'As it's happened innumerable times in the past decade, I think we all grasp the principle, sir,' said Pascoe.
'Is that right? Well, I'm glad you grasp summat. It seems that Ollershaw had a lot of his money invested in the building society, so he had a vote like any other investor, but he kept in the background during the debate about the change, only coming into prominence later after it was all signed, sealed and on the point of being delivered. And now it turned out there were a problem. You see, it seems the Nortrust, like a lot of the old building societies and savings banks, had been founded way back by some benevolent buffer who felt the workers would work a sight better if they learnt the art of regular saving. That way they could take on the kind of long-term debt like a mortgage, which made them even more dependent on a regular wage, and what's more they'd have some chance of repaying it.'
This, to Pascoe, seemed a somewhat cynical way of looking at the motives of Victorian philanthropy, but he set aside the ethical discussion for a later date.
'So where is this leading, sir?' he asked.
'Don't be impatient,' said Dalziel, looking sadly at the empty cake plate. 'I'm getting there fast as me failing strength can manage. This problem which no one had spotted was that the founder of the Nortrust Building Society had provided the original building, that great black granite job on the old High Street where the bank's headquarters is now, and where our Kelly worked. Plus, as the building society prospered and needed branches all over Mid-Yorkshire, he provided these too. Very philanthropic fellow, but sharp with it. Seems that he didn't actually give these buildings to Nortrust, lock, stock, and freehold. No, he gave them on a perpetual lease with a peppercorn ground rent. But, and here's the catch, in the head lease of each such building was a clause setting out the purposes for which the building was to be used. Which is, not to labour the point, as a building society. Legally it could be argued, and with good chance of success, so I'm told, that by converting from a mutual to a PLC, the terms of the lease were broken and the freeholder was entitled to evict the leaseholder and regain full rights over the properties.'
'Let me guess,' said Pascoe. 'George Ollershaw turned out to be the freeholder.'
'Right on. Yes, our George had been quietly acquiring all these apparently valueless freeholds over the years, and he waited till the changeover to bank status was irrevocable, but before the share flotation had taken place, then he pounced. Now Nortrust had a real problem. It wasn't just that if they went to court, they might well lose and then have to renegotiate leases with George or find new premises, it was the devastating effect that news of this glitch was likely to have on confidence in the new bank and therefore its share price. It was all sorted quietly. George ended up with his pockets stuffed with share options, a seat on the board, and a hefty salary as the head of the Investment Department. At least he seemed to have proved he'd got the credentials for that job!'
Pascoe shook his head as though to dislodge a persistent fly and said, 'Very interesting, but what's it got to do with Kelly Cornelius, sir?'
To his surprise, Dalziel said, 'Haven't the faintest idea, but it could have something to do with your missus. Distantly.'
'Ellie?'
'You've not got another in the attic, have you?'
'Could you stop being enigmatic, please,' said Pascoe forcefully. 'What do you mean?'
'I wish I knew, lad. It's just that when you get mixed up with twisted minds like Pimpernel, you start making crazy connections. Thing is, the guy who founded the Nortrust Building Society way back was one Mungo Macallum, the old-time arms king, and, more to the point mebbe, he was yon Feenie Macallum's father, and she's a playmate of your Ellie, I gather?'
'Yes,' said Pascoe slowly. 'She runs this Liberata thing, human rights, women in prison, that sort of thing . . . but I don't see how or why . . .'
But he was beginning to see something, as elusive and quick-melting as the first flake of a blizzard.
'Me neither,' said Dalziel. 'Something Ivor said to me rang a bell though. That's why I went back to the factory to dig it out. She'd checked this Feenie to see if anything was known. Only thing of interest to us was a dangerous-driving conviction a few years back. She ran this guy off the road and when our lads got there, it turned out they knew each other and he was screaming attempted murder and she was screaming natural justice! Well, he quietened down later and so did she, and it came down to dangerous driving. But thing is, the guy was George Ollershaw and for the past God knows how many years, he'd been Feenie's accountant and financial adviser.'
'Oh shit,' said Pascoe.
His vision had cleared. He was seeing an ancient sit-up-and-beg bicycle, leaning drunkenly against the Pompon de Paris outside his front door.
