'Nay, this'll do me, Mr Goodenough,' he said. 'If you feel an urge to confess to anything a bit embarrassing, I'll ask them to turn the Muzak up. We'll just look like a couple of businessmen having a chat.'
Goodenough said, in that case, perhaps you'll join me in a drink? For the sake of verisimilitude, I mean.'
'Whisky,' said Dalziel. 'Thanks.'
He noted with approval that the Scot brought doubles.
'Now, how can I help you?' said Goodenough.
'You can tell me what you're doing here, Mr Goodenough,' said Dalziel.
'You must know that or you wouldn't be wanting to talk to me,' said Goodenough.
'No. I know why you came up here in the first place. Eden Thackeray's explained all that. But he also thought you'd have gone back south by now, and at Reception they told me that in fact you were due to check out on Saturday, then you extended your stay. Why was that?'
'My business proved more complicated than I foresaw,' said Goodenough evenly.
'Oh aye?'
'I'm sure Mr Thackeray has filled you in on the details. I had people to see about pursuing my organization's claim to a share in Mrs Huby's estate.'
'These people being . . .?'
'Mr Thackeray himself, naturally. Mr John Huby of the Old Mill Inn . . .'
'Why'd you want to see him?' asked Dalziel.
'To obtain a waiver to any claims he might possibly make against the will.'
'Did he have a claim?'
'He might imagine so. The point is, he along with Mrs Stephanie Windibanks, that's the other nearest relative, could cause considerable delay if they pressed their case either separately or in unison. Also it strengthens our hand if we can say in court that no other challenges to the will are likely to be forthcoming.'
'So they've got nuisance value?'
'That's about the strength of it.'
'This Windibanks, you'll have seen her as well as Huby.'
'Yes. I saw her first in London, then again when I came up here. She's staying at this hotel, in fact.'
'Is that so?' said Dalziel, who knew very well it was so, and also that Mrs Windibanks too had extended her stay. 'Did they both agree to this waiver, then?'
'Yes, as a matter of fact, they did.'
'How much?'
'I'm sorry?'
'How much did it cost you?'
'Superintendent, I shouldn't like you to think . . .'
Dalziel interrupted him by lifting his now empty glass into the air and shouting at the barman. 'Two more of the same, sunshine!'
The barman thought of ignoring him, thought better of it, and turned to his optic.
It seemed a good example to follow.
'Five hundred,' Goodenough said. 'They each get five hundred now.'
'That sounds cheap,' said Dalziel. 'For a merry London widow and a Yorkshire publican. You said now?"
'That's up front. If we break the will and get immediate payment they each get five per cent of the estate's current value.'
'Which is?'
'Million and a quarter to a million and a half.'
Dalziel computed.
'Jesus,' he said. 'That's a hell of a lot of nuisance!'
'It'll be worth it if we get the money. And if we don't, they don't,' said Goodenough.
'What're your chances?'
'Fair, I'd say.'
'Fairer now that Alessandro Pontelli's out of the way, I dare say. You didn't try to get him out of the way by any chance, did you, Mr Goodenough?'
A silence fell between the two men which not the Muzak, nor the chink of glasses or the tinkle of small talk, nor the more distant susurration of a large hotel at the start of a busy evening could render less silent.
'I'm not sure I understand your question,' said Goodenough finally.
'Well, it's simple enough,' said Dalziel innocently. 'You've just been telling me how much you're willing to shell out to buy off Mr Huby and Mrs Windibanks because of their nuisance value. Anyone claiming to be the actual heir would have the biggest nuisance value of all, I'd say. So I just wondered if, after Mr Thackeray told you this Pontelli fellow had been to see him, you might have tried to buy him off too. That's all. Perfectly natural, I'd say.'
'Yes, it might have been,' said Goodenough. 'Except I'd have had to know where to find him, wouldn't I?'
'That's right. I'd not thought of that,' said Dalziel ingenuously, 'It must be age creeping up. Where were you on Friday night, by the way?'
'Night. You mean evening?'
'Aye, well. Start there.'
'Well, I was across in Ilkley early on . . .'
