‘She was murdered,’ Yellich explained, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.
‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Rigall leaned forward and, resting his elbows on his knees, shook his head slowly. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me at all? I can understand that, I can really understand why someone would want to do her in. When was this?’
‘Recently, a few days ago.’
‘Where?’
‘Not too far from here.’
‘There’s been no mention of it in the media. . that’s something I would have noticed.’
‘We decided on a news blackout. . for now.’
‘I see.’ Rigall reclined in his chair. ‘Murdered you say? Well, well, well. . why am I not at all surprised. .?’
‘Tell us more about the Canadian.’
‘The man you mean. . the man who came looking for her?’
‘Yes, that man.’
Rigall paused. ‘He came very recently. . a few months ago. He was on her trail though, he had her scent.’
‘What did he want. . do you know? Did he say?’
‘Her. . madam. He wanted her. I told him that she had left two years ago but that didn’t seem to disappoint him, in fact he smiled and said, “Getting closer. I am getting closer”.’
‘He came here?’
‘Yes. Walked up to the door and knocked on it. He was as bold as brass and as calm as you please. He spoke to Lionel who was unsure of him and asked him to wait outside. . it was a little cold that day but Lionel did the right thing. He is very good like that. He came to find me. . I was in here, in this very room, and so I went to the door and he was every inch a Canadian. To look at him you’d think “lumberjack”, broad-chested, powerfully built, trimmed dark beard, patterned jacket and a fur hat, a man’s fur hat. . you know the type.’
‘Yes. . yes.’
‘He asked for Julia Avrille. It was then I told him she had left a few years ago. He asked where she had gone and I told him I didn’t know but I believed she had remained in the vicinity. . she was somewhere in the Vale of York.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I saw her, saw her a few times driving an old car. It was the car that caught my eye, a mid 1960s saloon, a Wolseley or a Riley, white with a red flash down the side, a real classic. Lovely car. It’s the only one of its kind hereabouts, damn few left in all England and that is the only one in the Vale, of that I am certain. I have an interest in classic cars you see. So she drove past and then I saw it was her at the wheel, wearing her wig but it was her. Did I mention she always wore a wig when she went out?’
‘It’s all right, we know about the wig.’
‘Very well. The Canadian hung around for a few days, and unlike his quarry he made no attempt to hide himself. He seemed to base himself in Malton. . that was his operational base. He became a bit of a local figure and he liked his English beer, which is strange for a Canadian or an American. When they are over here they seem to prefer lager because that is very similar to American beer. . served chilled like American beer. . and the same colour, but English beer, brown coloured and served at room temperature, is not to their taste. You know I once saw a group of American sailors, first time in the UK, that was obvious, they came into a pub and ordered beer. The way they looked at it, absolutely aghast, then the way their faces screwed up when they tasted it. . it really was so very funny. Anyway, someone in the pub realized what had happened and told them that he’d been in the States and knew how they liked their beer to be served and he suggested that they try the lager, which they did and were very happy campers after that. . but the Canadian. . he liked his English beer. He had acquired the taste. So the point being that a publican in Malton might remember him.’
‘You’ll be the police?’ The man leaned against the back of the bar of the Jolly Waggoner in Malton, dressed in a neatly pressed white shirt and black trousers with a black clip-on tie. He wiped a glass with a starched white towel. ‘You have just visited Mr Rigall, the fox hunting man.’
‘He hunts?’ Yellich replied, observing a clean and neatly kept pub.
‘Rides to hounds is the correct term but yes, he hunts the fox in his hunting pink and white breeches and black hat. He has some status in the hunt. He’s not the master but has some significant position. He is a very and a most proper gentleman, is the good Mr Rigall.’
Webster and Yellich noticed a note of sarcasm in the publican’s voice.
‘You don’t like the hunt?’ Webster probed.
The barman shrugged, ‘I wouldn’t protest against it, but I wouldn’t protest for it. I dare say I am what is known as a camp follower. I support the hunt without being part of it.’
‘Interesting position to put yourself in,’ Yellich smiled.
‘Well, this is rural England. It’s about as rural as it can get and in here you pick up the local attitude and the local attitude is “leave the hunt alone”. I am not local myself. I came down from “the boro”, but I have to make this pub work.’
‘The “boro”?’
‘Middlesbrough, Teesside. . which is about as urban and industrial as you can get.’
‘Ah. .’
‘Well, folk round here haven’t a good word to say for the fox, it’s an “animal of an animal” they say. If the fox just took what it needed it wouldn’t be so bad but you see I am told that if a fox gets into a chicken run and there are twenty chickens in the run, it will kill all of them, then make its way home taking just the one chicken it needs to feed himself and his litter. But you see, for some smallholders and agricultural labourers, the loss of all their chickens to wantonness is a lot to bear. . it’s a big loss for them. No fresh eggs. . no poultry. . have to buy it all until they can restock with more chickens.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘And the hunt also brings in big money and keeps traditional rural crafts alive. We have a blacksmith and he’s only here because the hunt keeps him in work. He can walk down the main street holding his head up as a proud man but without the hunt he’d be nothing. . a man on the dole, looking for work, any work, no matter how menial.’
‘Interesting point of view.’
‘So I say, keep the hunt, it keeps the money coming in and we need it, trade is slow but we are still afloat.’
Webster glanced round the pub. A few elderly men, four he counted, sitting silently, apart from each other and in front of glasses of beer. Slow trade as the publican said, but, Webster pondered, he is at least still open midweek which is more than the lot of the publican of The Hunter’s Moon in Stillington.
‘So how can I help you, gentlemen?’
‘Yes, we have visited Mr Rigall. .’
‘One of his estate workers drinks in here,’ the publican smiled. ‘Called in for one on his way home for his lunch, he is a bit of a daytime drinker but he can handle it, and he told me to expect you.’
‘Yes, he was correct to tell you to expect us. We are looking for a Canadian gentleman; we believe he might have been in here enjoying a beer, some months ago now.’
‘Piers?’ The publican smiled broadly. ‘Piers, the Canadian?’
‘Is that Piers?’ Webster showed the computer E-FIT to the publican.
‘Yes. . well, it could be Piers, there is a likeness, Piers was the only Canadian to hang round here. Went away, then came back to see us a few days ago. . nice bloke, he said he had done what he came to do. . job done, he said. He looked more satisfied than pleased; he said he was shortly to be going back to Canada. He bought a beer and put one in the pump for me. We shook hands and he walked out the door. . and that’s the last I saw of him.’