He pushed open Ellie's door quietly. She was sitting up in bed with the lights on, smoking a cigarette.
'Hi,' she said, unsurprised.
'Hi,' he said. 'Back in a sec.'
His own door was slightly ajar. The room was in darkness. The door moved easily at his touch and he stepped swiftly inside, trying to recall where the light-switch was.
His groping hand could not make contact with it, but he knew someone was there in the room with him. The image of a shotgun rose suddenly in his mind and he abandoned his search for the switch, moving noiselessly away from the line of light spilling in from the landing. As he dropped on one knee beside the wardrobe, he heard a noise. The curtains moved and the clear autumn sky leaned its pinholes of light against the glass till a figure blotted them out. Everything went still again.
Pascoe spoke.
'Colin?' he said uncertainly.
He stood up.
'Colin? It's Peter, Peter Pascoe. Is that you, Colin?'
He was by the small bedside table now. His hands plunged down on the lamp which stood there. The ball of his thumb caught the switch and the soft light blossomed into the room.
The figure by the window spoke.
'No, I'm sorry, Mr Pascoe,’ he said compassionately. 'It's not Colin.'
'So I see,' said Pascoe, looking steadily at the man before him. 'What are you doing in my room, Mr Davenant?'
Chapter 8
'Oh, there you are, Anton,' said Marianne Culpepper from the doorway. 'What on earth are you doing in here?'
'Forgive me, darlings,' said Davenant moving away from the window. 'I am quite, quite lost. That little room you put me in downstairs was super, Marianne, except that it didn't seem to contain a loo. And while I'm sure a house of such distinction has loos all over the place, I could find none downstairs, though I did peer through a kind of grid thing at a room full of po-shaped objects.'
'You mistook my room for a bathroom?' said Pascoe with carefully measured incredulity.
'Not in the least. I tried the door in my search, though, peered in, realized my mistake of course and then forgot all else as across the window, outlined against the evening sky, swooped Asio otus.'
'What?' said Marianne.
'The long-eared owl, my dear. I may have been mistaken, but I think not. Those ears! I forgot everything. One call of nature gave way to a greater, and I darted across the room to watch his flight. Glorious! Then someone approached. I froze into quietness, but alas! I was discovered. Forgive us our trespasses, I pray you.'
He smiled sweetly at Pascoe, who put on the all-is-explained face he often used when faced with a blatant liar.
'You've got him then,' said Mrs Culpepper, senior, in a triumphant tone. She peered curiously over her daughter-in-law's shoulder. 'He's a funny-looking devil.'
'Hush!' said Marianne. 'This is Mr Davenant, Mother. An old friend of mine.'
The plot thickens, thought Pascoe. And with the dramatic metaphor came a sense of staging, of something being not quite real.
'From London, is it?' said the old woman, as if wanting the worst to be confirmed.
'That's right,' said Marianne.
'I thought so.' She left, nodding triumphantly.
'Darling,' cried Culpepper up the stairs. 'John and Sandra are going.'
'Sorry to rush, but Eric's got a chill and we don't like to leave the sitter too long,' came Sandra Bell's voice.
Marianne looked uncertainly at Pascoe and Davenant, then turned and went down. Davenant made to follow her.
‘I didn't realize you had friends in the neighbourhood,' said Pascoe, sitting on the bed.
'Why should you? I didn't realize you had either. What I mean is, I didn't understand your odd behaviour in the pub till I found out later who you were.'
'Oh. Have you known the Culpeppers long?' asked Pascoe.
'Not long. In fact, hardly at all. Dear Marianne was putting it on a bit, for the old dragon's sake, I fancy, when she called me an old friend! No. In fact…' he hesitated and peered assessingly at Pascoe.
'In fact,' he went on, 'If I'm an old friend of anyone, it's of your old friends.'
'I'm sorry?' said Pascoe. Then, amazed, 'You mean of Colin and Rose's?'
'Yes. Well, more of Timmy and Carlo's really,' answered Davenant. 'Though I knew Rose and Colin well also.'
