THE LIBERTINES

Douglas Clark

Douglas Clark has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published in 1978 by Victor Gollancz Ltd.

This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

Table of Contents

Samuel Verity, farmer, of Ravendale Farm, Ravendale Bridge, Yorkshire, stood at the entrance to the big, black cowshed and peered into the gloom of the interior. Verity was fifty-seven years old, five feet ten, and heavily built. Anybody, anywhere in the country, would have recognised him as a farmer. The weatherbeaten cheeks, the strong, stubby, work-worn hands, the short greying hair and the fawn tweed suit all gave the immediate impression of a practical farmer and—judging by the well-fed look of him and the quality of his tweeds—of a successful, prosperous farmer.

“Are y’in there, Joss?”

“I’m here, mister Sam.”

Joss Hawk appeared at the entrance of one of the stalls. “Just fixing the last of these privvies,” he called. “I’ve given them all a fresh coat of limewash and there’s nowt to do but put up the bagging o’er t’doors.”

Verity walked in to inspect. The big cowshed was old, built in the days when there was nothing but hand-milking on the farm. Now there was a new shippon, built of concrete blocks with a corrugated asbestos roof, electric milking machines and a special sort of floor. This last, which was of metal grills set some inches above a concrete base, allowed dung and urine to percolate through, to be hosed away to tanks from which the slurry could then be taken for spraying on the land as fertiliser. But the old cowhouse remained: York stone walls, six feet high, topped by horizontal planks to the eaves. Verity kept it in good order; pitched outside and lime-washed inside, it was used as a machine store for fifty weeks of the year, and then for just two weeks in high summer—the last week in June and the first week in July each year—it was emptied of ploughs and harrows and turned into a lavatory and ablution block for the Libertines. Four of the former stalls were furnished with chemical toilets. The end wall carried a trough, made by the simple expedient of bending sheets of corrugated iron and nailing them up to run off into the corner drain. The wall opposite the stalls had a row of cold taps over a bench holding washing-up bowls. At the end of the bench was a large electric domestic wash boiler, with a pannikin for ladling. Hessian had been strung on wires at strategic points to give privacy to the toilets and urinal, while there were duck boards below the wash bench and small mirrors above it. All very spartan, but accepted with pleasure by the Libertines.

“Hurry it up, Joss. It’s after six. Time you were getting home to the wife and kids.”

“Kids, maybe. Not the wife. She’s over in’t barn with Becky Althorpe and t’missus, doin’ that up.”

Verity grunted to show he had heard what Joss had said and then paced round the cowshed like a sergeant-major taking a last look round ‘stables’ before the inspecting officer is due. “Make sure you’ve got plenty of sheep dip down that drain, Joss. Something to kill any smell.”

“Jeyes is best.”

“And you want to get a bigger light bulb.”

Joss, stringing the hessian curtain before the last lavatory stall, answered that he’d got a couple of 150 watts handy and he’d put them in later, when he’d got the step ladder.

Verity stood still and silent in the middle of the packed-earth floor, as hard as iron from decades of trampling by men and beasts, compacted down with urine and animal droppings into a surface that only a pneumatic drill could break.

“Who’s playing tomorrer?” asked Joss.

“Imps.”

“They’re good this season, I’m hearing.”

“Same as last year, but a twelvemonth older.”

“So’m your lot.”

“There’s a chance you’ll be wanted, Joss. I’ll let you know tomorrow at dinnertime.”

“Dinnertime? You reckon to start at eleven.”

“Not tomorrow. The Imps can’t make it. Two o’clock.”

“You’ll have a full team. If not, Mister Teddy’ll play.”

“You’ll maybe be wanted to umpire, though, Joss.”

“I’ll be there. Somebody who can’t make it by then?”

“Two or three of them doubtful till tomorrow night.”

“That’ll be Mister Gordon and Mister Huckle, I reckon.”

“They can’t get away until their maintenance engineers have made a report. Their workers on night shift don’t finish till six in the morning. It takes a few hours to get round all the static plant and make their minds up about what’s to be done while the works are closed.”

Joss had finished the last curtain and now went out to fetch the step ladder. Verity walked slowly to the shed door. He stood there looking about him and felt satisfaction with what he saw. The old farmhouse was still there, off to his right, as it always had been. Generations of Veritys had farmed here, but it had fallen to him to make the big changes. Where the midden had once been was now a hard standing for vehicles and tractors. Newish Dutch barns housed the ricks. The old barn, too beautiful and solid to demolish, still stood alongside the cowshed, separated from it by a lane a dozen or so feet wide, running down to a five-barred gate and into the orchard of old trees, interspersed with new plantings to retain the beauty while keeping up the yield. The Libertines would live in the barn for the next fortnight. They liked it, otherwise they wouldn’t come. A vast barn with lovely old arched beams and an upper floor for half its length. A flight of open steps ran up to this old bale loft where, by now, ten or twelve camp beds would be lined up as in a barrack room. Under the loft, from which hung a couple of heavy canvas rick sheets to ensure privacy, was another half dozen beds. The remainder of the floor was known as the mess. Down one side were trestle tables to take a score of people. Half way down the other side, another table served as a makeshift bar. In the corner to the left inside the door, in a stall, stood a bottle-gas cooker on which Mrs Hawk and Mrs Althorpe cooked for the Libertines.

Verity filled his pipe and Joss came back with the folding steps. As he passed his boss, Joss said: “I can hear summat’s coming.”

Verity nodded. He could have said exactly where the car was. It was, when first heard, on the lane in the bottoms between the small field with the poultry sheds and the bit of land his son Teddy called the Gaza strip—an inconvenient, narrow offshoot of the seven-acre pasture, which yielded good hay but was difficult to cut by tractor. To get there, the car had come off the main road and had turned south-west down the dale until the point where the track turned due south to cross the bridge over the stream—the Raven—that gave the dale its name. After that, the lane turned slightly west again and climbed the south side of the valley, half way up which was the farm itself. It was when cars made the south turn that they could be heard. They grew louder as they crossed the hump back—their engine notes seeming to crescendo in congruence with the shape of the bridge, then, as they revved to climb to the house, came a slight rise in engine note which, by some trick of acoustics, the valley magnified as if a skilled organist were manipulating some giant swell stop.

Verity listened. This one was powerful. A sports car. He guessed at Stephen Dunstable. Stephen liked fast cars. A young man with some of the—to Verity—modern drawbacks of attitude and behaviour, leavened, thank God, with some of the commonsense standards and a great deal of the character of his parents. Stephen had paid a deal of attention to Sarah, Verity’s daughter, during last year’s cricket fortnight, and since then, as he understood it, they had met whenever possible. Verity didn’t object to the friendship, but wished that Stephen, if he were intending to continue a close friendship with Sarah, would grow up just a little more.

The car, long and low and green, turned right off the track, swept past the front of the house and came to rest on the hard standing a yard or two away from Verity.

“Do we leave it here as usual, Mr Verity?”

“Back her up to the hedge when you’ve unloaded, Stephen. We may be a bit pushed for space.”

“Evening, Sam.”

The passenger door opened and William Dunstable, Stephen’s father, emerged and stretched his arms and legs as if pleased to be free from his cramped position. “We had to leave Dorothy a car and she didn’t want this spacecraft, so I had to come up with the boy. It’s like travelling in a jet propelled soapbox. You feel your backside is so near the ground you ought to be wearing steel-lined Y fronts.”

“How are you William?”

“How’s yourself, Sam?” The two men, of an age, shook hands.

“Can’t complain.”

Dunstable looked about him. “I’ll bet you can’t. It’s running out of your ears.”

“And I suppose solicitors are going bankrupt in their hundreds?”

William smiled and looked to see that Stephen was not within earshot. “I shouldn’t say it—wouldn’t say it in his hearing—but Stephen seems to be knuckling down a bit these days and I have to admit he’s an asset. These youngsters can’t recognise difficulties, Sam. They’re less inhibited than we were at that age. Venturesome enough to jump over pitfalls you and I would have treated warily at their time of life. He’s a tonic in the practice. My other two partners, incidentally, agree with me, so I hope you don’t think I’m banging the drum. I’m merely saying it to indicate we’re still afloat.”

“I’d never have said you’d blow the lad’s trumpet, William. And I’m pleased to hear he’s pulling his weight. So many of them don’t.”

“I’m not sure of my facts, Sam, but I seem to think your girl has been a good influence on him.”

“Sarah? Are they close enough for her to influence him?”

“As I said, I’m not sure of my facts. Just an impression.”

Verity grunted. The two old friends stood in companionable silence as Stephen offloaded the car. The last item to come out was an old-fashioned, brown canvas cricket bag.

“Still got it, William!”

“They make them of plastic these days. They don’t last like that one has. Not that I use it much.” He turned to his companion. “We’re too old for it now, Sam.”

“Not many of the originals left, William.”

“Four of us, is it?”

“Three this year. You, me and old Tom Middleton.”

“Ah, yes, Tom! He must be even more past it than us, Sam. I saw him—when would it be?—January or some such time—and he was so crippled he could hardly move. I thought he must have got arthritis, but he insisted he hadn’t and that whatever it was would wear off.”

“Actually it isn’t arthritis. It’s something to do with his arteries.”

“He’s told you what it is?”

“He wrote, saying he wouldn’t stay in the barn, but he’d like to bring a caravan if I didn’t mind. Said it would be more comfortable for him and he could bring his wife to look after him.”

“Look after him? He needs nursing?”

“Apparently not. He said something about his complaint coming and going.”

“Hardening of the arteries, you said? I’ve long suspected it. He’s an irascible old devil. Always was.”

“You reckon hardening of the arteries makes a chap bad tempered?”

“I’m no doctor, but I always associate it with having a hobnailed liver, and that makes a chap peevish I believe. Don’t you remember, when we were in the army, he was always bad-tempered with his men? It’s always been a mystery to me why, when we first discussed forming the Libertines, just after the war ended, we invited him to join us.”

“We didn’t. He was there, in the mess, and he played for the Division that summer. He knew what was going on and he invited himself. He’s pulled his weight since, too.”

“I know. But there wasn’t one of us original members didn’t have a run-in with him at some time, and when we started getting younger men in, they became even more outspoken about his attitude than we were. I can never remember calling him ‘a pompous old git’ no matter what I felt about him, but young Gardner did last year—and with some justification to my way of thinking.”

“Well, he won’t be playing this year, and if he lives in his caravan we might avoid any unpleasantness.”

“Let’s hope so. But what’s he coming for if he’s not going to play?”

Verity shrugged. “He said he could score or stand as umpire perhaps. Anyway, he’s bringing his usual contribution. We’re getting all the booze from him—except beer—at wholesale rates and he does furnish the bar for us.”

“I should hope so. I suspect that the only reason we’ve tolerated him all these years is because he’s a wine-shipper and can produce the goods on demand.”

“He was also a useful bowler, William.”

“True. Fiery, for about four overs. Then he got tired, and if the skipper took him off because he’d slowed down he got the sulks.”

Verity smiled. “You don’t like him, William.”

“And I’m not the only one. The young abominate him.”

Verity didn’t reply because Stephen Dunstable came from the barn towards them. “You’re down below, Dad. I’ve put your gear near the corner bed. Old’uns are given the privilege of not having to climb the stairs, Joss says. Blokes like me are on the shelf.”

“At least somebody has some consideration for age.”

Stephen didn’t reply to his father. Instead he turned to Verity. “Would it be in order for me to call at the house, sir? That’s if Sarah is there?”

“She’s there. No doubt she’ll be expecting you, since she couldn’t have missed your arrival in that . . . that . . .”

“It’s a Lotus Elite, sir, if you’re not familiar with the brand.” He grinned at his father. “Bought with the illegal transfer of certain monies paid without benefit of gains tax in respect of some small success I had in certain law exams.”

“It’s the firm’s car,” protested Dunstable senior, “and the tax man gets his unjustifiable cut.”

“At a rate which means I’ll start to earn pocket-money in the year 2000,” explained Stephen to Verity. “Now, with your permission, sir . . .” He went off at a half run towards the house. They saw him wave as he went, which presumably meant that Sarah had seen him from the window. He didn’t bother to use the gate, but took the low wall in a leap.

“If he’s landed on my carnations,” growled Sam, “I’ll spifflicate him.”

“Youth!” groaned Dunstable. “We spent too much of ours in hairy battledress and ammunition boots ever to do that sort of thing, Sam. I reckon we lost out.”

“No,” said Sam. “If it hadn’t been for the war, I’d never have met Sally and you’d never have met Dorothy, then there’d have been no Sarah and Stephen—not as we know them. And as like as not you and I would never have met and there’d be no Libertines.”

William said: “Do I take it from your discourse on philosophy that you are not unhappy about Stephen knowing Sarah?”

“Knowing?”

“I didn’t mean in the biblical sense.”

“I know that, William. But knowing? That leap . . . it seemed to me he was in a mighty rush to get to somebody he just knows.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“It’s up to them, William. We’ll have no say in it, even if we want to.”

“But you don’t have to like it.”

“I’m content, if you are. No lad is good enough for her. But that’s a father’s view. If she wants Stephen and he wants her, I’ll think I’ve been as lucky as a father can get.”

“That’s handsome of you, Sam. I need hardly say that I’m very happy and Dorothy’s prepared to be overjoyed at the prospect.”

“Nothing’s settled. We’re speculating.”

“Reading signs, you mean.”

Verity grunted. “Come in and have one before anybody else comes. The women have laid on a cold supper in the barn so you can have it when you like.”

“Thanks. I’d like to say hello to Sally. How is she?”

“As bonny as ever. Put on a bit of weight, perhaps, but it’s happiness fat. We’ve been lucky, William.”

William Dunstable was standing with Sally Verity in the wide window of the farm’s sitting room. It was a well-to-do room. There was nothing ultra-modern or garish about it, but every item in it was of good quality and—to Dunstable’s eyes—as tasteful as anything he had met, and he was accustomed to visiting many homes professionally. He could have guessed—had he taken the trouble to do so—that the chintz covers on the five armchairs and the three-seater settee would alone have cost a king’s ransom. But the price meant nothing. It was the choice of colour—delphiniums and roses on an off-white background—that mattered, after one had taken note of the fact that the chairs were big and down-cushioned for comfort. One could feel the carpet through the shoe leather, if one’s senses were not more attracted by the wink of silver and cut glass. And yet it was a family sitting room. A lived-in room that announced it was happy to see you as you went in, because it liked company. At his corner wine cupboard, Sam Verity was pouring drinks.

“Gin, William?”

“Please.”

“You take it with tonic, don’t you? Mustn’t get you mixed up with old Tom Middleton. He drinks pink—exclusively. I once gave him one with tonic and he poured it away.”

“He’s an old boor,” said Sally, accepting her sherry. “But I’d have thought, being a wine-shipper, that he would have drunk wine.”

“Oh, come now,” said Dunstable, “we all drink wine with meals. Tom does. But you can’t expect him to drink nothing but wine. You might as well suggest a baker should eat nothing but bread. He’s got a favourite tipple and—again like most of us—he sticks to it.”

“Exclusively,” said Sam.

“But surely,” his wife objected, “he gets lots of free samples or testers or whatever they’re called. Enough to keep him in drink for ever.”

“Darling,” replied Sam, “you don’t know Tom. He keeps those samples and brings them here for the Libertines’ fortnight and sells them to us at wholesale prices, making out he’s doing us a great favour.”

“That doesn’t surprise me because, in spite of what you say, Sam, you know only too well that I do know something of Tom Middleton. I have cause to.”

Dunstable looked across at her. It was the first time he’d ever heard a bitter word cross Sally Verity’s lips.

“Oh? Has he given you some trouble?”

“Nothing. Nothing to worry about,” said Sam hastily.

“I worried about it,” said Sally, “and I think William ought to know. After all it concerns him—or Stephen, rather—and I remember that when you heard about it you said you’d break his neck if he hadn’t been gone by then.”

“Hadn’t you better tell me?” asked Dunstable quietly.

“If Sam won’t, I will,” declared Sally. “Last year, when you were all going home, Tom Middleton came in here with the excuse that he wanted to say goodbye to me. He never had done in previous years, so I thought it a bit strange until I realised why he had really come.”

“What was his reason?”

“To warn me to keep a motherly eye on Sarah because he said she and Stephen had been—as he put it—misbehaving at nights in the copse. He’d seen them, he said, when out for a late night breath of fresh air.”

Dunstable put his glass down with exaggerated care. “I see. That must have been . . . very disturbing for you.”

“Forget it,” growled Sam.

“No,” said his wife, “I won’t forget it. And it’s no use you pretending, Sam. You’re still as angry about it as I am.”

“What did you say?” asked Dunstable quietly.

“I told him I didn’t believe him. Oh, I know all sorts of things go on with youngsters these days, but apart from the fact that I don’t think Sarah would . . . what I mean is, that she would never indulge in sex in the middle of a wood at night. I’m not putting this very well, but what I really mean is that—were she to—she would do it aesthetically. It would have to be the right man and the right place and . . . oh, you must know what I mean.”

“I do,” said Dunstable quietly. “After you’d told him you didn’t believe him, what then?”

“I’m afraid I called him a dirty old peeping-tom and he left in a hurry.”

“Did you speak to Sarah?”

“Yes. She was quite open about it.”

“You mean she admitted it?”

“Denied it. But she said that if she wanted to sleep with Stephen, and he with her, they would do so, but they’d be quite frank about it. She said that Stephen and she had certainly walked and talked together in the woods on most evenings last year—body clutching was her way of describing it, so I took it to mean they had their arms round one another, and then she went on to laugh about how uncomfortable making love among a lot of old tree roots would be. I must say I was a bit amazed. I hadn’t realised she would treat the whole thing in quite such a . . . well, a modern way, I suppose. But there, I don’t expect any of us can really visualise our own children in this sort of situation. I know I can’t. But what I do know is that I can trust her word.”

“I’m glad. You told her so, I hope?”

“Oh, yes. But I must have looked a little doubtful or puzzled, because she put her arm round me and said that she was quite willing to have old Dr Michaelson examine her to prove she was still intact if it would set my mind at rest and if I set such store by her continued virginity.”

“Interfering old fool,” growled Sam, embarrassed.

“Stephen never mentioned it to me,” mused Dunstable.

“I’m sure he doesn’t know,” said Sally. “You’d gone home by then, and I’m sure Sarah wouldn’t think it important enough to mention it later.”

“Nevertheless, it makes me feel angry. The two kids may think nothing of it—though I’m sure Stephen would be up-in-arms on Sarah’s behalf—but for us, well, we’re older, and such accusations matter.”

“Let it rest,” growled Sam. “Best to keep the peace.”

“For the sake of your old cricket tour!” retorted his wife. “That mustn’t be disturbed.”

“Sam’s right, Sally. Not just for the sake of the cricket, but because there’s little we can do. Middleton came to see you privately. If we make anything of it, the story will spread and be embroidered, and that wouldn’t be nice for Sarah and it would involve Stephen in what I imagine would devolve into a vulgar punch-up. And I don’t want him knocking old Middleton’s head off—for a variety of reasons.”

“Quite right,” said Sam. “Have another drink.”

“Oh, you men!”

“Tell you what,” said Sam pacifically, taking his wife’s empty glass from her hand, “William and I will discuss it and see if we can’t come to some agreement over how to tell Tom Middleton—on the last day of the fortnight—that his presence here would be unwelcome in future years. How’s that?”

“I suppose so, but I’m surprised he has the neck to come here this year. He must know that I despise him and that I’ll have told you.”

“He’s gall enough for ten, that one. Now change the subject while I fill these up.”

“I haven’t seen Teddy about,” said Dunstable obediently.

“He went into Harrogate in the middle of the afternoon. There were one or two bits and pieces we needed, but he should be back by now. I can’t think what can be holding him up. It’s nearly supper time.”

“So it is. I must leave you to it and go over to the barn to see what Annie Hawk and Becky Althorpe have laid out for us.”

“Don’t hurry. Enjoy your drink first. There are only two more cars out there.”

“I wonder whose they are?”

Sam answered from across the room:

“The Golf is Philip Sudd’s and the Ford is—I think—Dave Collyer’s. Dave asked if he could bring a new man along—Frank Black. He’s an opening bat for some club side in Bedfordshire. In his middle twenties, I believe.”

“Is he a civil servant, too?”

“No. He’s a builder. His father enlarged a small firm the grandfather started. Now young Frank has added an academic touch. I think, from what Collyer said, that had times been different, young Black would have sent the business into the big league. As it is, it’s just holding its own.”

“That’s saying something these days. Building firms are going over like ninepins. Still, it’s nice to see some new young blood here, Sam. You and I can become spectators and doze in the sun.”

Sally laughed. “You’re not Methuselah, William.”

“I don’t feel old, I must admit, but years count on a cricket field, Sally. Why, I can’t even throw a ball now, let alone run for one.”

“Our average age,” said Sam joining them, “is something less than thirty-four years according to Francis Minter, and he should know, he’s skipper.”

“He’s also a statistician, so he should know to a day what the average age is. A good man, Francis. I’m very pleased we prevailed upon him to captain the side three years ago. There were one or two of the older ones who thought he was too young. But he’s done well.”

“Mind like a computer. He can get the best out of our permutations and combinations.”

“He’s a nice man,” agreed Sally. “And he can play cricket, too.”

“Only a Cambridge blue for the game,” drawled her husband. “Next door to county standard—would have been county standard if statistics hadn’t got in the way.”

“What I mean is he’s keen and he plays well but he never looks as if he was trying. He never loses his temper on the field, and he’s always as cool as a cucumber and as courteous as it’s possible for a man to be.”

“Aye! We’re lucky to have him.”

There was a moment’s silence, broken by Sally.

“Oh, look!” she exclaimed. “A caravan.”

“That’ll be Tom Middleton,” said her husband. “And his wife. You’ll have to say hello, Sally.”

“To her. But not to him. And in any case, what’s he brought her for? It has always been understood that the Libertines’ fortnight is strictly an all-male preserve. Even Sarah and I keep out of the way.”

“He’s not too fit, as I told you.”

“All the more reason for not coming. But . . .” she finished in mid-sentence.

“But what?”

“That’s Teddy’s car pulling the caravan.”

Her husband looked across at the lane. His view was somewhat obstructed by the hedge. “Same colour, anyway.”

“It’s Teddy’s. I saw it between the two oaks.”

“In that case, I wonder what’s happened?”

Stephen Dunstable and Sarah Verity were walking hand in hand along the row of a hedge above the farm buildings. The sun was still high and the evening warm. Gnats danced in clouds, presaging continued good weather. Other insects and a gladness of song birds made their music, and a herd of good-looking cows chewed silently. The two young people said little. There seemed no need to. They were together and that was the important thing.

They were a good-looking pair. Stephen, now twenty six, was tall and broad across the shoulders. His fair hair waved as if it would naturally be unruly, but had at last acceded to the rule of the comb wielded over many years. His companion was dark. By no means an elfin slip of a girl, she was so well-knit that she gave an impression of perfection—her hair just right, her face just right, her figure and her legs, to say nothing of the summery cotton frock and little sandals, all just right to illustrate an idyll.

At length——

“Are you sure you won’t come in to supper? Mummy and Daddy will be half expecting you.”

He smiled at her. “One of the rules of the Libertines’ meeting: ‘Thou shalt not trespass on Sam Verity’s house, nor accost his wife’ . . .”

“Nor chat-up his daughter?”

“The degree of chatting permitted will be up to the daughter—preferably at times when there are not a score or so cricketing types cavorting in the barn.”

“Meaning you want to talk to Mummy and Daddy before we go all official?”

“I’d like to. It’s an old-fashioned courtesy, but none the worse for that, and I can see no reason to deprive them of the opportunity to say whether they approve or not.”

“Will it matter?”

“In fact, probably not. But to me—yes. And it will to you, too, my sweet. No clouds on any horizons. That’s what I want for you and me.”

She squeezed his hand in agreement and then suddenly stopped still.

“What is it?”

“A caravan coming up the lane.”

“So there is. Whose will it be? Somebody wanting to camp in one of the farm fields?”

“No. Tom Middleton, the old prodnose.”

“While agreeing that old Tom is a pain in the neck, I’d like to know why the vehemence of tone from one so young, pure and lovely.”

She looked up at him.

“Because Tom Middleton doesn’t think I’m as pure as all that; nor you either.”

“Meaning I’m not pure or don’t think you are?”

“It’s not funny, darling. He told Mummy he’d seen you and me—as he put it—misbehaving in the copse last year. Meaning, I suppose, that we were enjoying some form of rural sexual gymnastics.”

Stephen stared at her hard. His colour had heightened.

“Are you sure he said so?”

She nodded.

“Mummy questioned me closely after you’d gone. I tried to make light of the denial because she was a bit worried, but I was livid.”

“I should think so. I’ll break the old bastard’s neck.”

“No, Stephen. Ignore it. We know it isn’t true, so why make an issue of it and broadcast it?”

“But what caused him to think that you and I were . . . you know . . . and then to tell your mother?”

“He must have seen us one night when you were kissing me. We were a bit clingy, I suppose.”

“Maybe, but nobody could mistake . . . hell, Sarah, I would be standing with my arms round you. You can see couples like that every night of the week on any dance floor.”

“It’s his dirty mind. We weren’t on a public dance floor. We were in a little private world of our own, so to him we were up to something we shouldn’t be.”

“I’d still like to . . .”

She put her fingers over his mouth.

“No you wouldn’t.”

“I could do it without making a scene! The man can’t be allowed to get away with it. And I’ll see he doesn’t.”

“Now you’re just being silly, and . . . oh, look! That’s Teddy’s car pulling the van.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. That means something has happened. We’d better get back and find out what it is.”

“I’ll bet it’s nothing that’ll cause friend Middleton to curtail his visit. That would be too much to hope for.”

“Park it there,” commanded Middleton, “and let the damned legs down before you unhook.”

Teddy Verity, a younger edition of his father, thick-set and powerful with a mop of wavy black hair, controlled his voice to reply.

“Look, Mr Middleton, I’ve told you you cannot put the van just here.”

“Nonsense, boy. I won’t be backed into the hedge. My wife will want the view over the dale. She won’t want a briar hedge blocking the light.”

“O.K. But it’s your funeral, Mr Middleton.”

“Do as Mr Verity says, Tom,” pleaded Vera Middleton. “I don’t mind being near the hedge.”

“I do.”

Middleton was rising sixty. His wife, a few years younger, was a small, thin woman. She seemed overwhelmed by her husband who was tall and cadaverous looking. She wore a beige linen frock, which seemed to be part of her overall faded colouring. Her hair, once fair, had now partially greyed to the same fawn colour as the dress. The face was anaemic and lacked any sign of liveliness. Middleton himself, his big nose overshadowing a thin mouth, seemed to scowl permanently. The eyebrows nearly met above the nose; only separated by a deep frown furrow.

“I do,” repeated Middleton. “Sam Verity’s got some damn fool notion that we should be tucked away out of sight for some reason of his own.”

“Only to ensure our privacy, Tom, I feel sure. My being here . . .”

“When I wrote and told him I proposed to bring a caravan and you—for health reasons—Sam Verity should have offered us a room in the house. Any decent man would have done.”

“Tom!”

“Watch it, Mr Middleton,” said Teddy forcefully. “My father takes people at their word. You said you were bringing a caravan.”

“He could have taken the hint.”

“He probably did. But it’s an unwritten law that the Libertines don’t use the house.”

“Rules are made to be broken. Now, boy, those legs!”

Teddy Verity did the work under the eye and hectoring instructions of Middleton. Having completed it he got into his own car and drove it past the front of the house and round the side to garage it. As he came out of the garage, his sister and Stephen Dunstable came over the stile from the home meadow.

“Hello.” The two young men exchanged greetings.

“You’re grumpy,” accused Sarah. “What’s happened to ruffle the usual sunny temper of Edward Verity today?”

“That old fool, Middleton.”

“I thought so. I saw you towing his caravan.”

Teddy nodded. “Just my luck. From about eight miles out. I was coming home from Harrogate when I saw this caravan pulled into a layby. As I was passing, Middleton flagged me down. Of course, I stopped. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a tow bar, you can tow us in.’”

“Just like that?” asked Stephen. “No explanations or pleases or thank yous?”

“Just like that,” affirmed Teddy. “I had a look at his bus. It was only the fan belt that had gone. I told him I’d call in at the garage in Ravendale Bridge and get them to send a fitter out with a new one, then he could get here under his own steam. But he wouldn’t have it. We had to unhook the caravan, let the legs down to hold it, then shove his car out of the way so that I could get in to pick up the caravan. I tell you, it was hard labour in this heat and took some time. I had to do most of it myself, of course. He’d have been away quicker if I’d sent the fitter out to him.”

“He probably mistrusts garages and the time they take to do anything.”

“Not Charley Soanes. He does all our work here at the farm and he’d have got up in the middle of his tea and gone out if I’d asked him to. I told Middleton, but he just snapped at me that he didn’t believe a word of it. So then I had to transfer the gear out of their car and into mine, and tow the insufferable old goat in.”

They walked from the garage round to the front of the house and lingered a moment. Teddy was urging Stephen to accede to Sarah’s invitation to supper when Middleton’s shout stopped the conversation.

“Boy! Here, you there! Boy! Young Verity!”

The three looked round as Middleton limped towards them.

“He means you, Teddy,” said Stephen quietly.

“Boy?” growled Teddy. “I’ll break the old bastard’s neck.”

“I’ll help you. You’ll know the best place to bury him.”

“Stop it you two,” hissed Sarah. “I don’t like you saying things like that.”

“Well . . .” began her brother.

“Boy!” shouted Middleton as he approached them. “You’ve put me down deliberately so that I can’t get water or electricity.”

Teddy waited for him to come up.

“I pointed out to you, Mr Middleton, that you had chosen the wrong spot. But you would have it. My father had suggested the place I pointed out to you, because from there your electric leads would reach the supply in the barn and you could have plugged in there. Then all you would have had to do was carry water the few yards from the ablutions.”

“I want to run my hose in as well.”

“You can’t have both, Mr Middleton. And I suggest the power is more important to have on tap than the water.”

“A fine provision you make for caravans on this farm!”

“We don’t allow caravans on the farm. Yours is the first.”

“You’ll have to move it.”

“If you want it moving,” retorted Teddy angrily, “move it yourself.”

“Teddy!” said Sarah sharply.

Her brother turned to her. “What the hell does he think I am? Boy!”

“Help him move it,” she said quietly.

“I’ll give you a hand,” added Stephen. “Come on, Teddy. You know how it’s done. I don’t.”

“The best place,” said Teddy through clenched teeth as Middleton limped away, “is in the dung tanks.”

“For his caravan?”

“No, you ass. For his body. You asked me where was the best place to bury him.”

The caravan had been moved. Stephen and Teddy were mopping the sweat from their brows when Middleton said from the door of the van: “There’s the drink to be carried in to the bar.”

The two young men grimaced. “You go off to supper,” said Stephen. “Your mother will be keeping the meal waiting. I’ll manage this.”

“Sure?”

“Yes. Tell Sarah I’ll see her later. I’ll have to wash and change before I eat. Say half past nine.”

“O.K. I say, you and Sarah are getting a bit thick these days, aren’t you? I mean, she’s friends with lots of blokes round about, and there’s one chap in particular I thought she was pretty keen on at one time.”

Before Stephen could reply, Middleton’s voice came from inside the caravan. “Come along there. What about these crates?”

“Oh, lord! Get away while the going’s good, Teddy. If I need a hand I’ll get hold of one of the others.”

Verity disappeared and Stephen carried a carton of a dozen of Scotch across to the mess. It was as he was putting it behind the bar table that a young man he had never met before came down the steps from the upper dormitory.

“Hello! I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Frank Black. David Collyer brought me along.”

“Stephen Dunstable.” They shook hands.

“Is Dave here?”

“Abluting before supper.”

“Good. I’ll be doing the same when I’ve got the booze in.”

“Can I help?”

“The more the merrier. It’s all in Tom Middleton’s caravan.”

They went out together.

“That’s two dozen Scotch, two dozen gin, and half a dozen vodka, so far,” said Middleton indicating the heap. “Who’s signing for it?”

“The barman I suppose.”

“Is this the barman?” asked Middleton nodding towards Black.

Black flushed, but didn’t reply. Stephen, scenting trouble, rapidly introduced the newcomer.

“Where is the barman then? And who is he anyway?”

“I expect it’s the same one you’ve had since you started. Nick Larter.”

“Not that old fool, still! Where is he?”

“Search me.” Stephen and Frank Black each picked up a case and turned towards the barn.

“I hope there aren’t many of you Libertines like the one you’ve just introduced me to.”

“He’s the one and only.”

“What about this barman he spoke about?”

“He’s not a Libertine. He’s a retired window cleaner from Ravendale Bridge. He’s been barman for the fortnight ever since it began. He served in the army with my old man and some of the other founder members. He’s not too fit these days, so he can’t carry on cleaning windows, but he welcomes the fortnight each year. I mean, as well as food and drink and the few quid he gets for his trouble, he enjoys being among it all. And he’s pretty efficient, seeing he isn’t a professional. He keeps the stocks and money straight, at any rate.”

They dumped the cases.

“We pay cash?”

“On the nail. They used to have a system of chits, but one year—when the prices jumped a lot—one or two expressed surprise at the size of their bills at the end. They paid up, of course, but for Nick Larter’s sake there was an audit. My old man, being a solicitor, conducted it and found no discrepancies, but it was decided there and then to prevent any unpleasantness in the future by paying cash. Nick puts up a price list, writ large in his own untutored hand, so’s you can see there’s no fiddling.”

“I suppose we’d better get the rest.”

“Eight dozen assorted glasses, two water jugs, four nut bowls, corkscrew and crown openers in there,” said Middleton, indicating a larger carton that would need both young men.

Stephen lifted one of the cardboard flaps.

“There’s a bottle of Angostura bitters here, too.”

“Half a bottle,” snapped Middleton. “Larter won’t sign for that. He know’s it’s for me. Nobody else drinks pink gin, so that bottle isn’t on the invoice.”

They carried the remaining cartons in.

“No beer?” queried Black. “No tonic? No ginger?”

“All that sort of stuff comes from the village. I expect that’s where Nick is now—checking it through. He’ll probably ring the farm when he’s ready and Sam Verity will send the Land Rover to pick it all up.”

“I hope it hurries up. I could do with a drink after my labours.”

“Stick your head under a tap, old boy. That’s what I’m going to do—literally. And then I’m coming in to eat. It’s damn near half past eight already.”

By nine o’clock there were ten of the Libertines tackling the cold supper. Middleton was eating in the caravan and the two Veritys in the farmhouse.

“Enough, just enough, for a team tomorrow,” said Francis Minter, slicing from a cold ham. “Thirteen here altogether, but Tom can’t play because of his leg. Teddy Verity claims he’s a working farmer and wants to make hay while the sun shines and only play cricket when it doesn’t. So that leaves eleven.”

“Sam and I weren’t counting on playing,” said the elder Dunstable. “We’re too long in the tooth.”

“Unless some more turn up,” replied Minter, “you’ll be pressed into service. Who’s still to come, besides Jim Gordon and Ron Huckle?”

“Robin Forth and Graham Cleaver,” said Dr Sudd. “They’re coming up together for the first week.”

“Stanley Lamb,” said Collyer. “He’s coming up by train. He wants me to pick him up at Harrogate at half past ten.”

