I nodded. ‘What are his chances?’ I asked.
Grierson shook his head. ‘Not good. But I’ll be able to tell better when I’ve had a closer look at him.’
So I was talking to Dave Goosan who was a policeman. The last time I had met him he was a detective sergeant; now he was a detective inspector. I went to school with his young brother, Harry, who was also in the force. Police work was the Goosans’ family business.
‘This is bad, Jemmy,’ he said. ‘It’s too much for me. They’re sending over a superintendent from Newton Abbot. I haven’t the rank to handle a murder case.’
I stared at him. ‘Who has been murdered?’
He flung out his arm to indicate the farmyard, then became confused. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to say your brother had murdered anyone. But there’s been a killing, anyway.’
We were in the living-room and through the window I could see the activity in the yard. The body was still there, though covered with a plastic sheet. There were a dozen coppers, some in plain clothes and others in uniform, a few seemed to be doing nothing but chat, but the others were giving the yard a thorough going over.
I said, ‘Who was he, Dave?’
‘We don’t know.’ He frowned. ‘Now, tell me the story all over again—right from the beginning. We’ve got to get this right, Jemmy, or the super will blow hell out of me. This is the first killing I’ve worked on.’ He looked worried.
So I told my story again, how I had come to the farm, found the dead man and then Bob. When I had finished Dave said, ‘You just rolled the body over—no more than that?’
‘I thought it was Bob,’ I said. The build was the same and so was the haircut.’
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ said Dave. ‘He might be an American. His clothes are American, anyway. Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Nothing.’
He sighed. ‘Ah, well, we’ll find out all about him sooner or later. He was killed by a blast from a shotgun at close range. Grierson says he thinks the aorta was cut through—that’s why he bled like that. Your brother’s shotgun had both barrels fired.’
‘So Bob shot him,’ I said. ‘That doesn’t make it murder.’
‘Of course it doesn’t. We’ve reconstructed pretty well what happened and it seems to be a case of self defence. The man was a thief; we know that much.’
I looked up. ‘What did he steal?’
Dave jerked his head. ‘Come with me and I’ll show you. But just walk where I walk and don’t go straying about.’
I followed him out into the yard, keeping close to his heels as he made a circuitous approach to the wall of the kitchen. He stopped and said, ‘Have you ever seen that before?’
I looked to where he indicated and saw the tray that had always stood on the top shelf of the dresser in the kitchen ever since I can remember. My mother used to take it down and polish it once in a while, but it was only really used on highdays and feast days. At Christmas it used to be put in the middle of the dining-table and was heaped with fruit.
‘Do you mean to tell me he got killed trying to pinch a brass tray? That he nearly killed Bob because of that thing?’
I bent down to pick it up and Dave grabbed me hastily. ‘Don’t touch it.’ He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Maybe you wouldn’t know. That’s not brass, Jemmy; it’s gold!’
I gaped at him, then closed my mouth before the flies got in.
‘But it’s always been a brass tray,’ I said inanely.
‘So Bob thought,’ agreed Dave. ‘It happened this way. The museum in Totnes was putting on a special show of local bygones and Bob was asked if he’d lend the tray. I believe it’s been in the family for a long time.’
I nodded. ‘I can remember my grandfather telling me that
his
grandfather had mentioned it.’
‘Well, that’s going back a while. Anyway, Bob lent it to the museum and it was put on show with the other stuff. Then someone said it was gold, and by God, it was! The people at the museum got worried about it and asked Dave to take it back. It wasn’t insured, you see, and there was a flap on about it might be stolen. It had been reported in the papers complete with photographs, and any wide boy could open the Totnes museum with a hairpin.’
‘I didn’t see the newspaper reports.’
‘It didn’t make the national press,’ said Dave. ‘Just the local papers. Anyway, Bob took it back. Tell me, did he know you were coming down this weekend?’
I nodded. ‘I phoned him on Thursday. I’d worked out a scheme for the farm that I thought he might be interested in.’
‘That might explain it. This discovery only happened about ten days ago. He might have wanted to surprise you with it.’
I looked down at the tray. ‘He did,’ I said bitterly.
