'I'm on my way to see your brother-in-law,' answered Pascoe, deciding that the more direct he was, the quicker he could make his exit. 'There have been some phone calls, and a letter, suggesting that he knows more about your sister's disappearance than he's letting on. We're eager to find the person who's been making these suggestions.'
'So you single me out!' said Lightfoot accusingly.
'No,' said Pascoe. 'I was in Wearton yesterday, and I spoke to Mr Swithenbank then, but I didn't have time to contact anyone else. Later on tonight I'm going to see a variety of people at Wear End, Mr Kingsley's house. I thought I'd drop in on you en route, that's all.'
'You guessed I wouldn't be at t'party then?' said Lightfoot.
Pascoe looked uncomfortable and Lightfoot laughed like a tree cracking in a strong wind.
'Yon bugger wouldn't invite me to suck in the air on his land,' he said.
'Mr Kingsley doesn't care for your company?' said Pascoe redundantly.
'He cares for nowt but his own flesh,' said Lightfoot. 'Like father, like son.'
He replaced the photograph on the mantelpiece with a thump that defied Pascoe to touch it again.
'Is it your brother-in-law that's been torn off the picture?' enquired Pascoe.
'I wanted none of his face around my house,' said Lightfoot.
'Why's that?'
'No reason.'
'Do you not like him either?'
'They're all the same, them lot,' said Lightfoot. 'Kate'd be still living to this day likely if she hadn't got mixed up with them.'
'Surely they were her friends,' protested Pascoe.
'Friends! What need of friends when there's family? Are you done, Mr Detective? There's others have to work late hours besides t'police.'
On the doorstep Pascoe turned and said, 'Have you made any calls to Mr Swithenbank or sent the police a letter, Mr Lightfoot?'
'That's direct,' said Lightfoot. 'I wondered if you'd get round to asking. The answer's no, I haven't. If I knew definite who'd harmed her, I…'
'You'd what?'
'I'd know, wouldn't I? Do you question Swithenbank so direct?'
'If the occasion demands,' said Pascoe.
'Then ask him this. What was he doing skulking around the churchyard at midnight night before last? You ask him.'
'All right,' said Pascoe. 'As a matter of interest, what were you doing skulking round the churchyard, Mr Lightfoot?'
The door was shut hard in his face. Pascoe whistled with relief as he strolled through the gate and got into his car. There was something frightening about Lightfoot in a primal kind of way. A man who had commerce with ghosts must be frightening! Though a man so certain of his sister's death might have other reasons for his certainty, and that was more frightening still.
Behind him in the comfortless cottage Lightfoot returned to the job which Pascoe's arrival had interrupted. Seated at the kitchen table, he oiled and polished the separated parts of his shotgun till he was satisfied. Then he reassembled it and sat motionless for a long time while outside the light faded, rooks beat their way homeward to the nest-dark trees, a light mist drifted out of the dank fields till a wind began to rise and bore it away and drove the darkness over the land.
Then Lightfoot stood up, put on a black donkey jacket, set his gun in the crook of his arm and went out into the night.
Arthur Lightfoot was in many people's minds that night.
Geoffrey Rawlinson as he shaved in preparation for the party at Wear End found himself thinking of Lightfoot. Even in his democratic teens when as a matter of faith such things were not allowed to matter, he had always been conscious of a vague distaste for calling on Kate at her brother's cottage. There was something so brutishly spartan about the place, and in that atmosphere Kate herself, so unnoticing of or uncaring for the near squalor, seemed a different person. By his early twenties, Rawlinson was openly wrestling with the choice he had to make. If he married Kate, he was marrying a Lightfoot. The two major elements of his make-up – the draughtsman's love of order and shape and the naturalist's love of energy and colour – clashed and jarred against each other like boulders in a turbulent sea. His sister looked pityingly at him but refused to speak. It had to be his own choice and he was ashamed of himself for having such a superficially Victorian reason for hesitating.
Then Ursula told him one morning the news she had learnt the previous night and he realized to his amazement that his sense of critical choice had been fallacious.