“Tonight?”

Collyer nodded.

“What’s happened to his car?”

Collyer shrugged. “I don’t know. He rang me at the office a few days ago and asked me if I’d meet him. I said I would. Frank has offered to come in with me.”

“That’s fine. If all three turn up, we’ll be able to dispense with your services as a bat, William, and ask you to stand an end.”

Dunstable nodded and moved across to the bar to ask Larter, who had by now arrived to set up his shop, for a lager to go with the cold ham. While he was there, Black and Kenneth Gardner joined him. Gardner introduced Black to the older man, and they were in the middle of a discussion on the state of the building trade when, unnoticed, Tom Middleton joined them.

“My usual, barman. Pink gin. Three drops.”

“Right, Mr Middleton.”

Middleton turned to the group.

“Do you know Frank Black, Tom?” asked Dunstable.

“We’ve met. Bricklayer, aren’t you?”

Black flushed angrily. “Perhaps you’ll get it right sometime, Mr Middleton. First you called me the barman, now you call me a bricklayer. For the record, I’m a builder.”

“Same thing as a bricklayer, isn’t it?”

“Not quite. Any more than your warehousemen are wine-shippers.”

“What’s that?”

“I employ bricklayers. And very good bricklayers, too. But I’m a builder. A qualified one. Not a master artisan, though I can lay bricks, of course.”

“There’s a lot of modern taradiddle about tradesmen. They all give themselves fancy names these days.”

Dunstable, fearful of a flare-up, stepped between Black and Middleton. “Cut it out, Tom. Young Black is half an architect, he’s a surveyor, a quantity surveyor and half a dozen other things besides. Why try to rile him?”

“The trouble these days is that the truth seems to rile everybody,” snapped Middleton. He picked up his drink and started to move away.

“Twenty-five pee, Mr Middleton,” reminded Larter.

Middleton paid with a bad grace and moved off.

“That old boy will buy it one of these days,” said Gardner. “I had a run-in with him myself last year.”

“And the day isn’t far off,” added Black, “because if he makes one more crack at me . . .”

“Forget it,” counselled Dunstable. “I see you smoke a pipe, Frank. What particular weed do you favour?”

The talk was successfully steered towards the relative merits of various types of tobacco, and the three of them returned to finish supper.

Sarah Verity’s head nestled closely into Stephen Dunstable’s shoulder. Stephen Dunstable’s arm was round her waist. They strolled in silence.

She asked: “What are you thinking about?”

He started slightly. “Us.”

“You’re not.”

“How do you know?”

“I can tell. You’re tense and you’re brooding.”

“Clever girl.”

“Don’t patronise me, Stephen. It’s that man, Middleton.” She looked up at him. “Isn’t it?”

“You seem to have all the answers.”

“This one’s easy. Teddy came in seething about him at supper time.”

He squeezed her waist.

“Don’t try to humour me, Stephen. What’s happened?”

“After Teddy, Middleton had a go at the new chap, Black, and he wasn’t very courteous to me or about old Nick Larter. He’s putting people’s backs up on all sides. Your parents’ and your brother’s, dad’s and mine, Black’s and heaven knows how many more.”

“Mum’s and mine,” added Sarah.

“Don’t you see,” said Stephen, “that we’ve got off on the wrong foot with all this bad feeling about? At some time, somebody is going to dot old Middleton and then the fat’s going to be in the fire. He’s elderly and he’s not fit and if somebody does root him up the backside the least that’s going to happen is that he’s going to sue for assault. He’s that type.”

“And the worst?”

“It doesn’t bear thinking about, poppet. An angry blow could . . . well, it could finish him I should think.”

“Oh, no. He’s tough. He . . . Stephen, you really are worried about it.”

“Worried and angry,” he confessed.

She halted, turned towards him and put her arms around his neck. “Perhaps I can make you forget it,” she said, and rose on tiptoe to kiss him.

At Harrogate Station, Collyer and Black took Lamb’s bags while he handed over his ticket at the barrier.

“Where’s the car, Stanley?” asked Collyer.

“I haven’t got one,” replied Lamb. “Here, I’ll take that.”

“No, no. What’s up? Waiting for a new one which the great British motor industry can’t deliver?”

“No.”

There was something in the tone that made Collyer wary.

“I don’t want to pry, but . . .”

“It was the firm’s car, Dave.”

“Was?”

“Yes, was. You might as well know, I’ve been made redundant. I’m one of the great unemployed.”

“You? Since when?”

“Three and a half months ago.”

“Nothing in the offing?”

“Not immediately apparent. That’s why I thought I could come up here for the fortnight for a sort of cheap holiday and a bit of a change.”

“I suppose you need a change if you’re job hunting. It must be the most soul-searing activity of modern society.”

“Speaking from experience, I’d say you’re right.”

Black spoke for the first time. “Perhaps somebody in the Libertines could help. I’m new, so I don’t know much about them, but some of them run firms—prosperous ones probably—so they might be able to offer you something or at least give you some contacts.”

Lamb’s voice was bitter as he replied. “No thanks. You’d be surprised at the attitude of so-called friends and acquaintances when you approach them for a helping hand. I’ll keep this fortnight clean. No begging bowl. It will make it less embarrassing all round.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“I can see Stan’s point,” said Collyer, hurriedly. “Besides, nobody there—doctors, civil servants, lawyers and so forth—would have any use for his particular talents. He’s an advertising writer and creative man.”

“Oh, I see!”

As they arrived at the car, Black dumped the bag he was carrying while Collyer opened the boot. After a few seconds of silence, he said: “Look, I promise not to mention the subject again, if you want it kept quiet, but I always thought chaps like you could pick up commissions and work on your own.”

“Freelance?” Lamb asked derisively. “Don’t talk to me about freelance work. I’ve had some.”

Chapter Two

Francis Minter was eating a plate of home-cured bacon and fresh farm eggs. He was the first at the breakfast table and had chosen a place where the early morning sun coming through the open barn door fell on him. He enjoyed it as a cat will enjoy finding the sunny spot on a carpet on which to curl up to doze. He was slightly surprised at the fact that he alone was breakfasting at this time, as was Becky Althorpe who was standing at the stove, clucking impatiently over a pan of already fried bacon and with two eggs cracked into cups preparatory to frying.

“There seems to be nobody about, Becky, yet some of them were up before I was.”

“They’m swimmin’,” replied Becky disgustedly.

“Swimming? Where?”

“Down at Mister Sam’s new bathing pool. Mister Teddy’s really. He made ’un.”

“I didn’t know anything about it.”

“Then you’m blind, Mister Minter. It be just below the bridge. You can’t miss ’un lest you drive over with youm eyes shut.”

Minter accepted the rebuke without comment. He’d hoped for a newspaper, but obviously nobody had laid them on. In previous years they had always been delivered. As if divining his thoughts, Becky said: “That newspaper boy don’t come out as far as the farm now. Delivers in Ravendale Bridge only, near the shop. You’m have to pick ’em up yourself these days. Mister Sam, he bribes old Robb Sillet, the postman, to bring his up, but he doesn’t get ’un if there’s no post, like on Sundays. Somebody ’as to go down for ’un.”

“I see. I think we shall have to organise a daily ferry service.”

William Dunstable came through the rick covers that hid the lower dormitory from sight. “Did I hear somebody say there were no papers?”

“That’s right, William. Becky says the farm is too far out to be included in the newsboy’s round now.”

“Breakfast is never the same without a paper.”

“Try some of Sam’s home-cured and you’ll change your tune.”

“In that case, bacon and eggs, please Becky.”

“Coming, Mister Dunstable. There’s stewed apple first if you want it.”

“I’ll skip that, thank you.” William poured himself coffee and sat opposite Minter. “Got your team out for today, Francis?”

“I pinned it up on the door. Actually, it virtually picked itself. I hadn’t much to juggle with. You’ll take an end, won’t you William?”

“Ice-cream vendor’s coat? With pleasure. I suppose you’re looking on this one as a pipe-opener.”

Minter shook his head. “I’m playing to win.”

“But the team hasn’t played together yet this year.”

“No matter. Most of us have been playing regularly in club cricket of one sort or another for the past two months. Cricket isn’t like rugger or soccer. Training together isn’t so very necessary at our level. The main snag from my point of view as skipper is knowing who’s in and out of form at the moment.”

“Bowling?”

“Batting mainly. Bowling isn’t too difficult. It’s a limited overs match today. Forty each innings. No player to bowl more than eight overs. All that means as far as I’m concerned is that I’ve got to use at least five bowlers. But I can use ten if I want to, and I know I’ve got at least six of sorts, and probably seven if Frank Black can bowl as well as bat.”

“You’ll be a bit lopsided though. Only you and Philip for the slow stuff.”

“Right. But in this weather that pitch will be as dry as a bone. It won’t help any bowler. It’ll be like playing on a concrete net. No, there’s not much I can do about the bowling, but batting will present a problem. I’ve got a team of number fives, with no openers.”

“Limited overs cricket favours a looser style of batting, surely. Plodders will get you nowhere.”

“Maybe. But I like an anchor at one end, particularly at the beginning of an innings. It steadies things.”

Becky put the plate of bacon and eggs in front of Dunstable and emptied a napkin of toast onto a plate between the two men. “There y’are then. Get that beside you Mister Dunstable and you’ll not go far wrong.”

“Thank you, Becky.” Dunstable spoke again to Minter. “I’ve always said that the best feature of the Libertines’ fortnights—apart from the cricket—is Sam’s home-cured bacon, matched by his generosity in supplying it free of charge. I’ll bet old Tom Middleton’s missing his ration. I expect his missus is cooking a few thin bits from the local grocer.”

“Talking of Tom,” said Minter, “have you had a word with Stephen?”

“About Tom?”

“Yes.”

“About what in particular?”

“Last night,” said Minter quietly, so that Becky should not overhear, “there was a number of the youngsters discussing Tom. There were Stephen, Teddy Verity, Frank Black, Ken Gardner and Stan Lamb in the group. It was pretty late and Robin Forth and Graham Cleaver had arrived . . .”

“Forth and Cleaver were in the group?”

“Yes. They’d obviously stopped at some pub on the way here, because they sounded quite nicely thank you.”

“They’d been driving in that state?”

“Don’t get me wrong, William. They’d probably been adequately sober when they arrived and then had a pretty stiff one after arriving which sent them over the edge.”

“I don’t like it. I abhor drunkenness at any time. But I can’t see why Stephen should speak to me about it.”

“Not about the drink. About the attitude of the group. They were planning to let the legs of Tom’s van down.”

“Oh, lord! A practical joke?”

“A bit more than that. Some of them were suggesting it to pay him out.”

“I knew he’d created bad feeling.”

“I don’t know how much you think he’s created, but my guess is you don’t know half of it. Those young men were in earnest.”

“What—or who—stopped them?”

“Stephen and Teddy. They managed it by pointing out that Vera Middleton was in the van with her old man and they prevailed upon their friends not to put her in any danger.”

“So good sense prevailed! Thank heaven for that.”

“Thanks to Stephen and Teddy. But when the others went off to clean their teeth before bed, I heard Teddy say to Stephen: ‘We were talking about breaking the old bastard’s neck earlier tonight. It looks as if some of those others might beat us to it.’”

Dunstable sat quiet for a moment or two.

“Are you asking me to take seriously the possibility that my son is planning on being party to Middleton’s murder?”

Minter shook his head.

“Nothing like that. I told you Stephen and Teddy acted responsibly last night. But when two responsible young men—as opposed to chattering morons—state that they were discussing the breaking of someone’s neck . . . well, breaking a neck may only be a figure of speech, but it could suggest that there is some intention there to do him mischief, should the occasion arise and Mrs Middleton not be present.”

“I get the drift of your argument, Francis. But . . . mischief? What sort of mischief?”

“Practical joke? Perhaps nothing more than letting his tyres down. But I want to prevent even that. The fortnight would be ruined if that sort of thing started.”

Dunstable nodded his agreement.

“That’s why I wondered if Stephen had told you of any incident where Middleton could have put those two young men’s backs up?”

“He hasn’t told me of anything . . .”

“Ah! I said I didn’t think you knew all that the old buzzard had been up to.”

“. . . but I think I know what caused the trouble.”

“You do? Then could I ask you, William, please, to have a word with Stephen and to ask Sam to speak to Teddy.”

“I’ll do that.”

“And I’ll have a word with the others. We’ll have to nip any high jinks like that in the bud.”

“Assuredly.”

Sarah Verity was coming down the stairs of the farmhouse. She was clad in a little pink bikini and sandals, and carried a wrap over her arm.

“Hello, hello, hello! What’s all this then?”

Her brother, standing at the foot of the stairs, looking up at her, grinned. “Ten o’clock in the morning, and working-girls going swimming?”

Sarah stopped just above him to put on her wrap.

“It may have escaped your notice, but today is Saturday, and office workers, unlike farmers, do a five-day week.”

“Farm office workers? And here’s me having done four hours work already.”

“So have I.”

“You have?”

“Where do you think the mushrooms you had for breakfast came from?”

Teddy grinned. “I get it. You and Stephen even get up early to be together, do you? What was it? An early stroll in the dew through the bottom meadows, picking mushrooms when you happened to fall over them?”

Sarah knotted her girdle. “I’ve entered this morning’s yields in the book, opened the post and entered the invoices. There were only three letters. I’ll deal with those this afternoon.”

“Aren’t you going to the match? I see! Stephen hasn’t been picked.”

“He’s playing. But I’m driving Becky and Annie down with the tea at four. I’ll want the Rover.”

“Fine.”

“Are you coming for a dip, or are you working till lunchtime?”

“I’ve finished. But I’m not coming to play gooseberry with you and Stephen.”

His sister passed him. “Pity,” she said, “there’ll be others there.”

“And you’ll be the only girl? Looking like you do, Sis, you’ll be killed in the rush.”

“Oh no,” she said airily, “there’ll be two other girls.”

“Who?”

“I’ve invited somebody from a neighbouring farm and a friend who’s staying with her.”

Teddy stared at her for a moment, his face breaking into a wide grin.

“Hazel?” he asked eagerly.

His sister nodded.

“Yow hoo! Wait for me.” He bounded upstairs.

As he went, his sister called after him: “I thought the prospect of seeing Hazel in a bikini would change your mind. Two minutes! And don’t forget to bring a towel.”

Stephen had invited Frank Black to go with him to the pool—a gesture he felt he should make to assure the new member of the Libertines that he was thoroughly welcome and to level off the numbers in the party. As they waited—slacks and shirts over their swimming trunks—for Sarah who, in turn, was waiting for Teddy, Stanley Lamb came out of the barn.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

“Catch us up. We’re walking down to the pool.”

Hazel Brotherton and Anne Canham had arrived by the time Sarah and her four escorts reached the bridge. Lamb stopped and looked about him.

“It was dark when I arrived last night, so I didn’t see this, Teddy. But I must say I think you’ve had a brainwave here.”

The Raven was a small stream, barely eight feet wide, but it came down powerfully from the high moors and that was why, though there was a good flow of water, the surface was at least three feet below the meadows on either side. The little humpbacked bridge, made of local stone and—to judge by its appearance—as old as the surrounding hills, crossed at the point where the ground had levelled out in all directions. Upstream of the bridge was a simple, wide grill, to catch any large flotsam which might be swept down. Just downstream of the bridge was the new swimming pool. It had been made by the simple expedient of widening and deepening the river bed at this point. Downstream a sluice regulated the flow of water out of the pool. Over the sluice was another—new—small plank bridge to allow the traps to be operated and to give easy access from side to side of the pool where Teddy had laid simple lawns with a few bushes for shade and a couple of small sheds for changing and—more importantly—housing the mixed array of deck chairs he had gathered together.

“I’m interested in this,” said Black, as he and Teddy lay in the sun after their first session in the water. “As Lamb said, it was a brainwave, and as a builder I’d like to hear its history.”

“It has its roots in the great drought of last year,” said Teddy, lying back with his hands linked behind his head. “The farm relies on the Raven for water, you know—for stock and crops, that is, not for domestic use.”

“You mean you actually draw from the river bed?”

“Virtually. Not with buckets, of course. It is piped to feed a couple of ponds for stock and to fill tanks dotted about for irrigation.”

“Last year, I suppose, everything failed.”

“The river bed was virtually dry for several weeks. Never completely so, but I’ve never seen it so low. We were close to disaster, because domestic supplies were curtailed, too. The reservoirs were empty.”

“So what happened?”

“We were all going about wishing we had a supply other than the Raven. A supply that wouldn’t run away and belonging exclusively to us. My father was considering sinking trial bore holes to see if we could tap underground sources, and getting entangled with bureaucracy over the details of whether he would be endangering the water table and so forth. But for my part, I just wanted a dirty great tank of water to draw on. And one day it came to me. What if the drought should be repeated? Oughtn’t I to make provision? To build a tank? From there on it was a simple thought process to consider widening and deepening the river.”

“Build your own reservoir, in fact?”

“Disguised as a swimming pool. Nobody would object to a swimming pool, but they’d find some objection to a private reservoir. Then dad told me that he was obliged by law to maintain the banks of the Raven in what amounted to any way he saw fit as long as we prevented flooding and did not impede the flow, so we needed no sort of planning permission. At least we considered we didn’t, so we never applied for it. We went ahead.”

“But you do impede the flow.”

“Not at all. Now the pool is filled, as much flows out as flows in. The outflow will only fail if the stream fails. And if that were to happen, pool or no pool, the river bed would be dry.”

“I see. So you’ve dug it deep? Otherwise it would be of no use as a reservoir.”

“You’ve been in it, haven’t you?”

“Yes. On the surface.”

“It’s ten feet deep.”

Black sat up and looked down at Teddy. “You were able to get ten feet down alongside a stream and not hit water?”

Teddy grinned. “You’re forgetting the water table sank out of sight. It was dry as a bone all the way down. Mind, I was conscious of the need to work against the clock.”

“How did you go about it?”

“You’d really like to know?”

“In detail.”

“I flirted with disaster. We hired a mechanical shovel and deepened the river bed above the bridge. In other words, we dredged a dirty great hole about sixty yards long. As I told you, the stream was almost dried up, so what little water there was collected in this trench, and we drew from it for farm use to make sure it couldn’t overflow. Then we dug this pool. It’s ninety by sixty by fourteen—that’s allowing for the normal depth below the banks. It took a surprisingly short time. Two long days, in fact. About the farm we had a hell of a lot of rubble which we brought down here and used as hard core for the bottom. Then we put the bottom in—using ready mixed cement. We checker-boarded it, of course, and we were a bit worried about the heat drying it too quickly, but we managed it all inside a week. I wasn’t worried about the odd crack, actually, because once the water table rose again, there’d be no leakage from it. Then we put the walls up about two feet at a time all round. I know that sounds daft and probably runs contrary to all building laws, but I thought that once I got a box, however shallow, a sudden fall of rain wouldn’t worry us. We’d be able to contain it and work above it. I needn’t have bothered. No rain came till the end of August, by which time everything was dried out. We were able to move the spoil without getting a morass of mud, and we cut turves from one of the close-cropped meadows in September, once everything was greened-up again and would stand moving.”

Stanley Lamb had joined them.

“Is it completely finished yet?”

“Not quite. As a matter of fact I thought I’d finish it off tomorrow morning.”

“What exactly?”

“A finer grill behind the heavy one. I had to have the surface swept yesterday before you came. The one drawback seems to be the pockets of leaves and petals that the stream brings down. They get stranded in the corners of the pool. I thought if I got a fine mesh barrier put across the stream tomorrow, at least the pool would stay fairly clean for the fortnight you’re here.”

“What will it involve?” asked Lamb.

“Sinking a post in concrete on each bank and then stretching four or five thicknesses of fine chicken wire across.”

“Why so many thicknesses?”

“If the holes don’t coincide—if the layers are offset—the mesh will be much finer. It won’t go down to the bed of the stream, of course. We’ll leave room below for any fish to pass.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” offered Lamb.

“You will? Mixing cement by hand, you know. No motor mixer.”

Lamb shrugged. “The exercise will do me good.”

“What about the cricket?” asked Black.

“What about it?”

“If you wear yourself out mixing concrete all morning, you’ll be tired before tomorrow afternoon’s game begins.”

“By mixing enough to sink two posts? How much will there be, Teddy?”

“Not all that much. And we haven’t got to dig the holes. We’ve got an auger for that.”

“There you are,” declared Lamb.

Black shrugged. “As a professional builder I’ve never been able to understand the layman’s passion for mucking about with concrete.”

“All you’re worried about,” retorted Teddy with a grin, “is the fact that every time a layman decides to do a job himself it does you professionals out of a job for which you would charge him the earth.”

“And how!” said Black, with emphasis.

Lamb said: “What time in the morning, Teddy?”

“Insistent, isn’t he?” asked Black. “He doesn’t intend to miss his little treat.”

“Make it ten o’clock,” said Teddy. “It shouldn’t take the two of us more than an hour.”

“Ten o’clock where?”

“At the barn. I’ll have all the stuff we need in the trailer. We’ll bring it down with the Rover.”

“You’ve got a date.”

“And I’m hoping to make another one,” said Teddy getting to his feet. “So if you’ll excuse me . . .” He walked off to where Hazel Brotherton, having emerged from the water, had stretched out on a towel to sunbathe.

“Lucky devil,” said Lamb quietly, gazing after the young farmer. “He’s got it made.”

Black looked across at him. “Have a fag, chum. I know it looks like a rough old world from your point of view at the moment, but I’ll bet there isn’t one of us here without problems, including Teddy Verity.”

“What do you suggest is the best way to overcome problems?” asked Lamb, accepting the cigarette.

“God helps them who help themselves. In other words, do something about them. In your place I’d do something, pronto.”

“I intend to.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Don’t let the bastards grind you down. And if you’re so bloody keen on cement mixing, even I’ll give you a job—a lowly one, but a job—if all else fails.”

“Thanks.”

Saturday lunch was to be early. Minter had asked for it to be served at 12.30 p.m. because the game started at two o’clock and he believed in doing things calmly, with plenty of time to spare.

The bar in the barn opened at noon. Nick Larter sported a starched white jacket and an ancient ready-made black bow, greening slightly with age and showing the interior stitching as glossy lines through being ironed without a damp cloth. For the most part he was selling bottled beer from an ice box behind his table. The bathing party had broken up shortly before. Lamb, the odd man out, had returned to the barn ahead of the others, leaving the three couples to their own devices. But by midday Stephen Dunstable and Frank Black had left Teddy and Sarah to entertain their two guests in the farmhouse and had, themselves, joined the players in the barn.

At about ten past twelve Tom Middleton came through the open door. The crowd was thickest round the bar, and Tom Middleton made straight for it, singling out William Dunstable as his objective. Dunstable was chatting to his son and Frank Black. He was fulfilling his promise to Minter and, in a friendly way, urging the young men to keep the peace and, by so doing, preserve the equilibrium of the fortnight.

“William,” said Middleton, without waiting for a break in the conversation, “I trust you are telling these people that we shall not tolerate their disgusting behaviour.”

Dunstable was taken aback. Minter had not warned him that Middleton knew of the proposed attack on his caravan the previous night. But Tom’s words seemed to suggest that he had got wind of it. In accordance with the advice he had just been giving the two young men he thought—much as he deplored Middleton’s intemperate language—that his best move was to attempt to placate the older man.

“As a matter of fact, Tom, I was doing just that, though my warning was more in the nature of a plea for reasonable behaviour rather than a castigation.”

“Soft soap, you mean! Ah, well, at any rate you are doing something about it, which is more than most parents do these days. And Sam Verity should do the same. His two were implicated as much as any of them.”

“Two?”

“Yes. That girl of his, lying out there nearly naked with those other two young women and these men cavorting round them. Disgusting! It’s got to stop.”

“Here, wait a minute!” said Stephen angrily. “You talk about Sarah like that, and I’ll . . .”

“Hold it,” commanded William. “What disgusting behaviour are you referring to, Tom?”

“Those people down by the swimming pool in wispy bathing costumes. My wife and I were out for a walk and saw them. Disgusting goings on.”

Black started to expostulate, but Dunstable silenced him in turn. “What were you doing?” he asked the two young men.

“Swimming and sunbathing,” said Stephen angrily. “Seven of us, in the open, and all behaving perfectly properly. This is the second time this dirty-minded old swine . . .”

“Stephen!” His father’s commanding tone stopped the outburst, but it drew the attention of the other drinkers. Dunstable then addressed Middleton, with everybody in the barn listening. “Let me give you a word of advice, Tom. You are getting old beyond your years and too crotchety by half. You are censorious of the young where there is no room for censure, and by being so are giving rise to a powerful surge of animosity which will not only destroy you personally, but the Libertines as a whole. I would ask you for your own sake to stop carping and criticising and on behalf of everybody here I hope you will see fit to accept the fact that youth must be served.”

“Rubbish!” snorted Middleton. “You’re like the rest of ’em, William. Youth must be served! An excuse for licence and bad behaviour! If that’s the sort of advice you hand out professionally, I’m pleased I’m not one of your clients.”

There was an embarrassed silence as Middleton turned from glaring at Dunstable and stepped towards the bar.

“My usual,” he demanded.

Larter, who had been standing, glass cloth in hand, listening to the confrontation, jerked into action. “Yes, Mr Middleton. Pink gin, three drops.”

Middleton grunted a bad-tempered acknowledgement, and turned away to gaze out of the open door of the barn as Nick hastened to shake three drops of bitters into a glass. It was while he was swirling the glass that Dr Sudd leaned across, picked up a bottle of beer and the bottle opener and said quietly, “I’ll help myself as you’re busy, Nick.”

“No, doctor, I’ll do it.” Larter put Middleton’s glass down and took the beer and the opener from Sudd’s hands. In his haste, he only half removed the crown top at the first wrench. His hand slipped and the crenellated edge of the metal top made a slight gash on his forefinger.

“You’ve cut yourself,” said Sudd.

“It’s nothing, doctor.” Larter poured the beer.

“What about my drink?” demanded Middleton.

“Coming up, sir.” Larter took hold of the glass and slung the excess bitters.

“I’ll put a plaster on that cut for you,” said Sudd.

“Thanks, doctor. It’s not very big, but it does sting something chronic. I expect it’s jagged.”

“My drink,” prompted Middleton.

Larter measured gin into the glass and handed it, together with the water jug, across the table to Middleton. “That’ll be twenty-three pence, sir.”

“I wanted a double.”

“You didn’t ask for . . . a double,” said Larter faintly.

“Here, stop arguing,” Sudd commanded Middleton. “Can’t you see he’s not well?”

Larter was holding on to the table, his face pale, and his brow covered in perspiration.

“Hang on,” said Sudd, rounding the table to join him. “Here, somebody, give me a hand, old Nick’s not too good.”

Middleton splashed water into the gin, put his money on the table and stepped back as Collyer pushed past to help Sudd.

“Lower him gently,” said Sudd, as Larter collapsed in his arms. “And get that damned tie off him.”

“What’s wrong?” asked somebody.

“Old Nick’s fainted.”

“Use a soda-syphon on him,” suggested somebody.

“He cut his finger on a crown top. Probably can’t stand the sight of blood.”

“Least of all his own.”

The conversation went on as Sudd busied himself with Larter. It came to a sudden halt when he straightened up and said across the bar: “Will somebody go to the farmhouse and ask Sam to call Nick’s own doctor.”

“He’s as bad as that?” asked Dunstable as his son went off at a trot towards the Verity’s front door.

“He’s dead,” said Sudd quietly.

There was a moment’s silence. Then—

“Dead? What’s happened? Heart attack?”

They waited for Sudd to reply.

“I don’t know. I expect there were predisposing causes. We shall have to wait for his own G.P. to tell us. Meanwhile, I think we should carry him into the lower dormitory. There’s a spare camp bed in there. If another two of you would give David and myself a hand. . . .”

In silence the body was carried through the tarpaulin drapes and a few moments later the four men returned.

“What now?” asked Minter. “Do we cancel the match? Out of respect?”

“The best plan,” said Sudd, “is to carry on as if nothing had happened. There is no point in disrupting the arrangements of a score of people here, to say nothing of the opposing team. I’m of the opinion this could have happened at any time.” He shrugged. “It’s just one of those unfortunate things. My advice is to carry on.”

“Thank you, Philip,” said Minter. He turned to Dunstable. “What about it, William?”

“I agree with the doctor. It’s sudden death, and the coroner may have to be informed. We’ll leave that to the local man. Meanwhile, I suggest we do just what Philip advises. And . . .” he turned to Lamb, standing close by, “. . . if I remember correctly, Stan, you have been our stand-in behind the bar in the past. Would you mind carrying on now?”

Lamb looked pale and a trifle uneasy at the prospect, but he agreed readily enough, and went behind the bar table where he started to straighten things out. Though all had agreed to carry on normally, he had no customers. He simply busied himself with collecting Middleton’s money from the table, putting empty glasses into the bowl of water standing on an upturned beer crate and generally tidying up the serving area.

Middleton, close to Dunstable, said: “This drink is filthy. He put too much bitters in it.”

“For heaven’s sake, Tom! The man is dead.”

“I merely passed a remark.”

“In remarkably bad taste.”

“Besides,” said Sudd who had overheard this conversation, “he put in the three drops you asked for.”

“He didn’t sling it then.”

“Of course he did. I saw him. Besides, look at the colour. It’s not deep red, as it would be if there were too much Angostura.”

“It’s because you usually have that much in a double, Tom,” said Dunstable pacifically. “You only added half the water because Nick gave you a single. I suppose it tastes a bit strong on the pink because of that.”

Middleton appeared to accept this explanation. He grunted and lifted his glass, draining what was left in it. “I’ll get over to the van. Vera will have lunch ready by now. I’ll be at the game this afternoon.”

“You’ve got your car back, I see.”

“Yes. Disgraceful the cost of a minor repair these days.” He turned and left without a word of farewell.

“Everything is disgraceful according to him,” said Sudd. “Behaviour, garage bills, even his drink. . . .”

“I noticed he finished it though,” said William. “Now, what about a bite to eat. There’s an excellent looking salad there.”

“Not for the moment, William. I’ll wait for Nick’s G.P. You go ahead. I’ll join in later.”

“You’ve heard he’s on his way?”

“Yes. Stephen came back a few minutes ago and said he was setting out immediately. A man called Sharpe, he said.”

“Do you think I could close the bar now, Mr Dunstable?” asked Lamb.

“I don’t see why not, Stan. You’re doing no trade. We’ll have to see if Sam Verity can find a substitute for Nick.”

“I’ll carry on until he does. It’ll be no sweat.”

“Thank you, Stanley. We appreciate your gesture.”

Dr Sharpe was an upright, elderly man, with a good head of white hair and a weatherbeaten face, much the same as Sam Verity’s, and gave the impression that he had practised in these Yorkshire dales in all weathers for many years. Despite the heat, he wore fawn tweeds, and he drove a rather battered Range Rover which looked to be the most reliable vehicle on earth in its scruffy condition, but which would have looked considerably less reliable had it been polished up. Philip Sudd was waiting at the door of the barn, but as the Rover pulled up, Sam Verity came from the farmhouse.

“Good day to you, Eric.”

“Good day, Sam. Where’s old Nick?” Sharpe got out of the car, with his bag.

“In the barn. There’s a doctor here with the Libertines. He said Nick died quite suddenly. Inside three or four minutes of being apparently quite fit.”

“Quite fit? Nick hasn’t been quite fit for years.”

“Hasn’t he? I knew he was not a hundred per cent, of course, but we wouldn’t have asked him to work if we’d known he was that ill.”

“Don’t go blaming yourself, Sam. Doing a bit of something to keep him occupied was the best thing for him. The work didn’t kill him. He could have gone at any time.”

“That’s all right, then. Come and meet Dr Philip Sudd.”

They walked across to the barn door and Verity introduced the two doctors.

“Quick, was it?” asked Sharpe.

“About three minutes. We managed to lower him to the ground before he collapsed. But there was nothing to be done. I tried heart massage. Not a flicker.”

Sharpe nodded. “There wouldn’t be. I’ve been half-expecting this for years. Thrombo-angiitis obliterans.”

“What’s that?” asked Sam.

“Commonly known as Buerger’s Disease.”

“I’m as wise as ever.”

“It’s a condition which is almost confined to males. It starts about the age of forty and progresses. The blood vessels get blocked.”

“Serious, then?”

“More so in some people than others. Nick hasn’t done too badly because in his case the disease was only slowly progressive and he did have quite prolonged remissions. However, with Buerger’s, the possibility of vascular accident is always there.”

Seeing Verity had been stumped by the reference to vascular accidents, Philip Sudd said: “Coronary thrombosis or cerebral thrombosis. Both can be killers, as you know.”

“And if the victim is lucky,” added Sharpe, “it can be quick. It seems Nick was lucky.” He turned to Sudd. “Now, doctor, if I could see him . . .”

Sudd nodded and led the way. The Libertines were at lunch. Subdued by events, there was little talking and as the two doctors and Verity walked the length of the table, all the eyes of those facing them followed their progress. Those with their backs to the trio studiously refrained from turning to watch them go.

It was dim and cool in the lower dormitory. Sam switched on the light, to enable Sharpe to examine the corpse.

“There is just one thing I think I should mention,” said Sudd as his colleague straightened up.

“Oh yes, what’s that?” asked Sharpe, snapping open his case and taking a pad of official forms from one of the compartments in the lid.

“Immediately before he died—while he was still apparently as right as rain—he was opening a bottle of beer for me. The opener slipped and he snagged his right forefinger on the serrated edge of the crown top.”

“I saw it. It’s less than half an inch long and quite superficial. Nothing serious.”

“Quite.”

“I get your point. You were wondering whether so slight a wound, though not serious in itself, could have triggered off the collapse.”

“I wanted you to have all the facts.”

“Thank you. You were right to mention it, but I imagine there was obstruction by the time he got the cut. I’d say the fact that he fumbled when opening the bottle could possibly have been due to the fact that the clot was already obliterative or beginning to be so. I’ve been treating him for Buerger’s for a good many years, and I shall have no hesitation in issuing a certificate. Coronary thrombosis consequent upon prolonged thrombo-angiitis obliterans. It sounds impressive, but it doesn’t alter the fact that he was killed by a bloody clot.”

“Shall you inform the coroner?” asked Sudd.

“Yes. But not because I’m not satisfied as to the cause of death. Merely because he died in Sam’s barn instead of in bed. I make a point of informing officialdom in such cases—out of courtesy as much as anything else—but he’s been under my continuous care for so long there’s no need for an inquest or post mortem.”

Philip Sudd made no comment.

“Don’t you agree?” asked Sharpe. “You were there when he died. A man with long-established Buerger’s Disease is fit one minute and collapses the next. Nobody strikes him, he eats nothing, he drinks nothing. What would your finding be?”

“The same as yours, doctor. I’m not questioning your diagnosis.”

“What then?”

“I’ve never before been on the spot when a patient has died from Buerger’s. What surprised me was he seemed to be in no pain either before he collapsed or when I was attending to him on the floor.”

“It was such a short time and he was so far gone it probably didn’t manifest itself. Again, you could have missed a spasm as you were lowering him.”

Sudd nodded.

“Completely satisfied?”

Again Sudd nodded and Sharpe began to fill in the certificate.

