Free Bury in Haste by Jean Rowden

the plaster.
    ‘Right.’ Deepbriar looked down as if consulting his notes, sure he’d struck some chord. It was frustrating, but he’d get nowhere trying to force the issue, Bunyard could be a stubborn old goat. ‘How about Bronc, have you seen him recently?’
    ‘No. He don’t come ’ere. Don’t have nothin’ to spare for tramps, enough trouble keepin’ body an’ soul together for me an’ my boy.’
    ‘Talking of Humphrey, I don’t suppose he’s been out and about? Visiting someone perhaps?’
    Bunyard snorted. ‘Last time my boy left the farm was the day they threw ’im out of school. Hasn’t seen no reason since then, likes it better at ’ome. Anyways, he wouldn’t know a black car from a grey one like that old wreck of the Colonel’s.’
    Deepbriar nodded. Doris Bunyard had somehow persuaded the school board to allow Humphrey to attend classes until he was fourteen, although he wasn’t capable of learning much. Luckily he’d been a biddable child, not given to disrupting the lessons, happy to sit quietly at the back of the room.
    Humphrey would be nineteen by now. Since his mother’s death he’d withdrawn further into himself, forgetting much of the language he’d learnt. Deepbriar had always felt sorry for the boy, teased and bullied by his peers, and exploited by his father. Small wonder he preferred the company of the farm animals and refused to venture into the wider world. It was more likely Bert had found a way to fly across two miles of fields to Quinn’s farm than that Humphrey had been persuaded to go there.
    ‘Still, I’d like a quick word with him.’
    ‘He’s in the yard. Got a cow down wi’ the sprindles. Be lucky if it don’t turn into chabby foot.’ The farmer gave Deepbriar a challenging look. The constable kept his own expression carefully neutral. He had an idea that Bunyard invented these outlandish names for his animal’s complaints; he regularly brought out new ones, most notably in the pub when there were strangers in the public bar. Often some gullible city dweller would be impressed by his country yokel act and buy him a drink, thinking he’d encountered a true rural character of that elusive old England he’d come to find. Deepbriar had yet to meet anyone, either veterinarian or farmer, who had heard of any of Bunyard’s diseases.
    Deepbriar rose to his feet. ‘I’ll go and find him then.’
    ‘Close the door be’ind you,’ Bunyard grunted. ‘An’ don’t you go upsettin’ the lad. ’E’s got a lot o’ work to get through, what wi’ me bein’ laid up.’
    ‘I’m sure he’s run off his feet on that account,’ the constable said sardonically, aware that Bert did very little, even when he was up and about. ‘Don’t worry, me and Humphrey get along all right, I’ll not trouble him.’ He left by the back door, stepping squeamishly over what looked like the inedible parts of a chicken lying in the mud, and squeezing past a rotting wooden cart with a scruffy cockerel glaring beadily at him from the top of one wheel. A dog barked frantically as Deepbriar crossed the yard, straining to reach the intruder as it thrust against the chain tethering it to its kennel.
    Humphrey Bunyard was in the cow shed, on his knees beside a cow that lay flat out on its side. The young man was stroking the beast’s head, crooning soft meaningless sounds and rocking back and forth with his eyes closed. Even in repose Humphrey had the look of a bewildered child. As the constable approached the animal seemed to sense his presence, for it lifted its head then hauled itself heavily to its feet. Humphrey got up too, the apprehension on his face turning swiftly to a smile as he saw who his visitor was.
    Deepbriar pulled a bar of Dairy Milk from his pocket, bought for the occasion before he left the village; it was lucky the rationing was over at last, he didn’t think Mary would have understood the need to give young Bunyard her weekly supply of sweets, not the way things