Sam nodded. ‘I think we’ve still got number five empty, unless someone’s arrived while I’ve been out. Stephen?’ He looked over to the man next to him, who helped him get Fellowes to his feet.
‘It’s Stephen Collier, isn’t it?’ Gristhorpe asked, then turned to the person opposite Greenock. ‘And you’re Nicholas. Remember, I talked to you both a few years ago about Anne Ralston and that mysterious death?’
‘We remember,’ Nicholas answered. ‘You knew Father too, if I recall rightly?’
‘Not well, but yes, we bent elbows together once or twice. Quite a man.’
‘He was indeed,’ Nicholas said.
Outside, Banks and Gristhorpe watched Sam and Stephen help Neil Fellowes over the bridge. The old men stood by and stared in silence.
Gristhorpe looked up at the fell side. ‘We’ve got a problem,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s a long climb up there. How the bloody hell are we going to get Glendenning and the scene-of-crime team up if we need them? Come to that, how am I going to get up? I’m not as young as I used to be. And you smoke like a bloody chimney. You’ll never get ten yards.’
Banks followed Gristhorpe’s gaze and scratched his head. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose we could give it a try.’
Gristhorpe pulled a face. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I was afraid you’d say that.’
2
‘Problem, gentlemen?’ Nicholas Collier asked when he walked out of the White Rose and saw Banks and Gristhorpe staring up dejectedly at Swainshead Fell.
‘Not at all,’ Gristhorpe replied. ‘Simply admiring the view.’
‘Might I suggest a way you can save yourselves some shoe leather?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Do you see that narrow line that crosses the fell diagonally?’ Nicholas pointed towards the slope and traced the direction of the line with a long finger.
‘Yes,’ said Gristhorpe. ‘It looks like an old track of some kind.’
‘That’s exactly what it is. There used to be a farmhouse way up on the fell side there. It belonged to Father, but he used to let it to Archie Allen. The place has fallen to ruin now but the road that leads up is still there. It’s not in good repair, of course, and you might find it a bit overgrown, but you should be able to get a car well above halfway up, if that’s any help.’
‘Thank you very much, Mr Collier,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘For a man of my shape any effort saved is a blessing.’
‘You’ll have to drive two miles up the road here to the next bridge to get on the track, but you’ll see your way easily enough,’ said Nicholas, and with a smile he set off for home.
‘Odd-looking sort of fellow, isn’t he?’ Banks remarked. ‘Not a bit like his brother.’
Whereas Stephen had the elegant, world-weary look of a fin de siècle decadent, Nicholas’s sallow complexion, long nose and prominent front teeth made him appear a bit horsy. The only resemblance was in their unusually bright blue eyes.
‘Takes after his father, does Nicholas,’ Gristhorpe said. ‘And Stephen takes after his mother, as handsome a woman as I’ve seen around these parts. There’s many a man drowned his sorrows in drink when Ella Dinsdale married Walter Collier. Didn’t last long though, poor lass.’
‘What happened?’
‘Polio. Before inoculations came in. Come on, let’s go and have a look at this body before it gets up and walks away.’
Banks found the bridge and track easily enough, and though the old road was bumpy, they managed to get as far as the ruined farmhouse without any serious damage to the car.
A little to the left, they saw the footpath Neil Fellowes had taken and began to follow it up the fell side. Even though they had been able to drive most of the way, the path was steep and Banks soon found himself gasping for air and wishing he didn’t smoke. Gristhorpe, for all his weight, seemed to stride up much more easily, though his face turned scarlet with the effort. Banks guessed he was more used to the landscape. After all, his own cottage was halfway up a daleside, too.
Finally, they stood at the top, where Fellowes had surveyed the scene a few hours earlier. Both were puffing and sweating by then, and after they’d got their breath back Gristhorpe pointed out the autumnal valley below.
‘It looks enchanted, doesn’t it,’ he said as they walked down the slope towards the woods. ‘Look, there’s the rucksack.’
They crossed the beck as directed and headed for the lady’s slipper orchis by the fallen branches. When they smelled the corpse, they exchanged glances. Both had known that stench before; it was unmistakable.
‘No wonder Fellowes was in such a state,’ Banks said. He took out a handkerchief and held it to his nose. Cautiously, Gristhorpe pulled more branches aside.
‘By Christ, Glendenning’s going to love this one,’ he said, then stood back. ‘By the look of that mess below the ribs there, we’ve got a murder case on our hands. Probably a knife wound. Male, I’d say.’
Banks agreed. Though small animals had been at parts of the body and maggots had made it their breeding ground, the dark stain just below the left ribcage stood out clearly enough against the white shirt the man was wearing. Fellowes had been right about the movement. The way the maggots were wriggling under his clothes made it look as if the body were rippling like water in the breeze.
‘“Motion in corruption”,’ Gristhorpe muttered under his breath. ‘I wonder where the rest of his gear is. By the look of those boots he was a walker sure enough.’
Banks peered as closely as he could at the cleated rubber Vibram treads. ‘They look new as well,’ he said. ‘Hardly worn at all.’
‘He must have had more stuff,’ Gristhorpe said, rubbing his whiskery chin. ‘Most walkers carry at least a rucksack with a few dried dates, compass, maps, torch, changes of clothing and what have you. Somebody must have taken it.’
‘Or buried it.’
‘Aye.’
‘He’s not wearing waterproofs, either,’ Banks observed.
‘That could mean he knew what he was doing. Only amateurs wear waterproofs all the time. Experienced walkers put their clothes on and off in layers according to the weather. If this is all he was wearing when he was killed, we might be able to get some idea of the date of death by checking weather records.’
‘It’s been fairly constant these past few weeks,’ Banks pointed out. ‘We had a late spring, but now it looks like an early summer.’
‘True enough. Still, forensic might be able to come up with something. Better get the team up, Alan.’
‘The way we came? It’s not going to be easy.’
Gristhorpe thought for a moment. ‘There might be a better way,’ he said at last. ‘If my geography’s correct.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, if I’m right, this’ll be the beck that ends in Rawley Force on the Helmthorpe road about a mile east of Swainshead village. It’s a hanging valley.’
‘Come again?’
‘A hanging valley,’ Gristhorpe repeated. ‘It’s a tributary valley running into Swainsdale at a right angle. The glacier here was too small to deepen it as much as the larger one that carved out the dale itself, so it’s left hanging above the main valley floor like a cross-section. The water usually reaches the main river over a waterfall, like Rawley Force. I thought you’d been reading up on local geology, Alan.’
‘Haven’t got that far yet,’ Banks mumbled. In fact, he’d put aside the geology book after reading only two chapters in favour of a new history of Yorkshire that his daughter, Tracy, had recommended. The trouble was that he wanted to know so much but had so little time for learning that he tended to skitter from one subject to another without fully absorbing anything.