Chapter Three

The Libertines left the farm, more or less in a body, shortly before half past one. Philip Sudd stayed behind to await the ambulance which Sharpe had agreed to arrange. William Dunstable, forswearing his son’s sports car, rode with Francis Minter.

The journey was between two and a half and three miles from the farm buildings to the Ravendale Bridge ground: three quarters of a mile of it on Verity’s land before reaching the main road.

“Not an auspicious start,” said Minter as they pulled away.

“The game will help people to forget it. The sense of shock lessened appreciably, I seemed to notice, as soon as Philip told us that Nick’s collapse came as no surprise to his own doctor and could have happened at any time.”

Minter turned on to the lane for the run down to the bridge and the swimming pool. “You think a sense of guilt was lifted?”

“Not guilt. Responsibility perhaps. A sneaking suspicion that we may have contributed to the tragedy simply by employing Nick.”

“I confess I felt that. He hadn’t any lifting to do but he was quite busy—rushing to get the drinks supplied and to keep no one waiting.”

“He always told me he enjoyed it. Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I see no reason to disbelieve him.”

“Meaning he died happy?”

“I think so. And he welcomed the chance to earn a few pounds. Speaking of which, Francis, could I suggest we pay the money he would have earned to his daughter. It would be a gesture.”

“I’m sure we can do that. It may help to defray the funeral expenses.”

“Some of us will need to attend.”

The car swam over the humpback.

“All of us, I suspect. I asked Philip to suggest that the funeral should be on Wednesday afternoon. It’s the only day we don’t have a match. Failing that, a morning.”

“They don’t like mornings. People can’t arrive in time.”

“I suppose not.”

The lane swung right, in the bottom of the dale, and headed for the main road.

“Is that why you put the notice up calling the annual meeting for Wednesday evening?” Dunstable asked Minter.

“Because there’s no match? Yes. It seemed the obvious time.”

“What’s on the agenda?”

“Finance, mostly. What else?”

“We’re not in trouble. I hold the account, and we’ve got more than five hundred pounds in it.”

“Nevertheless,” said Minter, “the time has come when we’ve got to be a bit better at business than in the past. For some years now we’ve paid the Ravendale Bridge Club a straight hundred pounds as rent for the ground and facilities for the fortnight and added twenty pounds as a tip for their groundsman. Sam tells me they’ve asked for a hundred and fifty this year with fifty for the groundsman.”

“Oh dear!”

“Stop making silly exclamations, William. The only reason we’ve got money in the bank is because for the past few years some of you founder members have very kindly clubbed together and paid for the ground out of your own pockets. That has meant that the fiver we’ve charged members for the fortnight’s cricket has gone to build up a reserve. But now you old ’uns are few and far between. In fact there are only three of you left. You, Sam and Tom. We can’t allow Sam to contribute. He houses us free of charge and provides half of our food for nothing. Those hams and all the lettuces and other vegetables! We can’t let him chip in.”

“He never has, Francis. That was his contribution. We others tried to match it.”

“And a marvellous help it has been. But Tom Middleton has never chipped in either, because supplying all the booze at cost means he has always done his bit. That leaves you. And you’re not going to fork out a couple of hundred on your own.”

Minter turned left on to the main road.

“I wasn’t proposing to, Francis. But there are quite a lot of established members who would be willing to help in just the same way as the old founding fathers did. Besides myself there’s Philip, James Gordon, Ron Huckle, Dave Collyer perhaps, and Robin Forth and Graham Cleaver.”

“And me.”

“That’s eight of us. Twenty pounds apiece. The youngsters can then pay their usual fiver and you’ll be there. Nothing for the reserve perhaps, but we’ve never had to draw on it yet, so it will be left intact.”

“With an eye to future years, William, I’d like to propose the fee goes up to eight, just to put a little in the kitty.”

“Please don’t propose it,” counselled William. “I’ve been told Stanley Lamb is out of work—made redundant—and has earned nothing for three months. He confessed to David that he came up for a cheap holiday. He’s probably budgeted for the fiver and he’ll feel uncomfortable if he finds difficulty in paying.”

“Is that why he came up by train?”

“The car belonged to his firm.”

“I see. But . . . look, William, it looks as if Stanley is going to act as mess steward for us for a few days, at least. Couldn’t we fudge it so that we just took the fiver from him without the increase, on account of his work behind the bar?”

“Maybe. If it isn’t too obvious what we’re up to. We don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

“I know! Tell him as long as he’s barman, his drinks will be free. That’ll save him the extra three pounds and more. After that, if we get him a new barman, you and I can always stand him a drink.”

“I think I prefer that. What about the food?”

“Annie Hawk and Becky Althorpe say they can still do it for ten pounds a head, which means, as I said earlier, that Sam is feeding produce into the kitchen at an unprecedented rate.”

“Don’t worry about Sam, Francis. He’s not only a highly successful farmer, but also a hard-headed Yorkshire business man. He’s not going to miss the hind quarters of a bullock from his deep freeze, nor half a sheep and a stone of ham. He’ll lose the cost of that in his accounts if I know Sam.”

“It’s still a damned generous gesture, and makes the whole fortnight dirt cheap. Eighteen pounds and then whatever you care to buy in the way of drink!”

“When we first formed the Libertines, Francis, none of us had much money, and we determined then that it should not become a rich man’s club, but a cricket club anybody could afford to join. Don’t forget that even Joss Hawk is a Libertine, though we never charge him anything, because there’s nothing to take money off him for. But he always has a game or two.”

“Right. And we want to keep it that way, I agree.”

“By the way, I haven’t seen the fixture list. How many games are there?”

“In our own fortnight? Five one-day games. One each Saturday and each Sunday and we’re playing the school a week on Wednesday. Then four two-day games. Monday and Tuesday, Thursday and Friday of each week. Over and above that we’ve entered a team in the Ravendale Bridge and District Knock Out.”

“That’s new.”

“They’re evening games. Twenty five overs each innings. All the games are to be played on just two pitches. Ours and the factory ground. Teams have to be prepared to play any night this fortnight. We play our first game on Monday.”

“Do we stand a chance?”

“I think so, because there’s a starred player system. They’re mock-up teams, no one of which may include more than two starred players. The committee has awarded the stars to all the local leading batsmen and bowlers—based on averages this season so far. But they said they couldn’t star us because they hadn’t got our records, and in any case they reckon Yorkshire cricket is so superior to all other that club records from outside the county would be meaningless. So they’ve said we can include any Libertine we like as long as we temper the wind. I think they also imagine that if some of us have been playing all day, we’ll be easy meat if we turn out in the evening, too.”

“They’re probably right.”

“I’m damn sure they are. But we’ll have a bash. And here we are.”

At the entrance to the small town of Ravendale Bridge, the road from the east came in to form a curving Y junction to join the road from the south that Minter was using. The town itself was split in two by the Raven, which here had widened to forty feet—a stony bed through which, at this time of the year, only enough water came down to need the centre of the run. At this point, the dale had flattened out considerably, compared with the area surrounding the Verity farm. But even so, the main road ran slightly downhill towards the bridge from both directions, and the buildings on the outskirts of the town could look over the roofs of those in the centre. To fashion a cricket ground, those responsible for introducing cricket to Ravendale had been obliged to dig out a small plateau on the south side of the river bank. This was now bounded on the west by the north-south road which led to the farm, and on the south by the east-west road that looped in at this point. The latter road was seven or eight feet above the cricket ground and was held back by a battered rampart of local stone, topped by a wall of the same material to protect unwary pedestrians from the fall. Both rampart and wall curved round at the road junction and continued—lessening in height—as the north-south road dropped towards the bridge. Just before the bridge was the gate to the ground, and from there a cinder track ran half-way along the field to the pavilion. This backed—at a distance of perhaps thirty feet—on to the river, separated from it by its own hedge, liberally dotted with trees, and the towpath which was now a river walk with lawns and flowerbeds alongside it. The end of the field opposite the gate was defined by a post and rail fence, reinforced with a straggly hedge, through the gaps in which could be seen a lush meadow and a herd of resting cows.

As Minter turned into the gate, he said to Dunstable: “William, every year I come here, I think this place is one of the better grounds for cricket.”

“Arundel and Worcester are prettier, I’d have said. But I know what you mean. There’s a compactness about this place and an air of total devotion to the game.”

“That’s it. Tailor-made for it by people whose religion it was—and is. Not just a field converted for use. A ground actively hewn out of the hillside for the purpose.”

“It’s attractive,” conceded Dunstable as the car came to a halt alongside an already parked row. “And not only to play on, but for spectators, too. There’s quite a gallery already.”

Minter got out of the car and glanced across the field to the wall above the rampart on the far side. Already two or three dozen people were leaning on the sun-warmed coping: a favourite spot for those who wanted to watch just half an hour of a game or who were passing and stopped for a few minutes to watch what so many regarded as a peculiarly English scene.

“The opposition has arrived, I see.” Dunstable indicated two men in white flannels in front of the pavilion. One was bowling to the other: slow, highly spun, lofted deliveries. The batsman was making exaggeratedly correct strokes in order to return the ball direct to his colleague.

“We seem to be ready all round. Stumps are pitched and the score-board is up.”

“I shall have to unearth my opposite number. By the way, where are the ice-cream vendors’ coats?”

“Sam said he’d bring them down. His wife saw them and said they needed repressing after having been stored for a year.”

There were slatted seats for the players on the verandah of the pavilion. In front were a few deck chairs for spectators, but already a number of people had brought their own seats and chosen positions round the boundary on the pavilion side. The area below the rampart was in deep shade and before the game was over, that shadow would creep very near to the square and the wicket itself.

Sam Verity came up carrying the umpires’ coats and the long score book. The box was above the changing rooms—a little attic of a place just large enough for two chairs at the shelf below the window. Today it would be like an oven with the afternoon sun shining straight in.

“Who’s batting?” he asked.

“We haven’t tossed yet,” said Minter. “But as it’s ten to, I think it’s about time we did. Their captain is still Charles Selby, I take it?”

“That’s right. And there he is.” Sam indicated the open window of the visitors’ dressing room to the right of the pavilion door. “Hello, Charles!” he called, and the opposing captain waved and came out to join them.

“You bat, please,” said Minter, having won the toss.

“With pleasure,” said Selby grinning. As he left them he called to some of his own men. “Our first knock. Pad up.”

“Was that wise?” asked Dunstable. “Letting them go in first?”

“It was a conscious decision, William.”

“I’m not suggesting . . .”

“I know. But this is our first match. I think we’ll get a better idea of what we’ve got to do if we’ve got their score in front of us when we bat. Besides, in weather like this, the pitch is not going to deteriorate or get better.”

“I’ll get up to the box and get his batting order down,” said Sam. “Good luck.”

A few minutes later, William Dunstable and the umpire the Imps had brought along with them paced slowly out to the wicket and, parting as they approached the square, settled the bails and satisfied themselves that the stumps were upright and correctly aligned. Following close on their heels came Minter and his men, Robin Forth, the wicket keeper, patting the rubber palms of his gloves together as he went in order to spread the eucalyptus oil with which he had treated them to ensure maximum adhesion when taking difficult balls.

“Which end would you like, Kenneth?” Minter asked Gardner. “Not that there’s any wind.”

To test the truth of the skipper’s words, Gardner plucked a few pieces of short grass and tossed them in the air. They fell vertically.

“I’ll take the road end, Francis. The sight screen isn’t as good.”

In fact, there was no movable screen at that end. The stone wall directly opposite the square had been whitewashed. But, in that area, the height of the wall was diminishing rapidly, so that it was possible for a ball given a lot of air to be lost above it. In addition, the rough surface of the stones and the mortar courses between them tended to give the wall a slightly dappled appearance and it was a popular belief among the Libertines’ batsmen that every so often one of them was guilty of squaring up to a shadow rather than the ball. Whether this was true or not, it was a good excuse when one played and missed—particularly if a wicket was lost in the process.

“Road end,” said Minter to his flock, and they scattered to pre-arranged fielding positions. Joss Hawk, substitute for Philip Sudd who had not yet arrived, was placed on the boundary, square on the offside so that he and Philip could easily change places when the doctor arrived. Minter, at cover point, made minute alterations in the places while the two opening batsmen came to the wicket and the one to face the bowling first took guard.

At last everybody seemed satisfied, and at a nod from the umpire, Gardner started his run up from the whitewashed fifteen yard line which marked the maximum run allowed to any bowler in this sort of limited overs cricket.

Gardner was on the slow side of fast-medium pace, but he had a stylish shoulder-up action and great accuracy. The pitch had been marled, and the surface round the wickets was hard and red, but, through lack of recent rain, as dead and true as any batsman could wish. Even so, the Imps’ opening pair treated Gardner with respect. Each took a single off the first over.

The game proceeded at this pace. At the other end, Minter opened with Robert Shapcott, Forth’s nephew. Shapcott had just completed his second year at university. A tall, gangly youth, he had a windmill-like approach and a good deal of erratic speed. He it was who had one of the opening pair caught behind the wicket in his second over with the score at 8.

The new batsman was unknown to the Libertines. His name was Tittern and he looked like a farmhand. In his middle twenties, he was so large in every way that his shirt gaped between the buttons and his trousers had, perforce, been enlarged by the insertion of a three-inch wide gusset, in different material of a slightly different shade, down the back seam. The Libertines were left in no doubt as to what was expected of the new batsman. Those in the crowd—and there appeared to be many of them—who had been privileged to watch ‘Titty’ in action on previous occasions, were obviously expecting fireworks. They cheered his progress to the wicket.

And they got their fireworks. Titty made up in brute strength and keen eyesight for what he lacked in style. He also had a long reach and seemed capable of pulling every ball, no matter where it pitched, to the leg side. He hit the first delivery from Shapcott, in the air, straight towards the scoreboard, where it struck the box containing the number plates.

Stephen Dunstable relieved Shapcott, and Gardner continued to bowl, but at the end of ten overs the Imps’ score was 78 for 1.

“At this rate,” Forth said to Minter, “we’ll be faced with a score of 400. What are you going to do, Francis?”

“Policy of despair. Put Philip Sudd on at the road end and myself at the other.”

“Two slow tweakers? They’ll murder you.”

“Thanks.”

Guile defeated Tittern. He was now having to play late, and thanks to the dust on the pitch, the ball wasn’t behaving itself. The run rate began to fall and Sudd it was who fooled the opening bat who had been acting as anchor man to Titty. As so often happens with amateur batsmen, this one regarded slow bowling as ‘softer’ than the faster stuff and so he was not quite as meticulous in his strokes as he had been. He gave Sudd a fairly easy caught and bowled.

The number four bat, Ripley, was known to the Libertines. Normally number three, and probably the best they had, he had been demoted so that Titty could go in and get the score rolling. His appearance meant the Libertines were really up against it because Ripley was capable of hitting very hard, though in a much more controlled way than Tittern.

Ripley was left handed and he played very correctly. He treated both Sudd and Minter with respect, but it was the respect of the craftsman and his careful, strong play brought him a steady stream of runs. The board showed 112 for 2 in 16 overs.

“Try Frank Black,” suggested Collyer to Minter.

“I didn’t know he bowled.”

“I told you he was a number five. A number five who can’t bowl as well as bat isn’t worthy of the name.”

Black came on when the score was 128 for 2 in 18 overs.

After four overs he had taken the wickets of both Tittern and Ripley at a cost to himself of only six runs. Philip Sudd continued at the road end, and though Titty had once carted him for six, he, too, was managing to hold down the run rate. The next eight overs cost the Libertines 19 runs. The board now read 147 for 4 in 26 overs.

“Less than six an over now,” said Forth to Minter. “And I reckon the two who are in now, Selby and Bedford, are probably the last of their ranked batsmen.”

“That’s not a safe bet in Yorkshire, but with only fourteen overs to go . . .”

At the end of 33 overs the score was 175 for 4.

“Five point three an over now,” said Forth.

Minter nodded. “If we can keep this up, we might finish with less than 200 to make.”

In the event the Imps made 204 for 7 in 40 overs.

As the Libertines came off for tea, Cleaver said to Philip Sudd: “Stanley Lamb looks as if he’d caught a touch of the sun, doc. He’s been fielding out there for over two hours without a cap and he looks pretty rocky to me.”

“Not more patients,” groaned Sudd. “I came here to play cricket; not to act as unpaid medical adviser.”

“I only mentioned it because he’s down to open with me and I was wondering whether he oughtn’t to get in the shade for a bit and perhaps go in lower down the order—after he’s had time to cool off.”

Sudd had looked carefully at Lamb, who was talking to Sarah Verity as she handed him a cup of tea. “If he had a touch of the sun, he’d be flushed. Red even. Stan looks just the reverse to me. Pale, even.”

“Not well, though.”

“I’ll have a word with him.”

Lamb laughed shortly and shrugged when Sudd asked him if he was feeling well. “What’s up, Phil? Touting for clients now? No, I’m fine.”

“Good. I just thought that as you looked strained and pale and as glum as a down-in-the-mouth oyster there might just be something wrong. Graham Cleaver noticed it, too.”

Lamb put his cup down on the trestle table. “Thanks, Phil. It’s nothing. Just . . . well, I suppose old Nick going like he did and now pre-batting nerves. I’ll go into the changing room and pad up. Once I’m out there I’ll be fine.”

Sudd nodded. If Lamb had nothing to complain about, there was, presumably, nothing wrong pathologically or organically for him to deal with. The opening bat looked pale and slightly strained! What opening bat doesn’t feel slightly strained? Besides, the man was out of a job and, presumably, worried. Sudd forgot about it and returned for more tea. He knew he would be low in the batting order and could afford to indulge a little and take his time over it.

Sam Verity had come down from the score box and was holding a slice of buttered plum-bread and a cup of tea. Sudd stopped for a word with him and was dismayed when the farmer said: “Tom Middleton’s here and I don’t like the looks of him.”

“Sam, no matter who I’ve spoken to today, I’ve been told that somebody doesn’t look too good. Have a heart, old boy. Lay off.”

“Sorry, Phil, but he can’t be feeling well.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The old bastard refused any tea. Tom Middleton never refuses anything—not if he’s feeling well.”

“He’s managed to come to the match, hasn’t he? If he were unwell he’d be resting in his caravan.”

“Suppose you’re right. But I reckon he looked a bit dicky.”

“Sam,” said Sudd quietly, “a man died on us this morning. It affects different people in different ways. Most of us have had the cricket to take our minds off it. Tom hasn’t. Besides, he’s getting on a bit—older than most of us. The old and bold probably get a bit more upset about sudden death than callow youngsters.”

“Like me, you mean?” asked Sam with a grin.

“I tell you what, Sam. If a quarter of my patients—of any age—looked half as fit as you, I’d be delighted.”

“Oh, aye?”

Sudd left him as somebody else approached for a word or two with the farmer. He’d managed to get his second cup of tea when the bell rang for the start of the second innings, and the crowd round the tea table began to thin as the Imps followed Selby out to the middle. Almost immediately, a sporadic round of clapping greeted Cleaver and Lamb as they walked out to the wicket.

These two were good batsmen. They played club cricket regularly and with success. The Libertines had been lucky to get them. Normally they played a stylish game, digging themselves in and establishing a foundation before beginning to take toll of the bowling. But today things were different. Cleaver was more or less his usual self, but from the outset Lamb played with a savage intensity totally alien to his normal style.

Teddy Verity, standing close to Minter, said: “Stan’s working off a bit of steam out there. No caressing the ball today. He’s trying to knock the cover off the bloody thing.”

Minter looked at his young companion. “He’s probably feeling a bit tense. Savage, perhaps. He lost his job . . .”

“I know. In his place I’d feel like hitting out at something or somebody. I only hope he gets some satisfaction out of it.”

“He’s scoring runs. How long he’ll last is a different matter, but we’re up to their rate already. 23 in four overs.”

“Not bad, eh? Good lord, he’s got Graham Cleaver doing it now. It must be infectious.” He stepped forward and fielded the ball that came whipping across the grass towards him. He threw it to the approaching fieldsman before again addressing Minter. “Graham doesn’t often open his shoulders this early.”

“They know the wicket’s plumb. It must be a temptation to rattle along.”

“Without due care and attention?”

Minter shrugged. He had a very good—if slightly unbalanced—team for this opening match. When James Gordon and Ronald Huckle arrived he would have another stock bowler and a good bat who was also reserve wicket keeper. With them in the squad he would have a wider choice of team. But every member was a picked hand—picked and invited—with the obvious exception of Joss Hawk who, even so, had been a useful player in the past. It was inevitable that each time the Libertines played, somebody would have an off day. But by and large the team could be relied upon to give an account of itself. The records showed more success than failure in the past, so if, today, the two openers had been attacked with a fit of lashing out—not at everything, but at everything hittable—Minter guessed the remainder of the side would see him through. There was no batting tail. With Sudd at number eight; Forth, the wicket-keeper at nine; and Gardner at ten, the team could honestly say it was sending in batsmen almost to the end. Almost, because Shapcott at number eleven was an unknown quantity to Minter, though Robin Forth said that he could, should the need arise, keep the ball out of his wicket as an opener.

Meanwhile, the score mounted. The Libertines’ fear that they had no scorer as fast as Tittern was fast dissolving. Lamb was going for everything, including the taking of quick runs from blocked balls which trickled only half way down the pitch.

“He’s got designs on the game,” said Stephen Dunstable to Sarah who had finished clearing away the tea. “At this rate I shan’t be needed.”

Sarah smiled. “What time will you be finished?”

“Before half past six if we keep this up.”

“Early enough to go out to dinner somewhere?”

Stephen grinned with pleasure. “I was going to suggest it. That pub on the way to Harrogate. The Mild-Mannered Man. We can eat outside there.”

She nodded her agreement. “I’m taking the Rover back now, but I shall hear you arrive. Half an hour after that?”

“To the minute. Shall I call or just honk the horn?”

“The door will be open. Walk in and say hello nicely to Mummy.”

He saw her away in the Rover and strolled back to the pavilion verandah where Minter waited, padded up. “67, Francis, and still going strong.”

Minter, facing into the sun, still high on the south-west side, nodded with some satisfaction. “Whatever they’re doing, it’s paying off. We’ve seen four bowlers so far and the lads have seen them all off.”

When the score was 73, Cleaver was caught at mid wicket off a stroke which he didn’t quite middle. The direction was wrong and the fieldsman had little difficulty in taking it. Cleaver had made a quick and useful 28. The remainder of the score except for 3 extras was down to Lamb’s credit.

Minter started carefully, almost as if his statistician’s mind was clicking up the odds with every ball. But Lamb continued. His 50 brought a round of applause which he seemed not to notice, let alone acknowledge, and he continued to hit venomously.

The score stood at 111 when Lamb’s wicket fell in the nineteenth over.

“Unlucky, that,” said Robin Forth.

“Unlucky?” queried Stephen Dunstable. “He’s lived on luck out there and, let’s face it, he was trying to lift a perfectly good, straight ball out of the ground. If it had come off it would have been lucky. But when it didn’t come off, you can hardly call it unlucky.”

“I’m talking about the score,” retorted Forth. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard that the old pro’s were always wary when the score was 111—the three stumps.”

“Meaning they thought they were vulnerable then?”

“That’s right. Something like the theatrical belief that mentioning Macbeth behind stage or whistling in the dressing room is bad luck. The old bats, at one time, wouldn’t run a single if they were on 110. They waited to score a boundary to carry them past it. They believed a wicket would always fall if the score reached three ones. And the longer they stayed at that score, the greater the danger.”

“It would be. If they were superstitious, they’d grow nervous and edgy and as like as not get themselves out.”

“To be sure.”

“And what about a single batsman?”

“I don’t get you?”

“A chap who had scored 111 himself.”

“The same applied, only more so. His partner at the other end would always take risks, if necessary to help him past it. By taking an unwise short run.”

“Thereby increasing his chances of being out and so strengthening the superstition, I suppose.”

“Naturally. Bad luck! Psychological mumbo-jumbo, really, but if bad luck comes in threes, as they say, what else is there? Old Nick this morning and now this.”

“The two don’t compare. A death and the fall of a wicket can hardly be said to be in the same category.”

“I suppose not. And I don’t suppose Stanley thinks a personal score of 65 too bad.”

“Nor will Francis. We’re pushing on at nearly six an over and more than half way to target. If we can keep it above the asking rate, we’ll be home and dry.”

The score slowed slightly after Collyer joined his captain, but there was some leeway and the Libertines could afford to let the new batsman get established. By the time 25 overs had gone another 21 runs had been added. Frank Black, padded-up and sitting on the verandah, nervously twiddling his bat, was beginning to calm down a little. “From the way those two are going, I won’t be needed.”

“You will, chum. Don’t worry, you’ll get a knock.”

“I’m not worried about missing an innings. I’m worried about getting one. This is my first for the Libertines, remember.”

“You did your stuff with the ball. Relax. Even if you get a blob you’ll have earned your keep.”

“Maybe. But I know now why Stan Lamb looked a bit nervous. I say, excuse me. Give me a shout if a wicket falls, would you?”

“Where are you going? Oh! Nervous pee, eh? O.K. Take your time. They give you two minutes to get out there remember.”

Black went in when the score was 148 for 3 in the middle of the 30th over. The Libertines were just keeping up with the clock. They needed a bit of quick scoring to make them safe. Just two or three boundaries would change the picture completely. But the Yorkshiremen in the Imps were making a determined effort to slow them down. They hadn’t been able to contain Lamb, but now he was out of the way they were striving their utmost.

Minter met Black in the middle.

“Take it easy, Frank, but punch them if you can. They’ll move the field in for you at first. Make them push it back, because even singles will be vital.”

“Are you happy about quick singles? Fast backing-up?”

“Perfectly. But only after you’ve scattered the field.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Black was a typical number five. Strong fore-arms and a looseness and agility about his play that contrasted strongly with the more ‘correct’ attitude of the earlier bats—even Lamb. Where Lamb had seemed ferocious, Black seemed gay. He danced down the wicket when the keeper stood back for the faster bowlers. The runs didn’t come too fast, but it made the closer fielders nervous. They edged backwards, slightly, and when he did connect, there were large gaps on the boundary for him to find.

The Imps had scored their total of 204 for the loss of 7 wickets. The number of wickets that fell was immaterial unless the scores were tied. Then the team that had lost the fewer batsmen would be declared the winner. So Minter was prepared to run through every member of the Libertines to get that one, vital, extra run.

By the end of the 32nd over, the Libertines had scored 169. Minter signalled Black to meet him in the middle of the pitch. “Cut loose,” he ordered.

“I’ve been trying to.”

“I thought that display was just you taking it easy as I suggested when you came in.” It was said with a grin.

Black smoothed his hair back with his gloved hand. “You’re the skipper! I take it we’re behind.”

“Not behind, but not far enough ahead for comfort.”

They returned to their respective creases. Selby, the Imps’ skipper had set a more attacking field. It was his only chance of winning, short of bowling out the rest of the team, and he guessed that the conference between Minter and Black presaged a new onslaught by the Libertines. He would try to scotch it by tight fielding.

Minter played the next two balls impeccably. The third he glided with as sweet a stroke as the ground had seen. But Selby had placed a fine leg, and the ball was easily cut off while the batsmen ran two. Minter, good bat though he was, seemed incapable of further increasing the pace. Black, too, though he hit hard and often could only score four in the next over. The Imps were intent on winning the battle in the field: a run saved is a run scored, and they were saving plenty.

To Black’s surprise, Minter announced his intention of retiring. There were six overs to go and exactly thirty runs to make to win. Teddy Verity came in.

It was obvious to Black that Minter’s move had unsettled Selby somewhat. Naturally a man of Minter’s calibre as a batsman would only stand down to let a faster scorer—a bigger hitter—come in at this juncture. Close fielders would be a luxury the Imps couldn’t afford if this were so. But if it weren’t, what then? Caught in a quandary, Selby compromised. He thinned the close field, making it more defensive than attacking.

Teddy Verity had received his instructions. He touched the ball and ran. Black, backing up, was ready for him and the run was taken. Selby moved his field again—closer in. Black swung and reached the boundary. He waited to see what Selby did. Nothing. So Black put the next ball in exactly the same place. Selby surreptitiously signalled a fielder to cover the gap. Black, on the look out, scampered a single for a push down the wicket. Off the last two balls of the over, Teddy Verity took three runs. 13 in all from the over. And that, was virtually that. The Libertines had won the equivalent of two overs’ breathing space for themselves. And though the next over was by no means so fruitful, the score was now 195 for 4 in 36 overs. As if to make victory more certain, the bowler who had suffered by having 13 knocked off him in one over, had lost his temper to some degree. His line, length and speed, all of which had earlier been commendable, now disintegrated in his angry attempt to make the batsmen pay for what he regarded as a liberty, if not an insult. It was foolish to bowl carelessly to good bats who were ready with haymakers. The nine necessary runs came from the first four balls of the over and the Libertines had won their opening game with more than three overs to spare.

“A very cunning retirement on your part,” said Tom Middleton to Minter as the captain carried his bag to his car. “Some might call it sporting of you, but . . .”

“But not cricket?” Minter eyed the older man with some concern. He looked far from well and was perspiring freely.

“It smacks just a little of gamesmanship.”

“Do you really think so, Tom?”

“It may be within the rules of the game, but not the spirit.”

“Oh dear! I’m being censured.”

“I’d have liked to have seen you carry your bat.”

“Whether we won or not?” Minter’s tone had lost some of its pacific quality.

“I’d prefer to win. But I don’t mind losing.”

Minter unlocked the car door. “Are we quarrelling, Tom?”

“We’re discussing your behaviour. I would never voice my thoughts on this to the others, but I feel that as captain you should be aware of my feelings.”

“So you are not denying me the right of tactical manoeuvre?”

“There was plenty of room for clever manoeuvre without resorting to gamesmanship.”

“You would rather I had thrown my wicket away?”

“Judiciously.”

“Would the result have been different?”

“Our opponents might have felt better about it.”

“You mean they thought I had an eye on my batting average.”

“They did not accuse you of that.”

“But they did worry about their own bowling averages.”

Middleton nodded. “Such things are important in certain quarters. And standards are slipping, Francis. The Libertines should carry the flag of integrity and uphold the highest traditions of sportsmanship, both of which must be seen to be done.”

Minter faced the older man. “Tom, I don’t really see where this conversation is leading. I take your point, but I don’t accept it. What I do think is that you are getting perilously close to being offensive.”

“I am simply pointing out what I consider to be an error of sporting judgement on your part.”

“As I said, I take your point, but I don’t agree with you.”

William Dunstable who, because he was to ride with Minter, had been close to the captain when Middleton accosted him, had remained within earshot, but had so far taken no part in the conversation. Now, however, he took a step forward.

“Tom, you’re not looking too well. I’m sure Vera must be waiting for you.”

“I’m perfectly well,” retorted Middleton angrily. “Stop treating me as if I were mentally defective and had one foot in the grave. As a founder member of the Libertines—the only one present not engaged in some capacity in today’s game—I felt it my duty to voice my doubts over what I consider to be less than sporting tactics in the conduct of today’s match.”

“That is your right, Tom, but if Francis doesn’t see it in the same light, then you must agree to differ—amicably.”

“Stop trying to pour your legal oil over everything, William. You, obviously, are prepared to see our carefully nurtured standards and code of conduct thrown to the wind. But I’m not. I am voicing my protest. Minter, here, stooped to tactics unworthy of the Libertines.”

“In that case, Tom,” said Dunstable, “I suggest you make a formal protest at the A.G.M. on Wednesday evening. There you can, if you wish, put forward a motion to be voted on. Sam Verity will be in the chair. I am sure he will find room on the agenda for a properly worded motion of censure from you, and then everybody here can decide whether or not they agree with you.”

“I had already made up my mind to do that when I heard the attitude Minter took to my very mild words of objection.”

Dunstable took him by the arm. “Come along, Tom, I’m sure Vera wants to get back to the caravan for supper.”

As Minter drove Dunstable back to the farm, he broke the silence of minutes with: “I am angry, William. Very angry.”

“That’s unlike you, Francis, and I’m pleased to say you don’t show your wrath. May I ask you to continue to keep it bottled-up? This fortnight has got off to a very bad start—what with one thing or another—and I should hate a quarrel between you and Tom to cause it to deteriorate further.”

“Don’t worry, William. But you do realise that if he tables a motion of censure I shall feel obliged to resign the captaincy.”

“No, no, Francis. I mentioned it to put a stop to the argument on the ground. Everybody will know it’s a bit of petty spite on Tom’s part and will ignore it.”

“Petty spite? You know, William, when you come to think of it, he’s at the bottom of all our troubles. Sooner or later somebody is going to bump him off. And it may well be me who does it.”

“Francis! That thought is unworthy of you and it certainly should never have been voiced.”

“Come off it, William. A figure of speech.”

“Maybe. But only this morning you were asking me to try to quieten down some of the younger men, and as that man generates so much hatred I fear that words such as yours may bespeak the fate you mention.”

“You’re superstitious, William?”

“I’d have said not, but I have an uneasy feeling about the atmosphere of this tour.”

William Dunstable’s fears were justified. Tom Middleton died in his caravan at lunchtime on the following Tuesday. The Ravendale coroner, bemused by two sudden deaths at the farm and alarmed by the initial report of Dr Eric Sharpe, the local G.P., referred the matter to police headquarters and suggested a post mortem on Middleton, and investigation of his death. The Detective Chief Superintendent who had to make the decision went one further by ordering post mortems on both bodies. As a result, the funeral of Nick Larter, arranged for Wednesday afternoon, was postponed, pending a forensic report.

When the initial report came, the Yorkshire D.C.S. uttered an angry oath and took an immediate decision. His detectives were as good as any when it came to investigating uncomplicated deaths due to physical violence, but when poison was involved and it seemed likely that there were a score of suspects, all guests of one of the biggest and most influential farmers in the county, he doubted whether they had the subtlety of touch likely to be needed. Furthermore, those suspects would soon have to be allowed to disperse to places all over the country. He wouldn’t be able to keep them cooped up for long in a barn. That meant that a solution would have to be found in double-quick time or, alternatively, that whoever undertook the investigation would need to be prepared to travel up and down the country pursuing his facts. The D.C.S. didn’t want that sort of caper for his people. The job could go to somebody who didn’t mind travelling about. Scotland Yard!

The D.C.S. made his request—with the agreement of his Chief Constable—at nine o’clock on Wednesday morning. By half past nine, Detective Superintendent George Masters had been selected to do the job and had been briefed on it by the Assistant Commissioner (C).

Chapter Four

Masters had his full team with him. His own sergeant, Reed, together with D.C.I. Green and his newly promoted assistant, Sergeant Berger. They travelled in a Rover from the Yard fleet, Reed driving.

Green, sitting as usual in the rear, nearside seat, said, as they sped up the M i: “I don’t get it.”

Reed, who was driving, said: “Neither do I, sir.”

“You keep your eyes on the road,” replied Green who was nervous in any traffic and greatly alarmed by lane transfers on motorways while travelling at speed.

Masters, packing Warlock Flake into a newish, large-bowled pipe with the slim brown hands which Green always considered the most irritating indications of what he imagined to be Masters’ upper-class up-bringing, asked: “What is it that’s puzzling you?”

“The whole set-up. A double murderer at large in a totally isolated group, who kills one bloke last Saturday and another three days later, on Tuesday. I mean, why wait? Or if it comes to that, why kill two? Most murderers have one victim and are satisfied. And as I understand it, he’d got away with the first one, who was supposed to be buried today. So why knock off another and bring the whole lot down round his ears?”

