Deadheads (21 page)

'And what?' said Ellie.

'I don't know what, do I?' burst out Daphne. 'You tell me. Just precisely what did you do when Patrick's name came up again? His name did come up again, didn't it?'

'Yes, it was mentioned,' said Ellie. 'Perhaps it shouldn't have been, but look, Peter trusts me. He talks about his work, I want him to. Sometimes I think it's a pretty shitty and disgusting trade but he's not a shitty and disgusting person and I know that a police force with Peter and a few more like him in it is going to be a damn sight better than one without him. So yes, he has mentioned your husband, and yes, I have mentioned you. I can't really tell you what was said about your husband, can I? Except that nothing's been said to me which has seemed to put
our
relationship in any difficulty, please believe me. As for what I said about you, I talked about you as a new friend and one I hoped would grow into an old friend.'

'And nothing more?' persisted Daphne, undiverted by this sentimental flourish. 'You mean nothing of what I told you about myself has been passed on in detail?'

Ellie recalled uneasily her late-night vinous discussion of Daphne's background, courtship, character and finances, crossed her fingers mentally, and said 'Nothing I wouldn't have said about any close friend.'

It was a Jesuitically vague response but it seemed to have substance enough to blunt the keen sceptical edge of Daphne's questioning. Or perhaps the frowning introspective silence she now fell into was merely a mustering of resources for a second assault.

Ellie decided a quick counter was the best tactic.

'Daphne, I'm sorry. I've let myself get into a situation where I'm bound to be wrong, and I admit it, and I'm sorry. But what's brought all this on? Something must have happened to bring you round here breathing fire. How did you find out about Peter's interest in your husband for a start?'

'Can't you guess?' said Daphne bitterly. 'After all, my private life must be an open book to you.'

'I've no idea,' said Ellie. 'Honestly. I'll cross my heart if you like. I can't think of any other way of convincing you I'm honest!'

Daphne looked at her doubtfully, then said, 'I wonder if I could have a drink? I know it's a bit early, but I feel rather shaky. I'm not very good at quarrels. I wasn't brought up to it.'

'Sure. Scotch OK?'

Ellie took her time preparing the drinks, going to the kitchen in search of ice and polishing the glasses on a clean towel before pouring the Scotch. Her intuition was proved right when she heard Daphne begin to talk even though her back was still to her.

'I heard from Dick Elgood. I mentioned your name to him, making a joke about your being a policeman's wife. And that's when he told me.'

'About what?' said Ellie, pouring the whisky drop by drop as though adding olive oil to a mayonnaise.

'About that stupid complaint he made to the police. And about your husband being in charge of the investigation. He also said that after I told him about that odd-looking CID sergeant coming round to the house to ask questions about my car, he'd let your husband know he'd made a silly mistake and didn't want things to go any further. But they have gone further, haven't they?
Haven't they?'

Now Ellie turned.

'Yes,' she said, 'I believe they have. But why or how far I've no idea, believe me.'

She handed over the drink. She'd poured one for herself, well-diluted, to be companionable. She didn't want it - once this trying scene was over, the rest of those scripts would still require a clear head and a sharp eye to glean the wheat out of the chaff.

'You keep on asking me to believe you,' said Daphne, sipping at her Scotch.

'I realize I'm not very credit-worthy at the moment,' said Ellie. 'But I'm puzzled. Why did Dick Elgood tell you this? Or, going further back, why should you have told Dick Elgood the police had visited you about your car?'

'You don't know? You really don't know?' said Daphne.

'No!' said Ellie with sufficient emphasis to turn the baby's head again. 'I've said so!'

'Well, I'll tell you. Because after I parked my car that day, the day it was vandalized, I got into Dick's car and we spent the day together at his cottage, that's why!'

'Oh, I see,' said Ellie blankly.

'So I told him about the car being vandalized, and I told him about that sergeant visiting the house. I recall he seemed very interested in what he'd said, but I didn't know why.'

'No, no, of course not,' said Ellie, now feeling herself completely at sea. 'Daphne, you went to Elgood's cottage to . . .'

