Free Ann Granger by That Way Murder Lies Page B

yard there now Why don’t we turn in here?’ Markby suggested. ‘We could find this place, Rusticity, and look at the garden furniture.’
    Markby parked the car in an area marked Visitors Only. As they got out, he pointed across the lot to one of the warehouses. ‘There’s one of those office supply places. That’s where I bought my box of paper. Just imagine how many individuals and how many businesses that supplies with paper in Bamford alone.’
    Rusticity lay at the far end of the trading estate and proved to be a low building bearing the name and, in smaller print beneath, the words: S. Poole and E. Pritchard, Props. A small yard alongside the building was filled with lengths of wood and completed items of furniture. Prospective customers had to pick their way between the contents with care. There were plenty of splinters ready to embed themselves in the flesh of the unwary. A battered white
van was parked by the entrance, the name of the firm painted on its side.
    Meredith and Alan inspected the random collection of tables and seats. The hallmark of the design appeared to be the use of ‘natural’ – looking wood, complete with bark, knotholes and minor damage.
    ‘It’s well made,’ said Markby, testing a rustic bench.
    ‘Nothing goes out of here that isn’t properly made,’ said a voice behind them. ‘We’re craftsmen. We’re proud of our work.’
    The speaker moved into view. He was youngish man in his thirties with thinning hair and very fair eyebrows. A stub of pencil protruded above one ear.
    ‘You run the business?’ Markby asked.
    ‘I run it with a partner. I’m Steve Poole.’ He held out a work-callused hand and Markby shook it. ‘Do you want to see the workshop?’ Poole offered, nodding towards the building behind them.
    ‘Yes, we do. We’ve just seen some of your furniture in the gardens at Overvale House.’
    The fair eyebrows twitched. ‘We made that set to order for Mr Jenner. We make anything you like to order.’ He turned and led them into the workshop.
    Inside it was cool and the air was filled with the smell of timber and the sound of hammering. The floor was covered with a thin layer of sawdust, chippings, and, despite a notice requesting No Smoking, squashed cigarette butts. In a corner another man was busy making what appeared to be a bird table.
    ‘That’s Ted,’ said Poole. ‘He’s the other half of the business.’
    Ted stopped his work and looked up. Like his business partner, he wore dusty work clothes and he was about the same age as Poole. But in appearance he provided a startling and even comic contrast. Poole was lanky and pale, of sober appearance. A regular Eeyore, Meredith had judged him. Ted, on the other hand, had a round impish face with a snub nose and curly fair hair. He had a countryman’s complexion of red cheeks and tanned skin. If Poole
suggested gloomy spirits, Ted suggested the life and soul of the party. Such people could prove a mixed blessing.
    ‘Hello,’ he hailed them affably. ‘What can we do for you, eh?’ He grinned widely at them, revealing a gap in his front teeth. Somehow this increased his likeness to one of those corbel heads in medieval churches which, from high up in the roof, pull their stone faces into all manner of grimaces at the hapless worshippers below.
    They asked if they could inspect his work and he stood back to allow them a good view of it, his hands on his hips.
    ‘Not so much a bird table,’ said Markby in admiration, ‘more a desirable residence!’
    The feeding table itself was a flat surface. At each corner of it stood little pillars supporting a roof in Chinese style with tip-tilted ends and covered with flat wooden tiles. An ornamental frieze ran along the top.
    ‘It’s designed to be practical. You can hang things from the roof,’Ted pointed out to him. ‘Like bits of fat, nets of peanuts, the stuff the birds eat. But it’s not a house. They can’t go nesting there. That’s not what it’s