“Perhaps,” said Berger, half turning in his seat, “the second one had sussed him and was threatening to split. So he had no option. He’d managed to get away with it the first time. Why not the second?”

“He must have known the second one would make people think, that’s why. Unless he is a complete raving lunatic.”

“They get big-headed about it, don’t they? Think that what they’ve done once they can manage a second time?”

“There’s some truth in that,” agreed Masters, whose pipe was now burning satisfactorily, “but I see what the D.C.I. means. Of course we know nothing about these characters, but somehow one doesn’t expect the type of chaps who indulge in cricket tours also to indulge in mass murder. Once, yes. They’re as likely to see somebody else off as any other citizen outside the ranks of the overtly criminal. But not twice in three days.”

Green snorted in disgust. “What you’re trying to tell us is that members of swanky clubs like these Libertines aren’t likely to commit murder. You’ll be telling us next that as like as not it was somebody outside the club who did the chopping. And I’m not going to buy that.”

“Why not?” asked Masters innocently.

“Because one victim was a poor old retired window-cleaner and the other a well-heeled wine importer who lived hundreds of miles apart. The only possible link between those two was this annual cricket lark. That means that the cricket lark was the reason for their deaths. And that being so, it means that some third person intimately connected with the tour was the one who did for them. In other words, one of their mates.”

“You must keep an open mind,” murmured Masters.

“What for? To leave room for a load of rubbish to be poured in to fog the issue just because we’ll be dealing with a crowd of solicitors and doctors who play cricket?”

“Open, not empty,” corrected Masters. “The two men died from nicotine poisoning. The local police quite rightly regard their deaths as highly suspicious. But don’t forget they were staying on a farm—in a barn, in fact.”

“No, they weren’t. The first one just went up there to serve the drinks and the other was kipping in a caravan with his missus.”

“I stand corrected. At the time of their deaths they were working or living in or near a barn.”

“So what?”

“Simply that nicotine is a constituent of many insecticides, at least one of which is nothing more than a forty per cent solution of crude nicotine sulphate. Tobacco is also a widely used insecticide and has produced symptoms of poisoning among farm workers who exhibit alarming symptoms if they inhale spray or dust or get the stuff on their skins. It sinks in while they are handling the insecticide mixtures.”

“Cutaneous absorption,” offered Reed without looking round, and just to prove that he was privy to the discussion.

“Smarty pants,” retorted Green.

“Nevertheless, the sergeant is right. All I am asking you to bear in mind is the fact that on a farm there is likely to be at least one substance, in quantity, containing nicotine. And I suggest that it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that some small amount of this, despite any precautions that may have been taken, may have found its way into the systems of two men, both of whom died because of it.”

“Accidentally, you mean?”

“I suggest it is a possibility. A possibility which would answer the questions we have all apparently asked ourselves. Why two? And why three days apart?”

This kept Green quiet for the best part of a minute, but he bounced back with: “At least we’ll know where the murderer got his supplies from.”

Masters sighed audibly.

“If it was murder.”

Dr Trafford, the pathologist who had examined the bodies, was at the Harrogate police station when Masters and his team arrived at two-thirty, after having had lunch on the way.

Trafford was a round-faced, chubby man, balding, with grey hair. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and a pale grey suit impeccably pressed. With him was the Divisional Detective Chief Superintendent who had asked for the Yard’s help.

“We’ve worked together before,” said Trafford greeting Masters and Green as old friends. “When D.D.C.S. Gott told me you were the ones coming up here I was able to reassure him that he would get a good job done.”

“He needed reassurance?”

“Between you and me, after he called in the Yard, he began to have his doubts. We’re very independent up here and we don’t really believe anybody can do a better job than we can ourselves.”

“A perfectly reasonable attitude. One, in fact, we take ourselves, so we should be the last to decry it in others.” Masters turned to the D.D.C.S. “How would you like to play it, sir? Are you going to give us a free hand or do you want some of your own people along with us?”

“Dr Trafford tells me you prefer to go it alone.”

“When there is no desperate need for somebody with local knowledge to be with us.”

“These people are all strangers to us.”

“Do I take it, then, that you would prefer us to work alone and report direct to you?”

“Why not?”

Trafford said: “I’m in a hurry, so all I need tell you is that both men died from nicotine poisoning. Oddly enough, they were both alike in that they were suffering at the time of their deaths from somewhat similar diseases.”

“Diseases?” queried Green.

“Sorry. I was using it in the clinical sense. Complaints is probably a better word for the layman. Complaints of advancing age. The old cry! A man is as old as his arteries. Larter was suffering from thrombo-angiitis obliterans and Middleton from a generalised ischaemia. They both mean the blood flow was poor, and nicotine is particularly harmful in such cases. Causes vasoconstriction and kidney congestion, you know, so smoking is strictly forbidden. However, that’s beside the point. As you no doubt know, nicotine is rapidly absorbed from all mucous membranes and from the skin. And here’s the interesting thing. Larter’s death was due to cutaneous absorption and Middleton’s from swallowing the stuff. Do you want me to tell you how I established that?”

“No thank you, doctor. We’ll accept it as fact.”

“Good. Saves a lot of mumbo-jumbo about the various tests and reagents and so on. So I’ll push on. And let me tell you, I found some posers for you.”

Green took a cigarette from a battered packet of Kensitas and lit it. “Posers, doc? You mean some of this scientific gup has got even you guessing and you’re expecting us to sort it?”

“No, no, Mr Green, you misunderstand me. I can read all the forensic signs. You’ve got to find the succession of events which caused them to happen as they did. For instance, swallowing of nicotine results in a fairly definite sequence of burning pain in mouth and throat and all the gastric mucosa gets inflamed, besides symptoms such as nausea, blanching of the skin, heart slowing followed by acceleration, convulsions, respiratory failure and so on. But in the case of Middleton, his mouth and throat showed no signs of burning, and yet he swallowed the stuff because his stomach contents, liver, kidney and urine show he did. He actually died, following convulsions, because of respiratory failure due to paralysis of the endings of the respiratory nerves.”

Green nodded to show he had caught the gist of the information and then said: “So it looks as though somebody force-fed it to him through a tube down his throat.”

“I can hardly believe that such a thing could have actually happened, but yes, you’ve got the picture. Larter, however, died his early death due to over-stimulation of the vagal cardiac ganglia, with immediate stand-still of the heart, which would not, of course, respond to the massage he was given at the time because the causative factor could not be removed. So, two types of death.”

“You said ‘early death’, doctor,” said Masters. “Do you simply mean a quick death—as he was by no means a young man?”

“Ah! I told the Chief Superintendent that you people were on the ball. Yes, I mean a swift death within minutes of the initial poisoning. Had the death been delayed for several hours, Larter would have died in exactly the same way as Middleton. The fact that he didn’t, tells us he absorbed the nicotine within three or four minutes of his death.”

“Through his skin? Working so quickly?”

Trafford held up one finger. “Ah! Clever fellow! Though I said he got the lethal dose through cutaneous absorption, that does not necessarily mean through the unbroken skin. That would be a relatively lengthy process. But through an open wound . . .”

It was Masters’ turn to say, “Ah!”

“Quite. And we know that last Saturday, while serving behind the bar, Larter snagged his finger—a trifling cut, really—but he died three or four minutes later, with a qualified doctor and a score of others as witnesses.”

“So whatever he snagged his finger on was contaminated with nicotine?”

Trafford shrugged. “That’s for you to discover. Another of your posers.”

“But,” Reed protested, entering the conversation for the first time, “that would mean that there was no murder, because nobody could daub nicotine on a crown top and then guarantee that the victim would even touch it, let alone scratch his finger on it.”

The D.D.C.S. replied, “That’s what you’re here to discover. We don’t know there has been murder, but we’ve got to be sure. And Mr Masters has to determine just that, hand-in-hand with discovering who was responsible—if anybody was.”

“Typical,” grunted Green. “Two blokes poisoned—one by a chance which is mathematically impossible and the other by a means which is physically impossible. We don’t half buy it in this team!”

“You’re suggesting you don’t think you can successfully investigate the matter, Mr Green?”

Green stared in amazement at the D.D.C.S. “Who said anything about that, sir? We’ll sort it out for you.”

“I’m pleased to hear you so confident. For a moment I thought you were for bowing out.”

Masters grinned. “The D.C.I. has a habit of clearing his mind in this way, sir. He states the drawbacks quite openly, but once they’ve been postulated by him, they are out of the way for ever, as it were. He also likes others to understand that by presenting us with a case of this apparent complexity, they are not handing us a piece of cake.”

“I see. And I must admit that the true nature of the investigation had not occurred to me until Mr Green put it so trenchantly. It confirms how right my decision was to call you in.”

Masters turned to Trafford. “I’m not well-up in the facts concerning the duration of the toxic action of nicotine, doctor.”

“Simply that death may occur within three minutes after swallowing nicotine—in a healthy person. Or it may be delayed for several hours. As we have seen, in a person with a complaint which makes him particularly susceptible to the effects of the poison, death may also occur in a similar time when there is cutaneous absorption if, due to a wound, the toxin can enter straight into the bloodstream.”

“And recovery?”

“From large doses? Under proper treatment? Anything from one to twenty-four hours.”

Masters paused a moment, looking thoughtful. Then he said: “I’m feeling my way here, doctor, so bear with me. We know—or think we do—exactly when Larter received his dose of poison. But we don’t know when Middleton got his.”

Trafford nodded, paying careful attention to Masters’ words.

“However, you have said that even with proper treatment, it may take up to twenty-four hours for a patient to recover.”

Again Trafford nodded.

“Meaning that the patient could die at any time up to the end of the twenty-four hours?”

“Quite. But with the danger growing progressively less as the time went by.”

“If it takes a patient with proper treatment twenty-four hours to get clear of danger, how long does it take a patient with no treatment?”

“By the lord Harry!” murmured Green.

Trafford sat up straight. “Unfair, Mr Masters. A question based on a false premise. Without treatment the patient would die within several hours. He wouldn’t simply take longer to recover.”

“I naturally accept your expertise in these matters, doctor. But you were basing your figures on the assumption that a large dose had been ingested.”

“Quite.”

“What if the dose was a small one?”

“Then it might not prove fatal.”

“Not even in a man with a complaint which predisposes him to succumb?”

“Well, of course a smaller dose would be more dangerous to such a man.”

“And it would act just as quickly as a larger dose?”

Trafford opened his mouth to reply and then shut it again. Masters waited for the answer, but when none came he asked: “What I am asking is, can you tell us how long before he died did Middleton receive the toxic dose?”

Trafford shook his head. “Sorry. All I can say definitely is that it wasn’t immediately before. There was time for the nicotine to attack the various organs of the body and not just to stop the heart as in Larter’s case. At least several hours went by between ingestion and death, and probably longer—much longer.”

“Thank you, doctor. One more thing. Would it be possible, in Middleton’s case, to build up small doses over a period of days until the cumulative effect was lethal?”

“I imagine not. I say so, because though I have never encountered a case such as you suggest, we are aware from our work on heavy smokers that nicotine is detoxicated in the liver and is excreted by the kidneys. Were this not so, smokers would kill themselves by nicotine poisoning very rapidly, without waiting for the lung cancer caused by the other irritating ingredients of tobacco.”

Masters got to his feet.

“Thank you, doctor, and you, sir.”

“We’ve not been much help, I’m afraid,” said the Chief Superintendent.

“I think you have.”

“After hearing what has just passed between you and Dr Trafford, I’m more pleased than ever that my people aren’t investigating this.”

Masters smiled. “It does sound a bit intimidating, doesn’t it? However, we’re ready to get to work. Have you made any domestic arrangements for us?”

“I’ve had to pull a few strings to get you in at this time of year, but there are two rooms—one each for you and Mr Green—at The Brimham Rocks, which is an old pub in Ravendale Bridge, while there’s a twin room in a licensed guest house close by for the sergeants. It’s the best we could do in the time. They’re expecting you at the station there and will show you where to go. And there’s an office for you in the nick should you need it.”

“Thank you. That sounds admirable.”

On the way to Ravendale, Berger said: “I followed the drift of your conversation with the doctor, Chief, but I was a bit lost. For instance, what is a large dose of nicotine? Or, for that matter a small one? I mean, if a chap can get enough into a little cut from the edge of a metal bottle stopper. . . .”

“Who says he did?”

“Wasn’t that the conclusion?”

“A possible one, perhaps.”

“I see.”

“And I thought you were supposed to read a recommended book on clinical toxicology?”

Berger blushed. “Read, Chief, not learn by heart. I went through it, with a dictionary in my hand, and even that didn’t have half the words in it.”

“Try using a medical dictionary next time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This time, I’ll take the blame for your ignorance. If I’d told you before we left the Yard that it was a nicotine case, you could have looked it up. As it is . . .”

“Learn it, laddie,” counselled Green. “There’s not much to get off by heart.”

“Not for you, perhaps. You’ve got a memory like an elephant.”

As if to prove the sergeant right, Green told them about the toxic dose and source of nicotine. “One drop of liquid nicotine weighs about 28 milligrams—anything between 23 and 33 to be precise. One milligram—one, don’t forget—will cause marked symptoms in anybody unaccustomed to its action.”

“As little as that?”

“As little as that. 10 milligrams may be fatal to a child and 65 milligrams to an adult.”

“Two drops?”

“Two biggish drops, yeah! Makes you think lad, doesn’t it?”

Berger nodded.

“Even ordinary tobacco may have a nicotine content of up to eight per cent.”

“Ordinary . . . tobacco?”

“Yes, lad. Nicotine is obtained from the stems and leaves of the tobacco plants you can grow in your own garden. Got a fancy latin name, Nicotiana Tabacum. Do you know how many grams there are in a pound, lad? No? Well I’ll tell you. About 450. How many’s that to an ounce?”

“About 28,” answered Berger after some painful mental arithmetic.

“Near enough. So you’ll guess how dangerous tobacco is when I tell you that deaths have been reported due to 0.8 of a gram of snuff, from 8 grams of tobacco administered as an enema and from 30 grams by mouth.”

“Chewing?”

“That’s right. So steer clear of it lad. And now, if you don’t want those fags left in your packet, hand ’em over this way.”

By this time the car was approaching Ravendale from the east, by the road which skirted the cricket pitch, now deserted, and turned into the road running down towards the bridge. Just north of the bridge itself, the road widened into a square—the local market place—and it was here that Reed pulled up in front of the police station.

It was a uniformed inspector’s command, and he was waiting for them. “I’m mighty glad you’re here. I’ve only got a detective sergeant with one assistant plain clothes constable for the area. They’re remarkably good at the things they know anything about, but in a case like this . . .! I told them to do nothing except the very obvious like sealing the caravan and getting a list of the Libertines’ players.”

“Fine. Where is Mrs Middleton?”

“Farmer Verity and his wife have given her a room in the farmhouse. She’s taking it very well, incidentally. I went up there myself this morning, just to tell Mr Verity that I’d appreciate it if he told the Libertines that nobody was to leave before you gave permission, and I met the widow. As far as I could tell, not knowing her, she looked like a woman who’s got rid of a burden.”

“Hold it, chum,” butted in Green. “Are you trying to hint that she is happy he’s gone and, therefore, by presumption, that she might have been the one to see him off?”

“Not specifically. But it’s an idea. You know that most murders are family affairs.”

“It’s so bloody obvious,” said Green, “that we haven’t even considered it.” He turned to the sergeants. “Why haven’t one of you two made an observation like that?”

Reed replied: “We—or you—would have done ninety nine times out of a hundred. But I reckon because there are two of them dead, and the first wasn’t in the family, we mentally ruled out Middleton’s missus.”

“Although she was right there on the scene and poison’s a woman’s weapon?”

“Sorry, but that’s what I reckon it must have been that made us forget it.”

“Quite right,” said Masters, looking up from the list of the Libertines’ names, addresses and businesses which he had been reading. “Somehow the thought hadn’t struck me, either. But we’ve remembered now, so there’s no harm done.” He turned to the inspector.

“They died of nicotine poisoning. Who, besides your people knows that?”

“The murderer,” said Green.

“Nobody,” said the Inspector decisively. “Other than the pathologist, of course. We’ve made a point of not saying how they died, so if anybody up there at Ravendale Farm knows, he or she’s the one you want.”

Masters nodded his thanks for this piece of information. “Can we be provided with a map of the area with the farm marked on it and then be shown to our hotels, please?”

“Are you working tonight?” asked Green as he and Masters had tea in The Brimham Rocks after settling into their rooms.

“I’ve told Reed to be here with the car at half past five. It’s only about three miles to the Verity farm and I think that a look round this evening before dinner will give us a flying start for tomorrow.”

“How do you see it?” asked Green, talking with a mouth full of Sally Lunn.

Masters sat back in the easy chair, balancing his cup on his knee. “Basically as a chat show. I can’t believe there’s been any great activity out there on the farm, because Larter died on their first full day here. Not much time for tempers to flare and plans to be made. So nothing too obvious. My belief is we shall have to dig up the past.”

Green wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You mentioned there could be nicotine insecticide on the farm.”

“Yes. I think it’s a distinct possibility.”

“In that case, the ones most likely to know about it—its whereabouts and its poisonous properties and so on—are the farmer and his family.”

“True. They must be the ripest prospects as far as means are concerned. But there’s motive and opportunity to come, so we can’t concentrate on them any more exclusively than we can Mrs Middleton. I think we’ve got to accept the fact we’ve got an open field.”

Green grunted and reached across for another piece of the lavishly buttered tea cake. After a huge mouthful had been chewed and swallowed, he said: “The past isn’t up here.”

“It is for Larter, and the Veritys and, if one looks at it logically, for the Libertines as a whole. What I mean is, they have never operated as a cricket club away from Ravendale. Elsewhere they’re just scattered individuals, some of whom may never see each other except when they’re up here.”

“I get your point. But it’s an individual we’ll be after. A whole club of people wouldn’t conspire to kill a sick old barman and one of their own members.”

Masters put his cup down. “You’re right, of course, but I wonder.”

“What about?”

“Forget it.”

“You’ve got something biting you.”

“I’m being whimsical.”

“Fanciful?”

“If you like. I’ve been toying with the fact that there are two deaths. Considering a common factor.”

“That’s not fanciful. It’s logical. What common factor?”

“I don’t know, but the thought that occurred to me was the phrase ‘common knowledge’.”

“Something that was common knowledge among all the Libertine crowd?”

“Yes.”

“Which somebody made use of, thereby implicating everybody there?”

Masters nodded.

“So that in effect they all unwittingly conspired in the death?”

“I told you I was being whimsical.”

Green considered this for a moment, moving his features to remove the remains of the Sally Lunn from his teeth and using his tongue to finish the job. At last: “I dunno! There may be something in what you say.”

Surprised, Masters made a little sound of interest to encourage Green further. He needn’t have bothered. Once launched on any tack, the older man liked to have his say and complete his thought. So, as if to show that Masters was not alone in considering the matter in hand, he said: “I’ve been thinking about the atmosphere among a crowd of chaps like that when there’s a murder or two taking place in their midst. I was playing with phrases, too. Atmosphere of hatred. Air of mistrust. You know the sort of thing. Guilty or innocent, if you’re a member of a group like that, you’re in it, willy nilly.”

“Guilty by association?”

“If you like. But what I was thinking about was not so much whether they all had a hand in the murder as much as whether, suspecting it might happen, they did nothing to prevent it.”

“You mean that they could all have sensed the atmosphere of hatred you referred to? Or do you mean they all suspected that one person was about to commit murder and didn’t stop him.”

Green considered this for a moment. “The former,” he declared at last.

“You sound very sure.”

“If there was just one—and they all knew him—wouldn’t they have given him away by now? Not literally, of course, but wouldn’t they be steering clear and shunning him to make his identity stick out a mile to the local cops? I mean he’d be in a tricky position, wouldn’t he? With about sixteen others knowing he was a killer.”

“In which case he might be so nervous he’d give himself away—by some stupid action designed to turn suspicion away from himself and on to somebody else.”

“How do we know he hasn’t done just that already? Killed once and then killed a second time to make it look as though somebody else was implicated?”

Masters filled his pipe slowly. “There’s no saying—yet. We’d better get out to Ravendale farm and see what we can find.”

As they set out for Ravendale, Sergeant Berger turned from the front passenger seat to address Masters.

“Chief, you always tell us to ask questions if we’re in any doubt.”

“The first lesson a young jack should learn,” murmured Green piously, the unlit but rather bent Kensitas between his lips scarcely moving as he spoke.

“Well, Chief, I’m a bit flummoxed by your conversation with the pathologist.”

“You’re flummoxed!” snorted Green, who by now had a lighted match in his hand. “What do you think the rest of us are? What do you think his nibs was putting Trafford through the hoop for?”

“To get answers. That much was obvious. But I couldn’t see why he was asking those particular questions. I mean, does the amount ingested matter? Or, if it comes to that, how long before he died that he took it?”

“Be your age, son. Knowing when he got it could mean knowing who was about at the time to give it to him.”

“I see that. But it can act in minutes. The timing’s got to be very precise.”

“And so have you, lad. You heard the pathologist say it wasn’t a quick job. He said that at least several hours had gone by between ingestion and death, and probably much longer.”

“That’s my point, Mr Green. Dr Trafford couldn’t be precise. It isn’t a reflection on him, because the medics often can’t say exactly when a man died, let alone when he took a dose of poison. But the Chief, who knows this as well as I do was pressing the bloke for answers he knew he couldn’t give.”

“You youngsters!” groaned Green. “When will you learn that you’ve got to press to get anything.”

“Fair enough. But the Chief usually only presses if he’s got a definite objective in mind.”

“Or if he hasn’t got one at all,” retorted Green. “Drowning men clutch at straws, Sergeant. Cops without a clue do much the same, particularly if there’s a bit of an audience and you want to impress on them that you’re not clueless.”

“Thanks,” said Masters.

“No offence meant,” replied Green. “But these two’ll have to start learning the tricks of the trade sometime.”

“Actually, I think Berger was right to ask what he did.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You knew what I was trying to get at, didn’t you?”

Green looked smug. “It was as plain as a pikestaff.”

“So tell the sergeant.”

Green sighed. “We reckon there’s been two murders. The question everybody asks themselves is, why two? Did chummy mean to knobble two—straight off, that is—or was the second one forced on him to shut the second bloke’s mouth, or was it a mistake of some sort. So there’s three questions you have to find the answers to. Deliberate intent, safety measure or error. When his nibs started asking the pathologist all that stuff about times, he was wanting to clear up this point—if he could.”

“How would it help? To solve that point, I mean?”

“Knock one off at lunchtime on Saturday and another at lunchtime Tuesday. A gap of three days. If you’re going to do them both, why not both at once, if they’re around together to be poisoned at the same time, which these two were?”

“So you reckon that chummy killed Larter on Saturday and that the three day gap between his death and Middleton’s means that in between times Middleton showed the murderer he knew his identity.”

“Right, son. The gap was three days between deaths. Just nice time to lay on murder number two. But the Chief wanted to know whether the gap between the two administrations of poison was three days. Say it wasn’t. What then?”

“That’s what I’m asking. Three days, two days, one day even. What’s the difference? Chummy had the poison with him. He could stop an informer at any time.”

The car turned off the main road on to the lane that led to the farm.

“Pull up,” ordered Masters.

Reed obeyed, drawing the car on to the verge to leave the way free.

“What’s up?” asked Green.

“We’d better finish this chat before we get to the farm or we’ll forget where we are in the discussion.”

“It’s over.”

“Not quite. Berger has brought it full circle. What you’ve said is quite right, but it hasn’t answered his question.”

“Because we can’t answer it before we’ve got somewhere.”

“Maybe not fully. But there are complexities in your little lecture that you skimped—through lack of time, I suppose—so we’ll sit here for a bit and iron them out before we get to the farm.”

“O.K.” Green turned to Berger, and included Reed in his remarks. “Laddie, you asked what’s the difference if it’s three days, two days or even one day.”

“Right, sir. It’s immaterial.”

“Not if you carry your argument to extremes, son. Three days, two days, one day or . . .” Green paused a moment before ending with: “. . . or no days at all.”

Berger’s jaw fell.

“You mean . . . they might both have been poisoned at the came time?”

“I don’t mean it, son. I only say it’s a possibility, and the questions his nibs asked the pathologist were slanted towards making it a tenable possibility or disproving it altogether.”

Reed joined in. “Dr Trafford gave me the distinct impression that he thought Middleton could only have ingested the nicotine within twenty-four hours of his death.”

“Quite, laddie. The questions that flummoxed Berger here, produced that answer.”

“Which the Chief took with a grain of salt.”

“Maybe. You don’t have to believe everything you’re told—even by experts.”

“So the Chief pressed the point.”

“To let the boffin know he was a bit sceptical.”

“I had to be sceptical,” said Masters.

“Why, Chief? We don’t know anything about the case.”

“You heard the D.C.I. explain that there may be three reasons for the double murder. As you so rightly point out, I know nothing about this case nor the people involved in it. But that doesn’t stop me thinking about it. Nor you, I trust?”

“No, Chief.”

“Then tell me, sergeant, can you provide me with any reason—and stretch your imagination as far as you like to give me an answer—any reason at all why anybody should want to kill two men so diverse as an old, sick, retired window cleaner from Yorkshire and a moderately well-off wine shipper from London?”

“No, Chief, I can’t.”

“Nor can I. That’s not to say there isn’t a motive, but at this stage, because I doubt whether there can be any such reason, I am inclined to reject Mr Green’s first point to consider. While I reserve my right to change my mind, I’m not inclined to believe that our murderer set out to kill both men.”

“Understood, Chief. So that leaves self protection or mistake.”

“Right. Now if the time lag is one, two, or three days, self protection can stay in for consideration. But if the time lag is nothing, what then?”

“It must be a mistake.”

“What must?”

“The second death.”

“Ah!”

“Hold it,” said Reed excitedly. “Deaths don’t enter into it—which came first and which second, I mean. If they were both poisoned at once—one deliberately and one by mistake—the unintended victim might flake out first and the intended victim second. Particularly in a case like this where Larter was a sick man and so very susceptible to the poison.”

“Right. Now, have you got it, Berger? There is a possibility that the mistake died first, thus causing cops—those who don’t think enough, that is—to suppose he was the intended victim.”

Berger nodded.

“What Mr Green wanted you to do was to carry your thoughts through to all possible conclusions—logical or illogical. Then, although you can’t make facts fit theories, at least you’ll have some ideas about what questions to ask.”

“Sometimes,” murmured Green.

Reed asked: “So we work on the assumption that the two were poisoned at the same time?”

“Don’t be daft lad,” retorted Green. “That bubble’s been exploded. The questions were asked with a view to establishing that possibility, but the pathologist pooh-poohed it.”

“No, he didn’t,” argued Reed. “He said that Middleton had taken the poison at least several hours before his death, but maybe longer. And then he added, much longer.”

“He was burbling about recovery under treatment or, alternatively, death, within twenty-four hours. So if he said that Middleton had ingested his poison at least several hours before, but possibly much earlier than that, he meant up to twenty-four hours earlier. That’s our bracket, as I see it. A period of about twenty hours.”

“Do you go along with that, Chief?”

“I interpreted the pathologist’s remarks in exactly the same way as Mr Green.”

“But . . .” began Reed.

“There’s loads of ‘buts’, son,” interrupted Green. “The one thing is not to be dogmatic about things.”

Coming from Green, such advice was astounding. If Green was anything, he was dogmatic. Yet here he was counselling the opposite. Masters kept a straight face with difficulty. To hide his amazement and amusement, he asked Reed to drive on. The sergeant pulled away and the car made good speed along the lane, over the bridge and up the far side of the valley to the farm.

Chapter Five

“Some place, this,” said Green as the car drew up on the hard standing close to the front gate of the farm, facing the barn and the cowshed ablutions. He nodded to his right. “I suppose that’s the dreaded caravan.”

As Masters went through the gate in the low wall and up the short path to the open front door, a middle-aged woman came into the hallway to meet him.

“Good evening, ma’am. My name is Masters.”

“My name is Sally Verity. Good evening to you, too. You’ll be the gentlemen from Scotland Yard my husband was warned to expect.”

“Quite right, Mrs Verity.” Masters introduced all four of his team to the farmer’s wife. “And now, if I could see Mr Verity?”

“Do come in,” said Sally, leading the way into the sitting room. “My husband and son are both attending the annual general meeting of the Libertines. We were told to expect you, but not when you were coming. And do, please, sit down, all of you.” She shepherded them into her big comfortable chairs and then took a small nursing chair herself.

“This meeting,” murmured Masters. “Where is it being held?”

“Over in the barn.”

“All the members of the team are there?”

“All that have come up for the fortnight, together with my husband and son and Joss Hawk, one of our farm hands who occasionally plays for the Libertines.”

“When they’re short, like?” asked Green, who couldn’t believe that a club like the Libertines would accept a farm hand as a member unless it was to make use of him in some way.

“Not really,” replied Sally Verity. “He’s been quite a good cricketer in his day and played quite regularly at one time. He’s a very long established member.”

Green grunted, half in disbelief, half in gratification at this state of affairs.

“I understand Mrs Middleton is staying with you,” said Masters.

“Yes, poor soul! My daughter, Sarah, is with her at the moment, up in the sewing room. She’s a little concerned about the suitability of her clothes for her husband’s funeral and so Sarah is helping her out a bit. I think Mrs Middleton has decided she would like to borrow something of mine rather more sober than anything she has with her. But I’m a bit wider round the hips than she is, so Sarah’s taking it in down the side seams.”

This was all said with such equanimity and, indeed, good humour, when Sally was referring to her own girth, that several thoughts raced through Masters’ mind. Before he had time to ask questions, however, Green had plunged in.

“You mean Mrs Middleton is intending to hold her husband’s funeral up here and not at home?”

“Apparently.”

“Why, do you reckon?”

“She told me they have no family in London, and I gathered that she was rather anxious to get it over and done with. Natural, really, when you consider she has been told by the local police that the body will not be released for burial until after the inquest. And even that may be delayed, I believe. All the hanging about at such a time would make anybody want to get things settled as simply and quickly as possible. It’s not really a job for a woman.”

“What isn’t?”

“Arranging for bodies to be transported from Yorkshire to London.”

“You just said he was going to be buried here.”

“That’s right. Because it’s not a job for a woman.”

“I see. What about his friends? Wouldn’t they help? Or want to attend the funeral?”

“I really couldn’t say, but I can tell you something. And it is that I don’t think Tom Middleton had any friends.”

Masters intervened. Here was a pleasant woman, talking bitterly about a man who had recently died within the bounds of her own home and whose wife was now a guest in her house. It jarred. There was something wrong here. The common decency of anybody—let alone so happy a woman as Sally Verity appeared to be—would normally have caused a reticence which seemed to be totally absent here.

“It seems paradoxical that you should describe as being without friends a man who is a long-established member of a club such as the Libertines appears to be. The fact that they participate in a residential cricket fortnight suggests that there is a social side to their activities, and social gatherings—especially if repeated year after year—argue a high degree of friendliness and general goodwill among those who participate regularly.”

Sally nodded eagerly. “That’s what everybody would think, normally. And they are all friendly. Very friendly. But Tom Middleton was the exception that proved the rule.”

“I get it,” said Green. “A case of ‘nice chap, nobody likes him’.”

“Nasty chap, everybody loathed him,” amended Sally.

Masters got to his feet and strolled to the window.

“And yet he came here, year after year.”

“Because the other men were too nice to tell him not to. My husband, Sam, is supposed to be a tough, hard-headed Yorkshire farmer, but he’s as soft as grease, really, when it comes to having to be a bit unpleasant to somebody.”

“He had reason—personally—to be unpleasant to Middleton?”

“I think so. I know I had.”

“You had?” Masters turned to face her.

“I had,” she repeated firmly. “And so had Sam, on my behalf and Sarah’s.”

“Sarah—your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Ah,” said Green knowingly. “He’d been trying it on with your girlie, had he?”

“Not in that way—the way you mean. But he was a dirty old man all right. Dirty minded. A peeping Tom. He was well named.”

Berger asked: “You mean he was caught spying on your daughter, ma’am? Through her window, or . . .?”

Sally Verity shook her head. “You might as well know that Sarah has a boy friend in the Libertines. A young solicitor called Stephen Dunstable. Even in this day and age, up here, we still talk about sweethearts and courting rather than lovers and chatting up or having it off or whatever the current phrases are elsewhere. And when two young people go courting, they have a kiss and a cuddle, but nothing more, as a rule. Oh, yes, there are goings on in small places like Ravendale. We all know that, but we all know, too, those who indulge in such things. Sarah isn’t one of them. She’s sophisticated and modern and very frank, but she’s not thrown out the old values. Tom Middleton, however, came to me just before he left last year and told me he had seen Sarah misbehaving in the little wood. Now I don’t know what interpretation you gentlemen put on the word misbehaving in that context, but I know what I knew he was suggesting. And I wasn’t too pleased about it I can tell you. He’d seen Sarah and Stephen stroll off together one night after supper, and he’d followed them, keeping out of sight, and had spied on them when they stopped in the trees to ensure themselves a bit of privacy.”

“Voyeurism,” murmured Green, savouring his knowledge of the word and its more or less correct pronounciation.

“I don’t care what you call it,” retorted Sally Verity, “and I don’t care very much whether Tom Middleton was afflicted with it. But I do object to him coming in here to tell me about it, and giving me a pack of lies, at that.”

“You’re satisfied they were lies?” asked Masters gently.

The farmer’s wife looked at him for a moment. “I’m satisfied,” she replied quietly. “But that’s not quite the point, is it? His actions were what mattered.”

Masters nodded. Sally Verity was no fool, in his opinion. Many mothers might have felt that their daughter’s well-being was the only consideration. But not this mother. Confident she had nothing to fear on that score she could go straight to the only point pertinent to his enquiry. He asked: “What did Mr Verity have to say about it?”

“He wasn’t here for me to tell until Tom Middleton had gone. So there was nothing he could do, directly. And by the time the Middletons were due last Friday, a year had gone by. And you know how anger subsides in a year, particularly if keeping it up is going to involve you in an unpleasant confrontation with a man you’ve known for well over thirty years.”

“So your husband proposed to take no steps at all?”

“Not directly.”

“Indirectly?”

“Don’t go getting ideas, Mr Masters. Stephen Dunstable’s father, William, is a founder member of the Libertines. He’s a solicitor, too. I told him, last Friday, in Sam’s presence, what Tom Middleton had said about Sarah.”

“Because his son was involved?”

“I felt it was his concern as much as ours.”

“Was he angry?”

“With William, it is difficult to say. He goes quiet when he’s upset. But yes, he was angry on Stephen’s behalf.”

“Do I take it that your husband and Mr Dunstable senior intended to resort to some form of legal action against Mr Middleton?”

“Nothing of that sort. They decided that as Mrs Middleton was here with her husband they couldn’t ask him to go without a certain amount of unpleasantness. So they proposed to tell him on the last day of the fortnight that he wouldn’t be welcome in future years.”

“Were they empowered to do that to a member?”

“I don’t know. But this is Sam’s farm, and he can exclude whom he likes, and William Dunstable is so respected that it would be very easy for him to get the other members to support a motion barring Tom Middleton in future years. He was such a mean old humbug that everybody was at loggerheads with him at one time or another.”