'Wieldy,' he said. The boy in the park, or Old Joe, did either of them describe the bike?'
'Not Joe. Too busy with the legs. But the lad said it were pretty ancient, not a racer or a mountain bike, certainly. Heavy-looking. Oh, and it was painted what he called a cacky-brown. Might have meant khaki, or mebbe not.'
'So what's on your mind, lad?' demanded Dalziel.
He told him about the bike.
The Fat Man looked pleased.
'Well, that does it, eh? Too many connections for coincidence. I think we ought to have a word with Feenie Macallum. Any idea where she lives, Peter?'
'Excuse me, I've got to ring Ellie.'
Pascoe went to the phone and dialled the number of Nosebleed Cottage.
It rang and rang but as before there was no reply.
'Oh shit!' he exclaimed again. 'Novello's mobile. I've got the number somewhere . . . Wieldy?'
Wield repeated the number without thought. Pascoe dialled.
'Unobtainable,' he said, crashing the receiver down.
'Pete, lad. No need to get your knickers in a twist. Whatever's going off here, and it's still all guesswork, Ellie and Rosie are well out of it. Good move that, dumping them out in the sticks.'
'You don't know, do you?' said Pascoe savagely. 'Of course you don't. That's why you were asking where Feenie Macallum lives. Well, I can tell you. She's got a house out at Axness. That's right. Where Daphne Aldermann's cottage is. In fact she bought it off Feenie. They're right on her sodding doorstep!'
ix
coitus interruptus
'Come in, come in,' said Feenie Macallum. 'No need to keep your dog on its lead, my dear. Carla will set him right if he misbehaves. That is one of the reasons God put bitches on the earth, to keep unruly dogs in good order, wouldn't you agree, Mrs Aldermann?'
Rosie, still wary after her earlier encounter with the old woman at her most fierce, hesitated a moment before releasing Tig, while Daphne answered Feenie's question with the blank politeness of a royal being offered a bag of chips.
Ellie said, 'You've still not sold the panelling, then?'
Feenie said, 'Not yet. I'll strip it out eventually, I suppose, but an architect friend warned me that with the bit of subsidence we've had already, in some places it's probably all that's holding the walls up.'
She gave the heavy oak panelling in question a hearty whack with her fist, setting up a disapproving tremor in her father's portrait.
'That's not a John, is it?' said Daphne, peering up at the picture.
'No, it's a painting. Want to buy it for your downstairs loo?'
'They're a handsome pair. Did they come with the house?'
Daphne in regal mode was quite undentable, thought Ellie, and the sooner Feenie caught on to this, the better. As a writer she supposed she ought to start treating such skirmishes among her friends as fodder for the next magnum opus, but while she remained pre-published, it might be as well to act as peacemaker.
'Feenie's father built, or rather rebuilt, Gunnery,' she said. 'As I believe I mentioned.'
'Ah, I see. So your father had to buy his pictures, Miss Macallum?' said Daphne. 'And his furniture too, I daresay?'
'Indeed. And his daughter has had to sell it,' said Feenie. 'Funny thing, life
, Mrs Aldermann. Perhaps one day you may have to try it.'
'These are Feenie's parents,' said Ellie firmly, trying to draw a line.
'Really?' murmured Daphne, as if talking to herself. 'How interesting. I wouldn't have guessed. So very handsome.'
There was a low growl, coming, happily, not from the old woman's throat but from Carla, her Border collie, which had just trotted into the entrance then stopped dead on spotting Tig.
The two animals eyeballed each other for a long moment, then began a slow advance till, just before the head-on collision, they each diverted a fraction and kept going till they stood side by side. Now a gentle almost oenophilic sniffing of ends began which looked like it might go on forever till suddenly Carla span round, body tense, like a goosed grande dame, and gave the terrier a hearty buffet to the left ear. Tig, with no pretence at chivalry, instantly replied in kind. Ellie thought, oh shit, here beginneth World War Three, as the two animals started racing round the room in parallel, hurling mouthfuls of glistening teeth at each other's throats as they ran.
