The Price of Butcher's Meat

by Reginald Hill

  She looked at him with exasperated fondness and said, “How can you know that? You only met Emil a couple of times at Davos, right? And you’ve seen him once since—”

  “Twice,” he said.

  “Twice?”

  “Yeah. Remember I gave him my number when I bumped into him at the filling station, asked him to ring if he was anywhere near? Well, he rang Friday afternoon, said he was on his way home, catching a ferry later that night, and did I fancy a quick drink early on? So we met up at the Nag’s Head.”

  What did this signify? Charley tried to compartmentalize her thoughts, rational inference on the one side, imaginative speculation on the other. It wasn’t easy. One of her tutors had rather dryly remarked, “The beginning of all analysis is self-analysis. In your case, Miss Heywood, perhaps it should be the end as well.”

  “So what did you talk about?” she asked.

  “Talked a lot about you, actually,” George said, grinning.

  “Me? But I only knew him by sight. I mean, there was no way for any other girl to get near him with poison ivy Ess twined round him the way she did!”

  “Well, you certainly made a big impression, he wanted to know all about you.”

  Charley found this incomprehensible. She was sure Emil hadn’t even noticed her!

  Then it struck her. Friday was the day she’d gone to Denham Park and out of sheer bloody malice reminded Esther that she’d seen her and Em last December in the Bengel bar. Suddenly her creative imagination was racing. In Ess’s shoes, she’d have taken the first opportunity to pass this on to Emil. He, recalling his recent encounter with George, had scented danger. Digging out George’s telephone number, he’d made the phone call and fixed a meet. Charley knew her brother. By the time Emil finished chatting to him, the Swiss would know every detail of what George had told her and how she’d responded. Em was probably reassured that she wasn’t going to go running to Lady D with the news that he was in the county, but just to make assurance doubly sure, he’d suggested to Esther that it might be time to mend a few fences, which would explain her sudden attack of amiability at the hog roast!

  None of this fit in with a picture of the frustrated lovers having hatched a cunning plan to top Lady Denham later that afternoon. But that didn’t matter. To Charley the whole business felt extempore. Maybe for some reason Emil had come to see Esther at Sandytown Hall…maybe Daph had surprised them…maybe…

  “Oh, I nearly forgot, a letter came for you. Mum said it looked like Liam’s handwriting,” said George with a grin.

  Her mother of course had been right, thought Charley as she took the envelope. I bet she was tempted to steam it open!

  She tried not to check for signs of tampering as she tore it open, but found she couldn’t help it! There were none.

  She read the single sheet quickly. It was a full, frank, and fulsome apology. All his fault, he was a heel, didn’t know what had come over him.

  Dirty Dot, that’s what, thought Charley savagely.

  But as grovels went, it was a pretty good grovel, ending with assurances that he’d realized he couldn’t live without her and a plea to be given one more chance.

  “Who’s this then?” said George.

  She looked up to see Andy Dalziel coming toward them and quickly thrust the letter into her pocket.

  “Superintendent Dalziel, Dad’s old rugby mate,” she said.

  George rose to his feet and held out his hand. Dalziel was no dwarf, but Charley was secretly pleased to see he had to look up at her brother.

  “Hi there, Mr. Dalziel,” said George, beaming his irresistible smile. “I’m George Heywood. Dad’s told me a lot about you.”

  “Oh aye? Never told me he were breeding giants. Glad to meet you, lad. What position do you play?”

  “Second row at school, but I don’t play anymore since I left.”

  “No? What’s Stompy thinking of? Can think of half a dozen top teams as ’ud give their eyeteeth for a youngster built like you.”

  Charley could have told him that her father had reluctantly come to terms with the fact that his giant son had everything except the killer instinct. Opponents might bounce off him as he moved forward, but instead of trampling them underfoot, George was more likely to help them up and ask if they were all right.

  But there was no time for that.

  She said, “What’s happening? Have you seen the will?”

  “Seen a will. Sir Ted gets the lion’s share. Sis gets a hefty chunk, Clara a lot less. But it seems there’s another will and, if that holds, nobody gets owt except for a bunch of broken-down horses. Mebbe we should be questioning yon nag in the stables!”