“Including,” said Green, “young Dunstable, your Sarah’s sweetheart. I don’t suppose he took very kindly to some old Chawbacon looking on when he was kissing his girl, nor to Middleton’s reporting it as something else to her mother.”

“Of course Stephen was cross. Sarah only told him last Friday.”

“A year after?”

“She said she thought it was so unimportant she didn’t think of it until she saw the Middleton’s caravan arriving. Then she told him.”

“And what did he want to do? Thump the old boy?”

“Something like that.”

“And did he?”

“No. Sarah persuaded him to do nothing—on the grounds that it would only serve to publicise the whole business with unpleasant after effects for her.”

“Wise young woman,” said Masters.

“She is. She stopped Teddy from giving Middleton a ticking off, too.”

“Teddy?”

“My son. He’s Stephen’s age.”

“He was prepared to take up the cudgels on his sister’s behalf.”

“No. He knew nothing about that. Middleton had been obnoxious to him personally and rude about Sam and myself because we hadn’t offered him and his wife accommodation in this house when we heard he was bringing her with him.”

“I see. And the remaining members of the Libertines? What about them? You hinted they were all at loggerheads with Middleton.”

“I’ve told you about the feelings my family had for Tom Middleton because I thought it better to tell you the truth straight out. I don’t want you to hear bits and pieces from here and there and getting hold of the wrong end of the stick. But it’s no business of mine to tell you other people’s stories. They can do it for themselves. Then you’ll get the complete picture in each case—if they want to tell you.”

“Are you hinting that there may be things some of them will not wish to tell me?”

“As to that, I can’t say. Not because I won’t—although I wouldn’t—but because I can’t.”

“You make it sound as though there were a great many reasons for disliking Middleton. You feel you can safely say everybody was at loggerheads with him, which indicates that you are aware of many of the quarrels, and yet you say there are some you can’t tell us of—a known number and an unknown number, in fact. The total could be a headache for us.”

“It’s what you’re paid for, isn’t it?”

“No it’s not,” asserted Green. “Any more than your husband gets paid for weeds.”

“How do you mean?”

“He gets paid for corn. He doesn’t get paid for the weeds he’s had to get rid of in order to grow his wheat.”

“So?”

“We’re paid for delivering the goods, too. Nobody pays us to sort out and sift through a lot of petty quarrels in the process any more than they pay your old man an extra five pence a bushel because there were sow thistles in his patch when he harvested.”

Mrs Verity smiled suddenly at Green. “You could almost be a Yorkshireman yourself. Good and direct and not prepared to take any old buck from anybody.”

Green snorted. “I don’t mind you lot having a good opinion of yourselves, missus, just as long as you remember we’ve come across the bridge, too.”

Masters hastened to soothe matters. Green often got a bit irascible, particularly at the beginning of a case that—in his eyes—involved the ‘middle classes’. But it was unlike him to be anything short of gallant where a woman like Mrs Verity was concerned. She was the physical type that appealed to him. Well-cushioned and soft featured. He was a man who went for good legs that filled a pair of nylons to capacity. He couldn’t bear what he referred to snidely as ‘spindle shanks’ on a woman and his dislike of such limbs had, on more than one occasion, caused him to be a bit short with their unfortunate owners. Never to the point where he had done them less than justice, but his handling of them had been noticeably less friendly than was usually the case with those who were well-upholstered as to chest, with—as a bonus—underpinning like the pillars of Hercules.

“Perhaps we could meet the members?” Masters suggested. He was wondering about Green’s obvious antipathy to this apparently happy and forthright woman. Green wasn’t the one to take exception to plain speaking. As far as he, Masters, could tell, all Mrs Verity had done was tell them at least some of the truth, motivated by a woman’s urge to protect her family from danger either real or imagined. It may have coloured her account a little, even harshened her tone here and there, but that was to be expected in the circumstances, and no real provocation to a verbal passage of arms.

“You’ll have to gatecrash the meeting or wait till they finish.”

“I’ll look in.” Masters turned to Green. “Would you mind having a word with Mrs Middleton and Miss Verity. I’m sure Mrs Verity won’t mind showing you to the sewing room. Take Berger with you.”

Green got to his feet without a word to indicate his acquiescence. Instead, he said to Mrs Verity: “Did you have a drink with the players at lunchtime on Saturday?”

“No. Why?”

“I wondered if you’d seen what happened when the barman died, that’s all.”

But it wasn’t all. Masters knew. Green had cast Mrs Verity in the role of first murderer. By what complicated—or even simple—process of reasoning, Masters couldn’t tell. Nor, at this stage, was he worried. Green had set himself his own target. He could, for the moment, be left to aim for it.

Masters and Reed left the farmhouse and made their way diagonally left across the hard standing towards the old barn. It was now almost seven o’clock, but the evening sun was still high enough to be pleasantly warm and to bathe the buildings in a golden light which reflected off the windscreens of the parked cars as though from the scattered pieces of a shattered mirror.

“Are you barging in, Chief, or waiting for the meeting to end?”

“A discreet entry, I think. I’ve no wish to hang about, but there’s no reason to upset any other business.”

Reed grinned. He felt it was expected of him. But he made no further comment as they were, by now, within earshot of the open stable doors of the barn. As a murmur of voices from within reached them, Masters laid his hand on Reed’s arm to halt him.

They stopped to listen. They did not know it at the time, but the voice they heard was Minter’s.

“. . . thought it wise to retire. Most of you were present. I was off my game, and as we had wickets to spare, though time was running out, I took the gamble of making way for a more prolific scorer.”

“A jolly good move, too, Francis. And unselfish.”

“Thank you, Philip. As you know, we won the game and I was quite satisfied that we had won it fairly and well within the spirit as well as the laws of the game.”

“So we did. What’s all this about, Francis?”

“After the game I was accused by Tom Middleton of, and I quote, ‘less than sporting tactics in the conduct of the game’. I was told, quite bluntly, that the carefully nurtured standards and code of conduct of the Libertines had been thrown to the wind by my stooping to unworthy gamesmanship.”

“Rubbish.”

“Rubbish, maybe, David, but Tom Middleton was intent on making a formal protest at this A.G.M. about my conduct of the game, followed by a motion of censure on me as captain.”

“But Tom isn’t here to put any motion, Francis. Why bring it up?”

“Because he spoke before a witness, and so his protest to me was not a private one. Consequently, his absence tonight is no reason why his feelings should not be made known, and I can see no reason why I should hush up a matter which others here may regard in the same light as Tom did. And so, Mr Chairman, I wish to put to the meeting the suggestion that my captaincy last Saturday was not in keeping with the best traditions of the Libertines.”

“I’m not accepting your suggestion,” said a strong, Yorkshire voice—obviously that of the chairman. “I’m not going to insult you, Francis, by inviting discussion of as fine and—as Philip said—unselfish a bit of cricket captaincy as this team has seen in years. We none of us want to speak ill of the dead, but everybody knows that last Saturday afternoon old Tom was even more bad-tempered than usual, and that’s saying something. In Yorkshire parlance, he was as mardy as his arse at the Imps match, and I think it would be charitable to say he was not well at the time. I remember I mentioned it to you between the innings, didn’t I Philip? That he didn’t look too good?”

“You did, Sam. You said that he looked dicky and, uncommonly for him, he had refused any tea. I can remember saying that if he’d managed to get to the match he couldn’t be feeling all that bad.”

“Right. But he looked a bit under the weather, and I reckon it caused him to blast you, Francis. So we’ll forget it now. Nobody else agreed with him.”

“One moment, please, Sam.”

“Yes, William?”

“I was the witness Francis referred to, and I can say that at the time, Francis was exceedingly angry at what I thought to be the completely unwarranted attack made on him. So much so that, as opposed to Tom’s proposed vote of censure, I intended to ask the meeting to give Francis a vote of confidence, to show that we value his work as captain and to offset any effect that Tom’s onslaught may have had. Without such a counter-move, a man such as Francis may well consider that he should resign.”

“That’s different, William. I’ll accept a motion for a vote of confidence in Francis if you’ll propose it.”

“With pleasure.”

“Second it?” A slight pause. “Everybody, it seems. It hardly seems worth while taking a count. Unanimous, Francis. Tom’s gone. Forget him and what he said. It’s better that way.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

“Anything further? No? I declare the meeting closed, gentlemen.”

“Another one who had his knife into Middleton,” murmured Reed. “Francis somebody or other—the captain.”

Masters didn’t comment. So far they had remained hidden from the people inside the barn. Now he stepped forward and rapped smartly on the upper half of the heavy door before stepping into the comparative dimness of the great shed. The Libertines were still sitting round the dining table which they had used for their meeting as if in a board room. There were drinks glasses and ash trays, but no pads of paper or pencils before them. Masters guessed that this particular A.G.M. was a very free and easy affair, fully in keeping with the festival air of the cricket they joined together to play.

“Good evening.”

A thick-set man, almost, in Master’s view, an archetypal farmer, sitting at the head of the table with his back towards the door, turned and got to his feet.

“You’ll be policemen.” It was a statement, made with typical Yorkshire directness. Made, because Sam Verity—as Masters had guessed the speaker to be—had been told that the Yard had been called in, and so any strangers who appeared as these two had done must be policemen.

“Mr Masters, isn’t it?” A man of the same generation as Verity came towards them. “I’m William Dunstable. I am a London solicitor, so I know you by sight and by reputation.”

“Mr Dunstable.” Masters acknowledged him.

There was a pause as Masters looked around. The men at the table remained in their places, looking at him as though mesmerised.

“Gentlemen, as you heard, my name is Masters, and this is Sergeant Reed. There are two more in my party. Detective Chief Inspector Green and Sergeant Berger. We shall be moving among you, probably for several days, asking questions most of which will be an irritation to you, and some of which may sound silly and irrelevant. I apologise in advance for any nuisances we may cause.”

A man at the table spoke up.

“I’m Francis Minter, the team captain. Could I ask whether your enquiries will interfere with our fixtures? If so, I shall need to warn our opponents.”

“I see no reason why your games should not go ahead as arranged, Mr Minter. As I understand it, they are all due to be played in Ravendale itself, so there will be no travelling involved. That is the only restriction I would ask you to observe—not to travel away from the area without informing me. Mr Dunstable will no doubt tell you that I have no right to insist on such a course, but I should be grateful if, as a matter of courtesy, if not of co-operation, you would do as I ask.”

Nobody replied, so Masters took it that there was no great objection to his request. Dunstable, however, said after a moment: “Would it be possible for you to give us some idea of how this business now stands? Originally we thought that our barman, Larter, died of natural causes. Now the second death—that of Tom Middleton—has caused the police to have second thoughts, and your presence here is, if not sinister, at least disturbing. We feel as if we were somewhat under a cloud.”

“William’s right,” said Sam Verity. “As if the two deaths themselves were not enough, there’s now this police enquiry, which we don’t take very kindly to, seeing we reckon they both died natural deaths.”

“No,” said Masters firmly. “Neither of them did, though I will grant you that their individual ailments contributed to their dying.”

“Meaning?”

“If they had both been strong, fit and probably younger men, they might not have been pushed over the edge by the amounts of poison they ingested. But they did die because of nicotine poisoning, and, therefore, their deaths must be explained satisfactorily. That is why I am here. We shall make the business as painless as possible, but I should warn you that we intend to treat these cases as murder.”

“Nicotine?” asked Verity. “They died from nicotine poisoning?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know?”

“No I didn’t, but it’s bloody funny isn’t it, William?”

“Funny, Sam? Why? If they died of poison, it had to be some toxic substance, so why not nicotine?”

“Aye, but nicotine is a pesticide. Anybody wanting to kill somebody off on a farm couldn’t have picked anything better to do it with.”

“You rule out accident entirely?” asked Dunstable hurriedly.

“No solution is entirely ruled out, sir, but I feel I must assume the worst. I shall be happy to prove myself wrong.”

“You feel you have good cause to assume the worst?”

Masters looked round the assembled company. “Gentlemen, if your meeting is at an end, please don’t feel obliged to stay glued to your seats. I imagine you wish to open the bar before supper, and I would far rather approach each one of you personally and informally than stand here spouting like a politician hopeful of saving his deposit.”

Dunstable said: “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Sorry, sir. Yes, I’d love a drink. Very kind of you to ask. A beer, I think.”

Samuel Verity, who was quick enough mentally to appreciate the skill of Masters’ evasive tactics, laughed aloud. “He got you there, William. And it’s cost you a drink for your pains.”

Masters moved closer to Dunstable and Verity as the meeting broke up. “I apologise for virtually forcing you to buy me a drink, Mr Dunstable. It wasn’t that I really wanted to duck your question, but I didn’t want everybody to start speculating on what may be an embarrassing subject for Mr Verity there.”

“Oh, how?” asked Verity.

“My chief reason for not inclining towards the accident theory is simply the fact that lightning never strikes twice in the same place.”

“Three beers, Stan, please. When you’ve time,” called Dunstable to the young man who was opening up the bar. When he was sure Lamb had got the message, he turned to his companions. “That sounds a specious argument from a senior detective who is generally considered to be as shrewd as they come, Mr Masters. Don’t forget I know your reputation. You have, from time to time, prosecuted certain gentry who have called upon my services in their vain attempts to prove you wrong.”

“It depends on how much you trust or mistrust coincidences. Personally, I find life full of them. They are naturally occurring phenomena. But they don’t come naturally in clusters like grapes. Two men die from identical poisons, in the same place, on the same tour. They’re the same age, they have the same ailment, the same people were present . . . I could go on with the list ad nauseam. I should be accounted less than shrewd were I to ignore a whole list like that.”

“I’ll buy that,” said Verity. “But how can you say murder will be less embarrassing to me than accident.”

“Simply, Mr Verity, that if it were accident, it was not meant. That means that nobody came to Ravendale with the intent to commit murder. So nobody came prepared. Nobody brought nicotine with them. But two men have died of nicotine. So, if it was an accident, it means the nicotine was already here on your farm. And not only that, it means it was so carelessly housed and handled that it could get onto something Larter handled and Middleton ingested. So tell me, Mr Verity, where do you keep your nicotine insecticides, because if the deaths were accidental, they must be due to something on your farm?”

Verity had grown very red in the face. “I don’t use nicotine here.”

“No Black-Leaf 40 or other forms of nicotine sulphate?”

“Nothing like that. Teddy, who’s a very modern young farmer has wanted to introduce all these new-fangled sprays, but I’ve not let him. I’m very careful about insecticides because I have mixed farming here and I won’t have my animals poisoned by sprays and dusts—to say nothing of the birds and bees and butterflies. We need their help you know, as well as their beauty.”

“So you appreciate why, if I were to regard these deaths as accidental, it could be embarrassing for you?”

Lamb arrived with three tankards of beer. The three men took them wordlessly, Dunstable paying with a note from his hip pocket.

“Cheers!” Masters raised his glass slightly.

“Good health!” Verity sipped and then took out his handkerchief to mop his brow. “By jove, William wasn’t wrong when he said you were a knowing sort of bloke. I’m bloody glad I don’t use nicotine at Ravendale, otherwise . . .” He broke off and drank deep of his beer.

Masters turned to Dunstable. “I’m sorry, sir, but you must see I can’t proceed on the assumption that these deaths were accidents.”

Dunstable nodded.

Masters continued: “But at least the Libertines have you and your son—who, I’m told is also a solicitor—here with them, on the premises. Such legal assistance isn’t always available to those whom I encounter in the course of everyday business.”

“You wouldn’t think we’d be interfering—exceeding our roles as suspects? I take it my son and I are both suspects?”

“As much and as little as anybody else here on the farm.”

“Here, wait a minute,” protested Verity. “On the farm, you said. That includes my wife and daughter.”

“And Mrs Middleton, too. Everybody is in the same boat, sir. I have already spoken to Mrs Verity, and D.C.I. Green is talking to Mrs Middleton and Miss Verity at this moment.”

Green plodded, heavy footed, up the close-carpeted stairway of the old farmhouse behind Mrs Verity who was leading the way to the sewing room. Behind Green came Berger, who looked about him appreciatively as they went. The house filled him with admiration, but he daren’t voice his thoughts because Green was patently mulling over something in his mind, and was scowling in concentration.

They reached the head of the first flight where a narrow landing ran straight ahead while the stairs turned at right angles to go higher. “The house was built in two bits,” explained Mrs Verity. “The original, main part, faces east; but this back part was built on and runs due west. It was only meant to house the kitchen, scullery and pantries down below, but it has given us a bathroom, lavatory and three small bedrooms along here. The end one we use as a sewing room.”

They followed her past the closed doors of the rooms on the narrow landing which, because it had no direct light of its own, was rather dim. Then she opened the final door. The brightness of the room took Green aback. Because it was the end room the window had been set in the west wall, and the evening sun was flooding in.

“Darling, here are two detectives to see you and Mrs Middleton.” She stood aside to let the two men in. The whole length of the wall opposite the door was filled by a cutting-out table, which had obviously been shortened to fit the space. This held a length of cotton material to which were pinned various pieces of a paper pattern. To the right, behind the door was a dress stand—a chromium rod suspended by two uprights and carrying a large number of coathangers, some of which held garments swathed in dust sheets. In front of the window, and occupying virtually all the space between table and stand was a modern electric sewing machine on its purpose-built bench. The machine chair and an old-fashioned, armless, sewing chair filled most of the rest of the space. With the two women already there, there was scarcely enough room for Green and Berger, and certainly not enough for Mrs Verity, too. Recognising this fact, the farmer’s wife said to Green: “I’ll leave you to it,” and left, closing the door behind her.

Sarah Verity had been sitting sideways on the machine chair doing some hand sewing. She had a garment on her lap and a thimble on her finger. She now ran the needle into the material, gathered the garment together and put it on the extension top of the machine. As she stood up, she dusted down the front of her skirt with her hands. “It’s a bit of a squash, but if one of you will take this chair, I can sit here.” She moved and perched on the cutting-out table. Green liked the lithe movement and the shape of the bare brown legs. His immediate instinct was to like this girl where he had felt mistrustful of her mother.

As he sat down, as she had been, sideways on the machine chair, he looked at Mrs Middleton on the sewing chair. Pale, nervous, faded, Vera Middleton nevertheless coloured under his gaze.

“You’ll be Mrs Middleton? I’m Detective Chief Inspector Green. That’s Sergeant Berger. Sit on the table, son. What’s good enough for Miss Verity should be good enough for you. Besides, you look untidy standing up.”

It was a typical Green opening to an interview with people like this. He felt sorry for them and this was his effective—if gauche—way of putting them at their ease.

“Anybody want a fag?” He offered his crumpled Kensitas packet. To his surprise, the only taker was Mrs Middleton.

“There’s no ash tray,” said Sarah. “Never mind, use this.” She emptied the pin tray of its contents and handed it to Green.

“Now, ma’am,” said Green after lighting the cigarettes, “let’s have a little chat about things. As I understand it, your old man wasn’t feeling too good before he came up here.”

“Oh, he was quite all right in himself, really.”

“I thought he said he was too ill to live in the barn, so he brought the caravan and you to look after him.”

She leaned forward to tap her cigarette. “Tom had organic arterial occlusion and it gave him intermittent claudication, but it didn’t make him unwell.”

“Sounds pretty dire to me,” said Berger.

“Not really. He got a pain in his leg from time to time and he got bad at walking, but he wasn’t poorly with it. He could eat and drink all right, and he didn’t feel sick or anything like that. But he had to rest his leg and he felt he couldn’t do it in the barn whereas he could do it in the privacy of the van.”

“I see. So he was really a fit man until he died suddenly yesterday?”

“Not exactly. He was fit when we came up here, but he seemed a bit off-colour those last few days.”

“How d’you mean, off-colour?”

“Well, he didn’t eat much and his temper was worse than ever.”

“Bad tempered, was he?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“When did you notice it?”

“His temper?” asked Sarah. “He was always irascible.”

“His being off-colour,” said Green, keeping his eyes on Mrs Middleton.

“Let me see. . . .” She paused a moment to consider. “So much has happened . . . I know we went for a little walk on Saturday morning and he was very grumpy then.”

“His leg playing him up perhaps? I mean, a walk with a game leg!”

“A little stroll. It was his idea, not mine.”

“And he got grumpy about it?”

“He was always bad tempered.” She sat quiet for a second or two considering her reply, and then decided to change it. “No. I don’t mean he was always bad tempered. I mean he was never good tempered.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Berger.

“Negative and positive,” said Sarah, turning to face him. “Normal people sometimes go up, sometimes down. He only ever varied by going down—and that was pretty often.”

“Okay, okay,” said Green. “But even if he only went from bad to worse there had to be some reason. What caused it on Saturday?”

Vera Middleton looked timidly across at Sarah. “I’m afraid you did, my dear. You and those other pretty girls.”

“Hazel Brotherton and Anne Canham?”

“I don’t know their names, but they were bathing with you.”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Green. “Three pretty girls bathing gave your old man a fit of the nasties?”

“I’m afraid so. He was very prudish.”

“You mean the girls were bathing naked?”

“Oh dear, no. It was all quite proper. They and the young men with them were all in bathing dresses.”

“Then I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I,” said Sarah angrily. “What could he possibly object to?”

“Your antics, he said.”

“Antics? What antics?”

Green held his hands up. “Now ladies! Let me sort this out.” They both turned to him. “Where was this bathing party. In the river?”

“Just below the bridge. My brother has widened it to make a swimming pool.”

“Right. So it was within walking distance for Mr Middleton. Who got there first? Your bathing party, Miss Verity, or your walking party, Mrs Middleton?”

“We did,” said Sarah. “At least, I never saw . . .”

“They did,” agreed the older woman. “Tom and I saw them leave the house—through the caravan window, you know.”

“You were getting ready for your walk?”

“No. It was after that that Tom said he wanted a stroll.”

“Was it? And who chose which way to go?”

“Tom did, of course, but . . .”

Green turned to Sarah. “Mrs Middleton says she saw you leave the house to go for your bathe. How did she know you were going swimming?”

“Because I was in a terry towelling wrap and sandals, I suppose—oh, and a bikini, too, of course.”

“So! Mr Middleton saw you were obviously going to the pool, he decided to go for a walk, chose the direction of the pool and then got angry about what he saw there.”

“He couldn’t have done.”

“Your antics upset him according to Mrs Middleton.”

The older woman broke in: “There weren’t any improprieties for Tom to get worked up about. Just young men and girls enjoying themselves.”

“There you are!” said Sarah.

“Let me be the judge,” said Green. “Tell me exactly what went on.”

“There were only three girls, but four men. My brother Teddy, Stephen Dunstable, Frank Black and Stanley Lamb. All we did was swim and sunbathe. For most of the time Teddy, Frank and Stanley weren’t even with us girls. They were lying on the bank talking about how Teddy had made the pool. Frank is a builder, and he wanted to know some of the technical details. Teddy, of course, was only too ready to talk about his pool—he’s so proud of it. He even used the time to rope Stanley Lamb in to help him do some of the last of the concreting on Sunday morning.”

“That sounds like a reasonably conducted party,” said Green to Mrs Middleton.

“I said I saw nothing wrong. There couldn’t possibly have been. Sarah’s brother was with her, and they were so near home . . . I’m sorry, I’m putting this badly, but you know what I mean.”

Green nodded and Sarah grinned, good tempered once more.

“So what upset your husband?”

“I think he thought the bikinis were a bit too brief.”

“Good lord!” groaned Sarah. “The essence of a bikini is brevity. What did he expect? Frilly pantaloons and bathing machines?”

“So you brought him back to the van, grumbling all the way?”

“Yes.”

“What then?”

“I was going to prepare lunch so I told him to go across to the bar and have a drink with the members.”

“He went?”

“Oh, yes. To have a drink and to complain.”

“To the young men who had been bathing?”

“About them. He told me he spoke to William Dunstable about it.”

“He what?” exclaimed Sarah. “The old . . . look, Mrs Middleton, that must have been the second time he complained of my behaviour, with no justification at all. Did he make a habit of maligning girls?”

“Steady on!” cautioned Green. “We know about the first time, Miss. Your mother told us. So no need to go into it now.” He turned to the older woman. “So your husband voiced his complaint and then ordered a drink.”

“Yes. Pink gin. Always pink gin. It suited his temperament.”

“And while he was getting it, the barman, Larter, died?”

“That’s right.”

“Now, ma’am! He’d been grumpy because of the girls. Was he even grumpier about Larter’s death? Seeing most things seemed to make him nasty?”

“I don’t think that made him cross as much as it upset him.”

“How do you mean?”

“It put him off his food. But it did me, too, and I wasn’t there. Being present when somebody dies unexpectedly must upset you.”

“So your old man didn’t want lunch, is that it?”

“And he was shaken. Shock, I suppose. He was a bit pale.”

“But not really ill? Didn’t have to go to bed?”

“No. We went to the cricket match in the afternoon.”

“I see.” Green paused a moment, then he said quietly, “You know why we’re here. Mr Larter and Mr Middleton both died from nicotine poisoning. . . .”

Sarah gasped. “Nicotine, did you say?”

“Hadn’t anybody told you?”

“No. I just heard they’d been poisoned.”

“Your mother knew, miss.”

“She . . . she didn’t tell me.”

“We want to know where the nicotine came from.”

Sarah stared at him, white-faced.

“You know something, lass?”

“No . . . no! Only that nicotine is used as a pesticide, isn’t it?”

“On this farm?”

“I don’t know. I have nothing to do with the actual farming.”

Green looked at her keenly.

“What is your job exactly?”

“In the farm office. I do the books and fill in all the government forms.”

“Then come clean,” grunted Green. “If you do the books you see the invoices for everything that’s bought. Have you ever seen a bill for nicotine insecticide?”

Sarah didn’t answer for a moment.

“There’s no point in not answering,” said Berger encouragingly. “We’ve only to look at your ledgers, you know.”

Mrs Middleton said quietly: “Don’t be afraid, Sarah. If you make too much of a mystery of it, these gentlemen are bound to think it more significant than it really is—whatever you’re holding back from them.”

“Quite right ma’am.” Green returned his attention to Sarah. “Now I’ll tell you something, young lady. Whatever it is you’re fighting shy of telling us is known to your mother, isn’t it.”

“Did she tell you?”

“No, love.”

“Then how . . .? You’ve been trying to trap me.”

“You and your mum are trapping yourselves. Ever since we started talking to Mrs Verity I’ve been wondering what she was on the defensive about. Holding back, she was, while pretending to tell us everything. But it didn’t ring true. You, see, lass, old coppers like me are like truffle hounds. We can scent things even if they’re hidden. And your old mum is an open, honest sort of woman, I’d guess. But she was as tight as a violin string when she was talking to us. I could hear the twanging, girl. I could hear it. Part truths, or part of the truth, was causing it to give off a sort of low, warning sound, a bit off key. It wasn’t just ringing true, and to somebody like me, something that’s a bit off true gets my hackles up. That’s why I said your mother knew about the nicotine. She didn’t mention it, but I could tell she knew more than she was saying. So now we know where we are, out with it, love, and let’s stop the sparring.”

Sarah was looking down from her perch on the table, examining her sandals. She had her legs slightly forward of her, and was gazing at her feet intently, but it is doubtful if she was seeing them. Green, an old hand who had met everything, guessed that she was concentrating on how best to tell her story, so that it would be received in the way she wanted it to be received. He didn’t press her. The more of a rigmarole she told, the better. Facts slip out in long conversations. Monosyllabic answers don’t often say much more than would a nod or a shake of the head.

At last she looked up.

“Daddy’s a very practical farmer. He learned it all here in Ravendale. Teddy is more academic. He’s very practical, too, of course, but he’s been to an agricultural college so he knows the book answers—all about plant chemistry, soil chemistry and so on.”

Green nodded. “Sounds like a good combination to me.”

“Oh yes, they’re very successful. A mixture of the traditional and the modern seems to do very well.”

“If they work amicably together,” said Berger. “There must be that proviso.”

“Spare us the long words, lad.”

“They work very well together. They’re great friends.”

“But?” asked Green. “There’s always a but.”

“Daddy says he’ll accept that Teddy knows a lot more than he does about breeding and crossing strains of animals and even plants. But. . . .”

“Ah!”

“But Daddy says nobody can teach him much about how to keep land in good heart. He says nature provided the means with manure and compost and apart from a dressing of lime now and again, there’s no need for chemical fertilisers or, if it comes to that, of strong pesticides like organophosphorus, dinitrephenol and related compounds.”

“Long words again,” sighed Green. “They’d include paraquat and all those names ending in thion, would they?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“So your old man was against these, but Teddy wasn’t?”

“There are some things—I don’t know what they are, ticks or viruses or something—which can only be killed off by the modern methods, and Teddy wanted to use them. He said it was silly not to use everything to hand.”

“But Pa said no?”

Sarah nodded.

“And his veto included nicotine products?”

“Yes.”

“So there’s no nicotine on the farm?” He waited a moment and then added: “Or there’s not supposed to be.”

“Teddy got some on Friday,” she whispered.

“Last Friday?”

“In Harrogate. Only a small drum.”

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it. He didn’t even mention it to me. I only know because I saw it on the invoice when I was entering it in the books.”

“How did your mother get to know?”

“I told her.”

“Why? Specifically?”

“To prepare her for ructions, I suppose, when Daddy found out.”

“If he found out.”

She nodded. “He’s not one for going through bills with a fine tooth comb, so he was unlikely to get to know from the books, but if he should see it . . . out in the barn or somewhere . . .”

“I get it. He and Teddy would have words. Yes?”

“I’m sure they would. And that would be a great upset for Mummy, because they’re great friends.”

“And your mother didn’t tell you that the two deaths on the farm were due to nicotine poisoning?”

“How could she? I told her last Saturday morning. Nobody had died then.”

“So it would come as a shock to her when she learned what the causes of death were?”

“It must have done. Poor Mummy, she would be in a state about it. I think that’s why you thought her manner was strange.”

“I know why she was holding out on me,” grunted Green. “She was protecting your brother. Hoping I wouldn’t find out he’d bought nicotine.”

“Maybe. But if that was so, she’d have warned me. I didn’t know the poison, honestly, until you told me.”

“I believe you, lass,” said Green, grudgingly.

“So you see, Mummy wasn’t trying to deceive you. It’s just that she couldn’t bring herself to tell you. Not about Teddy. I suppose she felt it would be a betrayal, and she knew you’d get to know from me.”

Green got to his feet. “I’ll take your word for it, miss, for the moment. Just one final point. Who else have you mentioned this can of nicotine pesticide to?”

“Nobody.”

“Your dad?”

“He’s the last person.”

“Your brother? Haven’t you asked him what the hell?”

“No.”

“Why not? You’re matey with him, aren’t you? Why not ask him what he means by rocking the family boat?”

“Too much has happened at the farm these last few days. I haven’t had a chance to get Teddy on one side and give him a piece of my mind.”

“I see. But you’ve seen your boy friend—the young solicitor?”

She smiled. “The last thing Stephen and I would want to talk about when we’re together is pesticides.”

Green grinned. “I’ll bet.” He looked down at Mrs Middleton who had been sitting silent for some time. “I’m sorry if this is painful for you, ma’am.”

She looked up at him. “It isn’t. I’m curiously unaffected by Tom’s death. I don’t feel . . . bereft, if that’s the word. In fact, I feel free. You see, Mr Green, I’ve had more kindness and consideration in thirty-six hours from Sarah, Mrs Verity and everybody else here than I’ve had in thirty-six years of marriage to Tom. I’d forgotten what it was like to live away from bad temper. So don’t worry about me. I think I’m happier than I have been for years.”

Green’s mouth remained slightly open with surprise for a moment or two after this serene, almost carefree statement. The only reply he could think of was an astonished: “I see.”

But Mrs Middleton was not finished with him. She said artlessly: “I met young Mr Verity—Teddy—for the first time last Friday afternoon . . .”

“Afternoon?” asked Berger suspiciously. “You didn’t get here till the evening.”

“Teddy did us a great kindness. We broke down on the road, and in face of a great deal of provocation and blatant rudeness from my husband, he cheerfully helped us to get here. If you policemen say that Teddy Verity was in any way responsible for my husband’s death, I assure you I shall tell everybody that I saw Tom—while we were in Teddy’s car—fiddling with the goods that were there on the back seat. Tom was like that. Nosey! He must have examined that tin. Perhaps opened it. I shall say he got some of the dust on his clothes and that somehow, later, he got it into his mouth and it killed him.”

Green frowned. “Don’t be silly, love,” he warned her. “False statements of that kind are just a waste of time. Our time. We can always shoot them full of holes. We get so many of them these days they’ve become part of the game. Spare us this time, there’s a love.”

Mrs Middleton looked slightly abashed. Sarah got down from the table and put an arm round the older woman’s thin shoulders. “She’ll behave herself, Mr Green—if you do.”

Green shook his head sadly. “Careful, young lady, or I’ll interpret that as a threat. Besides, I always do behave myself—like a copper. And that means without fear or favour.”

Chapter Six

Green was looking secretive when he entered the barn in search of Masters. He glanced right and left suspiciously before making his way to where the Superintendent was speaking to James Gordon and Ronald Huckle.

“These two gentlemen,” said Masters, “were not here for Saturday’s game. They were latecomers, due to unavoidable business on Saturday morning.”

Green wasn’t really interested in this piece of news. He greeted the two men perfunctorily, murmured something about their being lucky to have alibis for the time of Larter’s death, and then said rather abruptly to Masters: “Can I have a private word?”

“Certainly. Will you excuse us, gentlemen?”

Most of the Libertines were still in the barn, standing about in groups, drinking. To some degree it was the herd instinct that kept them together in the face of an unknown threat. But as supper was to be late—fixed to be served after the annual meeting—the prospect of food was as much a factor in keeping them there as the presence of the police.

“Outside,” suggested Green, intimating that he didn’t want their conversation to be overheard. Masters nodded and accompanied him out into the still bright evening sunlight. They came to a halt in the middle of the hard standing, in the only narrow space left empty of the dozen or so parked cars and the Middleton caravan.

“I got the impression you were not too happy about Mrs Verity,” said Masters.

“I got the impression she was telling the truth but not the whole truth. I’m never very happy about short measures of anything—from shopkeepers, pub landlords or witnesses.”

Masters tapped his pipe out very gently on one well-polished shoe heel and then dispersed what fell from the bowl with his toe.

“You listening?” demanded Green.

“Listening and waiting. For what you’re so anxious to tell me. Your demeanour suggests it’s momentous.”

“How far have you got in there?”

“Difficult to say. There are scores of points I must think about. Minter, the team skipper, had a serious disagreement with Middleton. The building director, Frank Black, was incensed by Middleton’s insistence on referring to him as a bricklayer. Dunstable senior was up in arms over the insinuations about his son. Verity the same on account of his daughter. Young Verity had been treated roughly, too, and as far as I can make out, there was a conspiracy among the young people last Friday night to up-end the caravan.”

“Did they do it?”

“Mrs Middleton’s presence apparently saved her husband who, as far as I can gather, had put everybody’s back up at some time or another.”

“Everybody’s?”

“Not quite all. Gardner hadn’t fallen foul of him this year. Nor had Shapcott—probably because this is his first time here. Collyer and Lamb seemed slightly less bitter about him.”

“Anything else?”

“I was getting a pretty full picture of what has gone on since Friday night. Sudd, the doctor, seems to be having something of a busman’s holiday because there have been so many requiring his attention.”

