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‘Miss Soper and I are going to spend the night at Mr Culpepper’s house,’ said Pascoe. ‘I’d like to let Miss Soper sleep, though, as long as possible. Is that OK?’
‘We could have kept you here,’ answered the woman. ‘Our lad could have used the camp-bed.’
‘Thank you very much. But I didn’t want to trouble you. And Mr Culpepper was most insistent.’
Crowther opened his eyes and looked straight at Pascoe.
‘Culpepper,’ he said. He made it sound like an accusation. Then he went back to sleep.
In Crowther’s book, Culpepper was probably one of the self-appointed squires, thought Pascoe as he stood outside the station in the bright sunlight and took his bearings. He wasn’t certain if he altogether liked what he saw. Not that it wasn’t pretty. In the rememberable past Thornton Lacey must have been a roadside hamlet of a couple of dozen houses plus a church, a shop and a pub which served the numerous farms in the rich surrounding countryside. But things had changed. Over the hill one day, perhaps only a couple of decades ago, had come the first – the first what? He remembered the phrase in Colin’s letter. Pallid cits. The first pallid cit. Soon there must have been droves of them. And they were still coming. He recalled as he had driven in that morning an arrowed notice on the outskirts of the village had directed their attention to a High Class Development of Executive Residences. It had made them laugh to think of Colin and Rose in such company. Many things had made them laugh on the journey.
With an effort of will he returned his attention to the village. Pallid cits had to be catered for. There was a ladies’ hairdressing salon very tastefully slotted beneath an awryly-timbered top storey. At least two Gothic-scripted antique shops were visible. Passing pallid cits had to be tempted to stop and invest in the past. But not to stop permanently, he suspected. No one defends the countryside and its traditions more fiercely than he who has just got planning permission for his own half-acre. The Village Amenities Committee didn’t sound like a farmworkers’ trade union, somehow.
It’s that bloody woman again, thought Pascoe gloomily. Why have I taken against her so much so rapidly? And I’m spending the night under her roof.
But why the hell should I? I didn’t want to.
That anger which had been bubbling under the surface all morning suddenly broke through again. He had progressed about a quarter of a mile down the long, winding village street and now realized he was opposite the Queen Anne. On an impulse he crossed over and went in.
It wasn’t long till closing time and the bar was empty.
‘Lager, please,’ he said to the attractively solid-fleshed woman who came to take his order.
‘Thirsty weather,’ she said with a smile.
‘Do you put people up?’ he asked, sipping his drink.
‘Sorry. You might try the Eagle and Child. They have a couple of rooms there they sometimes let.’
‘Thanks. Is it Mrs Dixon, by the way?’ Pascoe asked.
‘That’s right,’ the woman answered, looking at him with sudden wariness. ‘Why?’
‘You served Mrs Hopkins, Mrs Rose Hopkins of Brookside Cottage, last night I believe.’
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’ She glanced through into the other bar.
‘Sam. Sam, love. Got a moment?’
A red, jolly-faced man, solid as his wife, stepped through, a smile on his lips. Pascoe could understand how Crowther felt made welcome.
‘Lovely day, sir. Yes, my dear?’
‘This gentleman’s asking about Mrs Hopkins.’
Sam Dixon composed his features to a solemnity they clearly weren’t made for.
‘A dreadful business. Are you from the Press, sir?’
‘No,’ said Pascoe. The man looked nonplussed for a moment.
‘The thing is,’ he said finally, ‘it’s an upsetting business. Molly – my wife – has spoken to the police already. Now, we don’t like talking about our customers at the best of times, but in circumstances like this, especially with friends of the poor woman …’
‘I’m a friend,’ said Pascoe suddenly. He appreciated the man’s diplomacy but he couldn’t keep the abruptness out of his voice. ‘I was a friend. I’m not just after a bit of sensational titillation.’
‘I never suggested you were, sir,’ said Dixon quietly.
‘No. Of course you didn’t. I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe. ‘The thing is, well, I found them, you see.’
Absurdly he found himself unable to go on. One part of him was detached, viewing the phenomenon with a sort of professional interest. He had seen this kind of thing a hundred times in his job, had come to watch for it, the moment when a witness to a crime or an accident suddenly feels what he has seen. It was a completely unforecastable syndrome. Sometimes it was accompanied by complete collapse. Or mild amnesia. Blind panic. Or, as now, temporary paralysis of the speech organs.