'Ilkley. Now there's a thing. What were you doing there?'
'I went to see Mrs Laetitia Falkingham, the founder and president of Women For Empire which you will recall is the third beneficiary under Mrs Huby's will. I wanted to get her organization's accord in my plans for contesting the will.'
'And did Mrs Falkingham play ball?'
'Indirectly. Mrs Falkingham is old and frail and has handed over the reins of WFE to a young woman called Brodsworth who has full legal and executive authority.'
'Sounds important if you put it like that. What's it mean?'
'Nothing at the moment. WFE consists almost entirely, I suspect, of a very small, extremely geriatric membership. It has small funds and less influence. In short, it seems set to die with Mrs Falkingham.'
'Except . . .?'
'Except that Miss Brodsworth and her friends seem determined to keep the organization going.'
'Friends? What friends?'
'I find it hard to believe that a woman like this Miss Brodsworth would be content to channel her political energies and beliefs through an organization like WFE.'
'You sniffed an ulterior motive?'
'Very strongly. But she seemed to be legally empowered to act on behalf of WFE, so I got her signature on a document empowering PAWS to initiate proceedings on behalf of all three secondary beneficiaries.'
'You don't look to me like a man of quick judgements, Mr Goodenough,' said Dalziel.
'Thank you. I'm not. That's partly the reason I stayed on up here over the weekend. I know Eden Thackeray wasn't happy about the Brodsworth woman either and I wanted to be sure that I understood the extent of her executive power.'
'Because you were worried about the money falling into the wrong hands, or because you were bothered in case her signature mightn't be valid?'
Goodenough frowned.
'I see you're a cynic, Mr Dalziel,' he said. 'But I admit my motives were mixed.'
'And Eden Thackeray?'
'Confirmed that if the money dropped into WFE's hands tomorrow, there's very little to prevent Miss Brodsworth presenting it to the National Front or worse . . .'
'You think she would? But you've got no evidence?'
'Not yet. There was a journalist at Maldive Cottage too, however, and he's obviously interested in the woman.'
'A journalist?'
'Yes. From the Sunday Challenger, I think he said. Not a paper I know. Henry Vollans is the reporter's name.'
Dalziel nodded. Pascoe had told him about meeting Vollans at the Kemble party and learning from Sammy Ruddlesdin that he'd be following up the gay cop story, if story there were. It had put him in mind of seeing Watmough and Ike Ogilby having lunch at the Gents.
'So you finished your business at Ilkley. What next? Didn't go into Leeds by any chance?'
'As a matter of fact I did,' said Goodenough. 'Any reason why I shouldn't?'
Dalziel was slightly nonplussed. He'd been trying to fit Goodenough into the frame as the man calling at the Highmore Hotel in search of Pontelli, and would have preferred evasiveness.
'What took you there?'
'I had a drink with this reporter, Vollans, after I'd seen Mrs Falkingham. We got talking. By the time we'd finished it was too late to get back to the Howard Arms for dinner and he recommended a Chinese restaurant in Leeds. I'm rather partial to Chinese food . . .'
'Oh aye? So, yellow
press followed by yellow nosh. I shouldn't have thought you'd have had much time for tabloid journalism, Mr Goodenough.'
'I like good publicity for PAWS whatever its source. Also I got the impression that Vollans also sniffed something not quite right about this Brodsworth creature, and I respect the power of the Press to ferret out things the individual citizen can't hope to discover.'
'Like the police,' said Dalziel. 'Did you do a deal, then?'
'We established a climate of mutual dorsal confrication,' said Goodenough.
Clever bugger, thought Dalziel malevolently. I shall have you!
Courteously he inquired, 'What time did you get back on Friday night, Mr Goodenough?'
'Oh, latish. Eleven o'clock, something like that.'
'Straight to bed?'
'Yes, that's right.'
'They don't remember you coming in at the desk,' said Dalziel gently.
'Don't they? No, now I recall, there was no one in Reception so I just helped myself to my key.'
'Oh aye? Poor service for a posh place like this.'
'It happens in the best hotels, Mr Dalziel.'
'Does it? I wouldn't know.'