Now he lived in a framework of meticulous order which he felt both as a scaffolding and a cage.
But even now, even when he regretted the past most passionately, the memory of Arthur, spooning stew into his mouth at the kitchen table with the encrusted sauce bottle and the curded milk bottle on guard before him, made Rawlinson twitch with distaste.
But that memory was just a mental feint to keep his mind from contemplating – as now he did, looking into his own reluctant eyes in the shaving mirror – the events of a year ago, and the pain, mental and physical, he had suffered since that dreadful night.
Stella Rawlinson thought of Arthur, too, and wondered for the thousandth time, with a cold self-analysis which had nothing to do with control, why the humiliation of a fourteen-year-old girl should lay marks on her which persisted throughout womanhood. It was not unusual for a pubescent girl to have a crush on her best friend's elder brother. Nor could it be too unusual that recognition of this should cause dismissive and hurtful amusement. But rarely could this amusement be couched in such terms or such circumstances as to create a hatred stretching beyond maturity.
Only one other person had ever been aware of what she suffered. What were best friends for? But a sharing is as likely to mean a doubling as a halving, she had long ago decided. It was a mistake to be rectified if possible, certainly not one to be repeated. So even with her husband she kept her peace and when he showed signs of wanting to commit the same error of confidence, she turned away.
And Boris Kingsley, too, thought of Arthur as he arranged the chairs and filled the decanters in his library. But he thought of many other things besides as he opened the wardrobes in his bedroom and dressed for his party.
And for a while as his guests arrived he thought of nothing but making them welcome. He didn't like most of them but there are less expensive ways of manifesting dislike than over your own drink in your own house, so he smiled and chatted and poured till a clock chimed and he glanced anxiously at his watch.
Then he smiled again but this time secretively, excused himself, closed the door firmly behind him, and picked up the telephone.
CHAPTER V
›
The angels, whispering to one another, Can find, among their burning terms of love, None so devotional as that of 'Mother'.
'You've met my mother?' said Swithenbank.
'Briefly,' said Pascoe. 'How do you do?'
He shook hands with the woman and wondered if he was being conned. Surely this wasn't the woman he had spoken to outside the house the previous day. There had been something distinctive… yes, her hair had been a sort of purpley-blue, not the rich auburn of the woman before him.
'You approve my coiffure, Mr Pascoe?' she said and he realized he was staring.
'Very nice,' he said. 'It's very… becoming.'
'I changed it at my son's behest,' she said. 'He didn't care for my last colour, did you, John?'
'It seemed inappropriate,' said Swithenbank.
'And this?' said his mother, striking a little pose with her left hand behind her head. 'Is this appropriate?'
'If not to your age, at least to your genus,' he said drily. 'I'll leave you to it, Inspector, and put the finishing touches to my own coiffure. Mother, Mr Pascoe might like a drink.'
'What would we do without our children to teach us manners?' wondered Mrs Swithenbank. 'Scotch, Inspector?'
'Please. Some water. Your daughter-in-law went to the hairdresser's on the day she disappeared.'
It was not quite
the way he had intended to open the interview but Mrs Swithenbank was not quite the woman he had expected. She took the transition with the ease of a steeplechaser spotting that the ground fell away on the other side of the hedge.
'Did she now? That would be a year ago today, you mean, Inspector?'
'That's right. Though it was a Friday last year.'
'Yes, I've always found that rather confusing. Though it's nice to have one's birthday shifting around, it's easier to miss. Not that birthdays bother me yet. I had John young, of course. And he looks older than he is. Here's your drink, Mr Pascoe. Do you find me absurd?'
'I don't think so,' said Pascoe gravely.
'Not just a trifle?'
He considered.
'No,' he said. 'Amusing, yes. But not absurd.'
'Good. Neither do I. What did Kate have done at the hairdresser's?'
'Shampoo. Cut. And she bought a wig.'
Dove had phoned through with the information at lunch-time, admitting as cheerfully as ever that perhaps a year earlier they should have been asking questions about a frizzy blonde as well as a straight brunette.