“Oh? You mean some of the others might have been poisoned—less severely, like?”

“The thought occurred to me, so I pursued that line. I think the answer is no. But why all the questions? I thought you wanted to tell me something privately?”

Green took his time lighting a battered Kensitas, as though savouring the pause before he pulled the pin on the bombshell.

“Where’s young Teddy Verity?” he asked at last.

“Not in the barn. He doesn’t eat with the team, obviously. Are you going to tell me why you want him?”

“His mother wouldn’t tell us, but I got it out of the daughter.”

“Go on,” said Masters patiently.

“I knew she was hiding something, but there’s more than one way of skinning a cat.”

Masters waited, allowing Green his triumph. After a moment, the D.C.I. said: “There’s nicotine pesticide on this farm.”

“Sam Verity says there isn’t. He won’t permit its use.”

“He’s lying.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Teddy bought a drum in Harrogate on Friday.”

Masters paused before responding.

“Was this what Mrs Verity knew, but didn’t tell us?”

Green nodded. “And I reckon she didn’t because she knew that the deaths had been caused by nicotine.”

“But the daughter told you about the poison?”

“Yes. You see, she didn’t know those two had died from nicotine.”

“Let’s get it straight. Both women knew Teddy Verity had bought nicotine pesticide. His mother wouldn’t tell us because she knew what had caused the deaths. The daughter told you because she knew of no reason not to.”

“That’s it.”

“So Sam Verity . . .”

“I said he was lying. So he was, in that he wasn’t telling you the truth, but he didn’t know Teddy had bought the stuff.”

“Ah!”

“The daughter does the books. She saw the nicotine as an item on a bill. She knew daddy would be cross about it, so she told mummy.”

“And they didn’t tell the old man because of this known dislike of such pesticides?”

“That’s it. So I reckon we want Teddy Verity.”

“He’s certainly got some questions to answer.”

“Questions to answer! I’ll say he has. And some explaining to do. Why he bought nicotine against his dad’s wishes. Why he kept it quiet.”

“I thought you said his sister knew.”

“I told you. She got it from the invoice. It was mixed in with a lot of other items. He didn’t tell her.”

“You mean he didn’t intend to let anybody know, but he overlooked the fact that it was on the supplier’s bill?”

“That’s right. And after he’s explained that he’s got to tell us what he wanted it for, where it is, what he’s done with it. . . .”

“Hang on a moment. You’ve got him lined up for this one already, haven’t you?”

“He had a run in with Middleton—on his own account, besides that business over his sister. Then Middleton criticised his bathing party. Plenty of motive there.”

“But if I’ve got the story right, he bought the nicotine before Middleton was rude to him or even before he knew the old boy had been critical of his sister.”

“So what? He had the means—a tin of nicotine. We know that. He had the motive—we’ve just said so. And as for opportunity . . . well, hell, George, he’s been here on the farm all the time. And those are the only three things we have to show and prove to charge him.”

Masters stood silent.

Green sneered: “You’re not liking the idea of me beating you to it. Is that it?”

“I hope not.”

“What then? Why not take him in?”

“Because I think that would be premature.”

“Typical,” grumbled Green. “You don’t think anybody else but yourself . . .”

“Rubbish. I don’t want us to make fools of ourselves, and so far you’ve done very well, but you’ve only got one and a half points out of three.”

“How do you mean?”

“Means, motive and opportunity. You’ve got one for means, certainly, but the motive you suggest is not strong enough. It doesn’t merit more than half a point.”

“So what? We don’t have to prove motive.”

“Not to a court, perhaps. But we do to ourselves, and you know it. In cases like this at any rate, even if not in mindless killings. And as for opportunity, well, I’m not going to accept guilt by association.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Just because young Verity was here at the farm at the same time as the deaths occurred doesn’t constitute opportunity for him any more than it does for a score of others. If he put that pesticide in a shed last Friday and hasn’t touched it since then, anybody could have got at it and administered it to the victims. In fact, Teddy Verity would have to be a very foolish young man indeed to buy a poisonous substance quite openly and then to use it for nefarious purposes, and I can assure you he is far from being a fool. I met him a short time ago and he struck me as being a very intelligent, practical young farmer.”

Green ground his cigarette out under his chunky, square-toed shoe. His dissatisfaction with Masters’ decision not to invite Teddy Verity down to the local station was apparent in his demeanour. His silence reinforced his anger. Masters, accustomed to Green’s attitudes, made a point of not speaking lest, by doing so, he should yield some of the authority of his position. It was an impasse which Green himself had to break, even if it were only by stumping away from his superior without uttering another word. The matter was resolved, however, by Sergeant Reed, who came out of the barn and made his way towards them. Green, not prepared to address Masters, put his question to Reed instead.

“Where’s young Verity?”

The asperity of the tone caused Reed to gawp, but he answered civilly enough. “He left some time ago, I think. At any rate he’s not there now.”

“I didn’t ask where he wasn’t. I asked where he is.”

“Probably in the farmhouse.”

“Get him.”

Reed looked at Masters for confirmation of the order. Masters nodded and then added: “The D.C.I. has discovered that Teddy Verity bought a drum of nicotine pesticide last Friday. We want the young man himself and the drum.”

When Reed was out of earshot, Masters said: “It’s your baby. Sort it out. If you want me, I’ll be in the barn.”

“Hobnobbing?”

“If you like to call it that.”

Sam Verity was talking to the elder Dunstable. Masters approached them.

“I’d like a word, Mr Verity.”

“I’ll go,” said Dunstable.

“Perhaps you’d better stay,” said Masters. “Mr Verity may well be a little shaken by what I have to say or by its possible implications.”

“You sound serious.”

“You will understand why when you hear what I have to say.” Masters turned to Verity who was regarding him in some bewilderment. “You told me less than an hour ago that there was no nicotine pesticide at Ravendale.”

“Neither is there.”

“Your son bought a drum of it in Harrogate last Friday afternoon and brought it back here.”

Verity’s full, red face heightened in colour.

“He what?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Of course I didn’t. In fact, I don’t believe it.”

“Then perhaps you won’t believe an invoice for the stuff that your daughter has put through your books.”

“I certainly won’t. Those bloody suppliers have made a mistake.”

“Let’s hope so. We shall, of course, check it tomorrow. Meanwhile I must assume that your son disobeyed your wishes and bought nicotine.”

Dunstable said quietly: “We shall have to assume the same, Sam.”

Verity turned to his friend. “You’re saying Teddy bought the stuff to kill Larter and Tom Middleton?”

“No. Not that. But if Mr Masters says he bought it, there’s little use in denying it without further facts. I’m sure there’s some simple explanation for Teddy’s action.”

“Let’s hope so,” agreed Masters. “And believe me I am not saying your son killed either or both of those men, Mr Verity.”

“I should bloody well hope not.”

“But I am suggesting that he may have been the agency by which the means to kill them arrived on the farm.”

“Unwitting agency,” corrected Dunstable.

“If you like. But I thought it right to warn you that my colleagues are now seeking your son and the tin of pesticide.”

“Do you intend to arrest him?” asked Dunstable.

“Not unless we find some cause to make us think it is prudent to do so.”

“Thank you for that, anyway.”

“Thank him?” growled Verity. “What the hell for?”

“Sam,” said Dunstable quietly, “the police only have to prove means and opportunity to justify an arrest. If Teddy had the means . . .”

“Which I doubt.”

“We’ll see. But if he bought pesticide last Friday and . . .” the voice quietened “. . . and kept it a secret, if only from you, even you will not be able to argue that he had no opportunity to use it in a period of roughly five days.”

“You, too, William?”

“Reality, Sam. The sooner Teddy is found and answers Mr Masters’ questions, the sooner we’ll know the truth.”

“You’ll be with him, William?”

“Of course. Though he may prefer Stephen.”

“Why not both—or all three of you?” asked Masters.

“You mean that?”

“Look, Mr Dunstable, I’m not here to hound a lad simply because he may have disobeyed his father’s orders.”

“May have? That’s equivocal.”

“It was not meant to be. I do not question the fact that Mr Verity forbade dangerous pesticides.”

“That’s something,” grunted Sam.

“Careful, Sam,” warned Dunstable. “If you’re too dogmatic in maintaining your attitude about the ban on pesticides, Mr Masters is entitled to attribute a more sinister reason for Teddy breaking a rule which you say you insisted on so fiercely.”

“Hell’s teeth!”

“That wasn’t quite my point,” murmured Masters. “I used the conditional purely to refer to the fact that until the purchase is verified we must not stipulate—as opposed to assuming—that young Mr Verity brought the pesticide to the farm. Nothing more than that.”

“That’s fair enough. What are you going to do about it?”

“The obvious. Question your son and look for the drum of nicotine. Where is the young man, anyway?”

Verity looked about him.

“If he isn’t here, he’ll be at supper in the house. Where I should be.”

“In that case, I’ll walk over with you.”

“You come, too, William,” said Verity.

“If Mr Masters doesn’t object.”

“I don’t want any police pressure being put on Teddy.”

“Steady, Sam. You’ve spoken to the Superintendent at length. You know he’s a reasonable man not out to stampede anybody.”

“Thank you,” murmured Masters.

“You’ve got me wrong,” growled Verity. “If Masters here is worth his salt as a detective, he’ll have to go all out once he’s got the bit between his teeth. I would, in his place. So I don’t blame him, but I want to see he’s not given an entirely free rein when he meets the lad.”

Masters, tall enough to look down on Verity, said quietly: “Nothing and nobody stops me when the time comes, sir. So bring along whom you wish—if you think they’ll benefit you or your son.”

Verity grunted and started to move towards the door of the barn. It seemed as if the assembled company sensed that some crisis had been reached. The talk ceased, and the little groups of cricketers moved aside to leave a clear path for the three men.

Nobody spoke as the trio crossed towards the gate in the low wall before the farm house. The bright evening seemed still and golden, the rays of the westering sun gilding the broad shiny leaves of nearby bushes and trees like mirrors, robbing them of green and replacing it with reflected light.

As Verity reached the open front door, his wife appeared in the hall.

“What is it, Sam?” She, too, seemed to sense the crisis.

“Teddy. Where is he?”

“He’s gone.” Sally Verity said it in a perplexed tone, eyes open wide, asking the unspoken question as to why her son should be sought so urgently, and yet giving the impression that she already knew the unpalatable answer.

They all waited for Masters to remark on her answer. He didn’t fall into the obvious trap and demand to know what she meant. Instead, he said: “When do you expect him back, Mrs Verity? Not too late, I imagine, since farmers are notoriously early risers?”

The calm tone seemed to lessen the tension.

“I might have guessed,” said Verity. “He’ll have gone over to see young Hazel Brotherton.”

“Yes, that’s where he went.”

“His young lady? Where does she live?”

“Between three and four miles away. Her father has a holding the other side of Ravendale.”

“A holding? Would that be what I know as a small-holding? A sort of market garden?”

“Not quite,” said Verity. “Here, come along into the room. We can’t stand here yapping all night.”

Sally led the way and they followed her into the sitting room. As they went, Verity said: “Don’t get the wrong impression about Brotherton. He’s not a market gardener. In fact, he’s quite a wealthy man. But he’s not too fit and his doctor made him get out of his business and into the open air. His hobby is horticulture, if you like. He grows all his own vegetables, and a few to spare to give away, and he grows flowers, too. He likes to experiment.”

“How do you mean?”

“Anything new, he’ll try, be it a new dahlia, a fancy cloche, or a new system of building a compost heap.”

“A dilettante?”

“Only in so far as he’s an amateur and doesn’t grow for profit. A good gardener otherwise—if he didn’t latch on to so many new fads and fancies.”

As Masters took the proffered chair and all four settled themselves somewhat uneasily in furniture which was meant for comfort, Dunstable asked: “May we know the whereabouts of your colleagues, in the light of Teddy’s absence?”

Masters looked across at him as if considering whether the knowledge of the activities of Green and the two sergeants could possibly fall within the realm of what an attendant solicitor was entitled to ask. Before he could answer, Sally Verity said: “They asked me for the key to the barn where fertilisers are kept.”

“Did you give it to them, ma’am?”

“Course not,” snorted Verity. “We don’t lock the damn place.”

“So,” said Dunstable, “they are carrying out a search for the pesticide, but not looking for Teddy, as you said they were.”

“You sound slightly bitter, sir. Wouldn’t you expect police to look for what could be the cause of the trouble?”

“Certainly I would, but wouldn’t it have been better to locate Teddy first?”

“They started before I joined you and Mr Verity. But perhaps you think I should have asked permission to make the search for the nicotine?”

“In theory, I think perhaps you should. If I’m not mistaken, your men would not have attempted to search this house without permission or a warrant. The outbuildings here constitute an intrinsic part of the homestead.”

Masters nodded. “I won’t argue law with you, Mr Dunstable, but if you are right in saying the outbuildings are an intrinsic part, well, I can only remind you that we were made welcome in the barn, which I construed as an invitation to pursue our business as we saw fit.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Verity. “There’s nothing to hide.”

“Sam . . .” Mrs Verity began and then stopped.

“It’s all right, love. Everybody’s heard that Teddy bought a drum of nicotine last Friday.”

“I would have told you.”

“I know, Sal. But did you ask Teddy why he got it?”

“No. I should have done. . . .”

Masters was filling his new pipe very slowly from the brassy tin of Warlock Flake. He seemed to be concentrating on the outline of the sphinx trademark on the lid as he did so. The two Veritys seemed to have forgotten his presence.

“. . . and I should have asked him where he’d put it and what he intended to do with it.”

“And to warn him about letting me know he’d got it.”

“Yes.”

“Pity you didn’t tell me right away.”

“Why?” asked Masters suddenly.

“Eh? Why, because I’d have told him to get rid of it.”

“Where?”

Sam Verity scratched his head. “That’s the trouble with such like. You don’t know where to dump ’em that’s safe. But it would have saved all this . . .” He spread his thick, chunky hands expressively.

“Sam!” warned Dunstable.

“It’s all right, William. Mr Masters isn’t going to take that as admitting that Teddy’s stuff caused these deaths. Are you, Mr Masters?”

“No,” admitted Masters, whose pipe was drawing well, as if to indicate that he intended staying where he was, all night, if needs be. “And you should remember, that what I think doesn’t matter. It’s what I can prove that counts.”

“I don’t believe that,” said Sally Verity firmly. She was obviously under strain and very nervous, but she was nevertheless sufficiently in control of her feelings to make the retort sound considered and worthy of serious reply rather than meriting reassurance from her husband.

“Is that why you didn’t mention to us the fact that you knew those two deaths had been caused by nicotine?”

“I didn’t, because I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know, or weren’t sure?”

“I had a feeling . . .” Her face remained calm, but her voice sounded agitated. “Very well, Mr Masters. I had no way of knowing what killed those two men, other than the fact that it was poison. But I knew Teddy had bought that nicotine last Friday and . . .”

“Shall we just say that fear drove you to put two and two together and arrive at an answer which made you morally certain they had been poisoned with nicotine?”

“That’s it.”

“And with that moral certainty in the forefront of your mind, you deliberately avoided mentioning Teddy’s purchase to us?”

“What would you have done?”

“In your place? Probably the same. But you see, Mrs Verity, my team were equally morally certain that you had that knowledge and had withheld it from us, so your silence, far from protecting your son, assumed a more sinister aspect than it need have done. In our eyes, that is, because, I repeat, it is only what we can prove that counts.”

“And I repeat I don’t believe you,” said Sally firmly. “You’ve just shown you can interpret silence as being incriminatory.”

“Even Mr Masters has to convince a court with facts,” said Dunstable gently.

“How often does he fail?”

Dunstable grimaced. “I must admit that his reputation is somewhat fearsome in that respect.”

“So what he thinks, goes, because he is who he is.”

“Please,” interrupted Masters. “Let me explain. I am a man who is as proud of his successes as any other. But how do you think I achieve the reputation for success that Mr Dunstable describes as fearsome? I’ll tell you. I try never to bring a case to court unless I am certain, not only in my own mind, of the guilt of the accused, but also that I can prove that guilt beyond doubt. By following this precept, I get a very high percentage of guilty verdicts. But the policeman whose only aim is to make arrests at any price often has a lamentable success rate in the courts. And that is not for me. I value my reputation too highly for that and, oddly enough, I have a conscience which says that those who are innocent of a crime should never suffer the indignity of being charged with it, let alone being brought to court and found guilty. On the other hand, I am equally determined that villains should be well and truly dealt with.”

After he had finished speaking, there was silence for an appreciable time. The jangle of the door bell sounded unnaturally loud. Mrs Verity got to her feet and went to the room door. As she opened it, those in the room heard a flurry of footsteps on the stairs and Sarah’s voice say: “All right, Mum, I’ll answer it.”

“It’ll be Stephen,” suggested Verity. “She’ll have been expecting him.”

His wife, still standing by the open door of the sitting room, her hand on the brightly polished brass knob, said: “It’s not Stephen.”

It was Green. He was ushered in by Sarah who was chatting to him in a friendly manner.

“You haven’t seen Stephen have you?”

“No, Miss Verity. But then I’ve not been acting as go-between. I’ve been playing hunt the slipper.”

“You don’t look as if you’ve won the prize.”

“Not yet, love. But you never can tell.”

“I think I hope you don’t.”

“No you don’t think that. Not you.” Green was being heavily gallant. “You’ve enough faith in your brother to want me to find the slipper so’s the matter can be cleared up and you can put your tongue out at me and say I told you so, it wasn’t him!”

“Quite right.” Sarah turned to Dunstable. “Have you seen Stephen?”

“Were you expecting him?”

“Half.”

“He won’t stand you up, Sarah—if that’s the right term—but there’s been a bit of a turmoil over in the barn this evening, due to the meeting and the arrival of Mr Masters and his team. Supper was delayed a bit.”

“That’s right,” agreed Verity. “None of us has had anything to eat yet. My stomach’s beginning to think my throat’s been cut.”

As if this were a criticism of her standards of hospitality and housewifely acuity, his wife jumped to her feet. “It’s all ready. Ham and salad. On the dining-room table.”

“Please, go ahead,” said Masters.

“There’s enough for us all,” said Sally. “I prepared for four extra.”

“There’s William,” said Verity.

“Enough for eight’s enough for nine. Come along everybody and help yourselves. When the other two policemen come they can join us. Where are they, by the way?”

Green coughed and looked across at Masters who nodded almost imperceptibly.

“They’re still looking for the nicotine.”

“Do you really mean you haven’t found it?” asked Sally in some perplexity. “But it must be in the store. Teddy wouldn’t put it anywhere else unless . . .”

“Unless what, miss?” asked Green.

“Don’t answer, Sarah,” commanded Dunstable.

Sarah looked startled. Green laid a hand on her bare arm. “Mr Dunstable’s right, love. If your brother would have put the drum there under normal circumstances, what are the abnormal circumstances which caused him not to do the normal thing? Answer? Jiggery-pokery. So you watch your tongue and don’t suggest such things to Mr Masters and me.” Green grinned at her, his heavy features puckered up into a wrinkled mass that reminded Masters of a human brain in pickle. The girl stared at him for a moment, and Masters suddenly found himself hoping that she would not show revulsion and thereby hurt Green’s feelings. He needn’t have worried. Sarah was as kind as she was fair. Her face broke into a smile, not exactly a happy one, but one which showed she appreciated Green’s attitude.

Verity said: “To hell with all this business of watching our tongues, William. These chaps know what we’re going to say before we say it, anyhow.”

Dunstable got to his feet. “And it’s lucky for us, Sam, they take the attitude they do. There are those who would make capital out of any unguarded word.”

“Your solicitor is right, sir,” said Masters. “And so will I, if a slip of the tongue helps me.”

“Oh, yes?”

“But it works two ways, you know. You’d be surprised how often the conversation of people not on their guard serves to give an impression of innocence, if it doesn’t exonerate them completely.”

Sally said: “Supper everybody. Lead the way Sarah.”

The two sergeants were invited to supper in the barn. Stephen Dunstable called on Sarah and they went off together. Mrs Verity and Mrs Middleton left the men and went to chat in the sewing room. After that, the four of them—Masters, Green, Verity and Dunstable—talked cricket in the sitting room. They smoked and chatted and drank a little. Masters, who was a lover of the game, was surprised by Green, whom he knew only as a staunch supporter of two soccer teams—Fulham and Chelsea—which he watched with complete impartiality when he had the time to do so and when one or the other was playing at home. But Green, though no great cricket buff, was possessed of a memory which enabled him to recall outstanding feats in the field, which knowledge gave him, among the company there assembled, an entirely spurious reputation as an authority on the game. So, in the circumstances, it was a pleasant enough way of spending the time until the sound of an approaching car broke their concentration a little before eleven o’clock.

“Teddy,” said Verity. “I know the noise.”

A minute or so later, Teddy Verity came into the room.

“Still up, dad?”

Verity was ill at ease now. “Not blind, are you?” he asked gruffly.

“Sorry.”

“Where have you been? We’ve been waiting for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes, for you. These gentlemen want to know why you bought a drum of nicotine last Friday and what you’ve done with it.”

“Oh, that!”

“Yes, that.”

Teddy sat on the arm of the sofa. Before he could start his explanation, Dunstable said: “Be careful what you say, Teddy.”

“Why? What am I supposed to have done?”

“Let’s discuss it, shall we?” asked Masters quietly. “With no wrangling and no interruptions . . .” he turned to Dunstable “. . . that are not legally necessary, of course.”

Dunstable inclined his head in agreement.

Masters turned again to the young man. “Mr Verity, do you know how Nick Larter and Tom Middleton died?”

“The talk is that they were poisoned—but only after old Tom died. We just thought Nick died of some attack due to his illness before that.”

“And how were they poisoned, Mr Verity?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“I meant by what agent? What poison?”

The youth looked bemused and glanced round the room. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Not even from rumour?”

Teddy shrugged. “I’ve heard a few things mentioned, but it’s all guesswork—arsenic, strychnine—you name it, they talk about it.”

“They?”

“The Libertines.”

“And your mother? What was her guess?”

Sam Verity growled, as the prelude to a protest, but Dunstable quietened him with a gesture.

“Mum? I haven’t heard anything about it from her.”

“Nor from your father?”

“Oh, Dad! He’s not said much, but I think he reckons Nick died of natural causes and old Tom poisoned himself with his own black bile. Foul-tempered old sinner! I kept the dairy door closed for fear he’d curdle the cream.” His grin robbed his words of the bitterness which might have been considered to transgress against the code of nil nisi bonum.

“I see. And your guess?”

“Honest, I haven’t a clue. The whole thing has been a bit of a nuisance, really. Two deaths when we were looking forward to a bit of cricket.”

“So it will come as a surprise to you to know that your mother knew which poison was involved?”

“Abso-blooming-lutely. Did she tell you, Dad?”

“No,” growled his father. “Pay attention to Mr Masters.”

“Sorry.” Teddy didn’t look in the least contrite, but his pleasant youthfulness served in its stead and none took offence at the grin which accompanied the word.

A moment of silence until the grin faded quite naturally, and then—

“Nicotine,” said Masters quite quietly, but so distinctly that the word came across as clear as a pianissimo piccolo note to an enthralled audience.

Teddy’s reactions were just a fraction slower than normal. The four men watching his face could almost follow the mental processes of dawning comprehension affecting his facial muscles. The gaiety departed from the features as if a hand had slowly withdrawn a cover, while another agency slipped a second mask—of dismay—into the area thus vacated.

“Oh, lord!”

Masters waited a moment.

“Yes, Mr Verity?”

Teddy looked straight at him.

“I suppose you’ve heard I bought some nicotine pesticide last Friday.”

“We have. And while we are very interested in that fact alone, we are even more interested in two further points.”

“I know what you’re going to say. Dad forbids the use of dangerous chemicals at Ravendale.”

“Quite. So please explain why you flouted his expressed wishes and brought nicotine to the farm.”

Teddy turned to his father.

“It wasn’t for us, Dad. It was for Stanhope Brotherton. You know I wouldn’t use it here. I mentioned on Thursday when I was over there that I was going in to Harrogate on Friday and he asked me to get him a drum. He uses these things in a small way.”

Verity senior breathed out noisily, in relief, as though he had been holding his breath in suspense throughout his son’s explanation. It was clear that the fact that Teddy had not gone behind his back to use forbidden chemicals was more important to him than any murder enquiry.

“We’ll accept that,” said Masters. “No doubt it can easily be proved, and it matches with what your father has already told me of Mr Brotherton’s activities. Now, the second point.”

“What is it?” asked Teddy.

“You can’t guess?”

“No.”

“The whereabouts of the nicotine, laddie,” said Green. “Where is it?”

“At the Brothertons’, of course, sir.”

Green, pleased at being addressed as sir, held back whatever biting remark he had ready. Instead, he asked mildly: “When did you take it there?”

“I didn’t.”

Green waited patiently.

“Hazel took it. She came over to swim on Saturday morning, and took it back with her.”

“Unopened?”

“Of course.”

“Before lunch?”

“A long time before, and you can take it from me that Hazel never went near the barn—it’s an unwritten law that women visitors aren’t welcome—and neither did the pesticide. I gave it to her in her car. I’d had it in my bedroom overnight and it was still sealed.”

“How?”

“The label on the drum is just like the label on a can of beans. It completely covers the walls. That holds the cap on and prevents any spillage. The cap is nearly two inches deep.”

“How do you know?”

“What?”

“If you didn’t open it, how do you know how deep the cap is?”

“You could see the join under the label.”

Green nodded to show he understood. Masters took up the questioning.

“When did Mr Brotherton open the drum?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if he has.”

“Perhaps we should find out. What is his phone number?”

“At this time of night?”

“Please don’t be so solicitous for your friend. This is, after all, an enquiry into the deaths of two men, and I can’t believe that many people would consider that a vital phone call before midnight was showing an excess of zeal on the part of the police.”

Teddy gave the number and Green got to his feet.

“The phone is in the office across the hall,” said Sam Verity.

“Thanks,” Green went, declining offers to show him the way.

“Now, Mr Verity,” said Masters, again addressing Teddy, “You seem to have given us a satisfactory explanation for buying the pesticide. What contact did you have with Nick Larter between that time and his death?”

“None. I wasn’t even in the barn when he died.”

“With Tom Middleton?”

“I had a bellyfull of him. He’d broken down on his way here. I picked him up. And his wife, and his caravan. And when we arrived he used me like a lackey to site the caravan and carry the drink in.”

“Middleton was in your car at the same time as the nicotine.”

“Yes. But look here, my things were in the boot. Nothing of his went in there.”

“So he could not have touched it, or known that you had it?”

“Just a moment,” interrupted Dunstable.

Masters looked round at the solicitor.

“May I know the reason for asking if Middleton could have known there was poison in the car?”

“Certainly, Mr Dunstable. I had no motive in asking the question other than to explore the faint possibility that, having learned that there was nicotine to hand, Middleton himself made use of it, thereby killing—somewhat inexplicably—first your luckless barman and then, by some mischance, himself.”

“Far-fetched.”

“I said faint possibility. But you must agree that the more people who know of the existence of a poison, the wider the field of its possible users.”

“So if Teddy had said he didn’t mention it to Mr and Mrs Middleton he would, in fact, by your argument, be concentrating the searchlight of suspicion more fiercely on himself.”

“Quite so. I can’t have it both ways.”

“It seems to me,” said Verity, “that you get it every way.”

“Actually, I did not mention the pesticide to the Middletons,” said Teddy. “I didn’t mention it to anybody, except Hazel on Saturday.”

“Yet your sister learned of it from the invoice and told your mother who, this evening, gave every indication of knowing what I am assured the local police kept secret. I refer to the fact that the two men were killed by nicotine.”

“Here,” growled Sam Verity. “Sally explained that.”

“Are you suspecting Mrs Verity of some knowledge of this crime?” demanded Dunstable before Masters could reply to Sam.

“About as much as I suspect you, Mr Dunstable, or anybody else present at Ravendale for that matter.”

“Then why single out Sally?” demanded Verity.

“She singled herself out. She withheld the knowledge that she knew your son had recently purchased nicotine, and she guessed that the victims died of nicotine poisoning. Would you not call those two facts significant pointers?”

“To what?”

“To a line of enquiry which must include Mrs Verity.”

“First my son and now my wife.”

“Just so, Mr Verity.”

It was at this point that Green returned.

“Mr Brotherton says the drum is still intact. He examined it while I waited, and he assured me there was no sign of any leakage.”

“I suppose now you’ll wonder if I bought two drums of nicotine,” said Teddy, bitterly.

“The thought occurred to me some time ago,” admitted Masters blandly. “But I felt sure that had you done so, they would both have appeared on the invoice. But we shall check to see that you did not pay cash in a second shop—just to assure ourselves.”

“By god . . .” growled Verity.

“Steady, Sam,” said Dunstable. “At least Mr Masters is telling us what he’s about. He’s not leaving you wondering what he’s up to behind your back.”

Masters got to his feet.

“We’ll leave you now, gentlemen. Until tomorrow, that is.”

“You’ll be back?”

“Until we finish the job, Mr Verity. Tomorrow I should like to talk to Mrs Verity and to have your son’s statement taken down. In the afternoon I should like to attend the cricket match. But, if you would prefer it, I can invite Mrs Verity and your son to the police station. . . .”

“Get out of it,” grumbled Verity. “What sort of a choice is that? You know the answer.”

Green said: “Cheer up, farmer. You don’t think my boss would give you any choice if he was too unhappy about your family. Nor would he let your lad sleep in his own bed. As for your missus, I’m the one that’s not too happy about her.”

“Oh aye?”

“Nice woman, Mrs Verity. All cheerful, smiling and open, I’d judge her to be, usually.”

“And you’d be right. As open and honest as the day is long.”

“That’s what I thought. That’s why I wondered why she wasn’t tonight. Out of character. See you tomorrow.”

Chapter Seven

“Where are you leaving the car overnight?” asked Masters as they approached Ravendale.

“In the yard at the local nick, Chief. I’ll drop you and Mr Green first.”

“No need. The Brimham Rocks is within fifty yards of the station. We can walk.”

The car went gently over the bridge, into the little market place and down the side alleyway leading to the police yard. As Masters got out, a light came on over the back door of the station, the door opened and a sergeant in uniform appeared at the top of the three steps leading up to it.

“Superintendent Masters, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Message for you at the desk. If you’d like to come in this way. . . .”

“Is it urgent?” asked Masters as he and Green followed the sergeant.

“I asked Dr Trafford if it was, sir, and he said not urgent exactly, but he’d like you to have it tonight. So I didn’t ring through to the farm, sir, hoping to catch you coming home. Is that right?”

“I should think so, Sergeant. We’ll know for sure when we’ve seen the message.”

When they arrived at the desk, Masters was handed an envelope. “Dr Trafford brought it himself, sir. He said you’d understand.”

“Thank you.”

Masters slit the envelope and read the contents.

Dear Masters, You were so insistent with your questions about times and doses that you began to make me doubt myself. It’s your reputation, of course. You have an unhappy knack of wanting to know something out of the normal run of things. So, though I’ve dealt with a few nicotine poisoning cases and feel I know a bit about it, I realised that not even a pathologist can know all the quirks and irregular effects of every toxin. So I hurried home to my text books. You were suggesting something out of the way—abnormal, if you like. So I looked for it. After not too long a search, I found the following in an oldish American book by two authors, Thienes and Haley. As soon as I had read it, I knew it was what you had been seeking to establish:

‘Duration of Toxic Action. Death may occur within three minutes after the swallowing of nicotine or it may be delayed several hours. Recovery from large doses, under proper treatment, requires from one to twenty-four hours. Convulsions and death have been known to occur, however, as late as seventy-two hours after the initial poisoning.’

Good hunting!

Yours,

C. O. Trafford

P.S.

Incidentally, I don’t know if you are aware of the best way to extract nicotine from ordinary tobacco, so I’ve taken the trouble to pick the brains of the County Analyst on your behalf. He says the best way is to steam it out. Pass steam through shredded baccy, collect and condense in still. The nicotine will form a layer on top of the water. Distil a second time to drive off nicotine. However, nicotine is so much more volatile than water that it could well distil itself if left in a warm place and collected in a flask. Not much apparatus necessary—a youngster’s chemistry set might provide it, with a winemaker’s kit to help. Incidentally, the boffin thought that golden tobaccos wouldn’t give as good a yield as dark ones. That seems fairly obvious, I’d have thought, but he said he thought either Gauloise cigarettes or cheap cigars, shredded, would be more productive than Virginia tobaccos.

“Seventy-two hours,” breathed Green after he had read it.

“Just the time between Saturday lunch and Tuesday lunch,” said Reed, who, with Berger, had followed them in to the station. “They were poisoned at the same time.”

Masters folded the letter and put it in his pocket. “The old chap nearly made it. Probably, if he hadn’t had trouble with his arteries, he’d have pulled through.”

They walked towards the main door of the station after saying goodnight to the desk sergeant.

“That remark raises another point,” said Green.

“Whoever fed it to him couldn’t be sure it would kill him?”

“That’s right. So was there more than one dose given to him?”

“That’s going to take some discovering, isn’t it, Chief?” asked Reed.

“In theory, yes. In practice, no—I hope.”

Green grunted. “It doesn’t matter. He got the chop.”

“Besides,” said Masters, “while your question was pertinent, I think we can soldier on assuming that the co-incidence of the seventy-two hour fact that Trafford gave us indicates only the one dose. For him to have been given more in the interval would—or might—invalidate that, and I must admit I’m reluctant to yield that particular little nugget.”

“I’ll bet you are,” said Green. “You jaw to a pathologist for five minutes and a ripe plum like that falls into your hands! It’s indecent.”

“Well, goodnight, Chief,” said Reed as they reached The Brimham Rocks. “What time in the morning?”

“Just a moment,” said Masters. “Come in.”

“Too late for a nightcap in the bar,” said Green. “Shall we pull the privilege of being police or being residents?”

“What?”

“A nightcap,” growled Green.

“No, nothing like that. An experiment.” Masters pushed the door open and entered the hotel. “See if you can raise the landlord. I need some props.”

Some minutes later, Masters led the way to his room. Behind him came Green, empty handed, and the two sergeants each carrying trays on which were a number of bottles of beer, one of gin, a jug of water, a bottle of Angostura, a crown opener and a variety of glasses. At the foot of the stairs stood the landlord, gazing after them in some amazement and thinking he’d heard some tall yarns in his time, but never one which had disguised collecting booze for a late-night party as the gathering together of equipment for an urgent experiment.

“O.K.,” said Green, when they were all in Masters’ room. “What’s on?”

“Simply this,” replied Masters. “As we are now fairly certain that the two men were poisoned at the same time, and we can fix one time of poisoning—Larter’s—exactly, we can fix Middleton’s poisoning exactly, too. And not only the time, but the place.”

“At the bar, Saturday lunchtime.”

“Right.”

“So we’ve got to know the mechanics of how it was achieved. We’ll re-enact it.”

Green grunted his approval and sat on the bed.

“Move the table out of the alcove,” said Masters to Berger. “That will be the bar and you will be the barman, Larter.”

“Right, sir.”

“The D.C.I. will be Dr Sudd. Reed will be Middleton. Put the drinks and other paraphernalia on the table.”

Green got to his feet. “As I heard it from the chaps I spoke to, Larter was interrupted by Sudd while he was serving Middleton.”

