Pictures of Perfection

by Reginald Hill

  ‘Only one thing he likes better,’ said Wapshare.

  ‘Art, you mean?’ said Pascoe with deliberate naïvety.

  ‘Aye, that comes into it,’ chuckled Wapshare. ‘Here, I’ll tell you a story as’ll make you laugh. It certainly brought the tears into Justin’s eyes! There’s this lass in the village, paints pictures, a real dish she is, outstanding, and Justin hello there, usual, is it?’

  The transition was so smooth, Pascoe thought his hearing must be at fault.

  Then a voice said, ‘I know most policemen are Freemasons, but surely there are subtler ways of indicating the fact, Chief Inspector.’

  And he realized simultaneously that Justin Halavant had come into the bar, and he had become so interested in Wapshare’s reminiscences that he’d forgotten to put his trousers on.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘The walk was very beautiful as my companion agreed whenever I made the observation.’

  Digweed had set off at such a cracking pace that he was already passing the gate to Scarletts when Wield caught up with him.

  ‘Nice house,’ he said, determined to show he wasn’t out of breath.

  ‘You think so?’ said Digweed. ‘It is the home of our local celebrity, Justin Halavant. He edits the Post’s Arts Page. You may have noticed his name as you flicked from the Sports to the Comic Section.’

  There was no answering that, at least not if he wanted to remain a policeman.

  They walked on in silence. Digweed was showing no sign of fatigue, so presumably this cracking pace derived from genuine fitness rather than just a desire to shake off an unwelcome companion. Not that there’d been much chance of that. Wield prided himself on his own fitness and he found it invigorating to be stretching his legs in such surroundings. The wind was gusting harder, sending sun and shadow racing across the fields as the clouds scattered and joined. In a fillet of blue so formed, Wield glimpsed a pair of large birds, circling and soaring on broad rounded wings.

  ‘Look,’ he said pointing. ‘What are they?’

  Digweed glanced up and said, ‘Buzzards.’

  ‘Buzzards?’ echoed Wield, alert.

  The bookseller gave one of his superior smiles and said, ‘Let me guess. You have read a considerable number of pulp Westerns, and you were recalling that usually when Clint or Curly or Sundance sees buzzards circling, it means there’s a body underneath. Right?’

  ‘No,’ said Wield, unmoved. ‘I were just thinking how grand they looked. But out of interest, sir, if a man were lying up there dead or injured, would that attract buzzards?’

  ‘Could do. They are carrion feeders. But that pair are rather too high to be actively engaged on anything but enjoying the weather.’

  ‘You reckon they do enjoy themselves, then?’

  ‘It would be arrogant to believe they merely give delight, Sergeant. Though I suspect that, like some human specimens, for instance bankers and estate agents and, dare I say it, certain kinds of policemen, they are unlikely to take delight in any other creature except in so far as it can be viewed as prey.’

  He smiled. Even though there was a lot of sneer in it, the smile came as close to a pleasant expression as Wield had seen on his face, and the Sergeant, who had taken far worse crap than this, smiled back.

  It was a mistake, probably coming across to the unaccustomed eye as a threatening grimace. Digweed’s own smile vanished and he said irritably, ‘In any case you’d be ill advised to use buzzards as markers in your search for Bendish. Look.’

  At the top of one of their soaring circles the birds tipped their wings against the wind and slid down a shaft of sunlight in a stoop which probably covered a couple of ground miles in an instant.

  The road was beginning to climb now as they approached the outskirts of the village. They passed a broad area of open meadow which bore a sign that by royal charter of Edward the Second this land was designated a Green to be held in common by the village of Enscombe. Adjacent to it was the village school, a sturdy granite building set a little above the road. A wooden post by the gate bore a placard which read Save Our School Appeal Fund, with a picture of a thermometer showing that £650 had so far been collected.

  ‘What are they saving it from?’ asked Wield.

  ‘The Powers of Darkness,’ said Digweed. ‘Otherwise known as Her Majesty’s Government. It has probably escaped your notice, concerned as you are with locking our young people up rather than educating them, but schools are now regarded as small businesses. They have a budget. Stray outside it, and the receivers move in.’

