Bury in Haste by Jean Rowden Page A

; relations with Mary were strained enough already.
    ‘Always thought Bella was a funny name,’ he muttered. ‘Reckon it must be short for Belladonna.’
    ‘Don’t be so childish,’ Mary snapped. ‘So what shall I tell her? Will you go and talk to her again? It’s been nearly two weeks now, shouldn’t you have taken a statement?’
    ‘Not if nothing’s been stolen,’ the constable said patiently. ‘Tell her I’ll call in when I’ve got time.’
    ‘When?’
    He sighed. ‘Tomorrow maybe, if nothing else crops up.’ Anything for a peaceful life.
    Deepbriar left the house with a head full of uncharitable thoughts concerning Mrs Emerson, the uncaring cause of his marital discord. But for her, he’d have enjoyed the performance at the village hall, and foresworn the temptation of the Bartles’ ale. Murdering great music ought to be a punishable offence.

Chapter Six
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    A t the Speckled Goose, Deepbriar took refuge in the saloon bar, too embarrassed by his domestic discord to face the pub’s regulars until he’d been fed. Harry Bartle brought him his sandwich and a pint of bitter.
    ‘Mrs Deepbriar gone to see her sister?’ he hazarded sympathetically. ‘Mother says there’s a second round if you want it.’
    ‘Thanks, Harry, this is fine.’ Deepbriar took a mouthful and tried to banish the image of a plate of cod and chips from his mind.
    Harry rested his elbows on the bar, in no hurry to get back to his work. ‘I hear Mr Pattridge’s funeral’s arranged for next Tuesday,’ he said. ‘Has there been any news of Tony?’
    ‘Not a word, so far as I know,’ Deepbriar replied. ‘It’s in the hands of the solicitor now, he’ll be trying to track him down.’
    ‘He was a bit of a wide-boy,’ Harry mused, ‘but he still had a soft spot for Minecliff. I’m surprised he stopped coming home. I remember him saying, one night in the bar, how his Dad always let him come back, no matter what sort of trouble he’d been in.’
    ‘When was this?’ Deepbriar asked.
    ‘About eighteen months ago. He stayed at the farm for a couple of weeks, and he came in for drinks a few times. One night he even brought his old man with him.’
    ‘Well, he’ll have a lonely homecoming if he turns up now,’ Deepbriar said. ‘Folk often don’t realise what they’ve got till it’s gone, that’s for sure.’
    ‘That reminds me, did you find out what happened to Joe?’ the young man asked, leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘He’s just come in,’ he added, jerking his head towards the public bar, ‘some of the lads are trying to get him to talk about it. Just like one of Dick Bland’s cases, it is, a real mystery.’
    ‘Reckon it needs Dick Bland to solve it,’ Deepbriar replied. ‘I’m not getting far.’
    ‘Don’t you worry, Mr Deepbriar,’ Harry said, ‘I bet you’ll crack it. Talking of mysteries, I’ve been asking around about Bronc. Nobody seems to know where he’s gone. Funny, he’s a great one for sticking to a regular route, but he’s vanished this time. After The Goose he used to go The Lodge, but that’s out of bounds since Mrs Emerson moved in. His next port of call is usually Goldings. They let him sleep in the barn in return for sharpening a few tools, but I asked George Hopgood last night, and he says he’s not turned up there yet.’
    ‘It doesn’t matter anyway,’ Deepbriar said morosely. ‘I’ve been told to leave it alone. The sergeant says there’s no harm done, and he doesn’t like missing persons’s cases. They give him indigestion.’
    For a second Harry looked baffled, then enlightenment dawned. ‘You mean after what happened with Mr Walkingham. The local gossips had a field day on that one.’ He gave a sheepish grin. ‘It was a bit of a joke.’
    ‘Oh yes, very funny. We were the laughing stock of every police force in the country.’ Deepbriar bit into his sandwich again; it was ham and pickle, fairly tasty but a poor substitute for a proper dinner. He was