Pascoe stood up and closed the bedroom door.
'You'd better tell me exactly what you're doing here, Mr Davenant,' he said. Despite all his efforts he could not keep a threat out of his voice.
Davenant's story was simple. In Oxford, collecting material for an article on English provincial cooking, he had heard the news of the murders at mid-morning. As soon as he recognized the names, he had set out for Thornton Lacey.
'I was all of a tremble, I promise you. I could hardly point the car straight. But I had to come, you understand. By the time I got here, I'd settled down a trifle. It struck me that I would be foolish to appear as a friend of those murdered.'
'What made you think that?' demanded Pascoe.
'You're involved in the grief then. People don't talk to you as they would otherwise. You must have found that too.'
'I suppose so,' admitted Pascoe grudgingly.
'I wanted to be able to ask questions. Poke my nose in. Be a journalist. Just as you must be dying to be a policeman. I wanted to find out everything I could about this awful business. So I invented that silly story about my editor putting me on the job.'
'You did it very well,' murmured Pascoe.
'Thank you kindly. I decided I'd like to talk with you when I found out who you were. They told me you were staying up here. As soon as they mentioned the name Culpepper, I thought, Good Lord! Hartley! I've met him several times in town at mutual acquaintances', and I knew he lived in the country out here somewhere, but I'd quite forgotten it was Thornton Lacey. In other circumstances, a delicious coincidence.'
'Delicious. So they shut you away downstairs?'
'Until the other guests had gone, yes. It seemed easier. These villages are full of eagle eyes and tattle-tales.'
'And long-eared owls.'
'What? Oh yes. I wonder where the chappie's gone.'
He turned to the window once more and stared out into the star-filled night.
'Autumn,’ he said. 'Always a sad time. I'm sorry now that I came and disturbed you. Perhaps I should go.'
'Where are you staying?'
'With your late pugilistic opponent,’ said Davenant, turning and smiling. 'At the Eagle. If I start walking now, I'll be in time for a nightcap in the bar.'
'You walked here? Let me drive you back,' offered Pascoe.
'How kind you are. But no. I really like to walk. And perhaps Asio otus will appear for me again.'
'Then I'll walk with you,' said Pascoe. 'The air will help me to sleep. And I too would like a sight of your owl.'
To his surprise Pascoe found that he really was enjoying the walk after the first few minutes. There were things about his companion which he did not yet understand and a large part of his purpose in accompanying him had been to probe deeper. But the night was not made for chatter, idle or serious, and even the sound of their footsteps in the gravel of Culpepper's drive seemed an intrusion. It ran before them, white as an Alaskan river, and when they finally stepped off it on to the darker surface of the lane which led down to the road, they both hesitated as though uncertain of their footing. The night sounds gradually took control: a breeze in the trees; something rustling through the grass; a distant chatter, suddenly ending, then a long, wavering note which caught at the nerve-ends.
'There!' said Davenant. 'That's him.'
'Your owl?'
'Probably. Or it may just be a tawny owl. They're more common. Listen.'
The note came again. Pascoe felt as if the Indians might be about to attack.
'I think it is a tawny,' said Davenant. 'Sweet things in their way, but not the same.'
They set off walking again.
'Tell me,' said Pascoe when they reached the road, 'what did Palfrey have to say about Colin before I interrupted him? Or after.'
They had turned right towards the village. Left would have taken them towards Brookside Cottage.
'Now you're interested!' said Davenant. 'Well now, he was far from complimentary, you understand. I had met Colin through Timmy and Carlo and was not so deeply involved with him as you. Also, of course, I had set out to make him talk. So I didn't react like you.'
'No need to apologize,' said Pascoe. 'I was stupid.'
'Perhaps. Our emotions deserve an outing from time to time. Things had started going wrong fairly early in his acquaintance with the Hopkinses. According to his highly coloured version, very attractive, alas, to some of my fellows of the Press, Colin was an unbalanced, exhibitionistic Marxist.
