A Dedicated Man (17 page)

‘That was a terrible pun back there. Cock and bull story.’

‘Oh, I thought it was quite good myself.’

Taking advantage of the fine weather, Banks and Hatchley walked to Gratly. They took the short cut through the cemetery and along a narrow path through a field. Lynchets led down to the beck
like a broad flight of green velvet stairs. Sheep grazed under a clump of ash trees in the lush green grass by the water.

This time, Banks was struck by the tranquillity and individuality of Gratly. At the centre of the hamlet was a low stone bridge under which a broad stream ran over several abrupt terraces and
descended in a series of small waterfalls past a disused mill and down the valley side to the all-consuming Swain.

Gratly itself radiated like a cross from this central point, and ginnels and snickets here and there led to twisting backstreets and hidden outhouses. The houses were all old, built of local
stone, but their designs varied. Some, originally weavers’ cottages, had many windows in their upper stories, while others looked like old farmhouses or labourers’ quarters. The sun on
the light stone and the steady music of water as it trickled relaxed Banks, and he found himself thinking that this was no day and no place for his kind of business. The hamlet was silent and
still; there were no signs of life at all.

Emma Steadman, wearing a brown apron over her shirt and slacks, answered the door at the second ring and invited them inside, apologizing for the mess. She stopped at the entrance to the front
room and ushered the two men in, running a grimy hand over her moist brow. Banks saw immediately what she meant. All Steadman’s books had been taken down from the shelves and stood in untidy,
precariously balanced piles on the floor.

The widow moved forlornly into the middle of the room and gestured around. ‘They’re all his. I can’t stand it, having them all over the place. I don’t know what to do
with them.’ She seemed less frosty than when they had parted on Monday afternoon, vulnerable among the detritus of a shared life.

‘There’s a book dealer in Eastvale,’ Banks advised her. ‘I’m sure he’ll come out and appraise them if you give him a call. He’ll give you a fair price.
Or what about Thadtwistle in Helmthorpe?’

‘Yes, that’s an idea. Thank you.’ Mrs Steadman sat down. ‘It’ll have to wait though, I’m afraid. I can’t face that kind of thing yet. I don’t know
what I’ll do with all his things. I never realized he’d collected so much junk. I wish I could just get up and leave Gratly, go somewhere else.’

‘You’ll not be staying here?’ asked Hatchley.

She shook her head. ‘No, Sergeant, I don’t think so. There’s nothing for me here. It was Harold’s work, really. His place.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘I haven’t really thought. A city, I suppose. Maybe London.’ She looked at Banks.

‘I shouldn’t worry about it yet,’ he said. ‘You need a bit of time. It’ll all get taken care of.’

Silence followed. Mrs Steadman offered to make a cup of tea, but Banks, much to Hatchley’s distress, refused for them both. ‘No thanks. It’s just a flying visit. We were in the
area.’

She raised her eyebrows, hinting that he should get to the point.

‘It’s about Penny Cartwright,’ Banks began, noting that her expression didn’t alter a jot at the mention of the name. ‘I gather that she and your husband were
rather close. Didn’t that bother you at all?’

‘What do you mean, “bother me”?’

‘Well,’ Banks went on cautiously, ‘she’s an attractive woman. People talk. People have talked about her before. Weren’t you worried that your husband might have
been having an affair with her?’

It was immediately clear that the suggestion surprised rather than annoyed Emma Steadman, as if it were something she had never even thought of. ‘But they’d been friends for
years,’ she answered. ‘Ever since she was a teenager, when we first came up here for our holidays. I don’t— I mean, I never really thought of her as anything else, really. A
teenager. More like a daughter than a rival.’

Banks felt that it was short-sighted in the extreme to look upon a woman only twelve or thirteen years one’s junior as a child, especially if that woman was over the age of sixteen.
‘It didn’t bother you at all, then?’ he went on. ‘It never caused any trouble, any jealousy?’

‘Not on my part it didn’t, no. As I said, Chief Inspector, she’s been a friend of the family for years. I suppose you know that she and Michael Ramsden used to go out together
ages ago? He brought her up here quite often – after all, it was his home then; we were only summer visitors. I think she had a lot in common with Harry. She looked up to him as a teacher, a
man of knowledge. So did Michael, for that matter. I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t really see what you’re getting at.’

