There had, of course, been previous occasions when Grimshaw had seen a smile on Mosley’s face: usually when he had been proved right after a long battle of attrition over some pathetic triviality.
“I’d been expecting you to be along,” Mosley said. “Have you had lunch yet? They do a good ploughman’s at the Crook.”
But Grimshaw was diffident about going back into the pub. To be seen in there talking shop with Mosley was sure to expose him as a policeman, and that seemed undesirable this morning.
“I’m a bit pressed for time, Mosley. I have private business in Pringle early this afternoon, and I’d like to get over there as soon as I can. I’ll grab a snack there if tempus permits.”
“In that case, you can give me a lift as far as Denniston.”
Mosley was a past master of the art of getting other people to ferry him about. Grimshaw could hardly refuse. They climbed the hair-raising road back to the highway, several times within an inch of the sheer drop over the edge in order to give priority successively to a sheep, a down-coming milk-tanker and a Junior School on a field studies expedition.
“You say you’ve been expecting me?” Grimshaw asked.
“I gather that Mrs. Cater has been to see the Assistant Chief Constable.”
“Mrs. Cater?”
“She lives in the Old Tollhouse,” Mosley said.
So the ACC had not picked this one up on the links. Mrs. Cater must have asked to see the Chief Constable himself, which was about the only way outsiders got into the office of one of his deputies. Grimshaw did not admit that he had entered the Tollhouse grounds. There were times when it was fitting for there to be a gap of mystery between senior officer and his work force.
“You know the lady, do you?”
“I have met her.”
There was nothing in Mosley’s tone to indicate the sweetness or otherwise of their relationship. Grimshaw could not rid himself of the feeling that in his taciturn way Mosley was mocking him to his own satisfaction. He concentrated on negotiating a hairpin bend, where the road sank into a hollow to cross a fussy little brook.
“Mosley—what is going on in Upper Marldale?”
“That is an interesting question,” Mosley said.
“I have heard unhealthy rumours, Mosley.”
“I haven’t quite fathomed everything out yet.”
“You haven’t?”
That was a relief. How many times had Grimshaw known Mosley confess to ignorance of something that was happening in his realm? Ever?
“No. There are reports that do not admit of ready explanation.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the sudden death of a man’s four rows of winter cabbages.”
“Weed-killer, Mosley?”
“Apparently not. I thought it worth getting Forensic to take a look at a soil sample. They found no trace of chemical interference.”
Mosley had had recourse to scientific method? Mosley had been sufficiently worried to probe deeper than barroom talk and old women’s stories?
“And the cats have been behaving in a most peculiar manner in Upper Marldale,” Mosley said. “All the cats.”
“The cats?”
“They have been refusing to be put out at night. Even the most adventurous of them, even the incorrigible nocturnal prowlers—they have either been remaining stubbornly in their homes, or else they have been found cowering in sheds or hiding under piles of rubbish.”
“You believe all this, Mosley?”
“I spent half a morning last week, interviewing cat owners and cross-checking.”
It was not to be wondered that so many of his routine returns were outstanding.
“I am sure there is a perfectly natural explanation,” Grimshaw said.
“One would think so. Yet it seems particularly odd that this peculiar feline behaviour should have been predicted.”
“It was, was it? By whom?”
“By a Miss Priscilla Bladon, a retired school-mistress, now approaching her eighties. Well—she has never actually qualified as a teacher—but she was uncertificated headmistress of the Upper Marldale Primary School for many years. I know that Miss Bladon lays claim to extraordinary powers. In fact I attended a so-called coven at her house only last week, and certainly there were phenomena that cannot be accounted for in everyday terms.”
Grimshaw had to reverse twenty yards to give precedence to a Post Office van. When he spoke again it was in widely separated words and a quavering voice.
“You—attended—a—coven—Mosley?”
“I thought I had better,” Mosley said, “since they throw open part of their proceedings to the public, and some of the more nervous souls in the village have been expressing concern.”
“I see. So what is the raison d’être behind this coven, Mosley?”
“That is something that I still hope to discover. The general public are excluded from the business part of the meetings.”
“And the woman at the Tollhouse? She is also connected with these self-styled witches?”
“Far from it. Some people believe that she is the reason why they have taken up witchcraft. They believe it is the only way to discourage some of her activities.”