Death in the Hills

Margaret Hutchinson

Description

It is high summer, and Arthur, feeling jaded, decides to take a well-earned break from work and from the city. He heads north to Derbyshire, hoping to enjoy an invigorating week's walking among the lovely hills and valleys of the Peak District. At Dale Head, in its idyllic setting, he finds the perfect spot. The house, owned by walking holiday company HFA, offers good cooking, friendly companions, and daily walks led by expert guides. All is set for a peaceful holiday. Then comes the shocking news that Jock, one of the leaders, has fallen to his death while out walking on a famous local peak, the Pinnacle. How did it happen? Was it simply an unlucky accident? Arthur is not so sure. The weather was fine, and Jock was a strong, experienced hill walker. At the request of the HFA management, Arthur sets out to investigate, and soon discovers that Jock was far from popular. Arrogant, a bully, and a womaniser, over the years he has made enemies. And it turns out that at Dale Head, and even among the local people, there are some who would not be sorry to hear of his death. But did anyone really hate Jock enough to kill him? And if so, how was the murder committed? With the help of fellow walker Malcolm, Arthur resolves to find out . . .

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 25 septembre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838597184
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2019 Margaret Hutchinson

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.


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ISBN 978 1838597 184

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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Contents
1
The Getaway
2
Follow the Leader
3
Over Hill, Over Dale
4
Respite
5
Misadventure
6
Who goes there?
7
The Assignment
8
One down: It’s child’s play, but definitely not a walkover (8 )
9
Three down: The defendant’s plea is neither here nor there (5)
10
Five across: Unidentified coins got in a muddle (10)
11
Dirty Tricks
12
Second Thoughts
13
Which Way Now?
14
“I did very well note him” (Hamlet, III, ii, 284)
15
Moving On
1
The Getaway
It was just the break he needed. A week away, walking in the hills of Derbyshire, exploring a new area, and regaining his fitness. He was city-jaded, and a dose of fresh, invigorating country air was the very thing to set him up and restore his energy and spirits. So, here he was, on a northbound train, with his old, worn rucksack and newly polished boots, with maps, compass, and water bottle, with all the serious walker’s equipment, in fact, and he was really looking forward to his week’s holiday. It was summer, and the weather was set fair. His destination was Dale Head, from where ‘Holidays For All’ ran their walking holidays in the Peak District. He had arranged for a taxi to pick him up at the station. Among the passengers who alighted at Buxton he noticed an elderly couple with suitcases. The man was wearing walking boots and carrying a large rucksack. I bet they’re going to Dale Head too , thought Arthur. The station car park was empty except for a large four-wheel drive estate. Was this the taxi? The driver, who was absorbed in a newspaper, looked up as Arthur approached.
‘Mr Leonard?’
‘Yes,’ said Arthur. ‘I’m going to Dale Head.’
The driver got out and helped Arthur to load his case into the boot. The elderly couple, who were watching, looked rather lost. Arthur approached them. ‘Are you bound for Dale Head by any chance?’ he asked. ‘If so, please share my taxi. There’s room for all of us.’
‘Oh, would you mind?’ said the woman. She looked very relieved. ‘That’s so kind. We were hoping to pick up a taxi, but obviously we should have booked one beforehand like you did.’
The taxi covered the eight miles to Dale Head with speed and style; in a style and at a speed adopted, Arthur had often noted, by the local motorist who knows all the bends and gradients of the roads he travels daily, and who prides himself on narrowing road safety margins as much as possible, and on pushing his vehicle and his passengers’ nerves to the limit. They all arrived at the house shaken, but mercifully intact. Realising that he might need the man’s services again, Arthur prudently tipped the driver more generously than he deserved. It had been a long journey, and Arthur was ready for refreshment, preferably tea, and hot buttered scones too if any were to be had.
Built by a local mine owner as his family home, Dale Head was a large three-storey house of brick and stone surrounded by extensive grounds. The setting was superb; it commanded wide views over the valley and the hills on both sides. Arthur and his fellow travellers hauled their cases up the entrance steps and found themselves in a wide, high-ceilinged hall, where a man and a woman were waiting to greet new arrivals. The man, probably in his sixties, was tall and muscular, with a healthy tan. The woman was much younger; in her mid or late thirties, thought Arthur. She smiled warmly at the newcomers.