  Charley smiled and asked, “You say if it holds. Is there a doubt?”

  “Don’t know till yon hairy lawyer takes a look. Yon lass Clara had it. Your mate Novello’s bringing it back from the clinic. Thought I’d get a breath of air and bring you up to speed.”

  He’s sticking to our bargain, thought Charley. Telling me everything. At least it sounds like he is. My turn now.

  “George,” she said, “tell Andy about meeting Emil Kunzli-Geiger again.”

  When her brother had finished, she added her own gloss.

  The Fat Man rubbed his face, the flesh moving beneath his fingers as if it were a rubber mask he might pull off to reveal…she stopped the fancy there. Imagination could take you too far.

  Dalziel looked as if he felt fancy had already taken her far beyond the facts.

  “But—” he began.

  His but did not get butted. A car pulled up outside the hall and Shirley Novello got out. She glanced their way, showed no reaction, and went inside.

  “Best get back in,” said Dalziel. “You’ll wait?”

  “You bet.”

  “See you later then. You too, lad. Hope you’ll have time for a pint. Few tales I can tell you about your dad that I bet you’ve not heard from him!”

  He found Pascoe and Novello in the passage outside the closed drawing room door. Pascoe was studying a document.

  “That the will?”

  “Yes,” said Pascoe. “Take a look.”

  Dalziel studied the document. Handwritten on a stationer’s will form, it was signed and witnessed. It was dated Friday, the day she’d visited him in the home and he’d choked her off with the advice that she should change her will and cut out anyone she felt threatened by. Remove the motive and you remove the danger, he’d said.

  His mind ran round in circles seeking ways he could have handled it differently.

  He said, “Looks fine to me.”

  Pascoe said, “Let’s see what Beard says. Shirley, you manage to check Brereton’s phone calls?”

  “Yes, sir.” Novello produced her notebook. “This morning at nine fifteen, she received a call from a mobile registered to Sir Edward Denham of Denham Park. Duration, ten minutes. Nine thirty, she made a call to a mobile; I’ve got the number but it’s an unregistered pay-as-you-go job. Duration five minutes. Five past ten she called Edward Denham’s number. Duration three minutes. Twelve seventeen she rang him again. Duration fifty seconds.”

  “Good work, Shirley,” said Pascoe. “Another job for you. Go to Denham Park. Pick up Ted Denham. His sister too, if she’s there. Invite them here for a chat.”

  “Invite?” said Novello, wanting to be certain of her brief. “Like, ask them nicely?”

  “I hope you always do that, Shirley,” said Pascoe, smiling. “Yes, ask them nicely. Once. If they prevaricate, arrest them. Cuff them if necessary. Or even if not.”

  He looked at the Fat Man challengingly.

  Dalziel said, “Your call, lad. But they come here in handcuffs, you’re going to have the media all over you.”

  “So what’s new? Looking at the timings, Brereton made that last call while she was in Lady Denham’s bedroom. Way I read it is, Lady D, even if she wasn’t completely convinced it was Ted who was threatening her, was so pissed off when she got the notion he and Sid Parker were plotting some fi
nancial deal behind her back that she decided to follow the advice of her local resident expert—take a bow, Andy…”

  “Put a sock in it!” growled the Fat Man, who didn’t find the subject amusing.

  “So she made a new disinheriting will and showed it to him before the hog roast, to give him a salutary kick up the behind. Naturally, Ted’s first thought after her death—”

  “You saying he killed her?”

  “He’s high on my list. His first thought was to find and destroy the new will. But it was nowhere to be found. No great cause for panic. If he couldn’t find it, who could? When he inherited the hall, he’d be able to search at his leisure. The only fly in the ointment was the witnesses. If they spoke up, then a serious search might be instigated. Happily, one of them quickly followed Lady Denham across the great divide…”

  “You saying Teddy killed Ollie Hollis as well?”

  “He certainly had a motive,” said Pascoe. “Which left Clara, the other witness. Not only did she know about the second will, it occurred to him, or maybe his sister, that she was the person most likely to know where Lady D had hidden it. On the other hand, she also would lose out if the will surfaced. The sensible thing to do would be nothing, relying on self-interest to keep Brereton quiet. I suspect this is what the sister advised.”