‘It must be very valuable just for the gold in it,’ said Dave. ‘Well worth the attention of a thief. And the experts say there’s something special about it to add to the value, but I’m no antiquarian so I can’t tell you what it is.’ He rubbed the back of his head. There’s one thing about all this that really worries me, though. Come and look at this—and don’t touch it.’
He led me across the yard to the other side of the body where a piece of opaque plastic cloth covered something lumpy on the ground. ‘This is what did the damage to your brother.’
He lifted the plastic and I saw a weapon—an antique horse pistol. ‘Who’d want to use a thing like that?’ I said.
‘Nasty, isn’t it?’
I bent down and looked closer and found I was wrong. It wasn’t a horse pistol but a shotgun with the barrels cut very short and the butt cut off to leave only the hand grip. Dave said, ‘What thief in his right mind would go on a job carrying a weapon like that? Just to be found in possession would send him inside for a year. Another thing—there were two of them.’
‘Guns?’
‘No—men. Two, at least. There was a car parked up the farm road. We found tracks in the mud and oil droppings. From what the weather’s been doing we know the car turned in the road after ten o’clock last night. Grierson reckons that this man was shot before midnight, so it’s a hundred quid to a pinch of snuff that the car and the man are connected. It can’t have driven itself away, so that brings another man into the picture.’
‘Or a woman,’ I said.
‘Could be,’ said Dave.
A thought struck me. ‘Where were the Edgecombes last night?’ Jack Edgecombe was Bob’s chief factotum on the farm, and his wife, Madge, did Bob’s housekeeping. They had a small flat in the farmhouse itself; all the other farm workers lived in their own cottages.
‘I checked on that,’ said Dave. ‘They’re over in Jersey on their annual holiday. Your brother was living by himself.’
A uniformed policeman came from the house. ‘Inspector, you’re wanted on the blower.’
Dave excused himself and went away, and I stood and watched what was going on. I wasn’t thinking much of anything; my mind was numbed and small, inconsequential thoughts chased round and round. Dave wasn’t away long and when he came back his face was serious. I knew what
he was going to say before he said it. ‘Bob’s dead,’ I said flatly.
He nodded gravely. ‘Ten minutes ago.’
‘For God’s sake!’ I said. ‘I wasted half an hour outside Honiton; it could have made all the difference.’
‘Don’t blame yourself, whatever you do. It would have made no difference at all, even if you had found him two hours earlier. He was too far gone.’ There was a sudden snap to his voice. ‘It’s a murder case now, Jemmy; and we’ve got a man to look for. We’ve found an abandoned car the other side of Newton Abbot. It may not be the right one, but a check on the tyres will tell us.’
‘Does Elizabeth Horton know of this yet?’
Dave frowned. ‘Who’s she?’
‘Bob’s fiancée.’
‘Oh, God! He was getting married, wasn’t he? No, she knows nothing yet.’
‘I’d better tell her,’ I said.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a farm to run now, and cows don’t milk themselves. Things can run down fast if there isn’t a firm hand on the reins. My advice is to get Jack Edgecombe back here. But don’t you worry about that; I’ll find out where he is and send a telegram.’
‘Thanks, Dave,’ I said. ‘But isn’t that over and above the call of duty?’
‘All part of the service,’ he said with an attempt at lightness. ‘We look after our own. I liked Bob very much, you know.’ He paused. ‘Who was his solicitor?’
‘Old Mount has handled the family affairs ever since I can remember.’
‘You’d better see him as soon as possible,’ advised Dave. ‘There’ll be a will and other legal stuff to be handled.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Look, if you’re here when the superintendent arrives you might be kept hanging around for hours. You’d better pop off now and do whatever you have
to. Ill give your statement to the super and if he wants to see you he can do it later. But do me a favour and phone in in a couple of hours to let us know where you are.’
As I drove into Totnes I looked at my watch and saw with astonishment that it was not yet nine o’clock. The day that ordinary people live was only just beginning, but I felt I’d lived a lifetime in the past three hours. I hadn’t really started to think properly, but somewhere deep inside me I felt the first stirring of rage tentatively growing beneath the grief. That a man could be shot to death in his own home with such a barbarous weapon was a monstrous, almost inconceivable, perversion of normal life. In the quiet Devon countryside a veil had been briefly twitched aside to reveal another world, a more primitive world in which sudden death was a shocking commonplace. I felt outraged that such a world should intrude on me and mine.