Masters nodded. “So can we do it. Middleton first.”

“My usual, barman.”

“Pink gin, sir. Three drops as usual?”

Green waited until Berger had shaken three drops of bitters into the gin glass. “I’ll help myself to a bottle.” Green picked up a bottle.

“No, wait a minute, doctor, I’ll do that for you.” Berger put the gin glass down, picked up the crown opener and opened the bottle. “Blast, I’ve cut my finger.”

“I’ll put a dressing on it for you.”

“No need, doctor, it’s not very big.”

“Where’s my bloody gin?” demanded Reed.

“Coming, sir.” Berger shook the bitters from the glass, added a shot of gin, then handed the glass and the water jug to Reed. As he did it, he staggered realistically.

“Hold it,” ordered Masters, and passed behind the table. He lifted Berger’s right hand and examined it closely. “You didn’t get any of the bitters on your fingers when you slung the drops?”

“No, Chief.”

Masters thought for a moment.

“Do it all again,” he commanded. “But this time, Berger, act as if you had actually cut your finger.”

They went through the playlet again.

“I got bitters on it this time, Chief.”

“Excellent.”

“Here, here,” expostulated Green. “Why did you get pink on your pinion this time?”

“Because he favoured the injured finger,” said Masters. “As anybody would. When he held the goblet, he held his forefinger out rigid so as not to get blood on the glass. He slung the drops and some of the pink went on to the outstretched finger—into the cut, in fact.”

Green put his bottle of beer down.

“The nicotine was in the bitters?”

Masters shrugged. “We should have seen it sooner. Nicotine is a dark fluid. Bitters are very dark, too. Perfect camouflage, in fact.”

Green poured his bottle of beer very slowly into a tankard. “Larter’s death was a mistake, in fact.”

“A sad mistake.”

“And our information is that Middleton complained that his drink tasted bitter and he was told it was because he’d had three drops in a single measure instead of a double.”

“It all fits.”

Green took a long and noisy drink. As he put the tankard down, he said: “It fits. But what if somebody else had wanted pink gin?”

“Ah! From what I heard, it was well known that Middleton was the only one who drank pink gin, and he drank it exclusively.”

“Rubbish. There were two newcomers among those Libertines this year. Who knew they didn’t drink pinkers?”

“Wait, Chief, wait,” said Berger excitedly. “That bottle of bitters! Won’t it still be there? Ready to knock off somebody else?”

Masters shook his head. “It will have been got rid of, lad.”

“Will it? I mean, old Middleton brought it to Ravendale himself, with the rest of the booze.”

“Not that bottle, lad,” said Green. “A bottle, perhaps. But if you searched for a year you’d never find anything easier to fudge than a half-used bottle of bitters. They’re dark looking, with a label all round them so covered in print that nobody could ever differentiate one from another unless the labels were torn in some particular way or marked specifically for identification.”

Berger, not in the least downcast, asked: “So what do we reckon? That some bloke, who knew Middleton drank pink gin, went out and bought a couple of ounces of tobacco and extracted nicotine like Trafford said?”

“Evaporated it off until he’d got a couple of ounces of real strong brew—nice and dark? Just enough to half fill a small bitters bottle? Too easy.”

“But would he know it can be done as easily as that?”

“What?” asked Masters, “making the brew or killing a man off with it?”

“Both, Chief.”

“I don’t see why he shouldn’t get to know. All the reports talk about deaths being caused by as little as eight tenths of a gram of snuff or by eight grams of tobacco administered as an enema and even by thirty grams of tobacco by mouth.”

“Chewing?”

“Presumably. So you see, even if he couldn’t find a method of extraction described in any book, he would realise that tobacco gives off its toxin in body fluids and every entry says that nicotine is miscible with water. Once he knew that he would know what to do, even if he had to experiment as to the best way to draw the nicotine off. All he would need to do was to keep on trying until he found a method which produced a pale yellow liquid which turned brown in daylight. The reference books tell him that is a characteristic of nicotine, and my guess is that it was that property which caused him to decide on disguising it as bitters.”

Green poured himself the second bottle of beer that had been opened in the re-run of the reconstruction.

“So what do we do now?” he asked. “Because it looks to me as if young Teddy Verity is out—with his pesticide, that is.”

Masters grinned at him. “It would be a nice cover, wouldn’t it?”

Green nodded. “But too clever for Teddy to think up, I’d say.”

“What?” asked Reed in some bewilderment.

“What, lad? Why, for young Teddy to prepare the poison from tobacco and then to go out and buy nicotine pesticide. He’d guess we’d look at the pesticide business very carefully and then, when we found that wasn’t the cause of the deaths, hope that we’d rule him out altogether. Meanwhile he’d used his brew to knock off his victim.”

“Devious,” said Masters, “but a possibility—with a real scheming villain, that is.”

Reed scratched his head. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he confessed.

Masters stood. “That’s it for tonight. Off to your beds and sleep on it. We’ll get away at nine in the morning because the Libertines are due to start a two-day match at half past eleven and I’d like us to do a bit more spadework before then.”

The day was not so bright as they drove to the farm the next morning. There was wet mist on the moors and cloud masking the sun.

“Good day for swing bowlers,” said Green. “Close atmosphere.”

Masters nodded. “The forecast was for wind from the west. It could drive the cloud away.”

“Or bring rain. Westerlies usually do.”

“Either way it shouldn’t affect us, though I was rather looking forward to seeing the Libertines play.”

“We’re going to the match, Chief?” asked Reed.

“What do you think?” demanded Green. “That we’re going to sit on our backsides in a deserted barn all day?”

“No.”

“We’re going to ask lots of questions among that lot while they’re at the ground. Likely they’ll be a bit off guard—if you’ll allow the cricketing allusion—when they’re not batting. You never know your luck. Even you might catch one out.”

“Hardly.”

“What d’you mean? Hardly.”

“If they’re not batting, I can’t catch them out.”

“Clever lad!”

“Talking in the same vein, so that we can bowl them a few fast ones, even wrong ’uns, I’d like to know what each of us has come up with as a result of sleeping on the problem.”

“Anything from you yourself?” asked Green, “or is this simply a ploy to pick our brains?”

“Both.”

“Then why don’t you start so that we know what line you’re taking?”

“Fair enough. I latched on to the remark somebody passed yesterday about our murderer having sufficient medical knowledge to realise that nicotine would be the ideal poison for somebody whose arteries were giving trouble. The reason I did this, was because Dr Philip Sudd was one of those at the bar table when the little drama we put on last night was first enacted last Saturday lunch time.”

“So he was,” said Green slowly. “And, what is more, he’d know that Middleton had bad arteries.”

“You mean,” asked Berger, “that the doc would know from last year that Middleton was in a bad way? I only ask, because none of the Libertines I spoke to knew he was ill. Just that he was getting older.”

“You’ve made my point, lad,” said Green. “None of those characters knew that there was anything specifically wrong—except the doctor. He’d know, simply from observation and good guesswork. What is it the quacks say? A man is as old as his arteries? If the others thought Tom was just getting old, the doctor would be able to diagnose, with great accuracy, that Middleton had got trouble with his circulation. So he’d know four important things, some of which the others wouldn’t know.”

“Four?”

“Aye, four! First that Middleton had dodgy arteries. Second that the worst thing for dodgy arteries is nicotine. Third that the old boy only drank pinkers. Fourth that nicotine is the sort of thing one could reasonably expect to find on any farm.”

“Not this one.”

“That was his big mistake, lad. The one every murderer is popularly supposed to make. Now, where was I when I was so interudely upted? Oh, yes! Add the fact that a scientific chap like a doctor would know not only how to extract nicotine from tobacco, but also that it turns dark in the air and so could be disguised as—or mixed with—bitters. And on top of all that, where was he at the critical moment? Right there, doing a bit of sleight of hand with the bottle of bitters under the pretence of helping himself to beer.”

“A pretty powerful case,” murmured Masters. “Particularly as I can see no reason why he should harass the barman in the middle of serving another man’s drink.”

Reed said. “And then he was behind the bar helping Larter. He could easily have swopped the bottles again.”

“That’s it,” added Berger. “And he was late for the start of the match, under the pretence of waiting for the ambulance to collect Larter’s body. That would give him bags of time on his own to dispose of the poisoned bottle.”

“It was only a small bottle,” said Reed. “One that would easily go into any pocket. It could have been done, Chief.”

Masters turned to Green. “It’s a line worth following up. Would you like to pursue it, or shall we leave it to these two while we potter about a bit more?”

“You’ve got some ideas of your own?”

“You asked me to speak first, and I started the speculation about Dr Sudd. Remember?”

“So you did.”

“What about you?”

“We’re nearly there now.”

Masters looked out across Green to the left. They were about to turn to go over the little hump-back, and he looked carefully, for the first time, at Teddy Verity’s swimming pool. “That’s a very nice piece of work. Young Verity may not be so very devious, but he certainly had a bright idea there.”

“So shall we concentrate on the doctor?” asked Reed eagerly.

“Yes, please. The D.C.I. hasn’t had time to give us his thoughts yet, and so, unless either of you two come up with some very bright idea . . .?”

“Nothing as promising as that, Chief.”

“Fair enough. You’ve got something to get your teeth into for the next couple of hours.”

The car climbed the track on the home side of the valley and turned for the run in to the hard standing. As they went past the front of the house, Sam Verity waved to indicate he would like to speak to them.

Masters and Green went across to the gate in the low wall. “Good morning, Mr Verity.”

“Today’s Thursday,” said the farmer without preamble. “Market day. I forgot to tell you, last night, but Teddy and I usually go.”

“You’re both going off?”

“No. Just me. You said you wanted to see Teddy, and in any case, he’s playing today. So I’m going alone. I thought I’d better let you know as you asked us to inform you of our movements.”

“Thank you. Have a good day.”

“I’ll have to look sharp. I’m late through waiting to see you.”

“Sorry about that. We shall probably see you later.”

“I’ll be back late afternoon. I’ll stop off at the cricket ground.”

“We’ll be there.”

“A solid citizen, that one,” said Masters, referring to Sam Verity. He stopped by the car to light the new pipe he was breaking in. “He’s the sort of man I find easy to take on trust.”

Green was smoothing out a battered Kensitas between finger and thumb. “I know what you mean. He’s an asset to people like us. If we have to disbelieve everything everybody says to us, we never get anywhere. But if we’ve got a few like old Sam about, we’ve got a sort of foundation to build on.”

Masters offered him the lighted match he was using. “Ta!” He drew on the cigarette. “Now what?”

“I think we’ll give the barn a miss for a bit. The two sergeants will be in there, and I suppose some of the cricketers will still be at breakfast. Four of us would be a bit of a crowd.”

“So?”

“Let’s look around, shall we? While you tell me what you obviously didn’t want to start telling me in the car?”

They moved off, slowly. Green took his time before starting. At last he began.

“I wasn’t looking for theories. I was thinking about what we said over tea yesterday afternoon. You being whimsical and the whole crowd being party to murder, even if they didn’t know it.”

“It stuck, did it. Wouldn’t go away?”

“You know how it is. I could remember everything I’d heard, and I went over it in my old mind, looking for what you might call groupings. Odd things that had happened concerning more than one person.”

“Not conspiracies?”

“Just happenings. Seeing if there were any leads.”

“I don’t follow. Leads?”

“Happenings that might give a clue. Words perhaps, or some little thing not fully explained. I know it sounds daft, but I did it. That little bit of barney between young Teddy and Middleton. Young Dunstable carrying in the drink and Black offering to help him. Why did Black offer to help him? Why did young Teddy fix up that caravan knowing it would have to be moved almost immediately?”

Green stopped, as if expecting Masters to make some comment, but the Superintendent kept quiet. After a moment, Green ploughed on.

“I limited myself to happenings before Saturday lunchtime. And there were quite a few of them. Oh, I know the answers were reasonable—Black just happened to be handy when Stephen Dunstable carried in the drink and. offered to help. Nothing suspicious there. And I suspect that young Verity, after telling Middleton he was in the wrong place, just threw in his hand and said ‘to hell with it, let him find out for himself’.”

Masters nodded. Green often barked up the wrong tree, but this was usually for emotional reasons. When he started to think, as his present conversation indicated he had done at some time between going to bed last night and coming to the farm this morning, the conclusions were usually somewhat more reasonable. And hence worth listening to. Green seemed to guess he had Masters’ undeclared interest and continued.

“One thing struck me as very odd.”

“I’d like to hear it.” Masters’ tone was encouraging.

“Late on Friday night, David Collyer and Frank Black went into Harrogate to collect Stanley Lamb from the station.”

“Lamb had come up by train. It seemed fairly natural for somebody to go to meet him.”

“Right,” said Green. “Lamb had rung Collyer earlier in the week and asked if he would meet him and bring him here.”

“Go on.”

“Lamb had no car. He was also out of work. So why come up by train? Why not ask his pal, who was coming up here in a car, to give him a lift from London and so save an expensive train fare? If he was pally enough with him to ask him to motor fifteen miles each way to the station late at night, why not cadge a lift? Or at least, when he first rang him, to ask what time Collyer was setting out, in the hope that a lift would be offered?”

They had come to a standstill near the open door of the big, new, modern milking shed. There was activity within the shed, but the two detectives were too immersed in their conversation to notice what was going on.

“You’re sure Lamb didn’t ask for a lift?”

“Collyer says not.”

“Lamb could have been busy that day—an interview for a job which held him up until late afternoon. So he caught the evening train.”

“Right. But he never asked Collyer when he, Collyer, was setting out—just in case it wasn’t until after tea, which in fact it was. Well, late afternoon, anyway.”

“I see. That leads me to ask you something else.”

“What?”

“Why didn’t Collyer offer him a lift—without being asked? He must have realised Lamb had no car, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked to be picked up from the station.”

“I dunno. You’d have thought he would have done, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d have said it would be the most natural thing on earth.”

“Well, there it is. That’s what I’ve been thinking about.”

“Interesting. But I can’t yet see how it helps us.”

“Nor me, neither. And the sergeants would think I was off my trolley if I’d spoken in the car and hadn’t come up with anything better than that. So I kept quiet, but the feeling about it stuck with me.”

“I know. I’ve had some, too. It’s an incurable disease. Sort of occupational hazard.”

Green didn’t reply. They were standing in silence when the voice of Joss Hawk behind them, said: “You gen’lmun want to see the milkin’, like?”

The two detectives turned. Joss was dressed in a white coat, with a white skull cap and white rubber knee-boots. He was standing in the doorway of the shed grinning at them.

Masters looked at Green. “Why not?”

Green grimaced. “I’m not over-fond of cows.”

“Learn something new each day,” replied Masters. “Come on. I understand this is a modern marvel. Let Joss show us his pride and joy.”

The high, white shed held two carousels—circular milking areas with central gravity feed bins. One carousel was already filled with cows, linked up to the pipes which were carrying the milk in pulses into individual glass containers, where the yield from each beast could be seen at a glance. The second carousel was being filled by another man dressed in similar fashion to Joss. This man was cleaning the udders with a cloth. As soon as this toilette had been completed, the cow was urged on to the carousel which then rotated one notch to bring the next empty stall opposite the entrance. It was all extremely clinical, even though there was a smell of beasts with a background sourness which, despite scrupulous cleanliness, seems to linger in the air and fabric of any building devoted to the processing of milk. Not that any milk ever seemed to be exposed to the open air. Straight from the cows to the two and a half gallon containers and then on through more pipes to the collecting tank. But, Masters guessed, the pipes and containers had to be unfastened for cleaning each day, and it would be then that the odour would escape.

Green hung back in gloomy contemplation of the stern quarters of the cows being milked. Masters, more inquisitive, strolled forward with Joss who explained things as they went. It was when Joss was describing the principles of vacuum milking and pointing down as his companion slipped the contraption on to a cow heavy with milk that Masters bent forward to see operations at close quarters. He still had his new pipe in his mouth. He was not actually smoking, because the ashes were dead, but it was a habit of his to carry the pipe in his mouth and as often as not, he appeared to forget it was there.

It is said you should never approach a cow from the front or a horse from the rear. So presumably it should be safe to approach a cow from the rear. Even so, animals are unpredictable. This particular specimen decided to execute a pas de deux with its hind legs as the cowhand sought to fix the cups. Its rump knocked Masters’ pipe from his mouth and then, as though with determined intent and certainly with uncanny accuracy, it brought its hoof down on the briar.

Masters straightened up hurriedly and stared in dismay at the remains of the pipe.

“That’s done it a power of no good,” said Green coming up behind.

“Broken it,” said Masters, not too pleased. “The stem’s dropped through the grill.”

“We’ll soon have ’un up,” said Joss, stooping to retrieve the damaged bowl. “We can lift these gratings.”

“No, thank you,” said Masters. “I don’t think I’d fancy it after what it appears to be nestling in.”

“I’d bloody-well think not,” said Green, peering through the floor grills. “It’s stuck in a dirty great cow pat swilling around down there.”

Masters accepted the scarred bowl from Joss who said thankfully: “In that case nothing won’t be hurt. Un’ll go through the runnels to t’settling tank wi’out blocking owt. Little thing like that’s no matter. You’d be surprised what goes through ’un. Miss Sarah once dropped a bag o’coin.”

“They went through?”

“Some on’un. They holes maunt be too big, tha’ knows. Some people think cows’ hoofs be big. They baint, leastways they’m split into toes, like, and t’holes be too small for they.”

Masters looked at Green and an unspoken message passed between the two men.

“Thanks, Joss. It’s been very interesting.”

“Sorry about yon pipe. Nice pipe it were, too.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll be seeing you again.”

They hurried from the cowshed.

“Learn something new each day, you said,” grunted Green as they reached the open air. “Whoever it was would simply have to break the bottle and the pieces would go through that grill all right.”

“So you think it’s feasible?”

“Feasible? Can you think of a better way of disposing of evidence? Swilled away in pieces with manure and urine into a settling tank which is not likely to be opened in twenty years?”

Masters nodded.

“It’ll have to be opened now. We’ll want young Teddy to arrange that.”

“Open the tank?” said Teddy as though he couldn’t believe the request. “What the hell for?”

“Treasure, lad, treasure,” said Green.

“That tank holds 2000 gallons of—well, you know what. And it isn’t only cow droppings, either. When we muck out the pigs, we swill that in, too. And the chicken manure.”

“To get a cocktail, like?”

“To return all the goodness we can to the land. Some manures are too hot and strong to go straight on to fields. They used to have to weather for quite a long time to take the sting out of them. But we can add them to the slurry quite safely without going to all that bother these days. But you can imagine what the inside of that tank will be like.”

“And how.”

“What would you have to do if a pipe got blocked?”

“Take it down, of course. But a pipe won’t get blocked. They’re big enough not to and the water power we send through clears them.”

“What would happen to small articles that fall through the grill?”

“What sort of articles?”

“Pipe stems,” said Green with a degree of satisfaction.

“Christ! You’re not wanting me to dismantle that set-up to find a pipe stem!”

“I asked what would happen to it?”

“It would go through to the tank and settle on the bottom.”

“In a great depth of manure?”

“Not really. There’s an agitator in the tank. Before we draw off, we turn it on so that the liquid and the sludge are mixed into the slurry. Sludge doesn’t collect there and keep on getting deeper, otherwise we’d lose all the goodness.”

“Pieces of glass?”

“They’d settle, if they were any size at all. They’d maybe get whirled round by the agitator, but when we switched it off to fill the spraying bowser they’d sink through to the bottom.”

“And you don’t draw from the bottom?”

“About six inches up, and there’s a fine mesh over the end of the draw pipe, that much I do know.”

“Good. We’ll inspect the tank. When can it be emptied?”

“I’ll tell you this,” said Teddy firmly. “It can’t be done in a hurry. Our bowser takes 500 gallons. The tank isn’t full, but there’s at least three loads to be taken out, and that’ll take time because it’ll have to be sprayed. And don’t forget there’s more going in the whole time. By the time we’ve drawn off three loads and disposed of it, there’ll be this afternoon’s lot to be added.”

Green said: “I wouldn’t like to think you were trying to hamper us, laddie.”

“I’m not hampering anybody. You’re asking me to achieve the near-impossible. I reckon that if we work flat out, by six o’clock tonight we can have the tank empty. Not before. Then you can lift the cover and somebody can go in to look for whatever it is you’re after.”

“Thank you,” said Masters.

“Though what the old man’s going to say, I can’t imagine,” said Teddy with a shake of his head. “You see, the use of this stuff is very carefully planned, and he’ll not like having to spray it off haphazardly just to get rid of it.”

“I understand. You would prefer that I should wait and speak to your father?”

“Most definitely, I would. He’s the boss, you know.”

Masters turned to Green. “If we can’t get at the glass, then nobody else can. So it’s safe where it is for the time being. We could wait.”

Green grunted his agreement. Teddy was sent off to get ready to play cricket.

“I reckon you’re right,” said Green. “Having the remains of the bottle in our hands isn’t going to help all that much. It’ll probably be washed clean by now, in any case—if you could call anything in that tank clean. Still, it’s nice to know how it was got rid of. The sergeants are going to love going in to look for glass in a liquid manure tank.”

The Libertines had left for the match. The hard standing was deserted of vehicles except for the police Rover and Middleton’s car and caravan. The four detectives collected at the car.

“You said you wanted a statement from Mrs Verity, Chief,” said Reed. “Shall I take it now?”

“I don’t think we’re going to have to bother with that one. Give it a miss for the time being. While we’re here, I’d like to discuss something the D.C.I. came up with earlier.”

Green asked: “You think it’s worth considering?”

“I do.”

Before Masters could explain, Berger said: “There’s Miss Verity waving at us from the house, Chief.”

Masters turned. Sarah was at the open door, beckoning them. “Have you had coffee?” she called.

They went to join her.

“I wondered if they’d all forgotten to offer you any elevenses in their hurry to get down to the ground.”

“They did,” admitted Masters, “and if you’re offering, you’ve got four takers.”

“I thought so. Come in. Do you mind having it in the kitchen?”

“Farm kitchens,” said Green, “are my idea of the high life. Got any hams hanging from the beams?”

Sarah smiled at him. “Not in the kitchen itself, but there are some in one of the pantries.”

“One of the pantries? How many have you got?”

“Two,” answered Sarah, leading the way through from the hall along the passage beside the stairs to the back quarters. “Two. Big ones. They’re like a room divided in half. They lead off the scullery.”

The kitchen was, apparently, all that Green had hoped for. A big, well-scrubbed table occupied the centre of the room. A large Aga stood in the old hearth and the walls were lined with cupboards and shelves, all full of a most amazing variety of articles from crockery to books and small bits of farm implements. There was a good variety of chairs, too. Old dining chairs and a couple of wooden-framed loungers. It was a family living room, in effect, though it was doubtful whether the Veritys used it as such. Probably they ate there when they came in muddy from the fields or the farm hands used it from time to time.

They sat at the table and Sarah served them from a percolator and put a jug of fresh cream at their disposal. As she was opening a tin of home-made biscuits, she said: “You gave Teddy a bit of a shaking.”

“He told you we would like to inspect the tank?”

“Yes. But not only that.”

“What?” asked Green.

“I suppose I’d better tell you, just to save speculation.”

She poured herself a mug of coffee. “Last Friday evening Teddy and Stephen were talking when Middleton was rude to them. He addressed Teddy as ‘boy’ and demanded that his caravan should be moved. Well, to cut a long story short, those two fools, Teddy and Stephen, got angry and started to mutter about what they’d like to do with old Tom.”

“Nothing pleasant, I suppose?”

“Far from it. And it ended up by Teddy telling Stephen that the best place to dispose of the body would be the dung tank.” She looked around as she finished. “So you see, when you said you wanted to open the tank . . .”

“It sounded as if we were getting a little too close to home for comfort. Is that it?” asked Masters.

Sarah nodded.

“Where did this conversation take place?”

“On the hard standing. There weren’t many cars there by then.”

“Who else was close enough to overhear the conversation?”

“Nobody. Just the three of us . . . oh! You . . . you beast! You wanted to know if I’d seen somebody near at hand who got ideas from what Teddy said.”

“Something like that.”

“And I suppose if I’d given you a name you would immediately have cornered him. I’m pleased I didn’t see anyone.”

“Are you, Miss?” asked Berger, quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“If the Chief thinks it’s a good idea to know who could get ideas from what your brother said about the tank being a good hiding place, think on a bit.”

Sarah stared at him for a moment. “Oh, no!” she breathed. “Oh, no! You don’t think it was Stephen?”

“He was the only other one present, miss.”

“Not Stephen,” she said firmly.

“No, miss? Can you honestly say he didn’t get very angry with Middleton? That he didn’t actually say what he’d like to do to him in your hearing? That you yourself hadn’t to tell him and your brother to stop talking about what they’d like to do to a man who was murdered soon after?”

“I don’t care what you say. Stephen couldn’t do it.”

“Let’s hope not, miss. But somebody did it. Somebody you know—one of your cricketing friends. And I’d like to bet you’d say they were all incapable of murder.”

Sarah simply stared at Berger’s solemn face, as though this was the first time the full reality of the situation had got home to her. Slowly she turned to Green, as though he were the one to whom she would go for comfort.

“What the sergeant said is right enough, lassie. But we’re not going to hound your Stephen or your brother unless we can satisfy ourselves we really have to. So cheer up, there’s a good girl, and give me a drop more of your coffee. It’s as good as I’ve had in a long time.”

Slowly Sarah lifted the percolator from the Aga.

Chapter Eight

“You were a bit rough on that girl, laddo,” said Green to Berger as, shortly after finishing coffee, they drove towards the cricket ground.

“Was I? I thought she ought to know what the score was. I could have been rougher, too. Don’t forget she was present when her brother said the dung tank would make a good hiding place. I didn’t point out to her that in this respect she was as likely a suspect as her boyfriend. And she is a suspect, just as much as anybody else. Don’t forget she has a motive as big as anybody and she’s had a year to brood over what old Middleton said about her.”

“And to get ready to murder him?”

“If she’s been that way inclined, yes.”

“I’m not scoffing, lad. I daren’t. I’ve had some way-out, fantouche ideas myself. I had one last night. I told his nibs about it in private.”

“Because you thought we might laugh?”

“Maybe.”

“Actually,” said Masters, who seemed slightly broody, as if missing his pipe, “it was what I was going to mention when we were asked into the farmhouse for coffee. I’ll put it very briefly, because I want to know how it strikes you. The D.C.I. has discovered an incident which doesn’t add up, and so is causing him some concern.” Masters went on to recount the business of Lamb coming up by train. When he had finished, he asked: “What do you think, Reed?”

“I’ll agree it’s odd, Chief, but I can’t see any connection with the case. Not one that sticks out, that is.”

“Berger?”

“Like Sergeant Reed, Chief. That Lamb bloke could have wanted to come up by train for any number of reasons, and Collyer could have been so busy when Lamb rang that he just forgot to offer him a lift the whole way.”

“And that’s it.”

“I think so. Unless the D.C.I. can enlarge on his feeling about the incident.”

Masters turned to Green.

“What about it?”

“I haven’t had much time, have I? But I’m beginning to think of this Lamb bloke as ‘the only one’. The only one out of work, the only one without a car, the only one to come up by train.”

“Can I add something?” asked Masters.

“You would, whether I said yes or no.”

Masters ignored the jibe. “We’ve re-enacted the poison scene, and we’ve made the fortuitous discovery of where we think the murderer disposed of the bottle. The beginning and the end of the drama, so to speak. But apart from suggesting that Dr Sudd could have juggled with the bottles while he was attending to Larter, we’ve made no attempt to fill in the bit in between.”

Green sat up suddenly.

Masters nodded. “You’ve got it. Lamb took over behind the bar. He was better placed than anybody to switch the bottles.”

“No, Chief. He couldn’t have foreseen that Larter would die,” said Reed. “So he couldn’t have been sure of the chance to do the switch.”

“Yes, he could, smarty-pants,” countered Green. “Lamb was the reserve bar keeper. He could have said to his mates: ‘Poor old Larter’s very busy and he’s getting a bit past it. I’ll just give him a hand.’ And that could have happened at any time.”

“Agreed,” said Masters. “But why not consider the fact that if the opportunity to change the bottles didn’t arise, it wouldn’t have mattered to Lamb.”

“No, Chief?”

“Middleton was the only one to drink pink gin. If he came back for a second one and got a second dose of nicotine, so much the better from Lamb’s point of view. It made the killing more certain. It was only because Larter died that the bottle had to be moved immediately.”

“But what if Middleton started to complain about his second drink, Chief?”

“‘So what?’ is the answer to that. You just turn to Middleton and tell him he supplied the gin and the bitters, and if the taste is off, it’s his own fault.”

Reed considered this for a moment.

“And you can virtually build a case against Lamb just because the D.C.I. wondered why he came by train?”

“The Chief is speculating,” said Berger to his colleague. “He’s got to consider everybody.”

No more was said on the subject as they were now approaching the gate of the cricket ground. Reed awaited his moment to do the right turn, and the large car eased through and on to the cinder track that led to the pavilion.

“Leave it close to the gate, ready for an easy and, if necessary, inconspicuous getaway, Reed.”

“Right, Chief.”

Masters and Green walked towards the pavilion. The day was still quite overcast, but warm enough for cricket. There were very few spectators, but Masters would have been surprised to see a sizeable gallery at the morning session. So it was easy to find a seat, some distance from the pavilion.

As he was about to sit down, Masters said: “Excuse me. I’ll walk to the pub. I’ve got a spare pipe in my bag. I can’t sit here and watch without one.”

Green nodded and fished out his usual crumpled pack of Kensitas. “These no good to you, I suppose?”

Masters shook his head and set off.

The Libertines were batting, and though play had been in progress for over half an hour, had not lost a wicket. They were scoring slowly, with only nineteen on the board.

Cleaver and Lamb were at the wicket. Green was watching with little interest when Robert Shapcott approached him.

“Hello, Mr Green. Having a day off from sleuthing?”

“You might say that, Mr Shapcott. But you’re not changed for playing.”

“I’m not in the side today. Playing tonight, though.”

“I see. Your people are a bit slow out there, aren’t they?”

“Yes. The skipper told them to go carefully, though. It’s a two-day game, and I think Francis Minter was a bit scared that if Stan Lamb were to hit out like he did last Saturday afternoon, he’d lose his wicket too soon.”

“Lamb was out quickly was he?”

“No. Far from it. He lashed up a score in the seventies, I think. But he did it in double quick time. Lovely to watch, but damned unsettling if you know what I mean. He was taking risks.”

“It sometimes pays off.”

“It did then. But there was no certainty it would if you know what I mean. Stan played . . . well, savagely would be the word for it, I suppose. And he didn’t look too fit. He was pretty pale and somebody said he’d caught a touch of the sun while fielding. But he didn’t half lay into the Imps’ bowling.”

“Imps? Your opponents? Who are you playing today?”

“Sir Frank Flavell’s eleven. He gets people together to play a few games every year. I don’t know a lot about them, because I’m new, but I understand that Flavell is a pal of Sam Verity.”

Green nodded. The score had crept up to 25, rather painfully.

“That bowler at the far end is swinging them,” said Shapcott. “Ron Huckle says he’s normally a seam-up merchant but it looks as if he can take advantage of the heavy atmosphere.”

“The batsmen are certainly playing and missing every now and again.”

“Graham Cleaver more than Stan. Stan’s a cool customer.”

“Aye,” said Green. “Pity about him being out of work.”

“Makes you think, that, doesn’t it? I know I wonder what the chances of a job are going to be when I leave university if a bright chap like that is chucked on the scrap heap.”

“Clever bloke is he?”

Robert Shapcott shrugged his shoulders. “Everybody here seems to think so. I mean, they’ve been talking about him being made redundant. Quite a lot of talk, really, and I get the impression he was a bit of a whiz-kid. That’s why everybody is amazed at him losing his job. Of course, I’m only telling you what I’ve heard. I’d never met him before last Friday night.”

A voice behind them said: “Is this a private conversation, or can anybody join in?”

“Oh . . . er . . . hello, Stephen.”

“Mr Stephen Dunstable, isn’t it?” asked Green, looking up and back over his right shoulder.

“That’s right, Chief Inspector. I thought, as we hadn’t met, it would be a good idea from a professional point of view if I were to come and say hello.”

“Professional?”

“Lawyers and policemen. One never knows when one of my clients might become one of yours, as it were.”

“I see. Sit down, Mr Dunstable.”

“If you two are going to talk shop, I’ll disappear,” said Shapcott, getting to his feet. “I’m supposed to be helping to lay out lunch, anyway.”

Stephen took the vacated seat.

“Now tell me exactly why you came over, Mr Dunstable,” said Green quietly. “Or would you like me to tell you.”

Stephen grinned at Green. “I’d like to hear your version.”

“Briefly,” said Green, “among you Libertines you’ve decided that nobody should speak to us unless chaperoned by a solicitor.”

“Mr Masters suggested it.”

“Agreed to it, you mean. But, as your dad is out there umpiring, and so not available to keep tabs on me, your skipper, Mr Minter, to whom you were talking a minute ago, sent you along here to break up the little private session I was having with Mr Shapcott. Just in case he should say something somebody wouldn’t want him to say.”

“For his own protection,” corrected Stephen.

“Pull the other one. Nobody thinks that a young bloke like Shapcott, who’d never seen Middleton before in his life, would try to murder him within twenty-four hours of meeting him. So it wasn’t to protect him, but merely to see he didn’t blab too much.”

“Have it your way, Mr Green.”

“You’ve made me wonder what it is that Mr Shapcott could possibly let out that somebody wants to keep hidden.”

“That’s a bit far-fetched, surely?”

“Not if you read into it the fact that if, unbeknown to himself, Shapcott is in possession of important evidence, he could be in danger himself.”

“For heaven’s sake!”

“Two men have died already, Mr Dunstable. Why not a third?”

Stephen’s brow was furrowed. “I see your point. The policeman’s point . . .”

“Which should be the point of any officer of the court such as yourself.”

“Agreed. But leaving that aside, I’ve also got to be persuaded that one of my friends here has killed anybody.”

“Two have died.”

“Yet something you said a minute ago—about Bob Shapcott being unlikely to have tried to murder Middleton within twenty-four hours of first meeting him—means you know something that we don’t. And that is that Middleton was poisoned on Saturday—presumably at lunchtime when Larter died.”

“You’re sharp, I’ll give you that.”

Stephen ignored the compliment. “So I’m assuming Larter’s death was a mistake.”

“It makes no difference.”

“It does to me. Intent to kill and accident are very different in my book.”

“Not in mine, if the accident is a result of the intent.”

A burst of clapping greeted the first boundary that had been struck since Green’s arrival. The score went up to 35.

“Young Lamb seems a nice bat.”

“He is. Very steady.”

“I hear he was far from steady last Saturday.”

“Bob Shapcott told you? It was a limited-over match. He hit out because we were faced with a big total. He suited his game to the occasion.”

Another boundary.

“Hello! Things are looking up a bit. Stan Lamb has made 26.”

“When do you go in?”

“Number seven.”

The score climbed to 42 before Masters re-appeared, a white Meerschaum gripped between his teeth.

“Good morning, Mr Dunstable. Your skipper must be very pleased with the good start these two are giving you.”

“Hello, Superintendent. Yes, Francis will like it, but it’s very slow for our level of cricket. I think perhaps the change of bowling they made a couple of overs ago will give us a chance to speed up. Francis said he’d like at least eighty before lunch, so they’ll have to put on a run a minute to meet his target.”

