Suddenly While Gardening Read online

  SUDDENLY WHILE GARDENING

  Pollard & Toye Investigations

  Book Ten

  Elizabeth Lemarchand

  To Robert W. Fynn and William G. Hoskins

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  ALSO IN THE POLLARD & TOYE INVESTIGATIONS SERIES

  Chapter 1

  Detective-Chief Superintendent Tom Pollard leant on the garden gate of his aunt’s cottage, watching the June day burn itself out over the Atlantic. Life felt good. His promotion was still recent enough to keep recurring agreeably to his mind. During the day he had successfully transported his family down from London for a fortnight’s holiday, and no essential clobber had been left behind. The record fine spell showed no signs of breaking up. He had enjoyed his supper and would shortly stroll down to the congenial village pub with his wife Jane, leaving good old Aunt Is to babysit. Not that she’d have any bother. Andrew and Rose, the six-year-old twins, had been dead to the world within minutes of climbing into their bunk beds. Tomorrow they’d all have a super day at...

  Distant footsteps attracted his attention. Two tired sloggers, he interpreted. Not heavyweights. A couple of young hikers, perhaps. He turned his head in the direction of the path coming down from Cattesmoor to the village of Holston, and a few moments later two boys of about sixteen emerged, very sunburnt, dusty and sweaty, but trudging doggedly.

  ‘Hullo,’ Pollard said, as they approached. ‘You look as though you’ve done a mile or two.’

  ‘Cuh! Twenty-seven ruddy miles,’ the more forthcoming of the pair told him. ‘We’ve done the whole Possel Way since breakfast.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ Pollard exclaimed, genuinely impressed. ‘What time did you start?’

  ‘Half seven. It’s one of our school’s options for after O Levels. All you can say is the others are worse, aren’t they, Blotch?’

  The second boy, in less good shape, had slumped thankfully against the wall, and nodded without speaking. Then he suddenly straightened up, letting off a yell.

  ‘Hiya, Dad! Where’s the car, for Pete’s sake?’

  ‘Here at the pub,’ a man shouted from further down the street. ‘Keep going, chaps!’

  With a hurried farewell to Pollard the boys started off again with renewed energy. He watched them, an idea taking shape in his mind, and then turned to go back into the cottage. As he did so, his aunt’s telephone rang. He bypassed the sitting room where she was taking the call, and joined his wife in the kitchen.

  ‘I wonder if she’ll be long?’ Jane Pollard said. ‘Perhaps I’d better hold up the coffee.’

  They stood listening. A flow of gratified comments interspersed with questions came from the sitting room.

  ‘Somebody’s pulled off something to do with one of her pet ploys, from the sound of it,’ Pollard diagnosed.

  After a brief interval Isabel Dennis rang off and appeared in the doorway, a small energetic figure in dark slacks and immaculate blouse, her eyes alight with triumph.

  ‘We — the Friends of Cattesmoor, that is — have won our Possel right-of-way case,’ she announced. ‘The judge awarded us costs, too. That was George Akerman, our secretary. He’s ringing round to all the committee.’

  ‘What exactly is this Possel Way, Aunt?’ Pollard asked her.

  ‘It’s a medieval pilgrim route along Cattesmoor to Biddle Bay, dear. They used to embark there for Compostella. “Possel” is probably a corruption of “Apostle”, referring to St James, of course... Jane, how good of you to make the coffee. Bring the tray into the sitting room, Tom, and I’ll show you some maps.’

  On the inch-to-a-mile Ordnance Survey map a footpath was intermittently marked from west of Stoneham to the seaside resort of Biddle Bay. Isabel Dennis explained that the Friends of Cattesmoor had wanted for years to clear it and make it accessible to walkers, but lack of funds had made this impossible.

  ‘You see,’ she explained, ‘we have to carry on a practically non-stop running fight with the water and electricity people, and commercial interests like afforestation and quarrying. They simply couldn’t care less about conserving one of our few remaining sizeable open spaces with all its beauty and interest. It costs us the earth to be represented at public enquiries, and there’s next to nothing left for the things we want to do. But quite out of the blue last year we had a legacy of £5,000 from our late Chairman, Heloise Grant. Such a tragedy: she was killed by a fall from a ladder, poor dear. But I can’t pretend that the legacy wasn’t marvellous for the Friends. With all that in the kitty we got the backing of the Ministry of the Environment and the County Council, and went ahead with Possel at last.’