Pascoe was not one to kick a man when he was down but he had no qualms about applying the boot to someone as reluctant to fall as Dove.
'This could knock your Swithenbank fixation into little pieces, Willie,' he had said. 'She could have got to the other end of the country without being noticed.'
'And stopped unnoticed? Bollocks,' Dove had replied. 'All it means is she could have left the flat without being spotted and been picked up somewhere else by Swithenbank, who knocked her off on his way north. Keep at it, Pete. You're doing good. For a provincial!'
'Did your daughter-in-law habitually wear wigs?' he now asked Mrs Swithenbank.
'Never to my knowledge. She had longish straight hair. Reddish brown, a rather unusual colour. She hadn't changed the style much since she was a girl. She wasn't a one for following fashions, not in her clothes either. Always the same kind of dress, whites and creams, soft materials, loose-fitting – she hated constraint of any kind. But she always managed to look right. What colour was the wig, by the way?'
'Platinum blonde.'
'Never,' said Mrs Swithenbank emphatically. 'I can't imagine that
… unless you mean she could be walking around somewhere -disguised as a blonde.'
'Any idea why she might do that?' enquired Pascoe.
'She was a strange girl in many ways,' answered the woman slowly. 'There was something about her – a kind of feyness. There were three girls in John's gang, Kate, Ursula Rawlinson and Stella Foxley. Kate was the ugly duckling. The other two… I gather you'll be meeting them tonight so perhaps I shouldn't anticipate your reactions…'
'A kind thought,' said Pascoe, 'but I'll just be chatting. It's not an identity parade! Please go on.'
'You'd have thought the other two would have walked away with all the boys. Ursula was a big well-made girl, full of life – still is! Stella – well, she was pretty too, but in a rather stiff kind of way. It was strange; before the village drama group folded up, she used to appear in nearly every production and on the stage she really came to life, but off it she's always been… no, perhaps the competition she offered was a lot less stiff, but she was still much prettier! And Ursula! As I say, she was the belle. Little Kate Lightfoot with her skinny body and big frightened eyes, she faded away alongside her. Yet…"
'Yes?' prompted Pascoe.
'You know how it is when you're young, Mr Pascoe. There's always a lot of chopping and changing of boyfriends and girl-friends in any group. I used to think Ursula called the tune, passing on her discarded beaux to Kate or stealing hers if the fancy took her. But eventually I began to wonder if the reverse weren't true!'
'And what did you decide?'
'Nothing,' said Mrs Swithenbank, sipping her scotch. 'Kate always did things too quietly to give the game away. She moved around like a ghost! And Ursula, though she might behave as if her brains were in her brassiere, had far too much sense to make a fuss,'
'Were you surprised when your son married Kate?' asked Pascoe.
She looked at him reprovingly as though the question were too impudent to be answered, but when Pascoe put on his rueful look, she said, 'John had already been working for Colbridge's in London for two years. He seemed to be breaking links with his Wearton friends, though if he had got engaged to Ursula, I should not have been surprised. In fact I might even have been pleased. She has many good solid qualities. I sometimes think she may have regretted her marriage, too.'
'As your son regretted his?' said Pascoe.
'As I regretted it, Inspector,' she said acidly. 'John has never by word or sign indicated that he had any regrets. And I can't give you any good reason for my own regrets, except perhaps the unhappiness of this past year. I never knew my daughter-in-law well enough to understand her. I tried, but
I couldn't get close to her. I even started buying flowers and vegetables from her brother after the marriage, to sort of integrate the families, and that required an effort of will, I tell you. Have you met him? He's real Yorkshire peasant stock with something a little sinister besides. His family were all farm labourers, good for nothing, but, God knows how, he bettered himself and runs a smallholding in the village. I stopped going there a couple of months after Kate disappeared. I couldn't bear the way he looked at me.'
She shuddered. Pascoe looked around the room and noticed that the dahlias had been removed.
'But you didn't find Kate frightening, too?' he said.
