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They were only a couple of miles outside Enscombe now on the narrow winding road Wield remembered from the day before, bounded by an ancient drystone wall on one side and a hedgerow not much younger on the other.
A Post Office van came up behind them, tailgated them for a while, then on the first not very long straight gave a warning peep on the horn and shot past.
‘Bit chancy,’ said Wield.
‘He’s late for the lunch-time pick-up,’ said Filmer. ‘Always late, is Ernie Paget. Except when he’s early ’cos he doesn’t want to be late somewhere else.’
‘At least he does move at speed when he has to,’ observed Digweed irritably. ‘Do we have to dawdle so? I have work to do even if you don’t!’
‘More haste less speed,’ observed Wield, which was not very original but proved almost immediately accurate. The red van had vanished round the next bend. Suddenly they heard a screech of brakes, a chorus of baa-ing, and a loud bang!
‘Holy Mother!’ exclaimed Filmer, hitting the brake hard.
They went round the bend in a fairly controlled skid, coming to a halt aslant the road with a jerk that threw Wield and Filmer against each other and flung Digweed forward with his arms wrapped round the front-seat head restraints.
The van hadn’t been so fortunate. It was halfway through the hedge, straddling a narrow but deep drainage ditch, with steam jetting up from beneath the buckled bonnet.
Ahead, the road was packed with sheep milling around in panic. A man was ploughing through them bellowing what sounded like abuse but turned out to be commands to a pair of Border collies.
‘You both OK?’ said Wield. Filmer grunted laconically but Digweed was no Spartan in either suffering or speech.
‘OK? Not content with depriving me of two hours of peaceful and profitable existence, you finally attempt to rob me of existence itself, and you ask if I am OK?’
He paused rhetorically, his face flushed with a rage which made him look a lot healtheir than his usual scholarly pallor. He was, Wield decided, OK.
‘Let’s take a look at Ernie,’ said Filmer.
At this moment the door of the van opened and the driver staggered out. His face was covered in blood and he let out a terrible cry and slumped sideways as his feet touched the ground.
Fearing the worst, Wield got out and hurried forward.
‘Don’t move,’ he cried, recalling his emergency medical training.
The mask of blood turned towards him.
‘Don’t move? I’ve smashed me fucking van and broken me fucking nose and now I’m up to me hocks in freezing fucking water and you tell me don’t move? Who the hell are you? Jeremy fucking Beadle? Gi’s a hand out of here, it’s sucking me down.’
The farmer had arrived too. He was a man of medium height with a breadth of chest and shoulder which seemed to have bowed his legs. He had a shepherd’s crook in his right hand, its handle carved from a ram’s horn into a beautifully detailed hawk’s head. He proffered this to the postman and hauled him on to the road.
‘You’ve knackered that hedge, Ernie Paget,’ he said. ‘Who’s going to fettle it, that’s what I want to know.’
‘Sod your hedge. I were lucky it weren’t your wall.’
‘Nay,’ said the farmer. ‘You’d likely have bounced off the wall. By gum, you’re quick off the mark for once in your life, Terry Filmer. Last time I called police, they were an age coming. You going to arrest him for speeding?’
‘You by yourself, George?’ said Filmer. ‘You know the law when you’ve got stock on the highway. One man up front, one behind.’
‘Oh aye? Happen I’m a bit short-handed today. Like you lot, I hear!’
Wield noted the sarcasm, but was too busy checking Paget to try to follow it up. He couldn’t find any damage apart from the nose and some bruised ribs, but it would take a proper hospital examination to check if there was anything broken.
‘Let’s get him into the car,’ he said to Filmer, ‘and you can call up some help.’
‘Hang about. I’ll just sort these sheep, then you can come up to the house for a mug of tea,’ said the farmer.
He turned and began to bellow instructions again, rather unnecessarily it seemed to Wield, as the dogs had been quite happily turning the flock through an open gate into the field beyond the wall. There was a cold wind blowing down the valley and Wield shivered. The farmer seemed unaffected even though he was wearing only a short-sleeved tartan shirt and his close-cropped head was hatless. Wind and weather had cured his skin to the consistency of leather. His trousers, which were tied round his waist with baling twine and looked as if they could walk by themselves, were tucked into a pair of odd wellies, the left black, the right green.
