‘Land,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘More particularly, the selling of the land. Dougal hates the farm and wants to get away, but he can’t find a buyer. Or so he told us. But when we spoke to Morris Carmichael he seemed to indicate that he already had a buyer on the hook and was ready to sell up and move to London while his mother married Noah Lock and moved next door. So if Dougal hadn’t been able to sell for months, but suddenly Morris was already packing to leave, something didn’t quite add up. And that was why we visited my solicitors yesterday, and why I was so pleased to get this telegram this morning.’ She produced a lengthy telegram from her bag and passed it to the inspector.
Inspector Sunderland read the message. ‘Well, that’s a pretty good motive,’ he said eventually.
‘I think so,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Some while ago,’ she said, addressing the rest of us, ‘Laurence Dougal was approached by Messrs Ferwinkle and Papworth in Gloucester who were acting on behalf of a local property developer, with a view to acquiring his land to build new houses. His prayers had very nearly been answered, but there was a snag. The developers’ plans were entirely dependent upon also acquiring the land next door, owned by Spencer Carmichael. And Carmichael, being Carmichael, refused to sell. It would have set him up in a comfortable retirement, but it gave him much more satisfaction to deny Dougal his chance to escape. Dougal knew that if Carmichael were suddenly to die, Audrey would give the farm to her son and marry Lock, and he knew that Morris would sell to the first person that offered him anything like the asking price so that he could move away. That in turn would mean that his own sale could go through. And the only person standing in the way was Spencer Carmichael.’
‘How very mundane,’ I said, somewhat disappointed.
‘Well, yes,’ she said. ‘But murder can be quite mundane sometimes. I did warn you.’
‘I suppose so,’ I said.
‘We’d better go and collar Dougal,’ said the inspector. ‘And see what he has to say for himself. I don’t suppose you have any actual evidence, my lady?’
‘Oh no, dear, nothing like that. You asked me to solve the mystery; I shall leave the bothersome details to you.’
Inspector Sunderland smiled ruefully. ‘Very well, my lady, I’ll get some lads onto it. He’s bound to have slipped up somewhere.’
‘I could beat a confession out of him if you like,’ I said.
He chuckled. ‘I’m very sure you could, miss. But for some reason, judges are frowning on that sort of thing more and more these days.’
‘Pity,’ I said. ‘But if you ever need anyone roughed-up, I’m your girl. I can do it without leaving any marks.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind, miss.’
Throughout all this, the landlord and his sister had just stood there, dumbstruck, but now I noticed Ronnie bobbing about, trying to see past us into the bar.
‘Reckon you’ve missed your chance there, sir,’ he said to the inspector. ‘Larry Dougal i’n’t there no more.’
The inspector turned. ‘No? Did you see him leave?’
‘No, sir, but he were sittin’ over there by the door.’
‘Thank you, Mr Townsley. Come on, then, ladies, we’d better go and see.’
We filed quickly out after the inspector and made for the door.
Laurence Dougal was sitting on the pavement outside the pub sporting a split lip. He looked somewhat dejected.
A uniformed constable was standing over him while another carried on watching the door. ‘Caught this one trying to leg it, Inspector,’ said the first. ‘He… er… he resisted my attempts to reason with him. A bit. So I… er…’
‘I can see what you, “er”,’ said Inspector Sunderland. ‘Laurence Dougal, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Spencer Carmichael. Constables, help him up and get him to the wagon.’
The two uniformed policemen lifted the portly farmer to his feet and started to lead him away. Some of The Hayrick’s regulars were already out on the pavement and were parting to allow the constables through, while the rest looked out through the windows. Dougal turned his head and noticed that there was no one blocking the street behind him except two well-dressed ladies and a slightly-build maid. I saw the decision flicker behind his eyes an instant before he broke free from the two constables and charged towards us, aiming directly for me. He barrelled towards me like a rugby prop forward heading for the line, head down and thinking only of barging me aside and breaking for freedom. The boys back home in the valleys had taught me plenty of rugby skills as a girl, and I was briefly tempted simply to tackle him, but a Shaolin monk had taught me some infinitely more interesting tricks as we fled through China all those years ago and I confess to a childish desire to have a little fun.
I let him get close enough to think he was going to get away with it before stepping lightly to one side and following through with a move that would have made Chen Ping Bo beam proudly as I spun the overweight farmer and threw him, leaving him sprawling on the cobbles.
The assembled farmers cheered and were still laughing as the chagrined constables caught up with him, lifted him to his feet once more and led him away. I bowed to the crowd.
The inspector sighed. ‘Perhaps you might try handcuffs, lads?’
The inspector began to lead us away to Bert and the waiting car, but the farmers were still milling around and began to bombard us with questions. He deftly deflected their entreaties for more information, telling them that there would be a full report in due course.
‘Thank you for all your help,’ he said as we finally reached the car and climbed in. ‘Of course you’ll be called upon for statements and the like, but for now I advise you to get yourselves home and leave the rest to us. If any newspaper reporters buttonhole you, say nothing and refer them to me.’
‘Thank you, Inspector,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘That was fun.’
‘I’ll be in touch, my lady,’ he said, and banged on the roof of the car to signal Bert to leave.
We went straight back to The Grange where Lady Farley-Stroud exuberantly recounted the day’s events to Sir Hector and proclaimed that having Lady Hardcastle as a neighbour and friend was quite the most exciting thing to have happened to her for years. Sir Hector listened with affectionate patience and asked a few clarifying questions when his wife’s commentary lapsed into hyperbole.
They invited us to stay for tea (which Sir Hector still endearingly referred to as “tiffin”) and we gratefully accepted, pleased to be able to enjoy Mrs Brown’s celebrated sandwiches and cakes. It was early evening by the time we once again declined their kind offer of a lift home with Bert at the wheel.
‘It’s fine, darling,’ said Lady Hardcastle, kissing our hosts goodbye. ‘It’s a pleasant evening and the walk will do us good. We really do need to get a motorcar of our own, you know. It’s been an absolute boon this past week.’
We walked down the hill and back to the house.
‘We ought to write to Jasper Laxton and ask him to name his house, you know,’ said Lady Hardcastle as we removed our outerwear in the hall. ‘We can’t really go on calling it “the house” but since we’re only renting the place it doesn’t seem right to name it ourselves.’
‘What would you call it, my lady?’ I said, hanging up her coat.
‘Oh, I don’t know. “Dunspyin”?’
I laughed. ‘I’m not sure Mr Laxton would approve.’
‘No, pet, I don’t suppose he would. Then again, he’s in India so it would be simply ages before he found out.’