‘I could do that, yes, ma’am. Any particular reason?’
‘Call it a whim of mine. You see, to fill in that ditch was the only bit of really tidy work the marauders did, so I cannot help feeling that there must have been some special reason for it. What do you think?’
‘Only that they began with tidy minds and then went berserk, ma’am.’
‘You are probably right.’
‘I’ll get it cleared,’ said Mowbray firmly. ‘A nod is as good as a wink, they say.’
‘But only to a blind horse, and, so far as I know, your eyesight is excellent.’
‘So now what?’ asked Laura, when they had parted from Mowbray.
‘Nothing, so far as we are concerned, until that ditch is cleared and some more tidying-up done. Oh, I think we had better extend our booking at the hotel. I should like to be in at the death, so to speak.’
‘I know what you’re thinking, and so does Mowbray, I fancy, but would the murderer have been such a fool?’
‘He is not altogether a fool. While he can persuade the police that Stour murdered Stickle he is safe. He probably guesses that the work on Castle Holdy is going to be abandoned because of the damage and no doubt he has planned to be far enough away by the time the site is tidied up later on. I do not expect Tynant will ever come back, but I think the Saltergates will continue the work of restoring the castle defences, especially once that ditch of theirs is cleared, and Mowbray has promised to do that and I hope he will do it discreetly and without loss of time.’
16
Secondary Burial
« ^ »
We get Geordies, Irishmen and ex-miners from South Wales,’ said the warden of the working-men’s hostel in answer to a question from Mowbray. ‘Down and outs? Oh, no, we don’t cater for them. Lodging and food are as cheap as we can make them, but they’ve got to be paid for. Yes, we rank as a charity and are non-profit-making, but there’s all the upkeep. Stickle and Stour? They were uncle and nephew-by-marriage. If you’re looking for Stour as Stickle’s killer I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. A more harmless fellow I never knew. They came down here together looking for work because there’s a lot of unemployment up north. I’ve had them since early June. They hitch-hiked down here and have never given the slightest trouble. Got on with the other men as well as with each other. Used to get a bit boozed up on Friday nights when they’d been paid, but never turned awkward. Just used to turn in and sleep it off.’
‘Did you ever hear them talking about the work at Holdy Castle?’
‘They told me they would have liked whole days there instead of mornings only, so I got them some local gardening jobs to do – mowing lawns, clipping hedges, putting down weedkiller, that sort of thing – because I could thoroughly recommend them. There were never any complaints about them and I didn’t expect any.’
‘Is there a time limit for men to stay at the hostel?’
‘There’s supposed to be, so that we can help as many as possible, but the turnover is pretty brisk, so, if I get quiet chaps who genuinely can’t find regular work and somewhere to live, I bend the rules. I would have done it for these two when they had used up their three months, if they had wanted to stay on for a bit. I was amazed and disappointed when they cut their stick without notice, but, of course, what you tell me puts a very different complexion on that. Wasn’t somebody else killed who was working at Holdy Castle? If I were you, I’d look for a dead Stour, not a live one. There has been some funny talk going around about digging for buried treasure, and once people get wind of that sort of thing there is no telling where it will lead them.’
‘When did you realise that these two men were missing?’
The warden replied that it had been when they did not appear at breakfast the morning after the vandalism at the castle. The hostel was a small one and only fifteen men, with three men to each dormitory, could be accommodated at any one time. No tabs were kept on the men, but any bad behaviour was visited with expulsion from the hostel. Lock-up was at eleven-thirty and it was anticipated that, if anybody was not in by that time, either one of his room-mates would report it or, as had happened now and again, somebody would have arranged to leave a downstair window open, although this was strictly against the rules. The warden himself was responsible for making certain that the building was secure, but there was nothing to stop a room-mate slipping downstairs after the last rounds had been made and opening a convenient window.
‘Of course, it’s only the younger fellows who would do that sort of thing for one another,’ the warden explained. ‘The undergraduate mentality, I call it. I turn a blind eye when I can. After all, they are paying guests, not prisoners.’
Mowbray wanted to talk with the third man who had shared the dormitory with Stickle and Stour, but the conversation came to nothing. He was on shift work, he explained, and had been on night duty at the time in question, so had no idea that the other two were also out all night. The last he had seen of them was at hostel supper. When they went out after that, he assumed that they were going to the pub. Nobody else in the hostel had any contribution to make. Most of the men were builders’ labourers and, having done a day’s work and then sunk a jar or two at the local after the seven o’clock hostel supper, were only too ready to turn in.
‘Who runs your organisation?’ Mowbray asked the warden. ‘I mean, who are your sponsors and who pays your salary?’
It appeared that the venture was an ecumenical one sponsored by the local churches and was supposed to be self-supporting. The warden’s own salary was paid monthly by the committee treasurer and the accounts of the hostel were audited every six months. The hostel had been established when unemployment elsewhere had brought men south in search of jobs. The majority were young and unmarried. Stickle was a widower and was one of the few older men who used the hostel as a temporary base.
‘Well,’ said Mowbray to Detective-Sergeant Harrow, as they left the hostel, ‘nobody wasn’t sayin’ nuffink to us, but I bet there are plenty of rumours flying around among those chaps. The warden can think what he likes, but my bet is that those two men sneaked back to the castle at night as soon as they knew that the caravan had been moved away from the site, got busy with pick and shovel to look for this supposed treasure and are responsible for all that damage to the trenches. Then I reckon they had a row. Stour, the younger man, was using the pick and in the heat of the moment he settled the argument while Stickle was grubbing in the loose soil with his hands. There was plenty of dirt under his fingernails when we found the body.’
‘We’ve no clue that they damaged those trenches or that Stickle was killed at the castle, sir.’
‘I know, and that brings me back to my main stumbling-block. Why choose the manor woods for the body and the motorbike? Still, I’ve got to start somewhere. We shall never get any further with Veryan’s death. The only thing we’ve got is the absence of fingerprints on that telescope. With Stickle we’ve got an undisputed case of murder, and it will be very hard if we can’t get somewhere with that.’
‘If it means house-to-house enquiries, it’s going to need all the men we’ve got, sir.’
‘I know, because we shall have to go further afield than Holdy village. Dame Beatrice wants a couple of men on the site to help with restoring those damaged trenches and the Chief Constable has told me that I must let her have them, however little I can spare them. From what that warden said, I have a hunch that I know why she wants policemen present. If he’s right, and Stour’s body turns up, we’re back to square one.’
‘Thanks for the loan of the car,’ said Fiona, handing back its keys to Tom.