  ‘I’d heard parents were having to pay for books and trips and things,’ said Wield.

  ‘Small beer,’ said Digweed. ‘Our situation is so dire that we may lose a teacher. In which case the Powers of Darkness’s local representatives will do what they have been wanting to do these many years and close us down and bus all the children to Byreford. If you’ll excuse me, I must have a word with Mrs Pottinger.’

  A sturdy grey-haired woman had come out of the building and was organizing a group of children into a crocodile. Wield followed Digweed across the playground and studied an inscription carved in the granite lintel as the bookseller addressed the woman.

  It read: ENSCOMBE PRIMARY SCHOOL. Preserved and renewed by the efforts of the Reverend Stanley Harding and many of his parishioners September 1932. THANKS BE TO GOD.

  Digweed and the woman were talking about a meeting to be held that evening in connection with the School Appeal. Digweed, he gathered, was on the Parish Council.

  ‘And there’s no other way?’ said Mrs Pottinger.

  ‘We’ve always known the Green is our only asset. But of course nothing can be done without the accord of the whole village.’

  ‘And would it be enough?’

  ‘With planning permission, perhaps. We’ve taken unofficial soundings,’ said Digweed.

  ‘God help us, that it should have ever come to this,’ said Mrs Pottinger, unhappily staring out across the Green.

  The children were growing restless. A couple of little girls were giggling furiously at Wield. He recognized one of them as the child who’d run into his bike the previous day and winked at her, redoubling her giggles.

  ‘Now don’t get silly,’ ordered the teacher, herself regarding Wield curiously.

  ‘This is Sergeant Wield of the detective Police,’ said Digweed ungraciously. ‘Mrs Pottinger, our headmistress.’

  ‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’ she asked.

  ‘Just routine,’ said Wield. ‘The little blonde girl, who is she?’

  ‘Madge Hogbin. She lives with her grandparents up at Old Hall Lodge. Do you know her?’

  ‘We bumped into each other once,’ said Wield vaguely. It would be interesting to have a chat with the child, but not here.

  ‘Well, we must be off,’ announced Mrs Pottinger. ‘We’re going down to the river to see if we can spot the kingfisher. Have you seen it, Mr Digweed? There have been several reports.’

  ‘Not yet. I dare say it will turn out to have been imported by Girlie Guillemard to guarantee the success of all these new ventures at the Hall.’

  ‘I wish there was something we could import to help us,’ said the woman. ‘All right, children. Move off now. And walk, don’t run! Goodbye, Sergeant, Mr Digweed. See you tonight.’

  ‘This Reverend Harding,’ said Wield as the crocodile moved off. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘The school was in such a state of disrepair sixty years ago that the ancestors of our current Powers of Darkness were threatening even then to close it down and move all the kids to Byreford. Harding rebuilt the place almost single-handed and sent them scurrying back to their caves from which they have emerged, blinking and scratching their crotches, after all these years. But you don’t want to stand here chattering about the mere future of a community when you’ve got the fate of one whole policeman to worry about, do you?’

  He strode off, Wield meekly following, till very shortly they reached the village proper, marked on one sid
e of the road by a village hall and the other by the Morris Men’s Rest.

  ‘Good pub?’ said Wield, seeing no opening for a putdown here.

  ‘Depends,’ said Digweed. ‘If your tastes run to Heavy Metal, flashing lights, and draught lager, then it’s lousy.’

  Wrong again, thought Wield.

  They continued up the High Street. Seen on foot, the village was much more extensive than from even a slow-moving motorbike, with frequent ginnels running off between the front cottages into yards where a second range of buildings lurked. At the corner of one of these ginnels stood the village Post Office and Store, with an ornate sign advertising the proprietor as Dudley Wylmot Esquire.

  Digweed turned into the shop, with Wield following. Behind the counter, a woman was sorting out some items of mail.

  ‘Shouldn’t bother with that, Daphne,’ said Digweed. ‘Our grand prix of a postman has run his van off the road.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the woman in a voice that was upper class without being refined. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘He’ll live to speed another day,’ smiled Digweed.

