did she seek you out? Ask you any favours?”

“No. Of course not. What are you getting at?”

“You’ve access to keys to the Hall, haven’t you? To the caretaker’s cottage as well? She never asked to borrow them? She never made any offer in return for the loan of them?”

“That’s some bloody cheek. What in hell are you trying to suggest? That Polly…?” As his words died, Power looked towards Cotes Fell. “What’s all this about? I thought it was over.”

“No,” Colin said. “Scotland Yard’s come to call.”

Power’s head turned. His gaze was even. “And you’re looking to misdirect them.”

“I’m looking for the truth.”

“I thought you did that already. I thought we heard it at the inquest.” Power removed his pipe from his jacket. He tapped the bowl against the heel of his shoe, dislodged the tobacco, and all the time kept his eyes on Colin. “You’re in hot water, aren’t you, Constable Shepherd? Well, let me make a suggestion. Don’t look to pour any of it on Polly Yarkin.” He strode off without another word, pausing some twenty yards away to repack and relight his pipe. The match fl ared, and from the glow that followed, it was clear that the tobacco had caught.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

COLIN KEPT THE TORCH LIT for the rest of the walk to the cottage. Using darkness as a means of distraction was futile at this point. Brendan Power’s final words had made further avoidance impossible.

He was hedging his bets and he knew it, setting up a secondary set of possibilities, and arranging an unexamined point of departure. He was looking for a viable direction in which he could lead the London police.

Just in case, he told himself. Because the what if’s were increasing their restless murmur inside his skull, and he had to do something to quell them. He had to take an action that was well within his purview, called for under the circumstances, and guaranteed to set his mind at rest.

He hadn’t considered what that direction would be until he saw Brendan Power and realised — with a rush of intuition so powerful that he could feel its certainty in the hollow of his gut — what could have happened, what must have happened, and how Juliet was blaming herself for a death she had only indirectly caused.

Right from the start, he’d believed that the death was accidental because he couldn’t consider any other explanation and continue to look at himself in the mirror every morning. But now he saw how wrong he might have