A large brandy appeared under his nose from nowhere. If you had to act like this, his detached portion thought, here was clearly the place to do it.
‘Sit down, sir. Drink this up. Nothing like it for clearing the head.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe, suddenly regaining control of his tongue. ‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘Nonsense. Go on, knock that brandy back.’
He did so and felt much better.
‘You’re very kind,’ he said, trying to regain control of the situation. ‘I’m sorry. I should have said who I was before I started asking questions.’
‘Not at all.’ Dixon eyed him with the calculating scrutiny of one long expert at diagnosing the condition of his customers. Pascoe evidently passed muster.
‘What did you want to know?’
‘Just what happened when Mrs Hopkins came in. What she said. That kind of thing.’
This was silly. It would all be on record. Backhouse might let him see it. Certainly he could arrange unofficially to have a look. What did he expect to do, anyway? Spot some incredibly subtly concealed clue which would reveal precisely what happened last night and prove Colin … innocent? He must be innocent! Then where the hell was he?
‘There was nothing special about last night,’ Molly Dixon was saying. ‘We were very busy. You’d expect that at that time on a Friday night, but it was worse than usual as I was on my own with just our barmaid, and she’s a bit slow. Sam was at the Amenities Committee Meeting. Rose came to the off-licence counter there.’
She pointed at a small hatch which was visible through a door in the wall joining the two bars.
‘There’s a bell in there. She rang it. I went through as soon as I could. “A bottle of scotch,” she said. “First that comes to hand will do. I can see you’re busy.” I gave her a bottle. “Will this do?” I asked. “Anything,” she said. “They’ve had so much I could give them cold tea.” “I’d try hot coffee if they’re that bad,” I said. She paid me, took the bottle and went. There should have been a penny change. I shouted, but she didn’t hear, and next thing I heard a car starting, so I went back to the fray.’
‘The Mini-Cooper? You heard the Mini?’ asked Pascoe.
‘I’m not that expert! It sounded a bit sporty, that’s all.’
‘And she said nothing else?’
‘Not that I can remember. It was a very busy night.’
‘Of course. I’m very grateful to you,’ said Pascoe. ‘Just one thing. You called Mrs Hopkins “Rose”.’
‘That’s her name, isn’t … wasn’t it?’ said Molly, puzzled.
‘Yes, of course. What I meant was, you knew her quite well?’
‘Oh yes! We got on very well right from the start. I’d only known her and Colin a couple of months, but we soon got on friendly terms. That’s why it came as such a shock … I still can’t believe it.’
‘They didn’t use the other pub, then? The Eagle and Child.’
He intercepted a quick glance between the man and his wife. Intercepted and, he thought, interpreted.
‘They may have done on occasions,’ said Dixon in a neutral tone.
‘Come on!’ said Pascoe. ‘Rose is dead and God knows what’s happened to Colin. So you can forget professional etiquette for once, can’t you?’
Another glance. This time the woman spoke.
‘They went there to start with, I think. It was a bit nearer to the cottage. And it’s popular with …’
She hesitated.
‘The squirearchy,’ supplied Pascoe. ‘What happened?’
‘There was a bit of trouble. A row or something.’
‘With the Major?’
‘I’m not sure. They didn’t mention it till we’d got to know them quite well. I mean, they wouldn’t come in here right away and start complaining about the other pub. They weren’t that kind of people,’ protested Molly.
‘You’re right,’ said Pascoe. ‘They weren’t.’
‘They only mentioned it at all as a joke. Saying how lucky it was they had been driven out of the Garden of Eden. Felix culpa, Colin called it. He loved to make quotations.’
‘Yes, he did,’ said Pascoe. ‘But whose culpa,I wonder.’
He stood up.
‘You’ve been very kind. Colin and Rose were always fortunate in their choice of friends.’
It sounded corny. Or at best vain. But he meant it and the Dixons obviously appreciated it. He left, promising to call back later.
His talk with the Dixons had cheered him and he felt in an almost happy mood as he turned into the Eagle and Child. It was a pleasant room, cool and well wooded. And almost empty. They didn’t drink very hard round here. Not at lunch-time anyway. A half-eaten sandwich and half-empty glass on a corner table hinted at someone in the gents. But the only visible customers were seated at the bar. One was a grey-haired, lantern-jawed man in shirt-sleeves. The other was much more colourful. Long auburn hair fell luxuriantly on to shoulders over which was casually draped a soft-leather jacket in pastel yellow. His intelligent face was set in an expression of rapt attentiveness as he listened to the other man.
