Peter Helton - Rainstone Fall

She sucked greedily at her cigarette, the gun comfortably cradled in the crook of her arm, then let the smoke out slowly. ‘I’m trying to give up. Why aren’t you walking yet?’ But her shoulders slumped in relaxation as she took another puff and exhaled with a sigh of contentment.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sabotage your efforts to give up smoking. I know how difficult it is.’

‘Ah, bollocks, I just can’t really afford to buy any, that’s all. And tobacco is the one thing I don’t grow down here, far too much hassle.’

‘What is it you are growing down here? Herbs, someone said.’

‘Herbs mainly, but I try and grow most of my own food as well.’

‘And you live here?’ I failed to keep the astonishment out of my voice.

‘Yeah, anything wrong with that?’

‘No, not at all, it’s very. .’ I was looking for a word that wouldn’t wake up her trigger finger. ‘. . romantic,’ I said.

‘Romantic, my arse. Not when half your crop’s keeling over from botrytis in this damn weather, blight has got your spuds, the rabbits have had your carrots, the badgers your sweetcorn and the pigeons the rest.’

The aroma of cooking intensified in the air and I suddenly identified the smell. I nodded towards the shepherd’s hut. ‘I think I can smell pigeon now.’

‘Oh, shit.’ She rushed past me, up the three steps and through the door into the hut. ‘If it’s ruined then it’ll be your bloody fault,’ she cried.

I followed her. The inside of the hut, which was no more than six by twelve feet, was a cosy affair, lit by a couple of low voltage lamps. On the left under the window were a table and chair, both covered in books. There was a small leather armchair in one corner and the squat wood-burning stove in the other. She had taken the casserole off the stove with a pair of gardening gloves and put it on the floor, where she was examining it, cigarette dangling from her lips. She grabbed hold of a wooden spoon.

‘If it’s stuck to the bottom it’s best to decant it into a fresh pot without stirring it,’ I warned.

She gave me an exasperated look, then pushed past me out of the door, leaving her gun leaning against the wall. A moment later she returned carrying a fire-blackened cast-iron casserole dish with an ancient-looking dog following at her heels. I shrank against the wall but the tired mongrel only sniffed perfunctorily in my direction, then flopped down near the stove. ‘Don’t mind Taxi, he’s too tired to bite.’ The Stone woman tumbled deep red sauce and pigeons into the clean casserole dish. ‘It’s all right, it was only just catching at the bottom.’ She took a swig from an open bottle of red, added a good slug to the dish and stirred it in. With the casserole returned to the stove top she let herself fall into the battered red armchair. ‘You can cook, huh? Dropped in to give me a cooking lesson, that it? Or perhaps you just have a lot of experience burning stuff? Who are you anyway? You look slightly less menacing without your goggles. That was you yesterday, wasn’t it? Persistent, aren’t you? And you’re a private investigator?’

‘Do you always ask half a dozen questions in one breath? Yes, no, yes and yes, it was and I am. I think that covers it. My name’s Chris Honeysett. So, was it you who tried to scare me off with airborne top-fruit?’

‘Tried to? Worked pretty well, I thought. I’m Gemma Stone. Most people call me Gem.’

‘Gem Stone, I get it.’

‘Very astute, only I’m not the precious type. So what do you want from me? You’re also less muddy today. Did you crawl here yesterday?’

‘I came by bike yesterday but the engine conked out at the ford.’

‘So that’s what I heard. I wondered why the engine sound didn’t come any nearer. Made me suspicious. People with legitimate business know to sound their horn at the gate and wait.’

‘Ex-gate.’ I felt it was only fair to point this out. ‘I was unsure of the etiquette. And at the time quite hornless, I assure you. My normal conveyance, by the way, is a black Citroën DS21.’

Her mouth formed a silent ‘oh’ and she nodded sagely. ‘So that was yours, was it?’

‘Did you see it?’

She pointed for me to sit on the wooden chair. ‘Just chuck the books on the table.’

I did. All of them were about aspects of horticulture and herbalism.

‘No, didn’t see it but the police told me about it. I’m afraid I couldn’t help them either. I haven’t been up that way for ages, too busy down here. They said there was a dead bloke in the back. You didn’t have anything to do with that then, presumably.’

‘Nothing at all. My car was stolen from a car park in Larkhall and found in that field with a dead body in the back.’

The dog closed his eyes and sighed. ‘And what exactly made you come to me with this story?’

The answer to that was easy. Cairn had overheard two men talking about a guy called Albert and ‘the old witch’, though here in the light I guessed Gemma was still comfortably in her thirties. ‘For a while the police thought I had killed the guy. Perhaps they still do. Thought I might do a bit of investigating myself. I’m asking everybody.’

‘The police already asked me. Sorry, no idea.’

‘And you’re not missing anyone, obviously.’

Her eyes were resting on a gardening calendar pinned to the wall by the table. ‘No, can’t say I do. It’s a one woman show, this,’ she said but a note of doubt had crept into her voice.

‘I think the dead man’s name was Albert Something.’

‘Oh? The police didn’t mention that.’ She frowned, then smiled brightly and rose. ‘Sorry, can’t help,’ she said with determination. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got things to do.’

‘Oh, all right.’ I got up and went outside into the brightening afternoon. Gaps had appeared in the cloud and the mists were burning away fast. ‘So what kind of herbs are you growing? Poisonous ones? I saw the sign.’

‘Nah, that’s just to scare off the kids. Not that it’s working too well. Somehow the place is a magnet for bored children, nutters, vandals and prowlers. And of course private detectives, the police, drunk neighbours and all the other wildlife Somerset has to offer. I’m thinking of getting a noisier gun. Yeah, I grow all kinds of herbs, medicinal as well as culinary,’ she explained. She was walking me back to the broken gate to make sure I really left.

‘And you’re making a living that way?’

‘I’m still here, aren’t I?’ she said sharply. I guessed this wasn’t a favourite topic.

Just then I noticed that now there appeared to be only one scarecrow standing guard. I pointed at it. ‘Ehm. .’

‘Yes, I can stand very still if need be. You learn that when you’re hunting for pigeons with an air gun.’

At the gate I offered her a cigarette as a parting gift. She took two, gave me a lopsided grin that died on her face even before she had turned round, then trotted back towards her muddy camp.

The Land Rover started straight away as though eager to get out of the place. As I negotiated the muddy track and the even muddier ford I couldn’t help thinking that Gem had looked just a little worried ever since I mentioned the name Albert, though she had ploughed on bravely enough through the rest of our conversation. If she really was as worried as I thought then it was only a matter of time until she made some kind of move — if only to find some more cigarettes to calm herself down. In which case it was a private detective’s duty to wait round the corner and follow her. I turned left along the lane, since I presumed she’d go right towards the nearest spot of civilization, found a passing place wide enough to turn the Landy around in and point it the right way, then waited.