‘I’m not going to hang around here any longer,’ declared Digweed, who had preserved an unnatural silence for the past couple of minutes. ‘I can be comfortable in my own house long before you get this lot sorted out.’
‘Do us a favour, Mr Digweed,’ said the postman as Filmer helped him to the police car. ‘Tell Mr Wylmot at the Post Office that I’ve been held up.’
‘Certainly,’ said Digweed. ‘I hope you’ll be all right, Mr Paget.’
Wield felt, though he did not show, surprise at this faint glimmer of human feeling. He said, ‘Hold on, Mr Digweed, and I’ll walk into the village with you.’
He followed Filmer to the car and said, ‘I’ll leave you to sort this lot out. I’ll be making for the Hall to meet Mr Pascoe. Why don’t we meet up at Church Cottage in about an hour?’
‘Fine,’ said Filmer. ‘Try not to bleed on the seat, Ernie.’
‘This farmer, what’s his name?’
‘Creed. George Creed. He farms Crag End up there.’
He pointed to a whitewashed farmhouse set like a solitary molar in the rocky jaw of land rising to the west. The track running up to it was steep and unmetalled. Wield hoped the postman’s ribs, not to mention the car’s springs, would survive the trip.
He said, ‘Owns it, does he?’
‘Rents it from the Guillemard estate.’
‘They own most of the land round here, do they?’
‘Did once. Lot of it had to go for death duties when the Squire inherited in the ’fifties. Since then the bottom’s fell out of sheep, and there’s only three working farms left on the estate and t’other two are in a bad way.’
‘But Creed makes a go of it?’
‘Good farmer, George. Didn’t just stick with sheep. Nice herd of cows too. And pigs. Best ham in the county comes from George’s porkers.’
‘I noticed that he seemed to know all about Bendish going missing.’
It wasn’t intended as reproof but Filmer seemed ready to take it as such.
‘Most folk’ll know by now,’ he said with some irritation. ‘It’s not like the town round here with no one bothering with their neighbours. And you’ve got to know how to talk to these folk. I don’t know what your fat boss is playing at, sending a soft townie like that Pascoe out here. We’d have done better with a couple of dogs sniffing around the moor in case the lad’s lying up there somewhere with a broken leg. Yon fancypants likely wouldn’t know blood if he trod in it!’
‘I’ll pass your observations on, shall I, Terry?’ said Wield. ‘And talking of blood and fancypants, Postman Pat’s just dripped down your trousers.’
And smiling to himself, he turned and hurried after the bookseller who, forecastably, had been too impatient to wait.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_841af6b0-0f21-5dc1-b4b4-cc92e9ef309f)
‘Which of all my important nothings shall I tell you first?’
At this moment Pascoe’s pants were far from fancy, being of a bookmaker’s check with enough spare room around the waist and buttocks to accommodate the bookie’s runner.
The upside of things was that he was sitting in a bar lounge drinking the best beer he’d tasted in a long while.
The speed of his journey from horror to happiness was enough to give a philosopher pause. The menacing knifeman had dropped his weapon on to the table and helped him to his feet with expressions of concern and apology that had rapidly transformed him from Jack the Ripper to jolly Thomas Wapshare, landlord of the Morris Men’s Rest. The bucket of blood, he explained, belonged to a pig and was the essential ingredient of the homemade black puddings for which he claimed a modest fame. And the eyes in the bag belonged to a large buck rabbit which, along with a couple of pigeons and a duck, were destined for t’other pillar of the pub’s culinary reputation, Mrs Wapshare’s game pie.
Pascoe had started to explain who he was but, as at Scarletts, found himself treated as if expected. At this point Mrs Wapshare appeared, looking just like her husband in drag, and expressing great concern at the state of Pascoe’s trousers. Despite his modest protests, she had them off him with a speed he hoped was honestly learned and took them away to be sponged while he climbed into a pair of Wapshare’s colourful bags.
During this time the pale youth with the shotgun rematerialized in the kitchen and watched the debagging with that unnervingly unfocused stare. Pascoe felt he ought to ask him some questions but was inhibited by his deshabille and also by some legal uncertainties. Game laws didn’t play a large part in his detective life. Once he had known them, but only as examination knowledge, which sparkles like the dew in the morning and has as brief a stay. He was pretty certain the pigeons and the rabbit were OK, but he couldn’t swear to the duck. Wieldy would know. Wieldy knew everything, despite never showing the slightest interest in promotion exams.