'Good, that's all right then,' said Feenie briskly. 'But why don't you take them outside, child, before they destroy what little's left of the furniture. Come round the back when you're ready. There'll be some lemonade.'
She turned and led the way out of the entrance hall with Daphne in close attendance. Ellie paused to confirm what Feenie had recognized immediately, that the two dogs were simply playing. Their gambols took them out of the front door. Rosie, eager to join in, followed.
Ellie looked at Shirley Novello, who said, 'It's OK, I'll keep an eye on them.'
'Thanks,' said Ellie. 'And I'll keep an eye on those two.'
They shared a brief moment of understanding, then Novello went back out into the sunshine.
Now Ellie followed the other two through the house. Feenie hadn't been joking when she referred to what was left of the furniture. Even with only the vague memory of a single visit more than two years earlier to go on, she was sure these wide-open spaces had once been occupied by heavy Victorian bookcases and bureaux and tables and chairs, while the discoloured squares and rectangles which marked the walls like blocked-up windows left no room for ambiguity about vanishing pictures.
Feenie and Daphne had come to a halt by a french window giving out onto a long terrace, at either end of which, mounted on concrete plinths, stood a pair of three-inch mortars.
'We can sit outside, if you don't mind marble,' said Feenie. 'Used to say it gave you piles when I was a girl.'
'Marble's fine,' said Daphne, stepping out. 'Are those things real?'
'Real, and actually used in the Great War, my father used to claim,' said Feenie.
'I'm surprised you haven't got rid of them,' said Ellie. 'They must be worth a bit to a museum.'
'Probably. But I've no desire to follow in Daddy's footsteps and make money out of selling arms. Their place is at the bottom of the sea and that's where they'll end up.'
Such certainty, thought Ellie.
Daphne was kneeling on the bench running beneath the Italianate balustrade so that she could admire the view.
'What a splendid outlook. I do so love the sea,' she said.
'So do I, in its place,' said Feenie. 'Unfortunately it seems to think its place ought to be here.'
Ellie was taking in the near view.
'Good Lord,' she said. 'There's bits missing since I was last here.'
'Yes. I think we still had the FOP then, though it was already out of bounds.'
'FOP?' said Daphne.
'Forward observation post,' said Feenie. 'The Great War broke out while the house was being restored and my father ordered the construction of an observation post on the edge of the cliff, so that a watch could be kept for German invaders. He even had an old Maxim gun mounted there, plus ammunition. That FOP went sometime in the thirties, despite all that he spent on sea defences, but he built another during the Second World War a bit further back. That's the one you'll remember, Ellie.'
'Yes, it was sagging a bit, I recall. But you've still got the Command Post, I see.'
She was looking towards the roof of the concrete and glass pavilion, visible over the rampant shrubbery away to the left.
'Yes. But the sea is chewing away at the sandstone round the granite, and I'm advised that eventually, even if a stack remains, the pavilion will go. It is already too dangerous to enter. Indeed, the local authority have made it clear that I personally will be responsible for the safety of anyone straying beyond their marker fence, so please do not be tempted. It really is very dangerous.'
Not like Feenie to give a toss for bureaucratic pronouncements, thought Ellie.
Daphne peered at the line of garishly red plastic and exclaimed, 'So that's what that is. And the danger area starts there? But it's so close!'
'Come back next year, it will be a lot closer,' said Feenie.
'Is there really nothing to be done? I'm so very sorry. Your childhood home ... It must be devastating.'
Feenie studied her keenly for satire, found none, and said briskly, 'Don't upset yourself, my dear. While I would have preferred to sell the place and get the money, it's not unfitting that a house based on the proceeds of death and destruction should itself end up as a pile of worthless rubble. Of course, I take care to remove anything which can be turned into cash in advance of the sea's approach. The Command Post was stripped some time ago, and as you may have noticed I have already started the house down the same road. So it's not all loss. Ah, what excellent timing. I was just going to suggest a drink. That's kind of you.'
To Ellie's surprise, a woman she recognized as Wendy Woolley had come out onto the terrace carrying a wooden tray on which stood a selection of glasses, a pitcher of lemonade and a bottle of gin. She gave Ellie a shy smile then put the tray down on the marble bench.
