The Vivero Letter

I stared at him. ‘Who has been murdered?’

He flung out his arm to indicate the farmyard, then became confused. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to say your brother had murdered anyone. But there’s been a killing, anyway.’

We were in the living-room and through the window I could see the activity in the yard. The body was still there, though covered with a plastic sheet. There were a dozen coppers, some in plain clothes and others in uniform, a few seemed to be doing nothing but chat, but the others were giving the yard a thorough going over.

I said, ‘Who was he, Dave?’

‘We don’t know.’ He frowned. ‘Now, tell me the story all over again – right from the beginning. We’ve got to get this right, Jemmy, or the super will blow hell out of me. This is the first killing I’ve worked on.’ He looked worried.

So I told my story again, how I had come to the farm, found the dead man and then Bob. When I had finished Dave said, ‘You just rolled the body over – no more than that?’

‘I thought it was Bob,’ I said. The build was the same and so was the haircut.’

‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ said Dave. ‘He might be an American. His clothes are American, anyway. Does that mean anything to you?’

‘Nothing.’

He sighed. ‘Ah, well, we’ll find out all about him sooner or later. He was killed by a blast from a shotgun at close range. Grierson says he thinks the aorta was cut through – that’s why he bled like that. Your brother’s shotgun had both barrels fired.’

‘So Bob shot him,’ I said. ‘That doesn’t make it murder.’

‘Of course it doesn’t. We’ve reconstructed pretty well what happened and it seems to be a case of self defence. The man was a thief; we know that much.’

I looked up. ‘What did he steal?’

Dave jerked his head. ‘Come with me and I’ll show you. But just walk where I walk and don’t go straying about.’

I followed him out into the yard, keeping close to his heels as he made a circuitous approach to the wall of the kitchen. He stopped and said, ‘Have you ever seen that before?’

I looked to where he indicated and saw the tray that had always stood on the top shelf of the dresser in the kitchen ever since I can remember. My mother used to take it down and polish it once in a while, but it was only really used on highdays and feast days. At Christmas it used to be put in the middle of the dining-table and was heaped with fruit.

‘Do you mean to tell me he got killed trying to pinch a brass tray? That he nearly killed Bob because of that thing?’

I bent down to pick it up and Dave grabbed me hastily. ‘Don’t touch it.’ He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Maybe you wouldn’t know. That’s not brass, Jemmy; it’s gold!’

I gaped at him, then closed my mouth before the flies got in.

‘But it’s always been a brass tray,’ I said inanely.

‘So Bob thought,’ agreed Dave. ‘It happened this way. The museum in Totnes was putting on a special show of local bygones and Bob was asked if he’d lend the tray. I believe it’s been in the family for a long time.’

I nodded. ‘I can remember my grandfather telling me that his grandfather had mentioned it.’

‘Well, that’s going back a while. Anyway, Bob lent it to the museum and it was put on show with the other stuff. Then someone said it was gold, and by God, it was! The people at the museum got worried about it and asked Dave to take it back. It wasn’t insured, you see, and there was a flap on about it might be stolen. It had been reported in the papers complete with photographs, and any wide boy could open the Totnes museum with a hairpin.’

‘I didn’t see the newspaper reports.’

‘It didn’t make the national press,’ said Dave. ‘Just the local papers. Anyway, Bob took it back. Tell me, did he know you were coming down this weekend?’

I nodded. ‘I phoned him on Thursday. I’d worked out a scheme for the farm that I thought he might be interested in.’

‘That might explain it. This discovery only happened about ten days ago. He might have wanted to surprise you with it.’

I looked down at the tray. ‘He did,’ I said bitterly.

‘It must be very valuable just for the gold in it,’ said Dave. ‘Well worth the attention of a thief. And the experts say there’s something special about it to add to the value, but I’m no antiquarian so I can’t tell you what it is.’ He rubbed the back of his head. There’s one thing about all this that really worries me, though. Come and look at this – and don’t touch it.’

He led me across the yard to the other side of the body where a piece of opaque plastic cloth covered something lumpy on the ground. ‘This is what did the damage to your brother.’

He lifted the plastic and I saw a weapon – an antique horse pistol. ‘Who’d want to use a thing like that?’ I said.

‘Nasty, isn’t it?’

I bent down and looked closer and found I was wrong. It wasn’t a horse pistol but a shotgun with the barrels cut very short and the butt cut off to leave only the hand grip. Dave said, ‘What thief in his right mind would go on a job carrying a weapon like that? Just to be found in possession would send him inside for a year. Another thing – there were two of them.’

‘Guns?’

‘No – men. Two, at least. There was a car parked up the farm road. We found tracks in the mud and oil droppings. From what the weather’s been doing we know the car turned in the road after ten o’clock last night. Grierson reckons that this man was shot before midnight, so it’s a hundred quid to a pinch of snuff that the car and the man are connected. It can’t have driven itself away, so that brings another man into the picture.’

‘Or a woman,’ I said.

‘Could be,’ said Dave.

A thought struck me. ‘Where were the Edgecombes last night?’ Jack Edgecombe was Bob’s chief factotum on the farm, and his wife, Madge, did Bob’s housekeeping. They had a small flat in the farmhouse itself; all the other farm workers lived in their own cottages.

‘I checked on that,’ said Dave. ‘They’re over in Jersey on their annual holiday. Your brother was living by himself.’

A uniformed policeman came from the house. ‘Inspector, you’re wanted on the blower.’

Dave excused himself and went away, and I stood and watched what was going on. I wasn’t thinking much of anything; my mind was numbed and small, inconsequential thoughts chased round and round. Dave wasn’t away long and when he came back his face was serious. I knew what he was going to say before he said it. ‘Bob’s dead,’ I said flatly.

He nodded gravely. ‘Ten minutes ago.’

‘For God’s sake!’ I said. ‘I wasted half an hour outside Honiton; it could have made all the difference.’

‘Don’t blame yourself, whatever you do. It would have made no difference at all, even if you had found him two hours earlier. He was too far gone.’ There was a sudden snap to his voice. ‘It’s a murder case now, Jemmy; and we’ve got a man to look for. We’ve found an abandoned car the other side of Newton Abbot. It may not be the right one, but a check on the tyres will tell us.’

‘Does Elizabeth Horton know of this yet?’

Dave frowned. ‘Who’s she?’

‘Bob’s fiancée.’

‘Oh, God! He was getting married, wasn’t he? No, she knows nothing yet.’

‘I’d better tell her,’ I said.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a farm to run now, and cows don’t milk themselves. Things can run down fast if there isn’t a firm hand on the reins. My advice is to get Jack Edgecombe back here. But don’t you worry about that; I’ll find out where he is and send a telegram.’