'Only in the sense that what we don't know frightens us,' she said. 'Perhaps there is nothing to know. Perhaps that's the truth of it, that underneath she's just an ordinary dull little girl. Marriage is abrasive, Mr Pascoe. John would find out the truth of her sooner or later.'
'And…?'*
'And if what he found bothered him so much that he wanted rid of her, he would ring his solicitor! One of the things I envy your generation is that divorce is there for the asking. Any other reaction is unthinkable!'
'I'm afraid that not everyone would agree with you,' said Pascoe.
This woman was certainly not absurd, he had long decided. And she was only as amusing as she wanted to be. Most important of all, despite the apparent freedom with which she poured out her impressions of her daughter-in-law and others, Pascoe suspected that they were measured with a most exact and knowing eye.
'Meaning what?'
'You took a phone call for your son yesterday morning.'
'Did I?'
'A woman's voice. Don't you remember?'
'The funny name. Is that the one you mean?'
'Yes, that's right,' said Pascoe. 'Ulalume. You didn't recognize the voice?'
'No,' she replied. 'I don't think so, though I am a little deaf, especially on the phone. It's easier when you can observe the lips. I certainly didn't recognize the name.'
'Was there anything distinctive you can recall about the voice?' persisted Pascoe
'Not really. As I say, I'm a little deaf and the line wasn't very good. It sounded terribly distant.'
'What exactly did this woman say?' asked Pascoe.
'Hardly anything, that I can recall,' said the woman. 'I gave our number, she said John Swithenbank, I said who's call ing? She said Ulalume, is that right? I said who? She didn't say anything else so I went and got John. What does all this signify, Inspector?'
Quickly Pascoe explained, reasoning that if Swithenbank didn't want his mother to know, he shouldn't have left her to be interrogated alone.
'I don't like the sound of this,' she said sharply when he'd finished.
'No?' he said.
'Someone's trying to make trouble. There were one or two nasty calls a year ago when the news first got out. People in the village and round about – old maids with nothing better to do, I usually guessed their names and that made them ring off pretty quickly! But this sounds more organized, as if someone's been thinking about it. Not just an impulse like some old biddy
filling the gap between Crown Court and Coronation Street.'
'That's very astute of you,' complimented Pascoe. 'Any ideas?'
'I can't fathom the precise aim,' said Mrs Swithenbank, 'but I should be surprised if she, or he, were a thousand miles away from you tonight.'
She glanced at her watch and pursed her lips impatiently.
'I hope John isn't going to keep you waiting much longer, Inspector. There's a film I particularly want to see on the television and he promised to have you on the way before it started.'
Taken aback by the sudden change in the objects of her concern, Pascoe downed his untouched drink in one to demonstrate his readiness to be off and said, 'Perhaps it's Miss' Starkey who's holding him up.'
'That wouldn't surprise me,' she said significantly.
Not quite certain whether she was really underlining the double entendre, Pascoe asked if she had known Miss Starkey long.
'I never saw her before in my life. I came home last evening and there she was. I was then consulted about whether she could stay or not, but not in a manner which admitted the possibility of refusal.'
'Despite which, you didn't refuse?' said Pascoe, tongue in cheek.
She glanced at him sharply, then smiled.
'No, I didn't.'
'A business colleague of your son's, perhaps?' said Pascoe casually.
'I'm glad you don't even pretend to believe that!' said the woman. 'No, I imagine she's precisely what she appears to be. His mistress.'
'Here by invitation?' said Pascoe, with doubt bordering on incredulity in his voice.
'No, Inspector. Not by invitation, but certainly by design,' said a new voice.
Jean Starkey was standing by the half-open door, amusedly self-conscious of the dramatic effect of both her timing and her appearance. She wore a scarlet dress of some soft elastic fabric which clung so close that the finest of underwear must have thrown up its contours. None could be seen to break the curving lines of her body and when she moved forward into the room muscle and sinew rippled the scarlet surface like a visual aid in an anatomy class.
Pascoe sighed and she smiled her appreciation.
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