'Mrs Woolley, Ellie you know, of course. And this is Mrs Aldermann, one of my...’
She paused long enough to let tenants hang in the air, then completed, 'Neighbours.'
'Yes. Hello. I heard you mention, I think you said the
Command Post, Miss Macallum? Is that what you call the pavilion on the cliff? I was wondering if it was still possible to take a walk down there for the view . . .'
'Certainly not,' said Feenie firmly. 'I thought I'd made it clear, it is far too dangerous. Anyone penetrating beyond the council's fence does so at their own peril. Now, how are we doing for time?'
'I'll check. There are a few problems, I think, but. . .'
She started to speak in a low voice, with Feenie listening attentively.
'Who is that?' hissed Daphne in Ellie's ear. 'Mrs Danvers? Or just an ageing tweenie?'
'No. She's a member of Liberata. In fact, she's our new secretary.'
'Good Lord. And does she do the laundry too, or is that the treasurer's job?'
'She's only brought a tray of drinks in, for God's sake,' said Ellie defensively.
Wendy Woolley went back through the french door and Feenie rejoined the others, saying, 'Sorry about that. I don't entertain much nowadays and things tend to get rusty in the kitchen.'
Was this figurative or literal? wondered Ellie.
'And of course it's so hard to get the staff these days,' said Daphne.
'You find it so? Well, certainly people are getting more choosy about who they work for,' said Feenie. 'It's called human rights. I personally have no problem.'
'No? I suppose a lot depends on how willing one is to exploit one's acquaintance,' said Daphne. 'Look who's here!'
The two dogs came gambolling down the side of the house with Rosie in hot pursuit and Novello following more sedately, though looking just as hot.
The animals shot under the warning fence and Rosie would have followed had not Feenie bellowed, 'You there, child! No further!'
Instant obedience, no questioning; I really must ask Feenie to teach me the trick, thought Ellie.
'Now stay in sight and let Miss, I'm sorry I've forgotten your name, have a drink.'
'Novello. Shirley Novello,' gasped the WDC, flopping down on the marble bench. 'Jesus, it's hot out there.'
With the sun sinking down the western sky, the seaward side of the house was pleasantly shaded. Feenie, who was looking to the east with a keen eye, said, 'Yes, it does feel rather close. I think there's some nasty weather coming. Forecast was fine for another forty-eight hours, but I daresay they've got it wrong again.'
Ellie could see little in the uninterruptedly blue sky to cause concern. True, where it met the sea, the blue smudged into gentian violet, but that must be halfway over to the continent, which had nothing to do with here.
A polite cough announced the return of Wendy Woolley, who murmured to Feenie, 'All's well. She says about twenty minutes.'
'Excellent. Do come and sit down. I don't think you've met Shirley. I was just going to pour the drinks. How do you like it, Mrs Aldermann? With or without?'
Daphne, disconcerted by this shattering of her mental picture of Wendy Woolley slaving over an open fire in some medieval kitchen, opted for with, as did everyone else, thus leaving unanswered the question whether without meant you got only lemonade or only gin.
They sat and drank and talked. After a while, Daphne and Feenie settled to a wary neutrality whose politenesses were as entertaining as its breaches. Wendy Woolley and Shirley Novello said little but seemed to be enjoying themselves, while Ellie was observing them all with what started as a novelist's sharp objectivity but after three strong withs mellowed into something surprisingly like affection.
Feenie suddenly said, 'It's going to be far too warm to eat inside. Let's bring the table out here. Volunteers, please.'
They all followed her into the dining room, where what proved to be a battered table-tennis table stood covered by a cloth which Ellie was sure had been half of the french window curtainings last time she was here. It was elegantly set with silver cutlery, clear crystal glasses and fine Spode side plates, all in designs rather more modern than Ellie would have expected Mungo Macallum to have chosen for his household. Daphne seemed particularly struck by them, but Feenie quickly gathered them all up into a cardboard box which she covered with the curtain/cloth, then set the four younger women one at each corner of the table, and supervised its carriage out onto the terrace. Shirley and Wendy were then sent back to bring the chairs, which ranged in style from rickety Chippendale to folding canvas.
Dalziel 18 Arms and the Women Page 28