Untypically she found the sentence difficult to finish.

Daphne said in her loud, clear, confident, privately educated voice, '
Screw
is, I think, the word you're looking for. So you didn't know? That's interesting. Which means either that your husband hasn't told you. Which is also interesting. Or that
he
doesn't know either, and you’ve got to make up your mind whether your deep friendship for me permits you to tell him. Which is perhaps the most interesting thing of all.'

She rose, set down her glass and made for the door.

'Daphne!' cried Ellie. 'Please, let's talk some more.'

'All right, if that's what you want, but not now,' said Daphne, very cool and Noel Cowardish. 'Let's meet tomorrow morning. In the Chantry. I was going to come along to the Market Caff this morning and tell you what I thought of you, but I funked it. But I'll feel more confident in the Chantry, won't I? And you can let me know what you decided, can't you?'

It was too good an exit to spoil by pursuit and expostulation. Ellie remained fast in her seat, like a spellbound princess, hearing the front door close and the Polo start up and draw away.

She imagined she sat quite still during this time but when she finally stirred and looked down at her glass of unwanted Scotch, she discovered it had somehow become completely empty and she felt more than ready for another.

6

CLYTEMNESTRA

(Hybrid musk. Crinkled pinky-yellow blooms, leathery leaves, of a spreading bushy habit, excellent in Autumn.)

'Mr Capstick's not at home,' said Mrs Unger in the severe tone of a governess finding it necessary to repeat what should not have needed to be said in the first place.

Pascoe wondered if the old woman was using the phrase literally or conventionally.

'I see,' he said. 'I'm Inspector Pascoe. I was here a few days ago, you may recall.'

The unblinking blue eyes in the old apple-wrinkled face fixed themselves on his forehead as though in search of some authenticating mark. It struck Pascoe that perhaps their peculiarly unnerving quality derived from myopic first sight rather than keen second.

'I talked to Mr Capstick in the conservatory,' he went on. 'You brought me some delicious buttered scones.'

The features relaxed. He had been approved once, and she was not, he guessed, a woman to change her mind very often.

'He's gone to Harrogate,' she pronounced with the intonation of one who might be saying Xanadu. 'One of his cronies came to fetch him.'

So he really wasn't at home. In fact, it suited Pascoe very well. He said, 'Perhaps I could have a word with you, Mrs Unger. It won't take long, I promise you. ‘Her lips puckered fractionally at his presumption. He got the message. It would take precisely the amount of time she condescended to allow. His promises didn't come into it.

But she opened the door wide and stood aside to let him enter. Then, closing the door and bolting it (an instinctive rather than a significant action, he assured himself uneasily) she pushed by him and walked down the hallway to a handsome inner door where the process was repeated save for the ramming home of the bolt.

'Sit down,' she ordered.

Pascoe sat. To his surprise, Mrs Unger immediately withdrew.

Musing on her intentions, he looked around. It was a fair room, a little too square perhaps, and rather too high for its width. An oak sideboard and a large glass-fronted oak bookcase, both solidly mid-Victorian in style, filled the wall to the left of his wing chair which was placed square to an ornate marble fireplace. Daringly, he rose and went to look at the bookcase. Through the diamonds of glass he read some of the titles engraved and gilded on the leather-bound volumes. A taste for Trollope was perhaps forecastable, but Colette came as a surprise.

Behind him there was a rattle and he turned to see that Mrs Unger had entered the room with a wooden tea-trolley which she was now manoeuvring into position alongside the wing chair.

'You'll have some tea,' she said.

It wasn't a question. He guessed that, like Dalziel, she knew what was best for most people. He nodded and said, 'Thank you,' and sank deep into the chair, but not so deep as his heart when his glance lit upon the plateful of buttered scones on the lower tray of the trolley.

Direct attack seemed the best defence.

'I wanted to talk to you about the day the Reverend Somerton was killed, the gentleman who got hit by the stone falling from the tower of St Mark's. Now I know this happened more than ten years ago but I wonder if you remember the day.'