  Dalziel nodded. This fit with his reading of Esther too.

  He said, “But Ted thinks he can charm the knickers off any woman he meets…”

  “Right. And he’s not really going to rest easy till he’s burnt the will. So he rings Brereton, and chats her up. She says yes, reckons she knows where the will could be hidden, and suggests they meet after she’s had a chance to check it out.”

  “What for? Why not just say she’ll destroy it, if that’s the route she’s going down? Or she’ll hand it over to Mr. Beard, if her conscience is too ticklish.”

  “Because,” said Pascoe, “her conscience isn’t all that ticklish. She reckons she’s earned her inheritance, putting up with Aunt Daph’s little ways all these months. But it really gripes her that her reward is going to be just a few thousand while the randy bart and his sister get millions! So she goes to the hall, checks the secret drawer, finds the will, rings Ted and says she’s found it and she’s on her way to meet him on the beach. However, he’s waiting for her on the ledge.”

  “And he pushes her over? Why’d he do that before he’d got his hands on the will?”

  “Maybe it really was an accident,” said Pascoe. “Or maybe she didn’t say she had it in her pocket but that she’d left it in its hiding place where she could lay her hands on it whenever she wanted. He thought, If it’s so well hidden, I don’t need to worry. And I certainly don’t need cousin Clara twisting my balls for a share of my inheritance. So over she goes, then he ducks into the cave when he hears Wieldy coming. That’s the way I read it anyway. What do you think, Andy?”

  “More loose ends than you’d find at a tinker’s wedding,” said Dalziel. “But I suppose it’s worth pulling the bugger. Not sure about Esther, but.”

  “No? Well, I think she’s implicated up to her swanlike neck,” said Pascoe. “When I interviewed her in the hall, she’d changed her clothes. I know that because of what Charley Heywood says in one of those e-mails Shirley so cleverly got her hands on.”

  Dalziel saw Novello wince at the reminder. Or mebbe she was just looking modest at the compliment!

  “So she got wet, it were raining.”

  “According to her statement she went straight into the hall as soon as the storm began. Also I think she’d hurt her right arm. I think she may have burnt it.”

  “Like on the hog roast cage? Okay, she got a burn when they found the body and that’s when she got mussed up, helping to get it off the barbecue pit.”

  Pascoe said, “You’re very defensive of the lady, Andy. Not becoming chivalrous in your old age, are you?”

  God, he’s getting right cocky! thought the Fat Man. In front of the servants too!

  “I think that what with Daphne coming the duchess and her useless brother buggering around in every sense of the phrase, she’s had a lot to put up with,” he said.

  “My points exactly. Provoked by her aunt, protective of her brother, I reckon she’d be up for anything. Incidentally, no one reports seeing her around when the body was discovered, and she herself says she stayed in the house when the others went outside again after the storm stopped. Any other comments, Andy? Always glad of your input.”

  “Only that with two such desperate criminals to bring in, mebbe I’d better go along with Ivor.”

  Watching their faces as he spoke, he savored their reactions to his generous offer of help. Pascoe looked doubtful, Novello looked disgruntled. Her, he could understand. From being the arresting officer, she’d be demoted to junior assist. As for Pascoe, he was probably thinking, Is there no way I can stop this fat bastard from getting in on the act? No, a bit more than that. From pissing on my parade!

  He said, “Pete, it’s your call. You’re the man. And it’ll be Ivor’s collar. I’ll just be along as the heavy.”

  “Fine,” said Pascoe with sudden decision. “Do it. One thing more. Bring Ted’s watch, big chunky Rolex. If he’s not wearing it, look for it.”

  “Without a warrant?” said Dalziel.

  “Use your imagination,” said Pascoe coldly.

  “Why do we want the watch, sir?” said Novello, as always eager to learn.

  “Something had snagged the victim’s blouse, and when I interviewed Sir Edward, he was having trouble with his watch clasp.”

  “You don’t break a Rolex catch by snagging it on a bit of silk,” objected Dalziel.

  “No. But as clever Miss Heywood pointed out for us, this is a fake, remember?” said Pascoe triumphantly. “Probably you could bend the catch by breathing on it. Now, I’d better get back in there before Wield and Beard come to blows over who’s prettiest.”