“They’ll do it,” announced Green. “Against these new bowlers. The medium-pace man is pitching them too well up to the batsmen and the slow man is just a yard too short. They can watch him right on to the bat.”

Masters watched a couple of balls from the slow man. “You’re right, Greeny. He’s not baffling Mr Cleaver at all.”

“Stanley Lamb would have dealt with those,” said Stephen. “He’s got good wrists.”

“Powerful?”

“That—and skill. Good wristwork, I should have said.”

“A man of many parts, that young man, I believe?”

“An ace advertising man,” grunted Green. “Yet kicked out of his job.”

“Lots of executives have been made redundant recently,” said Stephen defensively.

“Maybe, lad, but I’ve seen no falling off in the number of adverts on telly and in the papers.”

Lamb put the faster bowler round the corner for another boundary. He did the same with the next ball and the increased burst of clapping announced the half century had been reached.

“Well done,” called Masters, joining in the applause. “I do like to see a batsman taking toll of a bowler who won’t learn his lessons.”

Stephen got to his feet. “If you gentlemen will excuse me . . .?”

“Go on, lad,” said Green. “I saw her drive in a minute ago. She’s a great girl.”

“I think so,” said Stephen with a grin. He addressed them both. “We were going to announce our engagement formally last weekend, but Mrs Verity thought we ought to hold it up until after Nick Larter’s funeral. Now we’re holding off until after this murder enquiry is over, so could I put in a plea for a bit of quick work on your part, gentlemen?”

“We shall do our best.”

“Thanks.”

“Nice lad,” said Green as Stephen trotted over to where Sarah was standing near the pavilion.

“Which means, I suspect, that you managed to prise some nugget of information out of him.”

“Yes and no.” Green recounted in almost perfect detail the conversations he had held with Shapcott and Stephen.

“I don’t understand it,” said Masters, when Green had finished. “I’ve always understood that good copywriters were like gold dust. So why was he sacked? Oh, I know they flit about from job to job, but that only emphasises my point. They can move because they are in demand. And yet Lamb has been out of work for several months.”

“That’s just one more anomaly concerning him,” agreed Green.

“What I’ve just said?”

“Yes.”

“It springs from your overnight cogitation?”

Green made a deprecating gesture.

“Credit where it’s due,” said Masters.

“We’ve proved nothing yet.”

“But he has,” said Masters, starting to clap. “He’s got his fifty with that stroke. He’s proved he’s a good opening bat.”

Green nodded.

“I get the feeling from watching him out there,” said Masters, “that there’s a great deal of defiance in his play. How does it strike you?”

“Something the same. As though he was trying to prove something. But I don’t know whether it’s to himself or to others.”

“Where are the sergeants?”

“Mingling, somewhere in front of the pavilion the last time I saw them. Do you want them?”

“It’s nearly half past one. I thought they could drive us to the pub for lunch.”

“Why bother? I’m all for sweethearting young Sarah Verity for a plate of sandwiches. Especially if they’ve been made with some of that home-cured ham we heard about.”

“Right. It’s worth a try.” Masters filled and lit his pipe and sat back to enjoy the last few minutes of play before lunch. Two balls later, Graham Cleaver played forward to the slow bowler, missed and momentarily lost his footing so that, when the ball came through to him, the wicket keeper standing close had an easy stumping chance. He took it with pleasure.

“76 for one. If the new bat hurries in, Minter may reach his target. Ah! It’s Minter himself going in, so it’ll be partly his own fault if he falls short.”

Minter was slower than Cleaver. He just kept the ball out of his wicket for the rest of the over. The opposing skipper brought his fast seamer on for the last over against Lamb who, with great deliberation, avoided taking a single which would have exposed the new bat to the most dangerous bowler the opposition had tried.

“That’s it,” said Masters as the players came off. “Would you do something for me, over lunch?”

“What’s that?”

“Tackle Collyer. About the arrangements for coming up here. I’ll take Black and try to find out if he, as third party on the station run, heard anything to elucidate the mystery.”

“Look, George,” protested Green. “I told you it was just an idea.”

“Worth following up.”

“You’re not pressing it just to show me how stupid it was? Remember I told you . . .”

“Don’t spoil it, chum. Do as I ask. If it is a false trail . . . well, there’s no harm done. But for what it’s worth, I give you my word I think it is a worthwhile exercise.”

“If you say so.”

Sarah Verity said to Masters: “I’m under police orders to keep all that’s left of the ham sandwiches for Mr Green.”

“Whose orders?”

“Mr Green’s, of course. You can have egg and cress, tomato and cheese or sausage rolls.”

“I’ll have both sorts of sandwiches and make double deckers of them.”

“Doorsteps? I like them like that.” She handed him a plate. “I’ll stack them for you. And there’s beer in jugs on the table over there.”

“Thank you. But because you won’t let me have a ham sandwich, I won’t congratulate you.”

She reddened and then smiled. “Look at your plate,” she said. He lifted the plate level with his eyes so that he could see the fillings, then he looked at her. “Congratulations. You’ll make young Stephen a lovely wife. And I can recommend marriage. I entered the blissful state myself only a matter of months ago, so I have a double reason for finishing up here fast.”

He turned, to find William Dunstable at his elbow. “I brought you a glass of beer, Mr Masters.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I understand from Teddy Verity that you wish to open up the dung tank.”

“Yes.”

“May I know why?”

“I have no objection to telling you. I say, do you mind if we go somewhere where I could put this plate down to leave me a hand free?”

Dunstable led the way to the vacant end of a trestle table. When Masters had set down both glass and plate he asked: “Are you going to tell me?”

“I would rather wait and tell you at the same time as I tell Mr Verity senior. We shall make no move before he has been told, so if you could be present at that time . . .”

“That sounds satisfactory. May I know how things are proceeding, because I thought you had intended to take two statements at the farm this morning, yet you did not do so?”

“I decided against taking them until I am sure they are absolutely necessary.”

“And your progress?”

“I’m satisfied.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Of course it is, for somebody. Were you expecting we should fail?”

“Were I? or am I?”

“Whichever you like.”

“No, Mr Masters. I have never hoped for your failure. But I cannot help being saddened by the prospect of your success.”

“A fair comment, sir.”

“And that is all you have to tell me?”

“Can tell you, Mr Dunstable. But my promise still holds good. I shall not, knowingly, conduct a formal interview with any of your friends and colleagues without either you or your son being present.”

“Formal interview?”

“You must allow us conversations, Mr Dunstable. It may surprise you to know that we sometimes discuss cricket, or even forthcoming marriages, with your friends.”

“Of course.”

“And I can’t make you privy to our mental processes either, so you must be left somewhat in the dark.”

“I appreciate all you are doing for us.”

“It cuts both ways. You can’t be blind to the fact that, at this stage, your presence tends to reassure people we talk to, so they relax and although we don’t get damaging statements from them at least we get lucid descriptions. And that helps to prevent us from being misled.”

The forty minutes allowed for lunch were soon up. When Masters joined Green he said: “Sorry, but I never got near Black. William Dunstable buttonholed me and made sure I didn’t get away.”

“Same here,” said Green. “Young Stephen made a dead set at me. There’s a conspiracy against us.”

“It looks like it. I wonder who inspired it and why?”

“They’ve seen how you work. Last night they realised it wasn’t going to be all magnifying glasses and grilling interviews, looking for fag ends and collecting hairs off furniture. So they reckoned they could stonewall. Herd instinct. They’ve nothing against us; they just don’t want us to clobber one of their members for knocking off Middleton whom they didn’t like and Larter whom they couldn’t care less about.”

Masters grinned.

“Let’s give them something to think about.”

“What?”

“We’ll leave. They’ll wonder what for.”

“And will there be a reason?”

“Yes. You are going to call London.”

“What for?”

“I’ll tell you as we go.”

At the Ravendale police station, Masters said to Green: “The enquiries at that end could take an hour or so. When you get the answer, will you ask the locals to bring you out to join us.”

“At the farm?”

“At the swimming pool.”

“You going swimming? On a day like this?”

Masters shook his head. “The sergeants and I are going to take a bit of exercise, but not swimming.”

“You’ve had one of your bright ideas.”

“If I have—and it’s the right one—it will be entirely due to you.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Why not?”

It took about two minutes for Masters to put Green in the picture. At the end of that time, the D.C.I. was rubbing his hands. “It’s singing sweetly,” he said, happily. “We’ve got to be right.”

“I’m optimistic. So do your stuff. I want to hurry and do what I’ve got to do while the farm is virtually deserted.”

It was four o’clock when Green was deposited by a Panda car at the humpback bridge. Masters and the two sergeants were sitting in deck chairs beside the pool.

Green dismissed the Panda and strolled across to join his colleagues.

“I can tell by looking at him that the D.C.I. has been successful,” said Berger. “He always gets that look—like a baby who’s been given a new toy and hardly dares to touch it for fear it might disappear.”

As Green actually joined them, Masters said: “Our two young friends here say they can tell by your demeanour that you struck oil.”

“That you did, you mean. How the hell did you get on to it.”

“When we were discussing how odd it seemed to me that Lamb hadn’t got a new job, we mentioned that it was usually fairly easy for somebody of his calibre to do so. I can remember thinking, too, although I didn’t mention it, that a writer with his reputation should have been able to make a living from freelance work.”

“Was that important?”

“Yes. It was really the reason why I suggested we should tackle Collyer and Black.”

“How come?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t tumble to it. It was a report from Reed that gave me the clue.”

“Me, Chief?”

“Yes. You spoke to Collyer and Black last night. Can you remember what they said their conversation had been about at the station, after picking up Lamb?”

“Mostly about him not having a car.”

“Go on.”

“Then they got to the car and . . . oh, lord! Chief, you’re right. Collyer said he thought chaps like Lamb could pick up commissions and work on their own.”

“Yes?”

“And Lamb said that Collyer wasn’t to mention freelance because he—Lamb, that is—had had some. Meaning, I think, that he’d tried it and failed. Probably because he was no great shakes as a business man or because the financial recession meant there just wasn’t enough work to be had.”

Green opened a new packet of Kensitas. “I should have been on to that,” he said in disgust. He turned to Masters. “You look like the cat that stole the cream. Did you get it?”

“After a struggle. Now tell me what London said.”

It took Green several minutes to make his report, then Masters, nodding his satisfaction, got to his feet. “I think it’s time we got back to the game.”

“You’re going to arrest him, Chief?”

“We’ll play it as it comes.”

The tea interval was over when they reached the ground.

“The Libertines are fielding, Chief.”

“So they are. What does the scoreboard say?”

“157 all out.”

“They collapsed,” said Green. “But I see the others have lost a wicket and they’ve only got sixteen on the board.”

“What do we do, Chief?”

“Watch. There’s nothing else we can do. They’re playing until six. Then they break off and start a new game at a quarter to seven. Some of the same people will be playing.”

“Not too bad,” said Green. “They won’t have been in the field long. Bowlers might be a bit tired, of course, but not many of the batsmen can have sweated over much if they lost their last nine wickets for 77.”

Gardner and Stephen Dunstable were the bowlers. They were both a little slower than fast medium, but they were holding down the runs.

“They’ve both hit a length,” said Masters. “They’re making the batsmen play every ball.”

“Looking for mistakes,” agreed Green. “Because it looks pretty innocuous stuff from here.”

“We’ll know for sure if the batsmen start trying to open up. I’m assured that Minter is no fool as a captain, so he must think those two might achieve something.”

The score had reached 29 when Gardner took the second wicket by clean bowling the number three who, somewhat unwisely, went down on one knee to sweep what must have been a perfectly straight ball.

“That’s the mistake they’ve been angling for,” said Masters. “He should only have tried that sort if the ball had been coming down wide of leg stump.”

The score climbed slowly. Minter replaced Stephen Dunstable with James Gordon who, though bowling with about the same speed as his predecessor, had a much freer action and a shorter run up. He gave the impression that he could keep it up all day. That he was of great value as a stock bowler was very clear. A powerful man with a hand big enough almost to engulf the ball, he slopped away without too much apparent effort. He it was who took the third wicket soon after the score passed fifty. A few minutes later, the umpires removed the bails and play in that match was over for the day.

“Now?” asked Green.

“I’d like a word with both of the Veritys first. Old Sam’s here somewhere. His car’s here. Would you ask them over, Reed, please. Berger, get hold of William Dunstable and keep him with you, ready to come over when I let you know.”

“You’re allowing him in on the act?”

“Why not?”

“Where are you going to hold court?”

“We’ll go to the nick after I’ve spoken to the Veritys. Reed, after you’ve brought Sam and Teddy, go to the pavilion and keep an eye on our man. Don’t let him know, but be ready to ask him to come with us when we ask.”

“Right, Chief.”

“What’s all this Teddy has been telling me about you wanting to empty the dung tank?” demanded Sam Verity.

“I asked you over, sir, to tell you it won’t be necessary.”

“I should bloody-well hope not. What do you think had got in there, anyway?”

“The bits and pieces of a broken bottle, Mr Verity. They could have been pushed through the floor grill and washed into the tank.”

“Bottle? What bottle?”

“The one which held the poison.”

“Wait a minute, Mr Masters. If there’s poison got into that tank I’ll want to open it myself.”

“No need, Mr Verity. A small amount of nicotine pesticide in 2000 gallons wouldn’t have harmed your fields, would it?”

“No. But . . .”

“The bottle isn’t there. We found it elsewhere.”

“So what made you think it might be there.”

“Several things. One of them a chance remark by your son.”

“Teddy?” Verity turned to his son. “What the hell have you been on about?”

“This is news to me, dad. I didn’t say anything to anybody about putting a bottle there.”

Green said: “Come on, lad. You told young Stephen Dunstable that after the pair of you had bumped off old Middleton, the best place to hide his body would be in the dung tank.”

Teddy stared, open-mouthed. “But that! That was just a joke.”

“Aye, lad. A joke while you were seething with anger! Funny time to be joking.”

“You’re not accusing my boy of . . .” began Sam.

“No,” said Masters emphatically. “We’re not.”

“Then why . . .?”

“You asked where we got the idea from. We’ve told you. Now, let’s get on, please. Teddy, when you and Stanley Lamb put those posts in to carry the strainer across the stream last Sunday morning, was there anybody else with you?”

“No. Nobody came. It didn’t take more than an hour.”

“How did you work? Step by step, please.”

“We both manned the auger. You know the sort I mean. It has a series of holes up the stem. You put a pick halve through it and windlass it round. One chap can do it, but it’s easier with two.”

“You bored both holes before you mixed any concrete?”

“Yes. It would be damn silly to mix concrete before you knew exactly where you were going to put it.”

“Thank you. Then what?”

“We mixed the puddy.”

“Where?”

“On the concrete approach to the bridge, on the same side. I did it there, because we didn’t need all that much. Less than half a bag of cement. I’d got the sand and aggregate in the Rover, and I drew the water from the pool. We both shovelled. It didn’t take long.”

“You’re doing fine. Then what?”

“We put in one post each.”

“Which side did you take?”

“Across the bridge of course.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“Because the heap of concrete was close to the hole on the near side, but it had to be carried over in the bucket to the far side. Stan had very kindly volunteered to help me. I couldn’t give him the harder job, could I?”

“I suppose not. So Lamb erected the post on the bank nearer the farm?”

“That’s right. He finished before I did and then came to help me. He held my post while I worked the last couple of buckets in.”

“And you didn’t help him on his side at all?”

“No. I had the longer job.”

“Thank you, Mr Verity.”

“What is all this?” demanded Sam, who had been listening impatiently to the conversation.

Masters turned to him. “We took those two posts out again this afternoon, Mr Verity. Fortunately for us, though the concrete was dry, it was not fully hardened off, so the job was not so arduous as it might have been. We broke the concrete from around the posts, and in the one on the south bank, we found embedded the bottle we were looking for.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“Stan put it there?” asked Teddy incredulously.

“You said only the two of you worked on the job.”

“Sure. But later, while the concrete was still wet, somebody could have pushed a bottle in.”

“To the very bottom of the hole? Mr Verity, either Lamb put it there, or you did. I happen to believe your account because it confirms what I already know.”

“That Stan Lamb killed Middleton?”

“And Larter.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Your loyalty is misplaced, Mr Verity. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.”

William Dunstable said: “Your sergeant asked me to wait, Mr Masters, but I would rather like to get back to the farm for dinner. Can your business wait?”

“The choice is yours, Mr Dunstable. I am about to ask Stanley Lamb to accompany me to the police station. Should you wish to counsel him to agree to my request, I should be pleased. If he refuses, I shall feel obliged to arrest him.”

“For murder?”

“For two murders.”

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“I propose to outline my case to Lamb. If he would like you to be present, I shall have no objection. But I must say this. I don’t believe I need his co-operation to prove my case. However, if you can urge him to appreciate the strength of my case after you have heard it, I promise to do all within my power to help him. Larter’s death, I feel sure, can be regarded as accidental homicide and Middleton’s . . . well, if Lamb cares to tell me, of his own free-will, his reasons for his actions, I may be able to suggest that there was some degree of justification for what he did. There are no guarantees, Mr Dunstable, but in this off-the-record conversation, I re-iterate my promise to do my best for the boy.”

Dunstable considered for a moment. Then—

“Can I reserve my position until after I have heard your case?”

“Of course. May I take it you will advise him to come with us now, without protest? I’d rather avoid a public arrest if I can.”

Dunstable inclined his head in agreement.

“One of my sergeants is outside the pavilion now. Lamb is inside. If you will come out with him within the next few minutes, I shall instruct my people not to interfere.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your attitude.”

They were gathered in the police station.

Berger was with Lamb in the interview room. Reed was rounding up more chairs. Masters was awaiting the arrival of Divisional Detective Chief Superintendent Gott, whom he had summoned by phone, and Green was talking to the Dunstables, father and son, who were both there because Stephen had driven his father from the ground and had asked permission to stay. This had been readily given by Masters, with the warning that Chief Superintendent Gott might accept the presence of one solicitor, but might object to two.

“Do you think I could ring the farm from here?” asked Stephen.

“She’ll already know, lad, because her father and her brother know. But the desk sergeant won’t mind if you ask him nicely.”

“Thanks.”

Green turned to the older solicitor. “How are the Libertines going to manage tonight?”

“I spoke to Francis Minter before I came. Stanley was due to play, but Stephen wasn’t. So he’ll find a replacement easily enough from the other three or four who were standing down tonight.”

“You’ll be without Lamb tomorrow.”

“We shall field a sub and bat one short. If we carry on, that is. I expect the members will decide not to complete the fortnight. In fact, this could well be the end of the Libertines.”

“That would be a pity.”

“You think so?”

“I reckon it’ll be a hell of a blow to Lamb if he thinks he’s been the cause of your shutting up shop after all these years.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“Try to persuade them to keep going. You never know, he may want to play again—afterwards.”

Before Dunstable could reply, Masters came in with Gott. After the introductions, Masters said: “Right, gentlemen, if you would care to come to the interview room . . .”

They were seated, almost as if a board meeting, round the two tables Reed had pushed together in the middle of the room. Masters sat in the middle of one side, flanked by Green and Gott. Opposite him was Lamb, with William and Stephen, one on each side. The two sergeants occupied the ends of the table.

“Normally, I would interrogate you to satisfy myself that I had sufficient grounds for charging you, and then, before making the charge I should caution you,” said Masters to Lamb. “However, I am varying the procedure here. I have allowed you legal advice from the outset and I propose not to interrogate you, as such, but to put before you my case, in the hope that you will consent to help me at certain points. This you will be asked to do under the guidance of your solicitor. But so that you should be under no misapprehension as to the gravity of this discussion and so that there can be no hint of police duress, I shall ask Sergeant Reed to caution you formally, even though no charge is yet being made.”

In absolute silence, Reed read the caution.

“Two deaths,” began Masters, “both caused by nicotine, but taking place almost exactly three days apart, caused us some bewilderment. We were told by the pathologist that nicotine is a very quick-acting poison, and as it was apparent that Larter had died from the accidental administration of the poison through a break in the skin which only happened three or four minutes before his death, this rapidity of action would seem to have been borne out.

“However, it was clear to us that unless the two men were poisoned at the same time we had to discover not only a motive for killing a harmless old man like Larter, but also how Middleton could have become such a danger to the murderer that he, too, must be poisoned three days later.

“Further, the mechanics of the crime were baffling. How could a man intent on killing Larter know first that he would cut his hand while opening a bottle and second how could it be known which particular bottle top had to be impregnated with poison?

“During our first meeting with Dr Trafford, we had questioned him very closely as to the timing of the toxic effects of nicotine. Evidently, we impressed him so much by our insistence that some peculiarity, or deviation from the normal course of action, of this poison must be possible, that he later researched the subject more deeply and found that nicotine has, on occasions, caused death by convulsions up to seventy-two hours after ingestion.”

“Ah!” breathed Gott.

Masters glanced at him before continuing.

“We have evidence to prove that between Saturday lunchtime and Tuesday lunchtime—a period of almost exactly seventy-two hours—Middleton was far from well. In other words he was suffering from the effects of the nicotine which finally killed him, though, had he not been suffering from arterial disease, he might eventually have pulled through.

“So we had established to our own satisfaction that the two men were poisoned simultaneously. We could pin-point the time because Larter died as a result of taking-in poison through a wound only minutes before he collapsed. So the poisoning was done when Larter was serving Middleton at the bar.

“The series of events at the bar were as follows. Middleton asked for his usual pink gin. Larter put three drops of bitters into the glass. Dr Sudd, seeing Larter was busy, offered to help himself to a bottle of beer. Larter, very covetous of his position as barman, would not allow that and so, taking the bottle from the doctor’s hand, made a hasty attempt to open it. The attempt was a clumsy one. The crown top came only half off and snagged Larter’s finger. He gave the doctor his beer and turned to complete the serving of Middleton’s drink. You will know, gentlemen, that with pink gin, one first swirls the few drops of bitters round the glass and then slings them. Imagine Larter carrying out this operation with a bleeding finger. He would hold that finger out stiff and straight to avoid getting blood on the glass. But when he came to sling the bitters, that finger would be in line to get splashed by the drops. And that is what happened. The bitters fell on the wound.”

“But bitters wouldn’t harm him. They might sting perhaps,” said Gott.

“The bottle did not contain bitters,” said Masters, “but nicotine, or a mixture of bitters and nicotine. Strong, crude nicotine is very dark, and so are drops of bitters.”

“Larter had time to hand Middleton the gin before collapsing. He died almost immediately. Middleton took his drink, complaining that it tasted foul. According to his own testimony, Mr William Dunstable told Middleton that the reason it tasted bitter was because there were three drops of pink in a single measure whereas Middleton was accustomed to taking that amount in a double.”

William Dunstable nodded his agreement.

“So the two victims were poisoned. Larter died. The poisoner now had to remove the doctored bottle of bitters and put the pure one back. These bottles all look the same. Nobody could identify one from another. As soon as Larter died, you, Mr Lamb, were asked to take over the bar. That gave you your chance to remove the poison.”

“Wait a moment,” said Gott. “What if Larter hadn’t died?”

“I assert that Lamb, who was the recognised stand-in barman for the Libertines would have found some excuse to lend Larter a hand. He could then have removed the bottle. It would not have mattered if Middleton had asked for another pink gin before the bottles were switched. A second dose of poison would only have made Middleton’s fate more certain.”

“But other people!” exclaimed Gott. “What if somebody else wanted a pink gin?”

“It was very well-known,” said Masters hurriedly, “that Middleton was the only one who drank pink gin, and that he drank it exclusively.”

“I see.”

“I object,” said Stephen Dunstable, “to your assertion that my client was responsible for putting poison in the bar. It could have been any of a score of people.”

“At this point,” replied Masters, “you have some justification for your objection. I hope to dispel that justification very shortly.”

“Please keep quiet, Stephen,” said his father. “We have agreed to play a listening role for the moment.”

“Thank you. I will continue. My colleague, Mr Green was looking for anomalies in the conversations we had conducted with members of the club. It is an exercise we need to do in every case. To see if we can explain away that which is odd or out of character. We had learned that Messrs Collyer and Black had gone to Harrogate late on Friday night to pick up Mr Lamb from the station. Evidently Mr Lamb had asked Mr Collyer to do him this service. It struck us as odd that, if Mr Lamb was obliged to travel by train, he had not enquired whether Mr Collyer could not have given him a lift the whole way. After all, rail travel is expensive, Mr Lamb is out of work, and they were both travelling from London.

“Further, we were surprised to hear that Mr Collyer, when asked to meet Mr Lamb at Harrogate station, had not offered to bring him up from London.

“When we find anomalies such as this, we look very closely at those involved. Mr Lamb has a reputation among his colleagues as an outstanding advertising and creative copywriter. We wondered—another anomaly—how such a man came to be unemployed. We further heard that when he was asked why he did not take up freelance work—an obvious resort for a man of his reputed skill—Lamb had given the impression that he had tried it and found it not to his liking.

“So we decided to discover why Stanley Lamb had been made redundant. Our colleagues in London visited the advertising agency at which Mr Lamb was, until recently, employed. From them we learned that the agency employed four creative writers, all highly regarded. Due to the financial situation, however, many firms have cut back, not on advertising, but on new advertising. Last year’s advertisements are being used this year or for longer runs than normal. So, in effect, the agency has—in common with all others—been losing volumes of business. Indeed they have actually lost some clients. As a consequence, in an industry where the rewards are great in good times and very poor in bad times, Lamb’s employers reluctantly decided that they would need to enter a period of siege economy if they were to survive. As their largest outgoings are salaries, they needed to cut down on staff by approximately a quarter. As I say, their creative writers were highly paid, but extremely valuable men and it was with regard to these four men that their biggest dilemma came. One had to go, but the question was, which one? They tried to decide in several ways. The last in should be first out? When they recalled the great lengths they had gone to in order to cajole and persuade the last man to join them, they shrank from dismissing him. Was there any one who had worked mainly for clients who had now gone? No one had lost more accounts than another. They had almost arrived at the stage of drawing lots, when their problem was solved for them.

“One of the clauses in the contracts between the agency and their creative writers is that the latter should do no freelance work. The reason for this is obvious. A good man, in his spare time, could work for potential agency clients who would then never need to go to the agency itself.

“Just when they were at a loss as to which writer to make redundant, they received a letter telling them that Mr Lamb had been doing freelance work. For them, the information was fortuitous. For Mr Lamb, disastrous. He was dismissed for having broken his contract and so without the perks that accompany redundancy.”

Masters paused to tamp down his unlit pipe.

“The name of the agency’s informant, gentlemen, was Thomas Middleton, managing director of the Middleton wine-shipping firm, who claimed that Stanley Lamb had written the brochures for his promotion campaign last Christmas.”

“Old Tom!” said Stephen. “The rotten bastard.”

“Quiet, Stephen!” William Dunstable was sticking to his agreed vow of silence as, indeed, was Lamb.

“So Mr Lamb lost his job and his car. And, I am reliably informed, that the other advertising agencies were in the same fix as his erstwhile employers. They were not hiring, they were firing. Besides this, the agency world is small and word soon gets round. Lamb was branded as a man with no loyalty to his employers. He couldn’t get another job.

“There is very little more. Naturally, my colleagues and I wished to collect some hard evidence. Most of all we wanted the poisoned bottle. That particular size of bitters is quite small. No more than five inches tall. So, even if it were not broken, it should be quite easy to hide. It could be anywhere on Ravendale farm, in the area of the cricket ground or anywhere between the two. And that represents a vast area of search and includes rivers and streams, woods . . . everything. But we had the idea that a creative man would choose some out-of-the-ordinary place to dispose of the bottle. And we also recognised that a man accustomed to working under pressure to meet deadlines would not be panicked into some hasty and ill-considered move to get rid of the evidence. So, though we searched the farm, we tried to think of definite hiding places—as opposed to a simple dumping in a river or a ditch. As a result of that as you will have heard, we proposed to open up the dung tank at the farm. A bottle, crushed underfoot and pushed through the grill of the milking shed would be washed away at the next milking time. In fact, the sort of hiding place a creative man might choose, especially as it was so near at hand.

“But, fortunately, we agreed to postpone this operation because Mr Sam Verity was away from the farm today, and it seemed gratuitous to waste so vast an amount of fertiliser when, by waiting for his return, we could be told exactly how he wished to dispose of so valuable—if malodorous—a commodity.

“I say, fortunately, because on mulling over the conversations we have conducted in the past twenty-four hours we remembered that we had been told of a bathing party at the pool on Saturday morning about which Middleton complained, and during which Mr Lamb had offered to help young Mr Verity to erect the concrete posts to carry a small-gauge mesh barrier across the stream.

“As we were trying to decide on hiding places likely to be chosen by Mr Lamb for the bitters bottle, it occurred to us that the concrete put around the posts was a possibility. We are not asserting that Mr Lamb offered his help for the sole purpose of burying the bottle. It may have been that the idea occurred to him after he had made a genuine offer of help.”

Masters addressed William Dunstable direct. “You sir, will appreciate that it will be in your client’s interest to assert that the offer to help Mr Verity was a genuine one, and not made with malice aforethought.”

Dunstable inclined his head.

“As your client could not have been aware that there would be such activity at the farm before it was mentioned to him, casually, and as my information is that the offer to help was a spontaneous one, the police will not press malice aforethought.”

“Thank you.”

“To continue. As there were two posts to be sunk, one on each bank, but only one mix of cement—on the south bank—Mr Verity chose to erect the post on the north bank, because this involved the extra work of ferrying the concrete the longer distance and it seemed right that the volunteer helper should be given the lesser task. So Mr Lamb was responsible for the southern post, and it was in the concrete footing of that post that we found a bitters bottle, unbroken. The bottle is being tested at the police laboratory now, but as, on opening it, there was a distinct smell of stale cigars, I think we can safely assume that the bottle had contained nicotine.

“And that is our case, gentlemen. I would, however, add that we have been informed that Mr Lamb has often been employed on chemical and pharmaceutical promotion, which necessitates sufficient background knowledge of these subjects to enable him to prepare the liquid nicotine from commercial tobacco and to appreciate its effects on the human body.”

Masters sat back, and in silence lit his pipe. Then he leaned forward again.

“I have demonstrated means, opportunity and motive. Now, Mr Dunstable, your client is at liberty to say—under your guidance—anything he wishes, or nothing, as the case may be. We shall leave the three of you here alone for a quarter of an hour, and have tea sent in to you. Please confer during that time and let me have your answer on my return.”

“You’re trying to let that young man off the hook,” accused Gott as he sipped a cup of tea in the local inspector’s office.

Masters denied it. “I’m of the school which believes that the seeds of murder are—more often than not—within the victim. In this instance, it would not have surprised me to learn that Middleton had been overwhelmed by a surge of hatred engendered by himself. Everybody up at Ravendale farm, Libertines and Veritys, had cause to loathe him. Any one of them could have killed him. It just so happened that he gave young Lamb more reason for doing so than he gave anybody else.”

“Besides,” said Green, “he’s a good batsman.”

“Leaving aside the levity,” continued Masters, “let’s be realists. Defending counsel will bring in every one of the people up there at the farm to testify that Middleton was a pathological trouble-monger. I’ll take bets that Lamb—patently guilty of murder as he is—will be adjudged to have so much justification for his action that he will pay a very small penalty indeed.”

“I’ll reserve my judgement till I’ve heard what he’s got to say.”

“Which may be nothing,” said Green.

“I’ll still wait.”

Masters looked at his watch. “Reed, see if they are ready for us, please.”

Reed came back to summon them. They took their places as before.

“My client,” said William Dunstable, “wishes to help your investigation in one area only. I will leave him to tell you in his own words what he has to say.”

“During the tour last year,” said Lamb quietly, “Tom Middleton asked me if I would do his Christmas advertising for him. He wanted a brochure, which was little more than a price list with a bit of promotional copy about selected items. They are traditional in his trade. I refused. But he asked again and again.

“On one of the occasions when I turned him down, I was unwise enough to tell him that the terms of my contract with my employers would not allow me to do freelance work. At the time it seemed to be the perfect reason for refusing his request.

“Soon after I got home, my wife gave birth to our second child. Unfortunately, she had a difficult time. There were not big expenses for her, but I had to employ a housekeeper for my elder child for a month while my wife was away, and after she came home, other help in the house.

“You mentioned that I was highly paid. Need I remind you that it is people in my bracket who are hit hardest by the financial situation? And don’t forget that no matter what you earn, expenditure always rises to meet income.

“So I was, if not actually in financial trouble, pretty close to it when Middleton again approached me at my home. I weakened. I was tired by family troubles, faced with large bills, and under pressure from Middleton. The money from a one-off job for him would be invaluable, and my agreement would at least get him off my back.

“So I did the work at home. And I did a good job. When I delivered the material to him, I gave him my bill. It was for £500. Before you raise your eyebrows, let me hasten to assure you that such a sum is not excessive, and had it been done in the agency, it would have been twice that amount.

“Middleton, however, refused to pay me. He said that the maximum he would pay for such a piffling piece of work was £150. Our code in advertising is simple. Never do cut-price stuff. Charge fully or do it for nothing. I had done Middleton a favour. If he wouldn’t pay, he wouldn’t get his brochure. Besides, I had paid out a considerable sum to a designer to do me the preliminary lay-out. A hundred, it was. I can give you his name if you want it.

“So I picked up the job bag the work was in and prepared to leave. Finally he agreed to pay me. I demanded the cheque there and then. I got it, but I made sure I put it through the bank very quickly.

“And that was that. Middleton did nothing until Christmas was well and truly over. In fact, it wasn’t until March that he wrote to the agency, telling them I had written his brochure on a freelance basis.

“As you know, I was dismissed without redundancy pay. Since the birth of the child, my wife had been depressed. Her mental state, in fact, was far from good. The loss of my job was a great blow to her. She talked of leaving me.

“I applied for other jobs, of course. The main agencies wouldn’t entertain the thought of employing me. I got one or two nibbles from lesser agencies, but they invariably asked me what I had been earning before, and when I told them, they got frightened and showed me the door. Where I managed to get a word in and said I would take less, the results were catastrophic. There had to be something sadly wrong with a man who would take a drop in salary in the midst of raging inflation.

“Three weeks ago my wife, more depressed than ever by my failure to land a job, left me. She took the children with her. One day, while I was away at an interview, she just packed up and went to her mother.

“I felt I had lost everything. And all through Middleton’s doing. He’d remembered I’d said I should be breaking my contract if I worked for him, and he used it to ruin me. Ever since my wife left, I have been planning to kill him.

“As you said, I’m supposed to have a creative mind. I turned it into a destructive one to rid the earth of Middleton.”

There was a big silence after Lamb had finished, then Gott said: “I shall have to arrest you on a murder charge. One charge only. Middleton. You see, son, you planned it, and the law doesn’t like that. But I think—though I’m promising nothing—that Mr Masters, as the investigating officer, will try to get the charge reduced on the grounds of justification. I’m an old policeman, and I’ve never said this to anybody I’ve arrested before—but I wish you good luck, Mr Lamb.”

Stephen Dunstable got to his feet.

“I’ll go and get your gear from the farm, Stan.”

“Thank you.”

As William Dunstable said goodbye to Masters, he said: “I’m as guilty as that boy.”

“You are, sir. You should have kicked Middleton out of the Libertines years ago.”

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