My meeting with Elizabeth was difficult. When I told her she became suddenly still and motionless with a frozen face. At first, I thought she was that type of Englishwoman to whom the exhibition of any emotion is the utmost in bad taste, but after five minutes she broke down in a paroxysm of tears and was led away by her mother. I felt very sorry for her. Both she and Bob were late starters in the Marriage Stakes and now the race had been scratched. I didn’t know her very well but enough to know that she would have made Bob a fine wife.
Mr Mount, of course, took it more calmly, death being part of the stock-in-trade, as it were, of a solicitor. But he was perturbed about the manner of death. Sudden death was no stranger to him, and if Bob had broken his neck chasing a fox that would have been in the tradition and
acceptable. This was different; this was the first murder in Totnes within living memory.
And so he was shaken but recovered himself rapidly, buttressing his cracking world with the firm assurance of the law. ‘There is, of course, a will,’ he said. ‘Your brother was having talks with me about the new will. You may—or may not—know that on marriage all previous wills are automatically voided, so there had to be a new will. However, we had not got to the point of signing, and so the previous existing will is the document we have to consider.’
His face creased into a thin, legal smile. ‘I don’t think there is any point in beating about the bush, Jemmy. Apart from one or two small bequests to members of the farm staff and personal friends, you are the sole beneficiary. Hay Tree Farm is yours now—or it will be on probate. There will, of course, be death duties, but farm land gets forty-five per cent relief on valuation.’ He made a note. ‘I must see your brother’s bank manager for details of his accounts.’
‘I can give you most of that,’ I said. ‘I was Bob’s accountant. In fact, I have all the information here. I was working on a suggested scheme for the farm—that’s why I came down this weekend.’
‘That will be very helpful,’ said Mount. He pondered. ‘I would say that the farm, on valuation, will prove to be worth something like £125,000. That is not counting live and dead stock, of course.’
My head jerked up. ‘My God! So much?’
He gave me an amused look. ‘When a farm has been in the same family for as long as yours the cash value of the land tends to be ignored—it ceases to be regarded as invested capital. Land values have greatly appreciated in recent years, Jemmy; and you have 500 acres of prime land on red soil. At auction it would fetch not less than £250 an acre. When you add the stock, taking into account the admirable dairy herd Bob built up and the amount of modernization
he has done, then I would say that the valuation for the purposes of probate will be not much less than £170,000.’
I accepted this incredible thing he was telling me. Mount was a country solicitor and knew as much about local farm values as any hard-eyed unillusioned farmer looking over his neighbour’s fields. He said, ‘If you sold it you would have a sizeable fortune, Jemmy.’
I shook my head. ‘I couldn’t sell it.’
He nodded understandingly. ‘No,’ he said reflectively. ‘I don’t suppose you could. It would be as though the Queen were to sell Buckingham Palace to a property developer. But what do you intend to do? Run it yourself?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said a little desperately. ‘I haven’t thought about it’
‘There’ll be time to think about it,’ he said consolingly. ‘One way would be to appoint a land agent. But your brother had a high opinion of Jack Edgecombe. You might do worse than make him farm manager; he can run the farming side, of which you know nothing—and you can operate the business side, of which
he
knows nothing. I don’t think it would be necessary to interrupt your present career.’
‘I’ll think about that,’ I said.
‘Tell me,’ said Mount. ‘You said you had a scheme for the farm. Could I ask what it is?’
I said, ‘The Government experimental farms have been using computers to work out maximum utilization of farm resources. Well, I have access to a computer and I put in all the data on Hay Tree Farm and programmed it to produce optimum profit.’
Mount smiled tolerantly. ‘Your farm has been well worked for four hundred years. I doubt if you could find a better way of working it than the ways that are traditional in this area.’
I had come across this attitude many times before and I thought I knew how to handle it. ‘Traditional ways
are
good
ways, but nobody would say they are perfect. If you take all the variables involved in even a smallish farm—the right mix of arable and pasture, what animals to keep, how many animals and when to keep them, what feedstuffs to plant and what to buy—if you take all those variables and put them in permutation and combination you come up with a matrix of several million choices.