  ‘Did you manage to find the original track over the whole distance?’ Pollard asked.

  ‘Yes. We got unexpected help over that. There’s a firm that does air photography which got interested, and saw advertisement possibilities. They sent a helicopter and photographed the whole area for free. It’s amazing how things show up from the air, isn’t it? After that it was a question of clearance, and restoring some footbridges, and way marking. A big job, but the work went splendidly. A lot of volunteers came forward. And now this right-of-way business is through, the job’s done.’

  ‘Was it a farmer digging his toes in?’ Jane asked from the window seat.

  ‘No. If it had been, one might have had some sympathy. Some walkers are a perfect menace: completely irresponsible. It was a tiresome selfish man called Ling. He bought Starbarrow Farm which was no longer occupied, modernised it, and moved in three years ago... You can see it better on this larger scale map, Tom. Just below Starbarrow, one of the high bits of Cattesmoor, with tumuli on the top. The enclosure behind the farm buildings is Starbarrow newtake. It was enclosed in 1756, perfectly legally, but the man who did it got away with building a drystone wall all round it, blocking the Possel Way which ran straight through it, quite close to the house.’

  ‘And this Ling fellow took the line that possession was nine points of the law?’

  ‘Exactly. Of course the row didn’t start up until quite recently: not long before Heloise Grant’s death, in fact. Up till then there was no real prospect of reopening Possel. For one thing we hadn’t the money, and for another there was no surviving written evidence that the track originally ran through Starbarrow newtake, although part of an old chapel is built into one of the farm’s barns, and we felt certain that it had been used by the pilgrims. Then a simply incredible thing happened... More coffee, either of you?’

  ‘Do go on,’ Pollard said, getting up to collect Jane’s cup. ‘I can’t wait to hear what it was. Did St James of Compostella oblige with a miracle, or something?’

  ‘Well, it really seemed like one,’ Isabel Dennis replied, inspecting the contents of the coffee pot. ‘An historian who was doing some research in the Vatican archives came quite by chance on a document about Possel. It was a petition in medieval Latin for pilgrims using the Way to and from Compostella to be granted an Indulgence for praying in the chapel of St James at Starbarrow. “Sturberow”, it was called, but the location was quite clear. The man who found the document happened to know our county archivist, and sent him a photostat. Heloise Grant was thrilled, and told the Friends’ General Committee that she’d anticipate the legacy she’d left us, and put up the money for Possel right away. Ling was informed, and replied that he couldn’t care less about the document. He threatened to prosecute if any attempt was made to clear a path through his newtake, which
had reverted to overgrown moorland, by the way. Then shortly after this Heloise died. The legacy came to us, and after we’d taken legal advice we decided to go to court on a right of way issue.’

  ‘Why was Ling so bloody-minded?’ Pollard asked.

  ‘He’s a most extraordinary man. Hardly sane, I should have thought. He said he’d searched England for a really secluded house where he could get peace and quiet in his old age, and wasn’t going to have a lot of yobs and trippers disturbing him.’

  ‘It’s secluded all right,’ Pollard said, looking at the map. ‘There isn’t even a road to it.’

  ‘No. You get there by a track up from Churstow on the Biddle-Stoneham road, and then drive across open moor. The Lings have a Land Rover.’

  Jane Pollard eyed her husband quizzically. ‘When do you start?’ she asked.

  ‘For Compostella?’

  ‘No, darling. To walk the Possel Way.’

  ‘What? Me walk twenty-seven miles? You must be joking!’

  ‘Aren’t Chief Supers expected to keep fit like Other Ranks? You can tone up the muscles by doing some training hikes first. Anyway, you’d practically decided to go when you came in from talking to those boys, hadn’t you?’

  Pollard admitted that something of the sort had passed through his mind.

  ‘Will Ling take a pot shot at me?’ he asked his aunt.