Pascoe went up to the bar and waited for someone to appear to serve him. He was not impatient. There was a timeless aura about this old room which suited his mood very well. It was comforting somehow to think of Rose and Colin so quickly making friends in the village. Pascoe was used to death bringing out the best in people’s memories, but there had been a genuine ring about the Dixon’s tributes. And Culpepper’s, and even Pelman’s for that matter.
Along the bar the lantern-jawed man’s voice rose in emphasis and became audible. It was impossible not to hear.
‘But if you want the truth about this fella, Hopkins – and don’t quote me on this, mind – I would say there’s no doubt at all the man is completely unbalanced. Off his chump. I said it from the start.’
Chapter 5 (#u73653413-60cb-5a2a-98c9-c96f5697afb8)
Pascoe’s anger broke at last. The professional part of his mind told him he was being very silly, but it didn’t slow him down one jot.
He crossed the floor in a couple of strides and seized the lantern-jawed man by the shoulder, dragging him round so forcefully that he half slipped off his stool and only saved himself from falling by dropping his glass and grabbing at the bar.
The leather-jacketed drinker leapt clear with great agility and without spilling a drop of his drink, then settled down to view the situation with interest.
‘Who the hell are you?’ asked Pascoe in a low, rapid voice. ‘Some kind of doctor? A psychiatrist? A trained social worker, perhaps? Or perhaps just specially gifted with superb bloody insight?’
He found he was punctuating his phrases with violent forefinger jabs into the man’s midriff. Far from being distressed by the discovery, he found himself contemplating the greater satisfaction he might derive from putting all his pugilistic eggs into one basket and smashing his fist into this fellow’s unpleasant, sneering face.
To give him his due, the man did not look frightened, merely taken aback by the unexpectedness of the attack.
‘What the hell – look here – you bloody madman!’ he expostulated.
Pascoe had almost made up his mind. Even the memory that last time he had thrown a punch in anger the result had been a mild contusion for the recipient and a broken forefinger for himself did not deter him. He clenched his fist.
‘Pascoe!’
It was the authentic voice of absolute authority. It might have been Dalziel. He turned. Standing up out of the shadows of the corner near the gents was Backhouse.
A violent push in the back sent Pascoe staggering a few paces forward. His adversary had taken advantage of the interruption to get both feet firmly on the floor and counter-attack. Pascoe looked round at the grey-haired figure crouched in the standard aggressive posture. He looked as if he might in fact know how to handle himself. But this didn’t prevent him from seeming faintly ludicrous, and Pascoe felt his anger ebb away as he recognized his own absurdity.
‘Go to hell,’ he said wearily and pulled out a chair and sat down opposite the superintendent.
Backhouse still looked angry but didn’t say anything. Instead he picked up his not quite empty glass and went towards the bar.
‘A light ale this time, please, and a scotch.’
‘For him? He gets no service here. In fact if he’s not out in thirty seconds, I’ll get the police to throw him out.’
Pascoe turned, surprised. His late adversary was confronting Backhouse with undiminished aggression. This must be Palfrey, the pub-owning major.
Pascoe groaned inwardly. Even the toughest toughs worked to the principle that if you had to fight in pubs, you never picked on the landlord. Backhouse, he realized, was now in an awkward position. The leather-coated fellow might well be a reporter. Almost certainly was from the tone of Palfrey’s remarks to him. He couldn’t know yet who the participants in this little drama were, but he would soon find out.
Pascoe rose and made for the door.
‘It’s all right,’ he said to Backhouse as he passed. ‘I prefer pubs where the barman sticks to his own side of the counter.’
Thirty yards along the street he paused and waited for Backhouse to overtake him.
‘Mr Dalziel never mentioned you were such a violent man,’ said the superintendent conversationally.
‘He wouldn’t,’ said Pascoe. ‘I wear a heavy disguise whenever I attack him. Will he do anything?’
He gestured back towards the pub.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Backhouse. ‘For once the publican’s well-known reluctance to call in the police could work on our side.’
‘He didn’t know who you were?’ asked Pascoe unnecessarily.
‘No. I was just having a quiet sandwich and listening with great interest to the major’s reminiscences of your friends to the Press when you so rudely interrupted him.’