‘I simply wondered whether you suspected your husband of having an affair with Penny Cartwright.’

‘No, I didn’t. First you cast doubts on my marriage, now you accuse my husband of adultery. What’s going on? What is all this about?’

Banks held up his hand. ‘Wait a minute. I’m not making any accusations; I’m asking questions. It’s my job.’

‘That’s what you said last time,’ she said. ‘It didn’t make me feel any better then, either. Don’t you realize they’re burying my husband
tomorrow?’

‘Yes I do, and I’m sorry. But if you want us to carry out a thorough investigation into his death, you’ve got to be prepared for some awkward questions. We don’t find the
truth by skating over the surface or by skirting difficult patches.’

Mrs Steadman sighed. ‘I understand that. It’s just . . . so soon.’

‘Did you see much of Penny after she left Helmthorpe?’ Banks asked.

‘Not much, no. Sometimes, if we were in the same place – London, say – we’d have dinner together. But you could count the times on the fingers of one hand.’

‘What did she seem like during that period?’

‘Like herself.’

‘She never seemed depressed, on drugs, strung out?’

‘Not when we saw her.’

‘How well did your husband know Jack Barker?’

‘Jack? I’d say they were fairly close. As close as Harry could be to someone who didn’t share his enthusiasms.’

‘How long had Barker been living in Gratly?’

‘I don’t really know. Before us. Three or four years.’

‘How long had your husband known him?’

‘They got to know each other over the past eighteen months. We’d met before, on our visits here, but it wasn’t till we moved in that Harold really spent much time with the
locals.’

‘Where did Barker come from?’

‘He’s from Cheadle, in Cheshire. But I think he lived in London for a while.’

‘And neither your nor your husband knew him when you first visited Gratly?’

‘No. I don’t think anyone in Helmthorpe or Gratly did. Why this fascination with the past, Chief Inspector?’

Banks frowned. ‘I’m not really sure, Mrs Steadman. I’m just trying to get a sense of the pattern of relationships: exits and entrances.’

‘And that’s why you were asking me about Harry and Penny?’

‘Partly, yes. Major Cartwright didn’t seem too pleased about their friendship.’

Mrs Steadman made a sound halfway between a sneeze and a guffaw. ‘The major! Everybody knows he’s a crackpot. Mad as a March hare. She’s all he’s got, you know, and she
did desert him for a long time.’

‘You know about the rumours?’

‘Who doesn’t? But I don’t think you’ll find anyone who takes them seriously these days.’

‘Forgiven and forgotten?’

‘Something like that. People tire easily. Surely you don’t think . . . the major?’

Banks didn’t answer.

‘You policemen have such wild imaginations,’ Emma Steadman went on. ‘What do you think happened? Do you think the major found out about this mythical affair and killed Harry to
protect his daughter’s virtue? Or do you think I did it in a jealous rage?’

‘You couldn’t have done it, could you? You were watching television with your neighbour at the time. We don’t rely entirely on imagination, Mrs Steadman. I know it’s a
difficult period for you right now, and I apologize if I seem to be pestering you, but I’m simply trying to build up as complete a picture as I can of your husband and his circle. This is a
difficult and vital time for us, too. Memories fade and stories change with every hour that goes by. As yet, I don’t know what’s important and what isn’t.’

‘I’m sorry for mocking you,’ Mrs Steadman apologized. ‘I know you have your job to do, but it is upsetting, you coming around talking about Harold having affairs and
suggesting our marriage was in trouble. You must try and see it from my point of view. It’s almost as if you’re accusing me.’ She paused and smiled weakly. ‘He just
wasn’t that kind of man, and if you’d known him you’d see what I mean. If there’s anything Harry was having an affair with, it was his work. In fact, sometimes I thought he
was married to his work and having an affair with me.’

She said this with good humour, not in bitterness, and Banks laughed politely. ‘I’m sure my wife thinks the same,’ he said, then called to Hatchley, who had turned to browse
through the decimated bookshelves.

‘I won’t trouble you any further,’ Banks said at the door, ‘but there is one small piece of information you might be able to help me with.’