Marxist, by the way, is something pretty ultimate in the Palfrey insult book. He would rather put his handsome teenage son into the tender care of someone like myself than entrust him to a Marxist.'
'Specifically, what did he tell you?' inquired Pascoe.
'Little enough, though I've gleaned a much more detailed version of the story from other sources. It seems that he tried the public-school- and-Sandhurst condescension bit first of all with the parvenus. When this didn't wash and he saw that Rose and Colin were accepted by those he, Palfrey, liked to be accepted by, he tried the all-chums-in-the-jolly-old-mess line. They didn't take all that kindly to that either, but being nice they tolerated it until one night he turned out a couple of rather noisy kids who'd strayed in by accident. He made the mistake of appealing to Rose for moral support. She stood up, declared that she'd always thought the beer was off but now she knew the full reason why he was called Jim Piss, and marched out. Palfrey said something about an ill-bred bitch; Colin – on his way after Rose – stopped long enough to pour the remnants of his drink over Palfrey's head. They never came back. After such a splendid exit, who could?'
'But that wasn't an end to it,' surmised Pascoe.
'By no means. Absence made the heart grow harder. Palfrey pursued them with calumny and slander and tried to spread rumours about their immorality, political extremism and, worst of all to the middle-class ear, economic unsoundness. Colin and Rose had plenty of friends, but there are always ears willing to listen in a place like this.'
'And…?' inquired Pascoe after they had walked another fifty yards in silence.
'And nothing. There's an end. Though I am told that Colin was seen coming out of the Eagle just before opening time on Friday morning and that Palfrey was rather quieter than usual with his lunch-time regulars.'
And Colin wrote a letter to Palfrey that afternoon. What the hell could have been in it? Backhouse would know. But would he know the background? Of course he would! Just as he, Pascoe, would have done if he'd managed to read all Crowther's notes!
They reached the village without saying much more. Outside the Eagle and Child they paused.
'Drink?' said Davenant.
'I don't think so,' said Pascoe. 'Not in there anyway.'
'No, of course not. Let's try the other place then.'
They made it just in time for 'last orders'. The place was crowded and Molly Dixon was under heavy pressure. Her quality as an inn-keeper was clearly demonstrated by the way she was coping, and she acknowledged Pascoe's arrival with a welcoming smile and a quick but genuinely concerned, 'OK?'
'Fine,' he answered.
'Mr Dixon not here?' he asked when she'd drawn his drinks.
'No,' she replied. 'It's the annual dinner of his bowls club. A stag do, very conveniently! Last orders, gentlemen, please! Come along now. Quickly as you can. Is there anyone without?'
She made it sound as if she were genuinely distressed at having to stop the flow. An admirable quality, thought Pascoe. Particularly when managing alone.
Looking round, he became aware that several eyes were focused in his direction. Reporters rather than locals, he surmised quickly. They had an air of alertness at variance with the closing-time conviviality of the rest.
He sipped his beer pensively and looked at his companion, wondering whether he'd act as a buffer against his colleagues. More likely his company would egg them on for fear they were missing something.
'How long have you been in journalism?' he asked.
'Centuries, sweetie,' answered Davenant. 'Don't let my aristocratic profile deceive you. I come of a poor when honest family who thrust me out to earn a living at the earliest opportunity. But tell me, how does it feel for a policeman suddenly to have a murder investigation come so close to him? A bit like Torquemada getting accidentally trapped in the Iron Maiden, I dare say.'
'You ought to know.'
'Feeling and knowing are not the same.'
Pascoe was saved from further cryptic conversation by the distant clanging of a fire-engine bell. Conversation died as it rapidly came near, so rapidly that by the time those sufficiently curious had got to the door, the tintinnabulation had soared to its climax and the fast-receding tail-lights were all there was to be seen.
'A sad time for a fire,' said Davenant.
'Sorry?'
'Autumn. Haystacks high and granaries full. I wonder if the nice lady behind the bar is open to suggestion. For more drink, I mean.'
'She's called last orders.'