Dalziel belched gently and raised his left leg to scratch his under thigh.
'Superintendent Dalziel? I thought it must be you from the description they gave me at Reception. I got your message. Mr Goodenough, how nice to see you again. Vincent, darling, my usual.'
Stephanie Windibanks sank into a chair between the two men. Elegant in a salmon pink blouse and a tartan pleated skirt, she crossed legs whose flesh was still firm enough to give a sensuous tautness to silk stockings, patted her expensively coiffured hair and smiled brilliantly at Dalziel to show perfect white teeth.
'Mrs Windibanks?' said the fat man, slowly eyeing her up and down.
'That's right. Was it something particular you were looking for, Superintendent, or are you just taking a general view with the idea of making an offer?'
'Nay, the coach-work is grand, but I'd need an expert to look at the engine,' said Dalziel.
The woman's smile froze for a second, then she let out a trill of laughter. The barman set a tall, well fruited drink before her and she picked it up and made a mock-toasting gesture towards Dalziel.
'Why I ever left the North, I cannot imagine.'
'I sometimes wonder the same,' said Goodenough.
Dalziel said, 'I was just asking Mr Goodenough here where he was on Friday night. What about you, Mrs Windibanks?'
'Where was I, you mean. Oh, here and there. I had a meal in the restaurant, a couple of drinks in the bar, took a stroll to get some air, went to bed, watched some telly, read a book. That would just about fill the evening in, wouldn't you think?'
'You didn't answer the telephone,' said Dalziel.
'I'm sorry?'
'There were a couple of calls for you late on. The switchboard got no reply from your room.'
'Perhaps I was in the bath.'
'Long bath,' said Dalziel.
The woman sipped her drink, then turned her brilliant smile on the other man.
She said, 'Mr Goodenough, perhaps you can tell me what this is all about.'
'I think,' said Goodenough slowly, his dry Scots accent giving his words a measured forensic weight, 'I think it's about whether I, in order to improve the chances of PAWS inheriting half a million pounds, or you, Mrs Windibanks, in order to improve your chances of gaining seventy-five thousand pounds, would brutally do to death one of our fellow human beings.'
The woman said, 'My God! You're joking, of course?'
But her eyes were narrow with calculation rather than wide with shock.
She went on. 'Has he actually spelt this out, Mr Goodenough?'
Dalziel said, 'Thinking of a lawyer, are you, Mrs Windibanks? Quite right. I admire someone with a sharp eye for a quick profit. But you'll not get rich chasing after poor bobbies with defamation suits, isn't that right, Mr Goodenough? Or have you forgot all your law?'
'You seem to know a good deal about me,' said the Scot.
'I've just started,' said Dalziel. 'I like to know about people. About you. About Mrs Windibanks here. About Pontelli or Huby or whoever he was.'
'That'll be hard to prove now one way or another,' said Goodenough.
'Oh, there's always science,' said Dalziel with the Archimedean certainty of one who found it hard to understand why electricity didn't leak from light sockets with no bulbs in them.
Mrs Windibanks who had been sitting listening to this exchange with an air of weary superiority suddenly said, 'Hang on a sec. Perhaps I can help.'
The two men looked at her with a shared surprise.
'How's that?' said Dalziel.
'This body you've got, could I see it?'
'For identification, you mean? I doubt that'd help very much, luv,' said Dalziel. 'Forty years changes faces a lot. I mean, you saw this man at the funeral and you didn't think, here's Alexander back to claim his cash, did you?'
Mrs Windibanks smiled.
'True,' she said. 'But I wasn't thinking of his face. You see, Superintendent, I've just remembered. When I was a little girl, I used to go to Troy House with my parents and when poor Alexander was at home, he used to be given the task of looking after me. Neither of us enjoyed it much. He was ten years older than I was, you see . . .'
She paused as though daring a challenge. Five years older, guessed Dalziel, six at the most!
'The one thing I did enjoy was when he took me down to the river. He used to go in swimming. I just paddled in the shallows. The thing was, he used to swim in the buff. That school he went to was one of those places where the boys all used to swim nude in the school pool, a considerable perk for some of the staff, I dare say. Well, who am I to blame them? I used to enjoy watching Alex, believe me. He didn't consider me as female - I was a child relative and a bloody nuisance - so he was completely uninhibited. Alas, I spoilt it all one day, though.'