  He returned to the drawing room where, far from fighting, he discovered the lawyer and the sergeant having an animated conversation about Gilbert and Sullivan.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” said Pascoe, “but I’d be grateful if you’d cast your eye over this, Mr. Beard.”

  The lawyer took the will form and read through it carefully. He snapped his fingers and Miss Gay passed him a magnifying glass through which he scrutinized parts of the will even more closely.

  Finally satisfied, he put down the glass and sat back on the sofa.

  “What we have here,” he said, “is a will, simple in purpose and unambiguous in language, revoking all previous wills and appointing myself as sole executor, in which the entirety of the late Lady Denham’s estate is left to the Yorkshire Equine Trust. It is handwritten and I can confirm beyond any reasonable doubt that the writing is Lady Denham’s, as is the signature. It is dated two days ago, and therefore postdates the will in my possession whose dispositions we discussed earlier.”

  He paused.

  “So, for the avoidance of doubt,” said Pascoe, “you can confirm that the will you read to us is no longer valid and that, unless yet another will surfaces, what we have here is legally the last will and testament of the late Lady Denham?”

  “I don’t believe I said that, Chief Inspector,” said Mr. Beard.

  “I’m sorry? I thought you said you were convinced the signature was genuine?”

  “Indeed I did, and indeed I am. Lady Denham’s signature this certainly is. But then we come to the two witnesses who are given as Mr. Oliver Hollis and Miss Clara Brereton. I have had occasion to see Miss Brereton’s signature only once before, so I cannot be absolutely certain, but it does not accord with memory. As for Mr. Oliver Hollis, he was, coincidentally, or perhaps significantly, along with Miss Gay here”—the secretary bobbed her head in unsmiling acknowledgment—“a witness to the will I have in my briefcase. You may, if you wish, compare his signature there with what I see before me here. Myself, I have no such need. I can affirm beyond all doubt that it was not writt
en by his hand.”

  Beard and Wieldy were right to be talking about Gilbert and Sullivan, thought Pascoe. We’re in Titipu!

  He said, “So what are you saying, Mr. Beard?”

  For the first time the lawyer smiled, white teeth gleaming through black beard, as though he’d been waiting all his life for this.

  “I am saying that Lady Denham appears to have forged her own will!”

  9

  Dennis Seymour wasn’t good with hospitals. When his twin daughters were born, he’d managed to witness the arrival of the first, but by the time the second emerged, he was lying on the floor, receiving treatment himself. So it was with no great enthusiasm that he’d made his way to the Avalon and asked to be directed to intensive care.

  Shirley Novello had shown no reluctance to be relieved. The only hope she could offer of anything to dilute the boredom was a warning that Gordon Godley had appeared and asked if he could have a few minutes with the patient.

  “Sounded harmless, but the nuts often do,” said Novello. “I sent him packing, but keep an eye open. Never trust a man with a beard; he’s usually got something to hide.”

  “Means I’m there with a chance then,” grinned Seymour, stroking his chin.

  “Oh no. Clean shaven’s worse. Means you’ve got nothing to hide. Cheers, Dennis.”

  Since then he had sat on a hard chair in the corridor with nothing to occupy him but the beep from the life-support system to which the still figure on the bed was hooked up. The arrival of a nurse to check that all was as it should be came as a welcome relief. She was rather pretty and he tried to flirt with her, but she was young enough to regard a man in his thirties as a lost cause and merely looked embarrassed. When she appeared again some fifteen minutes later, he tried the poor-old-man approach and asked if there was any way of getting a cup of coffee.

  She pointed down the corridor and said, “Visitors’ lounge, third on the right, help yourself.”

  She went into the room. Based on her previous visit, she’d be in there for several minutes, so Seymour wandered off along the corridor. The visitors’ lounge was unlike any hospital waiting room Seymour had ever been in. His feet sank into a thick piled carpet, a scatter of richly upholstered armchairs invited him into their depths, along one wall ran a rack of up-to-date newspapers and magazines, and on an antique sideboard against the opposite wall rested a plateful of what smelt like freshly baked scones and a state-of-the-art percolator.