‘Hello, welcome to Dale Head,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Hazel, one of your leaders this week.’
‘And I’m Jock,’ boomed her companion in a voice that matched his physique, as he grasped Arthur’s hand firmly in his large paw. He consulted a list of names pinned to a noticeboard on the wall next to him. ‘Now, you must be Mr and Mrs Jordan. Or rather, Frank and Dorothy. And you are, let me see, Mr A. Leonard? Now, is it A for Andrew, or A for Anthony?’
‘Neither,’ said Arthur. ‘My name’s Arthur.’
‘Splendid, splendid. So, Dorothy and Frank and Arthur. We don’t want to be formal, do we? It’s all first names here, much more friendly, and very much in the spirit of HFA. Good, good. You’re the last arrivals, so our house party is now complete. Right, if you all sign yourselves in – do we have a pen? Ah, thank you, Hazel – we’ll show you to your rooms, and then you can join everyone for tea, which is just about to be served in the lounge. It’s past four o’clock, so we’d better hustle and bustle. Let’s see, Frank and Dorothy, you’re in room number sixty-three, that’s right at the other end of the house, up on the second floor, and Arthur, you’re just nearby, in number six on the first floor. Hazel, if you take Dorothy and Frank, I’ll show Arthur to his room. This way, Arthur. Do you want a hand with your suitcase? No? Righto, follow me.’ And Arthur dutifully followed, reflecting that in Hazel’s position he wouldn’t be too pleased to be thus sent on a trek all through the building and up two flights of stairs. Evidently chivalry wasn’t part of Jock’s make-up.
‘Well, here we are,’ said Jock, as he flung open the door of number six. ‘You’ve struck lucky – the rooms on this side of the house have the best views. By the way, have you been with HFA before? The name Arthur Leonard seems familiar.’
‘Yes, a few times,’ replied Arthur. ‘I used to come with my parents and sister as a child. But never to the Peak District. It’s quite new to me.’
‘Well, you’ll soon get to know the area. Of course it’s not a patch on the Lake District, but it has its own charm, there’s no denying. Actually, I haven’t been to Dale Head before myself. It’s not my normal stomping ground; I’m based in the Lake District, where I’m field officer for the Northern Lakes. But they were short of a leader here last week and this week, so I stepped into the breach. We must help out if we can, mustn’t we? All hands to the pump, eh?’ Most of Jock’s questions were rhetorical, Arthur soon realised.
‘If there’s anything you want to know,’ Jock boomed on, ‘don’t hesitate to ask me or one of the other leaders. I’m just along the corridor, by the way, in room number four, so we’re neighbours. Now I’m sure you want to refresh yourself after your journey, so I’ll leave you to settle in. But don’t take too long, or you’ll miss tea.’
‘Fine, I’ll be along soon,’ said Arthur. ‘Thanks for showing me up.’
Once alone, Arthur looked around his room, which suddenly seemed considerably more spacious now that it was no longer filled with Jock’s burly, noisy presence. He can’t be more than five-foot eleven at most , thought Arthur, but he certainly displaces a lot of air . He walked to the window, and caught his breath: the view alone was worth the journey. Dale Head was situated at the head of the long, shallow, wooded valley. On either side the hills rose in gentle slopes. Most were smoothly domed, but some to the north had jagged, steep, hillocky summits. The highest of these were Quivering Tor and the Pinnacle, around which legend, history and myth had accrued over the centuries. It was an old, old landscape, he knew. Apparently aeons ago much of it had been on the seabed, before upheavals and seismic eruptions had rearranged and redistributed the earth, and ages of weathering and climate change, and then man’s activities, had worked on it to create the view he was now gazing on. It all looked calm, peaceful, sleepily rural: farmland dotted with sheep and cows, and ringed with unspectacular hills. He suddenly felt a rush of joy and anticipation; he couldn’t wait to pull on his boots and go tramping about on those hills.

As he descended the stairs Arthur could hear a buzz of conversation from the lounge. At long tables near the entrance a young waiter and waitress, neatly uniformed, were pouring tea for guests as they arrived. They were wearing name badges: Kirsty and Mark.
Kirsty smiled as she handed Arthur his cup. ‘Please help yourself to scones,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’
She was pretty, as well as friendly and polite, a