What Will Burn by James Oswald (latest novels to read .TXT) 📗

right direction but ended at a locked gate into a field full of contented cows or another impenetrable stand of trees. McLean feared for the underside of his car as he backed his way out of the turn into a muddy farmyard and finally drew up outside a squat but sturdy stone-built house.

‘What’s the farmer’s name again?’ he asked.

‘Uist, sir. Tam Uist. We took a statement off him on the day, but I don’t think anyone’s spoken to him since. It was all a bit muddled when we first got the call. Nobody senior available to take charge, so we did the best we could. Thought we were just dealing with an accidental death, too, so there wasn’t much of a sense of urgency.’

‘Well, if Professional Standards hadn’t drawn out their inquiry for so long, maybe I’d have been on hand to help. It would still probably have been the same though. Best we can do is make up for lost time, eh?’

An inquisitive and noisy pair of Patterdale Terriers came racing around the corner of the building as McLean and Harrison climbed out of the car. They weren’t unfriendly, but their muddy paws and tendency to jump up in excitement meant McLean would be needing a clean pair of trousers soon. A sharp whistle had the two dogs turn as one and race away, meeting the man who must have been their owner as he appeared from the back door.

‘You’d be the polis, then?’ As he approached them, McLean saw he was wearing the farmer’s standard uniform of grease-stained green John Deere overalls and heavy Rigger boots. He had a rag that was so dirty it could only smear the grime on his hands into a thin layer rather than clean any of it off.

‘Mr Uist?’ McLean asked.

‘Tam Uist, aye.’

‘Detective Inspector McLean. This is my colleague Detective Sergeant Harrison. I understand you were the one who found Cecily Slater’s body, at the cottage in the woods.’

A sad frown creased the farmer’s face, his shoulders slumping as he let his hands drop. McLean was glad he’d not offered one to shake.

‘Aye, terrible business that. Poor Mistress Cecily. She was a grand old woman.’ He paused for a moment, then seemed to remember himself. ‘Come on in the house. I’ll get Margaret to put the kettle on.’

Margaret turned out to be a small, sturdy woman to Tam Uist’s thin and wiry frame. McLean was put in mind of the old nursery rhyme about Jack Spratt and his wife and their strange dietary foibles, but he kept that to himself as they were bade to sit at the kitchen table.

‘I spoke to one of the constables on the day,’ Tam said as he emerged from the utility room at the back of the house, drying his now much cleaner hands. ‘Big tall fellow. Told him all I knew then.’

‘This is more of a follow-up conversation, Mr Uist,’ McLean said. ‘We’re trying to get as much background information on the old lady as possible. I understand you visited her about once a week?’

The farmer pulled out one of the chairs and sat down as his wife busied herself at the cooker. ‘Only since the old bridge fell down. ’Fore that I’d sometimes see her every couple days if there was something needing done, or maybe not for a month if she wanted left alone.’

‘Was that common? For her to want to be left alone?’

Uist paused a moment before answering, partly to gather his thoughts, but mostly because his wife placed three mugs of tea down in front of them all, along with a plate piled with biscuits. She didn’t join them at the table but remained in the room. At first glance she appeared to be busying herself with cooking, but McLean knew someone wanting to eavesdrop on a conversation when he saw them.

‘I can’t rightly remember a time Mistress Cecily didn’t live in that cottage. I was born here, grew up here. I’ve been farming this land all my life, and she’s always been there.’

McLean studied the farmer’s face. He had that weathered texture to his skin, his close-cropped hair flecked with grey, but he was probably only just past forty. Possibly younger. Farming could turn you old before your time.

‘But she’s always kept herself to herself, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Aye. Back when I was a lad, everyone said she was a witch an’ she’d curse us if we crossed her.’ Uist took a bite out of his biscuit, a mouthful of tea, then carried on speaking as he chewed and swallowed. ‘Sounds daft now I’m older, but I believed it back then. We all did.’

‘All?’

‘Aye. This is the home farm, but there’s a half dozen others that are part of the Bairnfather Estate. Then there’s the hall itself. That’s a hotel now, but it’s still got groundskeepers, maintenance men. Must be a hundred or more cottages and houses all told. Families growing up here. Everyone knew Mistress Cecily wasn’t to be disturbed. But as she got older, well, she asked every now and then. A bit of help in the garden, something needing fixed in the house. Then when the bridge collapsed a couple of months back, the only way in and out was over the old ford. Wouldn’t even trust a Land Rover to it, so I took stuff to her in the tractor.’

‘But only once a week.’

‘Aye, like I said. If she didn’t need something doing, she liked to be left alone.’

‘You say she’s always lived in that cottage. Since you can remember, anyway. Do you know if she has any family nearby?’

Uist cocked his head slightly, an expression on his face as if he thought McLean daft for asking. ‘Maybe no’ nearby. Least not all the time. But there’s Lord Bairnfather himself.’

‘I understand he lives in London. To be honest, I’m surprised he’s not come back here yet. We informed him over a fortnight ago.’

‘Well that’s Reggie down to a T now, isn’t it?’ Margaret Uist