But at least he could check the gun licence.
It was too late, he realized as he looked up from tucking his shirt into the trousers. The young man had vanished.
‘Who was that?’ he asked. ‘And where’s he gone?’
‘God knows, and He’s not telling,’ said Wapshare. ‘Name of Toke. Jason Toke. Bit strange but he’s harmless, and you’d have to walk a long mile to find a better shot. We buy a lot of stuff off him. He doesn’t work – who does these days? – and the money helps him and his mam. But what are we hanging around here for, Chief Inspector? Come through into the bar and make yourself comfortable till your trousers are ready.’
The bar was a delight, nicely proportioned and very user-friendly, with lots of old oak furniture well polished by much use, a huge fireplace with a log fire, walls completely free of horse-brass, and best of all, not a juke box or fruit machine in sight. Waspshare drew a couple of pints before he got a potion which satisfied his critical gaze.
‘There we are,’ he said, handing over a glass. ‘Clear as a nun’s conscience.’
Pascoe produced some money and when Wapshare looked ready to be offended, he placed the coins carefully on a ziggurat of copper and silver which towered up beside a notice saying Save Our School.
‘Money trouble?’ he said with the sympathy of a parent who spent so much time answering appeals that he sometimes suspected he’d been edged into private education without noticing it.
‘Aye, but not just books and chalk. Worse than that. We need enough to pay a teacher, else they’ll close the place down and bus our kids nine miles to Byreford.’
‘That’s terrible,’ said Pascoe. ‘How’s the appeal doing?’
‘OK, but not OK enough to provide an income. That takes real money. Only way we can get that is to sell something and we’ve nowt to sell except our Green. So no school or no Green. It’s what they call a double whammy, isn’t it? But you’ve not come here to talk about schools, have you, sir? Not unless it’s a school for scandal!’
‘So what do you think I have come here to talk about? asked Pascoe.
‘At a guess I’d say … Constable Bendish!’ He peered into Pascoe’s face and let out his infectious laugh. ‘Nay sir, don’t look so glummered! There’s no trick. Soon as it got round that Terry Filmer were getting his knickers in a twist about Dirty Harry going missing, I said to my good lady, five quid to a farthing some smart detective from the city’ll stroll in here afore the day’s out and start making discreet inquiries. So fire away, Mr Pascoe.’
Pascoe sipped his beer, decided that a man who kept ale as good as this was entitled to a bit of smart-assery, and said, ‘It’s a fair cop. But no big deal. It’s just that we need to get hold of Bendish, but it’s his day off and no one seems to know where he’s got to. Probably some simple explanation …’
‘Like he’s trapped under a fallen woman,’ grinned Wapshare. ‘Lucky devil!’
Wondering if this echo of Dalziel’s theory sprang from local knowledge, Pascoe said, ‘Is that why you called him Dirty Harry just now?’
‘No. That just slipped out. A kind of nickname some folk use,’ said Wapshare, hesitating before going on, ‘I might as well tell you as you’ll not be long finding out, your Constable Bendish didn’t set out to make himself popular. For years we had old Chaz Barnwall, lovely man, and when he retired last back end, we gave him a party here that went on till milking time. Next night, dead on the stroke of eleven, the door opens and young Harold walks in. “Welcome to Enscombe,” says I. “You’ll have a drink against the cold?” And he never cracks his face but says, “No, I won’t. For two reasons. One is my warrant which doesn’t allow me to drink on duty. The other is your licence which doesn’t allow you to serve drink after eleven. Get supped up and shut up, landlord.” And he went outside and sat in his car in the car park, and the first lad who came out, he breathalysed.’
‘New broom,’ said Pascoe. ‘Making his mark.’
‘He did that right enough. As well as the breathalysing, he marked folk for road tax, tyres, lights, MOT, leaving mud on the road, letting animals stray – you name it, if it’s an offence there’s someone round here he’s done for it! Can you wonder some folk took to calling him Dirty Harry!’
‘So, a lot of people with grudges,’ said Pascoe. ‘You included?’
‘Nay, takes more than that to cause a grudge round here. As for me, I were grateful to have an excuse to get to bed at a decent time. This pubbing takes up far too much fishing time as it is.’
‘I notice you don’t exactly advertise,’ said Pascoe.