  ‘Unlikely,’ she replied. ‘He was livid in court and got ticked off by the judge, but seems to realise that he’s got to give in. He’s insisting on clearing the track through his newtake himself, and putting up barbed wire on each side. It will look awful, but save us expense, of course... There’s no problem at all about your doing the walk, Tom. I’ll give you a really early breakfast, and one of us can run you over to Stoneham. You’ll easily get back here in time for supper.’

  What the household called Pollard’s Assault on the Possel Way took place on the last day but one of the holiday. Isabel Dennis laid on a substantial breakfast at half-past six, preparatory to getting him to Stoneham well before eight o’clock. In the event their departure was held up by an unexpected uproar from the twins. Rose wept bitterly, convinced that she was never going to see her father again, while Andrew protested with angry roars that he could walk miles and miles, and they were beastly not to let him go too. At last comparative calm was restored, and Pollard leapt into the waiting car.

  ‘Sorry about this fracas, Aunt,’ he said. ‘One thing, they’re still young enough to be quite easily distracted.’

  Isabel Dennis agreed. ‘When I get back we’ll take them down to the beach with a picnic lunch,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll all have a hot meal tonight when you turn up.’

  ‘Today’s Great Thought. I can see it keeping me going when my legs start giving way under me. Thank the Lord it’s cooler than last week.’

  ‘There’s always a breeze up on Cattesmoor. You’ve got an ideal day, I should think.’

  They came out on to the Biddle Bay-Stoneham road, and headed south-eastwards, On their left, behind the great mass of Cattesmoor, the sun was flooding a cloudless sky with the clear golden light of morning. A light mist was dispersing rapidly from the fields. At this early hour there was little traffic, and Isabel Dennis made good time, only slowing down to pass through an occasional village.

  ‘There isn’t a single road crossing the moor from south to north, is there?’ Pollard asked presently.

  ‘No. The lanes running up from the villages peter out beyond the fields on the lower slopes. They’re just for getting stock up and down. All these parishes have grazing rights on the moor. You see, there’s no coast road on the north side. Just a sheer drop down, and great gullies running into the land. There’s a path of a sort for part of the way, but it’s very rough going. Look, there’s Stoneham in the distance. We’re not much behind time.’

  ‘Can we steer clear of police H.Q.? I don’t want to be spotted by Crookshank or any of his chaps, and have to start reminiscing about old times,’ Pollard said, referring to a previous case in the area.

  ‘Easily. We needn’t go through the middle of the town at all.’

  They took a devious route through the outskirts of Stoneham, and arrived in a rather drab and old-fashioned working-class district.

  ‘Here’s where you start off,’ Isabel Dennis said, drawing up at the kerb. ‘Pilgrim Lane’s first left. Follow your nose till you get clear of the houses, and you’ll see our signpost where the road starts going up to Cattesmoor. After that the track’s marked right through to Biddle. You can’t miss it. Have a good day. I’m just going to do a little shopping and then go straight back.’

  ‘Well, thanks most awfully, Aunt,’ Pollard said, getting out. ‘Jolly good of you to ferry me over at this hour. If I don’t turn up by midnight, send out a rescue party, that’s all.’

  He grinned and waved her off. As he stood adjusting his rucksack a clock chimed the half-hour. He grasped his stick and bore left into Pilgrim Lane which turned out to be a rather dreary little street, its original rural character long buried under the bricks and mortar of Stoneham’s expansion. At the moment it seemed crowded with children. He edged past a string of small ones being escorted to school by two young mums in jeans who were conversing volubly. A stream of older boys and girls were progressing in the same direction, shouting to make themselves heard above the general tumult. Farther on a brisk trade in fruit and vegetables was being carried on from a small van with its nearside wheels on the pavement. Looking rather out of place, a red B.M.W. driven by a young man drove past cautiously, making for the town centre. An upper window went tip with a screech and a mop was vigorously shaken out by an elderly woman. A postman, zigzagging briskly from one side of the street to another, gave Pollard a brief appraising glance and a friendly jerk of the head.

