Healers by Ann Cleeves Read Free Book Online Page A

Richardson farm straddled the lane, with the house on one side, a large open barn on the other and lots of mud on the road between. To the south of the house the land fell away to low fields and a burn. Beyond that there was hill and heather moorland. Next to the barn a row of outhouses had been converted into neat cottages,
    each with its own small front garden. In one a middle-aged couple were sitting, eating a late picnic lunch, drinking red wine. They took no notice of Ramsay.
    The farmhouse was in full sunlight. The door was wide open. Ramsay knocked and when there was no reply called in. A woman hurried out of one of the inside doors and into the hall. She was perhaps fifty, smartly dressed in a rather unconventional way with a brightly striped loose-weave skirt and jacket. She collected items as she moved a large handbag retrieved from the bottom of the stairs was slung across her shoulder and shoes were stepped into, almost without stopping. She gave the impression of relentless energy and enthusiasm. She had not been aware of Ramsay’s presence and when she saw him she stopped briefly in her tracks.
    “You’ll want my husband,” she said breathlessly, assuming, he supposed, that he was a vet or a food rep. “Round the back in the kitchen. If you’re quick you might even get a cup of tea.”
    And she was gone. He stood on the step and watched while she got into her new Fiesta and drove away.
    He walked around the outside of the house. The windows were low and he could see into a large living room with a chintz sofa and chairs, a grand piano. It was very different from Laverock Farm. The kitchen door was at the side of the house, slightly open. There were two pairs of Wellingtons on the step and inside people were talking. He tapped on the door.
    “Yes?” said an impatient voice, with a strong local accent. “What is it?”
    Ramsay pushed open the door.
    The speaker was a squat bull terrier of a man with wild grey hair and bushy eyebrows. He sat in a wicker basket chair cupping a mug of tea in his hand. As he moved the wicker creaked. A younger man stood by the table leaning against it. The kitchen looked as if it had come out of a magazine for townies aspiring to country living. The red quarry tile floor matched the red Aga. There were earthenware crocks, gleaming pans, drying herbs. The men in their stockinged feet and overalls seemed strangely out of place.
    “Mr. Richardson?” Ramsay said.
    The older man stood up and looked at him. “Aye. And who the hell are you?” It was, Ramsay felt, his standard greeting. He introduced himself.
    “You’ll be here about Ernie Bowles. You’d best come in then.”
    “You know about Mr. Bowles?”
    “You don’t think you could keep a thing like that quiet. Your chaps turned away the post van this morning and the postman came straight on here. It’ll be all over the county by now.”
    “Yes,” Ramsay said. “I suppose it will.”
    “How can I help you then?”
    “I’m worried about Bowles’s stock,” Ramsay said.
    “I don’t know why. He never bothered much.”
    “Someone needs to look after things. I was wondering if you could come to an arrangement with his solicitor. It shouldn’t take me long to find out who that is.”
    “No need for that,” Richardson said. “It’s Johnny Wright in Mittingford. I should know. I’ve had enough solicitor’s letters from him.” He paused. “You can leave it to me. I’ll keep an eye on things until the place goes up for sale.” And it occurred to Ramsay that Richardson had already thought things through, that he was considering Laverock Farm for himself. And then, sensing the younger man’s interest, he thought: No, he intends buying it for his son.
    “What were the solicitor’s letters about?” Ramsay asked.
    “Planning matters,” Richardson said shortly.
    “What sort of planning matters?”
    “We were trying to make a living,” Richardson said. “Not easy for farmers at the moment.”
    There was