Mrs Unger did not reply. As he spoke, she had poured him a cup of tea. He stirred it and sipped it. The silence continued. With a wan smile he took a plate, helped himself to a scone and bit into it.

'Delicious,' he said.

'It was a Saturday in March. Second Saturday in the month, I seem to recall. It was a real March day, cloudy one minute, clear the next, and blowing a gale all the time.'

This accorded precisely in both date and meteorology with what Pascoe had read in the coroner's report. The windy conditions, it was theorized, had been in part responsible for the falling masonry.

'Mr Capstick wasn't at home that day, I gather?'

'No.'

'But you were?'

'Yes.'

'Was there anyone else here?'

Silence. He took another bite. And another.

'Yes. That young fellow who did the roses was here, I recall,' said Mrs Unger.

In his excitement Pascoe finished the scone and did not hesitate to take another when the old woman flickered her eyes at his empty plate.

'Did the roses, you say? That would be Mr . . .?'

He bit.

'Aldermann, his name was. He had a way with flowers, I'll give him that.'

But not with Mrs Unger. Pascoe guessed that Patrick had not been fed with buttered scones.

'What precisely was he doing?' he asked.

'Pruning and planting. March is the time for it, so they say. I told him Mr Capstick was away and he said never mind, he'd do a bit of pruning and planting. I let him into the garden and left him to it.'

'What time did he leave, can you recall?'

'About four o'clock. It started raining cats and dogs; it came sideways in that wind. He shouted that he was off and off he went.'

The Reverend's corpse had been discovered by the local vicar at four forty-five on his return from the reception of a wedding he'd officiated at earlier in the afternoon. He had arranged to rendezvous with Oliver Somerton at four
P.M
., but had been delayed.

Reading between the lines, Pascoe guessed that the reception had been a lively and well-liquored affair.

Finishing his second scone, he said, 'Could I take a look around the garden?'

Silently she led him out of the room, through the conservatory in which Capstick had been placed like some delicate Eastern plant, and into the garden.

'Thank you,' he said.

He walked swiftly across the lawn towards the thicket of boundary-marking shrubs over which rose the tower of St Mark's. There were rhododendrons here in full bloom, their colours vying with the richness of two or three lilac trees, but their scent unable to compete with the heaviness of half a dozen clumps of lavender which had been allowed to spread widely. Indeed, the whole of the shrubbery looked as if it had been left untended for several seasons now and the little path which wound its way through the bushes was overhung by their branches. Pascoe shouldered his way through till he arrived at a small gate in the cypress hedge. It was hinged to a rotting post by a circlet of wire which rain and dew had rusted to an autumnal brown. Beyond stretched the rough untended grass of an old graveyard, broken by stones whose inscriptions were eroded and obscured by time and weather and the tiny scrabbling fingers of innumerable lichens.

He forced the gate open with difficulty. Clearly the Capstick household used other routes to heaven. Treading with apologetic lightness across the graves of Little Leven's ancient dead, he made his way to the church and, after a small effort of recall, found himself at the spot where the Reverend Oliver Somerton had been struck down by a piece of consecrated stone. Uneasily he peered up at the tower, but all looked secure enough now. He presumed the Archdeacon's death had given a boost to the restoration fund if nothing else.

Here at this side of the church he was quite out of sight of the main gate and the tiny village beyond. The only sign of habitation was the roof of Capstick's house and those of his immediate neighbours, unless of course one counted the tombstones. Looking at them rising from the gentle ripple of the long grass, Pascoe realized he had no sense of neglect. The old gave way to the new always, and death did not stop the process. Men died and life went on in the space they vacated. For a while their remains were marked by clean, smooth obelisks with sharp-edged lettering, and it was right that the grass around these should be razed and flowers laid at their feet. But as the new became old and the survivors in their turn came to rest, it was also right that the old stones should be absorbed into the landscape as surely as the remains they marked were absorbed into the deep, dark strata of the earth.

Something whizzed past his head and hit the flagged path beside him. Startled, he stepped back and looked up. High above, a beaked head cocked itself to one side as though resetting its aim.