'Which is what I mean to make.'
Davenant emptied his glass and made for the bar. The moment he moved, a tall, greying man presented himself before Pascoe.
'Mr Pascoe? I'm from the Echo. Could I have a quick word?'
'No,' said Pascoe.
'Just very quickly. Please.'
Others were drifting in his direction, Pascoe noted with irritation.
'Shove off,' he said.
'Oh, come on, Sergeant!'
His rank was used like a threat. Pascoe quietly put down his glass on a nearby table. He felt in perfect control but did not discount the possibility of pushing in this man's leering, insinuating face.
But he didn't want to be holding a fistful of glass when he did it. Not that he was going to do it. Of course not.
'This must have been a terrible shock to you, Sergeant,' said the reporter.
Pascoe changed his mind, made a fist, changed his mind again and thrust it deep into his pocket.
'Go away,' he said.
The door of the bar was pushed open. An excited-looking rustic entered and spoke to some near acquaintance. Other people looked up, listened. The words danced through the assembled drinkers like dryads in a moonlit forest. Tantalizing. Hard to grasp.
'Brookside… Fire… Cottage… Fire… Brookside Cottage is on fire!'
The reporter went away.
By the time Pascoe reached Brookside, the fire was out. There seemed to have been some kind of explosion in the kitchen and the blast, though causing a great deal of damage, had probably almost extinguished the flame that caused it.
A uniformed constable, left on duty to watch the property overnight, had decided it was foolish to patrol outside all the time and had entered the living-room just as the explosion occurred. He was badly cut about the face, but had managed to phone for assistance.
Backhouse was on the scene but seemed disinclined to allow Pascoe any special privileges. Pascoe felt he could not really blame him, and hung around the fringe of the little knot of newspaper-men whom Backhouse addressed in a friendly, conciliatory manner. Certainly he was a different breed from Dalziel!
'It seems there was an escape of gas in the kitchen probably ignited by a pilot-light in the cooker. The kitchen itself has been extensively damaged, but only superficial damage has been done to the other rooms.'
'An accident you would say, Superintendent?'
'What else?' asked Backhouse blandly.
What indeed? wondered Pascoe. He did not trust coincidences.
The firemen began to pack up their gear. A Gas Board van arrived and a couple of men went into the cottage to deal with the fractured pipes.
The
group of onlookers broke up and began to drift away. Pascoe watched them go. When most of them had got into their cars, he noticed a vaguely familiar figure step out of the shadows on the other side of the road and make his way briskly along the road away from the village. Pascoe had to puzzle at his memory to work out who it was.
Sam Dixon, he realized suddenly. He must be on his way back from the bowls club dinner.
It wasn't till he was making his way up the lane towards Culpepper's house that another thought struck him. Dixon had been out of the pub the previous night too.
But it did not seem a very important thought, not as important at this moment as his concern about who was following him through the trees which stretched out on either side of the lane.
'Nerves,’ suggested Ellie. 'Or that thing that Davenant claimed to have seen, Anus mirabilis.'
'Asio otus. No, this was no owl. More like a Hammer Films sound effect. Cracking twigs and rustling undergrowth. I was glad to get back.'
The party had broken up when he returned. Culpepper let him in, explained that the guests had gone and offered him a nightcap.
'Marianne has gone to bed,' he added. 'I hope you will forgive her, but we had no idea how long you would be in returning and she's had a tiring day.'
'I hope I haven't kept you up,' apologized Pascoe.
'Not at all. I need very little sleep. It will be three or four hours before I go up. Sometimes I don't bother at all, just take a cat-nap in my chair.'
He did not press when Pascoe turned down a second drink, and they said good night. Pascoe heard the grille-door of the porcelain room opening as he went up the stairs.
He thought of looking into Ellie's room, decided not to risk disturbing her, and found her sitting by the window in his own room when he put the light on.
'Christ,' he said. 'This is doing my nerves no good.'
'What's new?' she said.
Briefly he filled her in on events since he had left the house.
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