wind—but to my famous little sharp ears it sounded human—so just in case Minnie had decided to do a bit of exploring I went to take a look.
The track led to a particularly thick clump of rhodies. I pulled a few branches aside—& found myself looking into a sort of cave—more of a deep overhang really—but rendered dark & shady by the thick foliage.
Then out over the sea a huge jag of lightning split the horizon—& in its brief light I saw two figures in there.
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One I recognized instantly—though I could only see his back. Those muscular thighs & bulging calves were unmistakably the hunky barts. The noise was coming from him—a kind of rhythmic groaning. He was lying on top of the other figure—also facedown. All I could see of her were the long white legs—sprawling wide—but that was enough. Lady D might think she could jerk Teddy & Clara around at will—but the fire in the blood had made short work of her bits of string! As I watched—his round pink buttocks (cant have done enough skinny-dipping to get them the rich russet of his legs & torso!)—from gently bobbing up & down like Halloween apples—went into overdrive—& the groans ceased to sound human!
Jesus!—I thought—first Liam up against that tree—now this—maybe Im fated every time I fancy a guy to catch him in flagrante!
Tho I knew the kids were safe I felt a bit pissed that Teds offer of supervision had just been a cover for this—not very logical I know—but I felt personally betrayed—so I tried to announce my presence with a loud cough! But it was drowned in a mighty clap of thunder—& in any case—from the noise Teddy was now making I dont think there was much risk of him noticing anything short of a kick up the backside!
As I made my way back along the ledge—the storm really broke loose—
lightning—forked & sheet—played over the sea & the rising wind drove huge drops of rain into my face.
I was mightily relieved to meet the kids hurrying up the path toward me—Minnie & Paul among them—him a bit scared—her really excited. Behind them came Miss Lee & a guy I didnt know.
—that everyone?—I asked Miss L.
—yes—I checked—she said.
By the time we got back to the house—we were soaking. Everyone else had already retreated to shelter—many of them crowded into the huge east facing conservatory—to watch the storm. Others had made themselves comfortable in the deep armchairs in the reception rooms—in one of which Alan Hollis had reassembled the drinks table—& the councillors had settled round it happily!
I reported back to Mary—then took the two kids in search of towels to dry ourselves off. They thought it was a great adventure & Minnie was T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 1 5 9
almost drunk with excitement. In a first floor bathroom I got her as dry as I could—but when I started on her brother she shot off through the door. I dried Paul—gave myself a rub—nothing to do about our damp clothes—but it was still too warm to take much harm from them.
We set off after Minnie. I guessed shed have gone up rather than down—& I found her kneeling on the broad inner sill of a second floor oriel window—staring out—rapt. I couldnt blame her—it was a magnificent & terrifying sight.
Almost as black as night now—lit from time to time by lightning flashes—
sheet trembling out over the raging waters of the North Sea—forked closer at hand—showing us the woodland surging wildly—as though dancing in unison with the ocean waves. After the initial downpour the rain seemed almost to have stopped. We saw a jag of electricity hit a tall pine—cleaving it in two from top to bottom—then darkness again—till the next fl ash showed us only a mad whirl of leaves & ash where the tree had been.
What of the pair in the cliff cave?—I wondered.
Did they still shelter there—clinging close as the air seemed to explode around them? I could almost envy Clara. To make them take such a risk on such an occasion—their desire must have been elemental—& how this storm must seem to stamp Gods approval on what theyd done!
Getting religion? Maybe—weather like this always makes me feel there has to be something—but what happened next makes me doubt if I want much to do with whatever that something is!
Dont know how long we stayed there. Eventually—thinking Mary would be getting worried again—I made them go down. Slowly the storm subsided. I began to look around. Almost at once I spotted Clara—so they must have made it back. Incredibly she hardly looked damp at all. Of course—when the storm broke—as well as the shelter from the shrubs—shed have had her clothes off—probably underneath her.
Teddy I saw talking to Sid—a long way removed from Clara. Putting a safe distance between them—in case old gorgon-eyes Daphne starts getting suspicious—tho there was no sign of her at all. Maybe—I thought—she was entertaining Dr Feldenhammer privately in her boudoir. No sign of him!
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After a while you could feel people looking for someone to give a lead.
Outside, the sun was appearing by glimpses—steam was beginning to rise off the sodden grass & shrubbery—the storm was a distant mutter—retreating like a defeated army back to the continent. Should we settle down in the house? Head outside to play the old English game of pretending nothing had happened? Say our thanks & go?
But you need someone to be in charge—someone to make your thanks to—& there was still no sign of Lady D.
It was Teddy—naturally—who took charge.
—Come on people—he cried—sounding a bit manic—theres still drink to be drunk (there wasnt all that much actually—the councillors hadnt missed their opportunity)—& grub to be eaten—whats a bit of wet to a true blue En glishman?—
He led the way out.
His promise of food didnt hold water—joke—no one had thought to rescue it when the mad rush inside began—& I doubt if soggy canapés would look attractive—even to all those starving children in China the HB is always reminding us about!
