As detective Superintendent Mark Pemberton investigates the death of a woman nick named The Princess, he finds himself asking the same question time and time again. Accident or murder? The last of the wealthy Milverdale family, The Princess has been found shot in the grounds of her estate. Was the bullet that killed her a stray from a local poacher's gun? Or did someone deliberately set out to shoot her dead? Pemberton soon begins to suspect murder as he uncovers unsavoury rumours which suggest there are many who would wish The Princess harm - and the dissolution of the Milverdale estate means tenants are entitled to buy their properties, revealing yet more suspects. Nonetheless, Pemberton becomes convinced that the key to her death is a deep family secret. Could there be an heir? And would a heir do anything to gain his inheritance - such as making The Princess's death look like a tragic accident?

 

The shallow moorland stream rippled over sunlit pebbles behind the freshly leafed alders. In front of the alders, a brilliant patch of wild bluebells dominated the low-lying field with a spread of incandescent colour. It was an oasis in the moors, a picturesque and idyllic scene. It was marred only by the woman’s body lying dead among the flowers. She had been shot in the head, according to the local constable. Detective Superintendent Mark Pemberton, tall, fair-haired and immacu lately dressed, halted some distance from the corpse. Motionless in concentration, his dark suit, polished black shoes and black briefcase were, like the body, incongruous in these surroundings. More apt were the piles of cow dung, hundreds of them. Their age varied from fresh to very dry, he noted, but there were no cows in sight. To his right was a bank of deciduous trees, a wood of ancient oaks interspersed with ash, elms and beeches which grew in profusion on Mill Bank to form a backcloth to the meadow. Dressed in the new green of spring, the trees of Mill Bank Wood rose above a carpet of thick bracken and granite rocks. Above and behind those trees were the houses, shops and people of a moorland village. Out of sight from here, it was called Campsthwaite End and was the higher part of the village. The lower part lay at the foot of the dale. That was called Campsthwaite – the residents of the higher portion liked to make that distinction. To his left, Pemberton saw the waters of Cam Beck, clear today but sometimes amber-tinted due to their passage from distant peat moors. The beck fl owed over rounded stones and pebbles and was a haven for wildlife, particularly trout. Pemberton could hear the water rippling softly in the deathly silence of that mild and sunny afternoon. It was the music of nature enhanced by the notes of a willow warbler, a recent arrival in this green and springtime land. There were no signposts or paving stones here, but the field bore evidence of several footpaths, little more than tracks defi ned by the occasional passage of human feet or the movement of cattle. One ran along the banks of the beck, another passed through isolated clumps of bluebells in an erratic route among the grass and meadow fl owers. One path might even have been made by the dead woman. If she came regularly, she could have created that path. It wound haphazardly across the fi eld, sometimes veering from its route beside the stream to weave through the grass and bluebells. But Pemberton was interested in the section which disappeared into the trees ahead. That path went towards the old mill. Formerly Milverdale Mill and now called Mill House, it lay sleeping among the dark bank of trees which filled the shallow dale ahead, stretching from the rising slopes to his right and reaching the edge of the beck to his left. The dense canopy of trees concealed and shaded most of the atmospheric old house. It must be lost in deep shadow for the whole of each day. It was hardly a desirable country residence, Pemberton thought; it was far too gloomy and remote. No other house was visible from this quiet place. There were stepping stones behind him to his left; they crossed the beck not far from the farm gate. Even the farm, directly behind him and through whose yard he had driven to reach the bluebell field, was out of sight about a quarter of a mile away. Neither the farmhouse nor its outbuildings were visible from where the victim had fallen but the cow pats had probably been deposited by its livestock. This field appeared to be part of their grazing ground. The farmer might be able to help with Pemberton’s enquiries.

 

 

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