“No one’s ever said they saw him, though plenty’s said: ‘Sam’s had a good look round up there, likely, and if he couldn’t get in t’ house, there’s t’ barn.’ You see, it’s known that some old farmers used to hide their brass in the barn. There was old Tom Grisedale at Hawkeshead. He hid his money in the shippon, under one of the flagstones his bull stood on, and that’s a fact. His wife found it after he died. ‘I knew ’twas there,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen him fussing around there. And what could I do? I daren’t go near the bull, let alone move him.’ ”
Macdonald laughed. “That was a cunning idea. There wouldn’t be many thieves who would risk moving another man’s bull even to get his brass.”
“You’re right,” she said. “Never trust a bull, they’ll turn on you one day.”
“Now there’s another question I’ve got to ask,” went on Macdonald. “After your husband was hurt, Mrs. Shearling said she thought she saw a man on the fell side, and she thought it was one of Mr. Brough’s men, who used to come up to the High Garth shippon when Mr. Brough wintered his beasts there.”
“Well, she’d got to say summat,” retorted Mrs. Brough acidly, “Jock Shearling was around there himself, wasn’t he? She didn’t want no one to say that Jock was mixed up in this, though I wouldn’t put it past him. Now, about our men, there’s Bob Walton, Jack Metcalf, and Tim Healey— Tim’s an Irishman stayed over from oat harvest Mr. Brough took him on at the hiring fair at Bentham, just for harvest, but when his time was up he asked to stay on and, being a handy fellow with stock, Mr. Brough kept him: used to handling stock, he is.”
“Was it Tim Healey who used to go up to High Garth to fodder the beasts in the shippon?” asked Macdonald.
“I couldn’t rightly say,” she replied. “I don’t have nought to do with the farm these days, it’s as much as I can do to manage the house single-handed. Now if you want to see the men, you’ll find them in the cottage down by the beck, that’s where they live, and Mrs. Walton—that’s Bob Walton’s wife—she does for them, cooks their meals and all. But you’ll find they was all about the place this afternoon, Inspector Bord, he’s asked them already.”
With a word of thanks, Macdonald took his leave and left the big farmhouse. He found the cottage by the beck, drummed on the door with his knuckles, and it was opened at once by a youngish dark fellow, tallish and lithe, less heavily built than most farm workers. The lamplight shone out on Macdonald and a cheerful voice said:
“Why, it’s Mr. Macdonald from Fellcock. I’ve seen you up there. And how’s the master? We heard he was in a poor way. Had a nasty tumble? And ’tisn’t the first time: he gets dizzy-like sometimes.”
“He’s safely in bed and they say he’s pulling round,” said Macdonald. “Has he had other falls?”
“Aye, that he has,” said another voice, a Lancashire voice this time. The first man was certainly an Irishman. “It’s true what Tim says, Mr. Brough gets dizzy-like, ever since the time he fell off the oat stack, last back-end, he comes over dizzy and he’s tumbled more’n once.”
“That’s a bad sign, that is,” said a third man. “He should ha’ seen doctor and taken a holiday. I said to him, ‘The three of us, we can manage all t’ work here, up till hay time anyway. You have a holiday. Take the missis away to Blackpool,’ I said; ‘that’ll do you a right lot of good,’ but he wouldn’t listen, and he dared us to tell Mrs. Brough he’d had a tumble. ‘Don’t you name it,’ he said.”
“I wish I’d known,” said Macdonald. “I’d no idea he wasn’t well. Now will you tell me what you three chaps were doing this afternoon?”
“Spreading muck,” replied the second of the two speakers.
“Walton?” asked Macdonald.
“Aye, I’m Walton and this is Jack Metcalf. Drove the tractor, Jack did. Tim Healey here, he loaded the trailers in the yard, Jack drove and I went with him on the tractor. We tossed the muck out on the ten-acre—in heaps, you know the job, and later Tim came up with us on the last load and we was muck-spreading till six, when we came back here to tea. Muck-spreading, that’s a right heavy job. Mr. Brough, he ought to buy one o’ those muck spreaders. You can do the job in half the time.”
“Less than half,” put in Metcalf firmly. “Two men and a tractor with a muck spreader can do more in a half day than four men in a full day working by hand.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Macdonald. “Now Metcalf’s the tractor driver. Healey, you’re the stock man?”
“In a manner o’ speaking, but we all lends a hand at all the jobs here,” rejoined Tim.
“Was it you who used to go up to High Garth to fodder the beasts when Mr. Brough wintered stock in the shippon there?” asked Macdonald, and Healey replied:
“I did and all, and I tell you I was glad enough when the boss said it wasn’t worth his while, what with the time I took getting there and back. You try it, mister!” declared the Irishman. “Best part of an hour it do take, walking up there, and it’s steep and all. Rough ground ’tis, too. You should know, mister. The land falls away from Fellcock the same it falls from High Garth, and that’s a real tug, getting up there from the valley here. The boss, he’d given it best a long time.