She sipped her drink and looked at them coquettishly over the foliage.
Dalziel said, 'You stripped off.'
'You're spoiling my story!' she protested. 'Yes, I decided that paddling was dull, so while he was floating around, I took off all my clothes and started to wade in. I was just beginning to develop then, you know, enough to be visibly different.'
Dalziel did a quick calculation. The lad must have been seventeen at most. He went in the army at eighteen. So take her alleged ten from his estimated seventeen and you got a most unlikely seven!
'You must have been an early developer, luv,' he said with a broad wink.
'Thank you,' she said as though he'd paid her a compliment. 'As soon as he saw me, everything changed. From being a naked shepherd lad bathing in the spring, he became a blushing, stuttering schoolboy who was so embarrassed he almost drowned! He couldn't get dressed quickly enough. It was my first, but not, alas, my last disappointment. We went bathing together no more.'
'Very touching,' said Dalziel. 'But what's your point, luv?'
'My point is he had a mark, a sort of mole on his left buttock, like a little leaf. I thought that was what it was, first time I saw it, that he'd sat on the grass and it had stuck. But when it didn't wash off, I realized it was part of him. There you are, Mr Dalziel. If your poor corpse has got that mark in his skin, then I would say yes, indeed, this man could be Alexander Huby!'
Chapter 7
Gruff-of-sodding-Greendale soared through the air, hit the wail with a dusty thump, and crashed to the flagged floor.
John Huby, the climax of his tale of woe achieved, now returned the centre of the stage to a dumbfounded Pascoe with an angry glance.
Seymour picked up the recumbent animal and said with relief, it's stuffed.'
The couple of early regulars who were standing at the bar guffawed appreciatively.
Pascoe said, 'I'll have that drink now, if you don't mind.'
'Aye. Well, come through to the kitchen then, out of the way of flapping lugs.'
With a sour
glare at the two customers to make sure they didn't miss his point, John Huby led the way into the private quarters behind the bar. As Pascoe followed he glanced at Seymour and with a flicker of his eyes gave him the probably not unwelcome command to chat up the blonde who was polishing glasses against her straining, plunging blouse.
'I see you're extending, Mr Huby,' said Pascoe. 'Business must be good.'
'You think so? Then you don't know much about it, do you?'
'No, not really, but I thought . . .'
'I'm extending to make business good,' said Huby. 'If it were good, I'd not be bothered, would I?'
Pascoe tried to work out if this interesting economic theory were Keynesian or Friedmannite, gave up and said, 'It must be costing a packet.'
'What if it is? What's that to you?'
'Nothing, it's nothing,' Pascoe assured him.
'As long as that's understood,' said the man. 'Ruby!'
A larger, older version of the girl behind the bar appeared.
'Fetch us a couple of beers, will you?' said Huby.
'Halves?'
The man looked at Pascoe. It was a moment of significant assessment, he guessed.
'Pints,' said Huby.
The woman disappeared.
'Your wife?' suggested Pascoe.
'Aye.'
Ruby Huby. Pascoe savoured the name. Ruby Huby.
He said, 'I'm sorry about your disappointment, Mr Huby. But, as I said to you before, what I'm here about is this man who was murdered, the man, we believe, who interrupted your aunt's funeral and claimed to be your missing cousin.'
'He didn't do that,' objected Huby. 'Not at the funeral.'
'I believe he said, Mama,' Pascoe pointed out.
'Our Lexie and Jane, they've got a stack of old dolls that say Mama,' retorted Huby scornfully.
'The implication was clear enough, I should have thought,' murmured Pascoe.
Huby glowered at him with the expression of a man who was regretting having said 'Pints'.
Somewhere a telephone shrilled.
'He certainly claimed to be Alexander Huby in the presence of Eden Thackeray,' said Pascoe.
'Him? What's he know. Bugger all. He didn't even know Alex when he were a lad.'
'But you did, of course?'
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