Murder on a Yorkshire Moor

MURDER ON A YORKSHIRE MOOR Breezy English mystery fiction Ric Brady Published by THE BOOK FOLKS London, 2023 © Ric Brady Polite note to the reader This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate. You are invited to visit www.thebookfolks.com and sign up to our mailing list to hear about new releases, free book promotions and other special offers. We hope you enjoy the book. MURDER ON A YORKSHIRE MOOR is the first standalone mystery in this series by Ric Brady. Look out for the second, BUTCHER ON THE MOOR, coming out soon. Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Also in this series Other titles of interest FREE BOOKS IN YOUR INBOX Chapter One Henry walked off the footpath and headed up the hill towards the drystone wall that ran along its top. Its lumps of limestone were dry and cracked in places, with some moss growing in exposed spots. These stones had sat in the field for several hundred years, come rain or shine. The field looked out over the large village of Addingham set in the valley next to the River Wharfe. On the opposite side of the dale was Beamsley Beacon, a hill big for the area, and on its top was the old light tower, which had been used to communicate danger to the neighbouring settlements in days of old. Henry turned his back to the view and peered up at the drystone wall. It was windy out, and the farmers were muck-spreading on the fields nearby. The sun was out but made hazy by several thin layers of cloud. His walking boots bounced on the green grass and fresh earth as he climbed the steep incline. The muscles in his old legs were burning as he walked up the mound. He hadn’t moved this quickly in a while. He kept his eyes on what was leaning against the wall. Was he really seeing what he thought he was seeing or was this some sort of prank? He looked about the field, just in case a film crew were nearby, but he was definitely alone. Well, almost alone. His dog, a small brown and white wire fox terrier, was sniffing around what they’d found. “Tessa!” he said, calling her to heel. She trotted back to him unwillingly. He didn’t want her to do anything silly. The day would be a hot one for May, but it wasn’t hot yet, and it had rained heavily the previous night. The air was still cold and damp, and Henry was wearing several layers under his fleece. He still wasn’t sure he was looking at what his eyes were telling him was there, so he called out, “Hello, lad. You alright?” The young man leaning against the wall didn’t respond. His eyes were closed as if he were asleep. The side of his head rested on his shoulder, and his back was pressed against the stones. He had dark hair, cut short, and he wore a bright blue rainproof jacket. It was the blue of his jacket that had first attracted Henry’s attention. There wasn’t much blue in these fields. The young man’s legs were stretched out, and he was missing a shoe. His right one. His white sock had been stained brown with mud. Henry didn’t recognise the lad from the village. He kept to himself these days and rarely bothered with the newer people who’d moved onto the housing estate. He kept in contact with his neighbours, mind. Mrs Whitehead next door knocked on every day, just after lunchtime. She needed to talk to people more than he did, and he knew she spoke to the other neighbours every day, too. She was passing on gossip about them all, but he pretended he wasn’t aware of this. Henry searched his pocket for his mobile, an old iPhone he kept in a leather case, but knew he wouldn’t have any signal up here. There never was any. He’d have to walk back into the village, a three-mile walk, to get some. He looked at the young lad, lying against to the drystone wall, and said, “I’ll be right back with help.” He felt terrible leaving the young man just after he’d found him. Looking around the field, he wondered how long he’d been there. People walked along the public footpaths to the south of the village near the river, but few ventured up here to the north, which lead onto the hills. That was why Henry went up there. He hadn’t been up for three days as he’d been getting over a bad cough. He decided he was feeling better after having a nasty surprise on the weighing scales that morning. He called Tessa to heel, as she was back sniffing the young man’s shoe, then Henry turned around and carefully walked down the hill. He didn’t want to slip and break a hip while trying to get help. Imagine the next poor sod who came through here if they found two dead bodies. * * * Henry left the footpath and walked through a gate with Tessa running beside his walking boots. He stepped onto the pavement that ran along the side of the road and lead into the village. Trees lined one side of the road, where, beyond them, the new housing estate was. On the other side were the allotments, where he’d once had his, but gave it up as he couldn’t be bothered with the upkeep. Plus, the pollen from the flowers aggravated his asthma. A few cars passed him, going faster than the forty speed limit, as he