Our attention was diverted by a faint cry from the far end of the lawn where it ran into the shrubbery. There was a figure lying on the grass—waving an arm. Some of us moved forward—slowly at first—then—realizing who it was—at greater speed.
It was poor Franny Roote—lying alongside his overturned wheelchair!
He looked a real mess—soaked to the skin—& covered with mud. He gasped that his chair had got stuck in the sodden turf—you could see the grooves where it had sunk in—& hed overturned it in his efforts to get it moving—& had been trying for most of the storms duration to get it back upright.
Nurse Sheldon was one of the first to reach him—Im glad to say—as I was thinking I might have to call on my old St J ambulance training again! I helped get the chair upright & the nurse hoisted him into the seat like he was a sack of potatoes. Of course—you nurses have the training for this—explains your well developed muscles!
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Once back in the chair Franny resumed normal service—paraplegia dont stop a guy being macho!—& said—thank you—all of you—Im fine now—in fact it was worth a soaking to be bang in the middle of the storm—I may recommend the experience as part of the Third Thought therapy—it was like looking the Almighty in the eye!—
Miss Sheldon—even more used than me to seeing through this kind of male crap—said—you may be seeing him a lot closer up if we dont get you dried off pretty soon—
Fran—determined to stay cool—winked at me—& said—What better to keep me anchored to this world Miss Sheldon than the prospect of being rubbed down by you?—
She grunted—unimpressed—& drove the wheelchair across the lawn and toward the house with very little effort.
The rest of us were following when Teddy said—tell you what folks—I could murder a slice of hot pork with lots of crackling (double entendre or what?)—lets take a look at how Aunt Daphnes pig is doing—
—wont the rain have put th
e charcoal pit out?—said Tom.
—Ill go & see—shall I?—said Clara.
& off she went—through the copse that concealed the pit from the main lawn.
For a moment—silence. Complete silence. The wind had dropped—the thunder died completely away—no one spoke—no birds sang—
Then—the most terrible sound Id ever
heard—a
scream—barely
human—high—pure—unwavering—a single note just within the range of human hearing—going on—& on—& on—
Teddy was the first to move. He set off running. We all followed—a stam-pede of
humans—running toward what has struck terror into their hearts—because not knowing is worse than knowing. Or so we thought.
What the cause of the screaming was took time to sink in.
I was one of the first to arrive. I saw Clara standing petrified—Teddy beside her—his arms clasping her tight—both of them staring at the metal roasting basket—still slowly turning above the charcoal pit. Despite the downpour—the trees must have given some shelter—the charcoal was still 1 6 2
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glowing red hot in places. The basket was slowly revolving—& there was a smell of scorching meat.
Someone should have been here to baste the pork—I thought.
& then my mind admitted what my eyes must have registered instantly.
—& now the high scream I heard wasnt Claras—but my own.
Arms went around me. They belonged to Gordon Godley. Didnt realize then—was just glad to have someone to lean up against—even though he was dripping wet.
Tried closing my eyes. Didnt help. Still saw everything even with my eyes closed.
Some yards beyond the pit—under a cloud of vapor—like guttering candle holders—4 dainty trotters were sticking up out of the lank wet grass.
It was the barbecue pig.
& now—tho I dont think I stopped screaming—the thought occurred to me that Tom Parker had got the headline that would really put Sandytown on the map.
Hollis’s Ham—the Real Taste of . . . MURDER!
For the thing being roasted in the slowly revolving basket was the corpse of Daphne Denham.
VOLUME THE SECOND
You will never hear me advocating those puerile Emanations which detail nothing but discordant Principles incapable of Amalgamation, or those vapid tissues of ordinary Occurrences from which no useful Deductions can be drawn.
1
“And you’re sure this is our Franny Roote?” said Pascoe, staring at the name underlined in red on the guest list.
Sergeant Edgar Wield nodded and regarded the chief inspector inscrutably. With a face like the dark side of the moon, inscrutability came easy to him. Nevertheless Pascoe scruted reproach.
“Sorry, I’m not doubting you, Wieldy,” he said defensively. “But Franny Roote! I thought he must be dead.”
“Lady Denham’s dead,” said Wield. “Doc says looks like manual strangulation. Dead anything from an hour to three hours when he saw her. Being roasted over a charcoal pit didn’t make the timing easy.”
His tone matched his expression. It was Jeevesian in its neutrality.
Not a hint of insubordination to the young master. Yet once again Pascoe felt reproached.
And he knew he deserved it.
A detective chief inspector, arriving at a crime scene ninety minutes after his sergeant—courtesy of a flat tire and an even fl atter spare—to discover an incident room set up; witness statements being taken; and a CSI unit, clothed in white nylon, mystic, wonderful, busy performing its priestlike tasks, ought to fall to his knees and give thanks.
Of course the fact that the sergeant was Edgar Wield meant that this was only what his bosses at Mid-Yorkshire CID had come to expect. He was indeed to them what Jeeves was to Bertie Wooster. He performed wonders with quiet efficiency, had a mind which could process information at silicon-chip speeds, and took care never to let his superiority embarrass his superiors.