  The type of house changed farther along Pilgrim Lane, marking successive stages in the town’s growth. The solid little eighteenth-century stone houses gave way to hideous terraces of red brick dwellings. These ended in allotments and an untidy builder’s yard, beyond which was an estate of small bungalows with gardens, and a bridge over the river Riddon. Cheered by the view of the eastern slopes of Cattesmoor ahead, Pollard pressed on, keeping in to the side of the road on hearing a car coming up behind him. It was the B.M.W. again. As it overtook him he saw that the driver had collected a passenger, a woman wearing a dark overall and holding a shopping bag on her lap, doubtless a domestic helper fetched from the town. He watched the car go up the hill and suddenly turn off to the right, towards a house just visible among some trees. It reappeared almost at once on its return journey, and on passing Pollard once again the driver raised a hand in salute. Shortly afterwards Pollard reached the signpost mentioned by Isabel Dennis. It pointed up the hill, indicating that Biddle Bay was twenty-seven miles distant; it bore the inscription THE POSSEL WAY, and a cockle shell, the pilgrim’s symbol.

  About halfway up the hill he reached the point at which the car had turned off the road. A pair of handsome wrought-iron gates stood open. They were supported by two stone pillars, one of which carried a board with the name of the house, Upway Manor. Pollard took a few steps inside, and looked down a gravelled track to a roomy garage containing a single car. The main drive curved to the left between tall rhododendron bushes. He went along it for a short distance, and found himself facing just the type of small country house that appealed to him most. It was simply and solidly built of grey stone, silvery in the morning sunlight, two-storied, and with pairs of long windows on either side of a porch supported by slender pillars. Four shallow steps led up to the front door. Above the parapet small dormer windows added interest to the hipped roof. Red climbing roses had been carefully trained over the south-facing façade and were in full bloom. As a woman’s figure passed quickly across one of the bedroom windows he drew back a little, and turned his attention to the garden. It had been imaginatively laid out and the display of roses was magnificent, but there was a suggestion of current neglect. Weeds had sprung u
p in the drive, and the grass edges badly needed trimming. With a final envious glance at the house Pollard retraced his steps, reminding himself that he had a long way to go.

  Immediately above Upway Manor the tarmac surface of the road ended abruptly. For a time a deep stony lane ran between high hedges laced with wild roses and honeysuckle and frothing with Queen Anne’s Lace. The air was full of summer scents, and he breathed it in with enjoyment. Gradually the hedges dwindled away and the rough lane became a grassy track. He arrived at the top of a steep rise and came out on the open moor.

  It gave the impression of stretching to infinity, a vast expanse of greens, yellows and browns studded with great grey rocks, while overhead was an immense sky, unbroken by a single cloud. Pollard had an immediate disturbing sense of being utterly alone, isolated from the rest of humanity and dependent solely on his own resources. The impression faded as swiftly as it had come, leaving him amused at himself, and reflecting that he had become over conditioned to urban life. He extracted the Friends of Cattesmoor’s pamphlet, The Possel Way, and sat down on a flat rock to refresh his memory. It was conveniently divided into sections, giving the mileage of each and listing features of special interest. He decided on a rough timetable and set off westward with easy swinging strides.

  On the rough grass the track was barely distinguishable, but there were bare patches where the bedrock which the pilgrims must have trodden was exposed. A waymark with its cockle shell symbol indicated a path cleared through an expanse of bracken which came up almost to Pollard’s shoulders. He snapped off a piece to serve as a fly whisk as he passed. A couple of miles or so farther on he reached one of the Friends’ major clearances, this time through a large impenetrable jungle of gorse bushes, brambles and leggy heather. On coming out on the far side the track began to drop down to a steep-sided little valley which he had earmarked as a suitable spot for a brief halt and some elevenses. He froze in his tracks as a heron floated up between the trees, and with incomparable grace moved downstream with slow dignified beats of its great wings. He watched it out of sight and went down the sharp drop, glad of the chance of some shade. The stream was very low, brown peaty water flecked with sunlight creeping quietly round the stones in its bed. An ancient clapper bridge consisting of a single huge flat stone spanned the water. Pollard sat on it, his legs just clearing the stream, and munched an apple. He left the spot reluctantly, aware that time was getting on and that he had barely covered a quarter of his journey. Another four miles would get him to Starbarrow, where he planned to have his lunch break.