  He actually likes her! thought Wield. She was certainly a good-looking woman, art having perfected what nature had well begun, her hair elegantly coiffed and subtly shaded, her face made up with that expertise in which liberality never spills over into excess. Nearer forty than thirty, judged Wield, whose own absence of beauty made him a connoisseur of it in others. And she’ll probably look the same when she’s nearer sixty than fifty. That at least we have in common!

  ‘Something up, is there, dear? Hello, Edwin.’

  A man had risen from beneath the shop counter, clutching a tin of processed peas in either hand. He was not dressed for stacking shelves unless a brass-buttoned blazer and spotted cravat were the recommended garb. He had a prominent nose over a pencil moustache and from the few words he had spoken Wield guessed that when he said off it would come out like awf.

  ‘Oh hello, Wylmot,’ said Digweed unenthusiastically. ‘I was just saying that Postman Pat has had a smash.’

  Doesn’t like him, but, thought Wield.

  ‘Really?’ said Wylmot. ‘He’s all right, I hope?’

  ‘Oh yes. I think so. But they’ll need to send someone else for the mail.’

  ‘Not today, they won’t. Half-day, or had you forgotten?’ said Wylmot cheerfully. ‘We were just waiting for Paget before closing.’

  ‘But the mail …’ protested Digweed.

  ‘It’s all right. Nothing that can’t wait till the morning.’

  ‘You think not?’ said Digweed. ‘Does that mean you read all the mail posted here? If so, you must be a quick reader as I myself brought in several packets this morning containing expensive and in most cases closely printed books. I might add that I paid first-class postage in expectation of a first-class service.’

  ‘You’re always saying how these book-collecting chappies spend years chasing up a single volume,’ said Wylmot. ‘Another day won’t make much difference. I say, something that could be important. Kee Scudamore was in earlier and she was saying that Girlie’s starting up a shop at the Hall – postcards, stamps, souvenirs, that sort of thing. Have you heard about this?’

  ‘Something,’ said Digweed.

  ‘Well, I think it’s a bit off.’ (Wield smiled invisibly. A definite awf.) ‘Don’t want to tread on any toes, but give and take’s the essence of village life, and it seems to me that the Guillemards are doing a bit too much taking.’

  ‘Then you’d better get yourself up there and make your point clear,’ said Digweed. ‘Daphne, my dear, nice to see you. Goodbye.’

  He looked at Wield as if expecting the door to be held open for him.

  Wield said, ‘Excuse me, Mr Wylmot, I’m a colleague of Constable Bendish. You’ve not seen him around, have you?’

  ‘Can’t recall last time I saw him. Never around when we were getting burgled, that’s for sure!’

  Mrs Wylmot said, ‘He called in to settle his paper bill yesterday lunch-time.’

  ‘Didn’t say anything about his plans for his day off, did he?’

  ‘No. He bought a box of chocolate gingers, I recall, and seemed in a very good mood.’

  ‘He’d probably just booked old Jocky Hogbin for jay-walking with his Zimmer frame,’ said Digweed.

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ said Wylmot. ‘Little Madge used to pick up her granddad’s black twist till Bendish threatened me with a summons for selling tobacco to a juvenile. What did he imagine she was going to do with it?’

  ‘Chew it, probably,’ snorted Digweed.

  On this rare note of unity they parted.

  Outside, Wield said, ‘Mr Wylmot is like yourself, I take it, sir?’

  ‘Then you can just take it back,’ said Digweed indignantly.

  ‘I only meant he’s an off-comer, settled here by way of business.’

  Digweed said acidly, ‘Sergeant, my native woodnotes wild may have lost some of their sylvan resonance, but without wanting to make a chauvinist issue out of it, let me assure you I am born of good Yorkshire stock and that my family tree has its roots deep in this parish. I deeply resent being categorized with Mr Dudley Wylmot who is one of those pathetic souls who, having dreamt all his urban life of the joys of rustic retirement, has been foolish enough to pour his severance pay into realizing that dream.’

  ‘His wife seems a nice lady, but,’ prompted Wield.

  ‘But, indeed. How such a creature came to marry Wylmot is a question at least as puzzling as what song the Sirens sang or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women.’