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“Plus,” as Andy Dalziel had observed when the parallel was suggested to him, “if yon’s the first face you see in the morning, you don’t need Jeeves’s fancy hangover cure.”
Pascoe took a deep breath and pulled himself together. A titled lady roasting over her own barbecue pit was what he should be concentrating on.
“So fill me in, Wieldy,” he said.
It took Wield two minutes. It would probably have taken Andy Dalziel three; Pascoe himself three and a half; most of his junior CID
offi cers five; uniformed six or seven; an articulate civilian at least ten; and Molly, the HQ tea lady, an hour and a half.
Wield concluded, “To date, latest reported sighting of the victim is around half three, when she was observed having an animated conversation with one of the guests, a Mr. Godley.”
“Animated as in, When I run out of words I’m going to strangle you?”
Wield shrugged. He liked to advance as far as possible on the fi rm ground of fact before risking the slough of speculation.
“He’s some kind of healer,” he said.
“And isn’t death the cure of all diseases?” said Pascoe. “I look forward to talking to him. I assume, following best Golden Age practice, you’ve got Mr. Godley and the other guests corralled in the library awaiting the arrival of the Great Detective?”
“Didn’t realize he was coming,” said Wield. “No, sorry. First, there isn’t a library. Second, seems a lot of them had already headed off home by the time the local sergeant, Jug Whitby, got here. Most of the rest had drifted away by the time I arrived.”
“This Whitby made no attempt to stop them?” said Pascoe.
“Fair do’s,” said Wield, who was very protective of sergeants. “Not a lot one man could do to keep them here. Can’t blame ’em for not wanting to hang around, not with that out there.”
They were standing by a window in the incident room, which was being set up in a disused flat above the stable block. It consisted of a T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 1 6 7
living room, a bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a toilet. By contrast with the well-kept stable below, the flat looked pretty derelict, even though the worst of the dust and debris had been swept away.
Pascoe and the sergeant were in the bedroom. Through the cracked and weather-stained glass they looked out across the lawn to where they could glimpse over the shrubbery the billowing gray of the protective tent erected over the dreadful barbecue.
“So what’s Sergeant Whitby doing now?” asked Pascoe, putting off the moment when he’d have to see the horror for himself. “Gone home for his tea?”
“No, I sent him off to round up one of them that left,” said Wield.
“Chap named Ollie Hollis. He were in charge of the hog roast. I thought, all things considered, he was one guy we really ought to chat to.”
Pascoe scanned the list.
“Hollis? There’s an Alan Hollis here, no Ollie.”
“That’s because he weren’t a guest,” explained Wield. “Works for Lady Denham. Gate man at the Hollis pig unit. That’s Hollis’s Ham, the Taste of Yorkshire, by the way. Howard Hollis was Lady Denham’s first husband and she inherited the business.”
“This is really going to help sales,” said Pascoe. “Hang on. Wasn’t Howard Hollis known as Hog? And wasn’t there something odd about his death?”
“He had a heart attack among his pigs. They’d chewed him up a bit afore someone found him. We looked at it, I recollect. Odd but not suspicious.”
“Jesus. I’ll be sticking to Danish from now on. This Ollie . . . same family?”
“Aye. And Alan. Landlord at a pub owned by the victim. Seems the Hollises divided into them as cried foul when Hog left everything to his widow, and them as kept their counsel and their jobs. Hog used to stage an annual hog roast for his workers and the locals. Quite a nifty setup. As you’ll see for yourself eventually,
I daresay.”
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Pascoe ignored the gentle mockery. His distaste for the nastier sort of crime scene was well known. He’d never got close to the philosophical detachment of Andy Dalziel, who’d remarked on viewing a triple slaying with a chain saw that he’d seen worse deaths at the Glasgow Empire.
“So Lady Denham kept up the tradition of the annual hog roast,”
he said.
“No. In fact, there hadn’t been one for years, not since Hog died.
This were a one-off. Ollie Hollis used to help in the old days, so he got called in to work the machinery.”
“So where was he when the pig was being removed and the body substituted?”
“Won’t know for sure till Whitby brings him in,” said Wield. “Sheltering somewhere, likely. It was a really violent storm and they got the worst of it here by all accounts. You’d not want to be anywhere near metal with that lightning about, and the machine hut’s got a tin roof.”
“How’d you know about this Hollis if he’s not on the list?”
“There’s this relative living with Lady Denham. Clara Brereton, sort of companion cum dogsbody, I reckon. She mentioned Ollie when she gave me the list. I got a preliminary statement from her, and I’ve set her to preparing a full account of the party, including the run-up to it. With her being in charge of organiz ing things, could be helpful. Also she were one of the first to see the body.”
“Must be a toughie, discovering something like that but still able to function, produce guest lists, write statements,” said Pascoe.
“Worth a close look?”
“Aye, she is that,” said Wield. “And you’ll find two other relations in the house. Sir Edward Denham and his sister, Esther. Nephew and niece by marriage.”
“They live here too?”
D&P23 - The Price of Butcher's Meat aka A Cure for all Diseases Page 18