‘Yes?’

‘Your husband taught at Leeds in the history department, am I right?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. That was his field.’

‘Who were his colleagues? Who did he spend most time with during your years there?’

She thought for a moment before replying. ‘We didn’t socialize a great deal. Harry was too intent on his career. But let me see . . . there was Tom Darnley, he was a fairly close
friend, and Godfrey Talbot. I think he knew Harry at Cambridge, too. That’s about all, except for Geoffrey Baynes, but he went off to teach in Winnipeg, in Canada, before Harry left.
That’s all I can think of.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Steadman,’ Banks said as the door closed slowly. ‘That’ll do fine for a start. See you tomorrow.’

They walked back the same way to the car, which was hot from standing in the sun most of the day, and drove back to Eastvale. Banks regretted not having the Cortina; the landscape inspired him
to listen to music. Instead, Hatchley drove too fast and droned on about never having seen so many bloody books outside Gristhorpe’s office. ‘Funny woman, that Mrs Steadman, don’t
you think?’ he asked finally.

‘Yes,’ Banks answered, staring at a pattern of six trees on a distant drumlin, all bent in the same direction. ‘She makes me uncomfortable, I’ve got to admit. I
can’t quite make her out.’

Had an adventurous
fell-walker found himself on top of Crow Scar at eleven o’clock that Thursday morning, he would have seen, to the south, what looked like two
shiny black beetles followed by green and red aphids make their way slowly down Gratly Hill and turn right at the bottom into Helmthorpe village.

Pedestrians on High Street – locals and tourists alike – stopped as the funeral cortège crawled by. Some averted their gaze; others doffed their caps; and one or two, clearly
visitors from afar, even crossed themselves.

Harold Steadman had been a believer because belief was, for him, inextricable from the men and the actions that had helped shape and mould the area he loved; therefore, the funeral was a
traditional, if nowadays rare, graveside ceremony conducted by a visiting minister from Lyndgarth.

On the hottest day of the year thus far, the motley group stood uneasily around the grave as the Reverend Sidney Caxton recited the traditional words: ‘In the midst of life we are in
death; of whom may we seek succour but Thee, O Lord . . . Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not Thy merciful ears to our prayer; but spare us, Lord most holy.’ He followed
this, at Mrs Steadman’s request, with the twenty-third Psalm: ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside still waters .
. . Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me . . . Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’ It was a sombre and eerily appropriate farewell for a man like Harold Steadman.

To Sally Lumb, representing Eastvale Comprehensive School along with Hazel, Kathy, Anne and Mr Buxton, the headmaster, it was a gloomy and uncomfortable affair indeed. For one thing, in the
tasteful navy-blue outfit her mother had made her wear, she was far too hot; her blouse was absolutely stuck to her back, and the beads of sweat that occasionally ran down her spine tickled like
spiders.

Reverend Caxton took a handful of earth and cast it down on the coffin. ‘For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to receive unto Himself the soul of our dear brother
here departed; we therefore commit his body to the ground . . .’

To pass the time, Sally studied the others covertly. Penny Cartwright was the most striking. Dressed in black from head to foot, her pale face in stark contrast, she wore just enough make-up to
hide the bags under her eyes from all but the most discerning of onlookers, and to highlight her tragic, romantic cheekbones. She really did look extraordinarily beautiful, Sally thought, but in an
intense, frightening and overwhelming way. On the other hand, Emma Steadman, in a conservative, unfashionable, charcoal-grey suit, didn’t look much. She could have done herself up a bit, at
least for the funeral, Sally thought, mentally adding a touch of blusher, eyeliner and a slash of lipstick. Immediately, though, she felt ashamed of herself for thinking such worldly thoughts at a
time like this; after all, Mrs Steadman had always been nice to her.

‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change our mortal body . .
.’

Between the two grieving women stood Michael Ramsden, who looked, to Sally, rather like one of those doomed tubercular young men in the black and white gothic films her mother liked to watch on
Channel Four. At Penny’s other side was Jack Barker in a dark suit with a black armband. He really did look dashing and dangerous – that Errol Flynn moustache, the glint in his eyes
– and Sally lost herself for a few moments in a swashbuckling fantasy.