  ‘Wouldn’t know anything about that,’ said Wield. ‘Is that where I’ll find the lady who saw the hat? The Eendale Gallery?’

  They had reached the Tell-Tale Bookshop.

  ‘Yes,’ said Digweed. ‘It is by the way Kee you want, the elder sister, the blonde.’

  ‘There’s another, is there?’

  ‘Yes. Caddy. She is – how shall I put it? – artistic. In your pursuit of hard factual clarity, you would be well advised to avoid converse with Caddy.’

  His tone was almost devoid of irony. I wonder why, thought Wield.

  He let his gaze drift from Digweed’s face to the sign above the Wayside Café.

  ‘Creed,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘Is that a request? A command? Or the beginnings of a conversion?’ asked Digweed.

  ‘It says up there the lady who runs the café is Dora Creed. Any relation of that farmer back there?’

  ‘Brother and sister.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Ah what?’

  ‘I’d been wondering how a man up to his eyes in lambs could have heard so quick about Constable Bendish.’

  ‘And you conclude this is explained by his having a sister working in the centre of the village? How beautifully logical, Sergeant. And how elegantly illustrative of the deficiencies of the detective process.’

  ‘Oh? Why’s that?’

  ‘Because Dora Creed stopped speaking to George yesterday lunch-time.’

  ‘I see,’ said Wield, who didn’t. ‘And why was that?’

  ‘Because of George’s sin, Sergeant,’ said Digweed gravely. ‘Dora is a most religious lady. I myself regard religion as mostly pie in the sky, but if the pie is Dora Creed’s apple, I may be a convert yet.’

  ‘And just what was this sin?’ persisted Wield.

  Digweed laughed his superior laugh and said, ‘That’s where you could really impress with your detective skills. You see, no one has yet been able to find out. Sniff it out, Sergeant, sniff it out!’

  I’d rather sniff out one of Dora’s pies, thought Wield, his nose twitching at the delicious smells wafting from the café.

  But duty called.

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ he said to Digweed. ‘Thank you for your help.’

  And hoping, though doubting, that his courtesy might give the bookseller a brief frisson of shame, he headed for the Eendale Gallery.

  CH
APTER SIX

  ‘Our Improvements have advanced very well.’

  In England, before the Great War destroyed the eternal verities, for a noble family to stop ‘improving’ their country seat was pretty clear evidence of financial difficulties.

  In the years since, however, it has been the arrival of the contractors which has signalled trouble, for no longer are ‘improvements’ made in the name of beauty, taste or even convenience, they are offerings on the altar of commerce.

  Such thoughts ran through Peter Pascoe’s mind as he negotiated the driveway up to Old Hall and came to a halt on a building site.

  It was not a particularly large building site but typical of the genus in that order was minimal and activity non-existent. The work seemed centred on a building separate from the main house and he guessed this was the stable block which was going to house the Holistic Health practitioners.

  Like many men who see the clouds of middle age on the horizon, Pascoe’s scientific scepticism about alternative medicine cloaked a superstitious hope that some astounding revelation would blow the clouds back before it was too late. So it was with the reverence of a man entering a church that he pushed open the stable door.

  The smell that met him was just about right for a man in search of a quasi-religious experience. Thuriferously spicy, malty and leafy, it seemed to emanate from a column of smoke. A burning bush perhaps. If so, it should speak.

  It spoke. A warbling bird-like note, once repeated. Then a female voice. God after all was a woman.

  ‘Yes, this is Girlie Guillemard. No, I do not see the point of checking again, but I shall do so. Wait.’

  Out of the smoke emerged a woman. Her tangle of ochrous hair was restrained by a fillet of baling twine. She wore a moulting brocaded waistcoat over a once elegant silk blouse tucked into a pair of overlarge jeans whose rolled-down waist underpinned her heavy breasts and whose rolled-up legs overhung a pair of wellingtons, one green and one black. Her face was round, her eyes were grey, her nose was snub, her mouth too large, allowing plenty of room for both the meerschaum which was the source of the smoke, and the mobile telephone into which she was speaking. She was incredibly attractive.