‘Them as I want in here knows where it is,’ said Wapshare. ‘Plus a few discerning travellers like yourself, of course. But if it’s the sign you mean, there’s a story behind that.’
A policeman in full possession of his trousers might have avoided the temptation and pressed on with official inquiries. But Pascoe felt himself in the grip of stronger forces than mere duty. He finished his beer and said, ‘A story, you say?’
‘Aye. You’d like to hear it? Let me get you the other half. And what about summat to eat? Only take a tick to fry up some chips and a slice or two of my black pudding. Nay? You’ll have a piece of cold pie, but? My good lady would never forgive me if I let you go without trying her game pie. That big enough for you? If not there’s plenty more. Now let me see. The sign. We’ve got to go back a few hundred years …’
Pascoe began to feel this might have been a very serious mistake. But as he sank his teeth into the wedge of pie and found it matched in quality the superb ale, he comforted himself with the argument that this came under the heading of gathering local colour.
‘Thing is,’ began Wapshare, ‘there never used to be a pub here in Enscombe at all. There was no way we were going to get one without the approval of the Guillemards, and the Guillemards reckoned that the last thing working men needed was a pub to get bolshie in.’
‘The Guillemards? They’re the family at Old Hall, right?’ said Pascoe, recalling the brief briefing he’d received from Terry Filmer about the last sighting of Harry Bendish.
‘That’s right. Used to be a big bunch of them and right powerful.’
‘And now?’
‘There’s the old Squire; his granddaughter, Girlie; his great-nephew, Guy Guillemard, who’s the heir; and little Franny Harding, the poor relation.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Every posh family needs a poor relation to remind ’em how well they’re doing. Only in recent years they’ve not been doing so well. But way back, when I’m talking about, they were rotten rich, and they made sure Enscombe stayed dry till well into the last century.’
‘What happened then?’
‘What happened? They were rude to Jake Halavant, that’s what happened!’
‘Halavant? Any relation to Justin Halavant at Scarletts?’
‘You know Justin? Then mebbe you’ll be surprised to learn that at the start of the last century the Halavants were nowt but a bunch of raggedyarsed peasants who could hardly pronounce their own name let alone spell it. The only one on ’em with enough brains to make a pudding was Jake. Good with his hands too – carving, painting, owt of that. And a real artist with his tongue, by all accounts. So it didn’t surprise anyone when he decided he’d had enough of living like a pig, and he upped and vanished. But everyone was knocked right back twenty years later when who should turn up in the village, looking, talking and spending money like a gent, but young Jake!’
‘How did people react?’ wondered Pascoe.
‘They were pleased, most on ’em. Enscombe folk like to see their own get on, so long as they don’t forget who they are. Jake was a real Fancy Dan, but he was generous with all his old friends, and with what remained of his family too after the smallpox and the gallows had taken their share. Then one day he took it into his head to stroll up to Old Hall and send in his card. A bit provocative, maybe, but all they had to do was send word out they weren’t at home.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Pascoe. ‘I take it they didn’t.’
‘No. They kept him waiting on the doorstep twenty minutes. Then the butler brought his card back with a message that if he cared to go round to the kitchen entry, the cook would be happy to extend the usual courtesy of the house to members of his family and dig out some scraps of food and old clothing for him. That was the biggest mistake they ever made.’
‘How so?’ asked Pascoe, partly to hurry the story on but mainly because he wanted to know.
‘Most folk reckon if they’d have been polite, after a while Jake would have headed back to London or wherever he’d come from. But instead what he did was this. He sniffed around and found that the Guillemards, who had a nasty habit of buying up local property at knock-down prices – which is to say, they knocked down anyone else interested in buying – were after this house and a parcel of land down the river alongside Scarletts Pool which is the best fishing pool on the Een. At the last moment, Jake nipped in and upped the ante and bought them both under the Guillemards’ noses! If that weren’t enough, next thing he gets himself engaged to a second cousin of the Finch-Hattons of Byreford who’d got tired of being a poor relation. The Finch-Hattons are proper Yorkshire gentry, and when they saw Jake had the brass, they were glad to get the lass off their accounts and on to his. Naturally they invited the Guillemards to the wedding, and they had to take a holiday out of the country to get out of going!’
‘Game, set and match to Jake,’ applauded Pascoe. ‘But how did this place become a pub?’
