Pictures of Perfection

by Reginald Hill

  Digweed removed the book from his fingers. He was no longer smiling.

  He said, ‘If indeed you do have a copy of this edition, perhaps we could do business, Sergeant.’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Wield. ‘Sentimental value. They were my auntie’s. And besides, I like to read them.’

  ‘They? Them?’

  Pascoe, who had been enjoying this, said, ‘Oh, yes. Sergeant Wield’s got what must be a full set of Haggards, isn’t that right, Wieldy?’

  ‘Of first editions?’ said Digweed faintly.

  ‘I don’t rightly know,’ said Wield. ‘I’ve never bothered to look.’

  ‘And dust jackets?’

  ‘Oh aye. They’ve all got wrappers, stops ’em getting mucky. That’s what they’re for, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Digweed replaced the book. ‘All finished here? Good.’ He smiled at Wield as he relocked the cabinet and said, ‘Forgive me if I seemed brusque before, Sergeant. You were quite right. You cannot tell a book by its cover. And you, Mr Pascoe, are you also a collector? An incunabulist, perhaps?’

  Wield could see that Pascoe knew what this meant.

  ‘Far from it,’ he said, smiling. ‘About four hundred years in fact. If I collect anything, it is, for my sins, detective novels. Like Sergeant Wield, I inherited a few first editions. From my grandmother. Her tastes, alas, ran to crime rather than Rider Haggard. She had a good collection of pre-war Christie. I suspect she probably had the lot at some stage, but she bought to read, not to collect, and I get a mild pleasure out of filling the gaps, usually without jackets, I hasten to add.’

  ‘Yes, they can be very expensive,’ said Digweed, regarding Pascoe sourly. Perhaps he didn’t approve of collecting crime!

  ‘Back to business,’ said Pascoe briskly. ‘You live on the premises?’

  ‘I have a flat upstairs.’

  ‘And did you come in here when you got up this morning?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I don’t open till ten, and as I unlocked the door Sergeant Filmer came hotfoot from the Café where Miss Creed had assured him I would be able to give a first-class description of the horrendous Hells Angel who had kidnapped PC Bendish.’

  He flashed a shared-joke smile at Wield. Funny what a few old first editions will do, thought the Sergeant.

  ‘Since that time, as you will know, I have not had a minute which I could call my own.’

  ‘In other words, we don’t know if the break-in took place last night or this morning,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘No. I suppose we don’t. Does it matter?’

  ‘If it was this morning with the place empty, he might have gone upstairs to see if there was any cash or valuables lying around,’ said Pascoe. ‘Did you check up there, sir?’

  ‘No. I just spotted that some books had gone, and following the popular trend, went straight out in search of a policeman.’

  ‘Shall we look now?’ suggested Pascoe.

  They followed Digweed upstairs.

  It was not the easiest of journeys as the narrow treads were rendered even narrower by piles of books which reared into tall stacks when they reached the landing and spread to fill all but the narrowest channels of floor space in the first room they entered.

  A desk was just visible under a Manhattan skyline of Waverley Novels. Digweed pulled open its drawers and said, ‘All in order as far as I can see.’

  The next door on the landing stood ajar to reveal a bedroom. The single bed was unmade. Above the bed hung a handsome charcoal sketch of a tree-sheltered river pond with the initials R.D. in one corner. The floor space was crowded with books also.

  ‘Do your customers come up here to browse?’ asked Wield, unable to keep the wonderment from his voice.

  ‘Of course not,’ snapped Digweed. ‘In fact, browsers form a relatively small part of my custom. The specialized and commercially viable end of my business is done through the mail.’

  Then, as if recalling his be-nice-to-the-Sergeant policy, he added ruefully, ‘But I see your point. Fond as I am of books, I have no desire to end up crushed to death in my own bed by the sheer weight of literature. I am seriously considering a shift to new premises.’

  ‘For the books?’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Oh no. The books have their home here. For me. In fact, if the rumour I hear that your policy on rural policing is changing and Corpse Cottage might soon be on the market, that could suit me very well.’

  He paused, considered, then added, ‘Oh dear. That must sound rather crass in the circumstances, concerned as you are about your missing colleague.’

  ‘Possibly missing colleague,’ said Pascoe.

  ‘Whatever. I apologize. Back to our crime. No, I can see no evidence that our burglar has been up here.’

  Pascoe wondered what, in the midst of such chaos, such evidence might look like. But as he looked down at the book-lined stairs his mind was filled not with the regret of a detective that in all this confusion he might be missing a clue, but of a book junkie that he might be missing a bargain.

  The shop doorbell rang and a voice called, ‘Anyone there?’

  Next moment Sergeant Filmer appeared at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Thought you’d got lost,’ said Pascoe accusingly.

  ‘Sorry, sir. But the ambulance took an age. Saw your note at the cottage. You said you’d found something there …’

  Pascoe gave a God-help-us glance at Wield, then said, ‘You finish off here, Sergeant,’ and clattered down the stairs.

  Digweed said, ‘Curious how whenever one of you seems about to say something interesting, my presence becomes de trop.’

  ‘We’ll be just as discreet about your little bit of bother, sir,’ said Wield.

  ‘My what?’ said Digweed with indignation. And something else?

  ‘The break-in, sir. Better check in here while we’re at it.’

  Without waiting for a reply, he pushed open the one remaining door and peered in with surprise. It still wasn’t tidy, but compared with what lay behind it was like walking into a police box and finding yourself in a spaceship. He saw a couple of computers, a printer, a copier, a binder and various other bits of equipment. There were piles of books here too, but not the dusty derelicts crowding the landing and stairs. These were sparkling new; indeed some of them were still only half born.

  ‘He didn’t get in here, Sergeant,’ said Digweed irritatedly. ‘I can see everything’s in order.’

  ‘Just as well. Worth a bob or two, this stuff,’ said Wield. ‘You do your own publishing as well, do you?’

  ‘In a modest way. Now can we …’

  ‘This is nice,’ said Wield, picking up a slim volume entitled On the Banks of the Een – A Naturalist’s Year. The author was Ralph Digweed.

  ‘A relative, sir?’

  ‘How perceptive,’ said Digweed. ‘It was published privately in 1914. I thought it worth offering to a wider readership.’

  Wield’s mind went back to the War Memorial. There had been an R. Digweed on it, died in 1918, aged fifty-eight. Presumably it was not only the young who lied about their age. He opened the book.

  March 21st, 1913. Last night we celebrated the birth of the Squire’s heir. The wags recalled that four years ago when we celebrated Miss Frances’s arrival, the ale ran out before midnight. Strange how the Guillemards at birth value so cheap what at marriage they will declare so far beyond common purchase! But the birth of a son naturally turned the flagons of Old Hall into Widows’ Cruses and the revels went on into the early hours with promise that they would be renewed in a couple of days at the Reckoning. Not for this, however, was I going to neglect my custom these many years of welcoming the first day of spring by Scarletts Pool, so I sat in the parlour, chuckling over little Edwin’s present of The Card till dawn pinked the sky when I made my way down to the river.

  Wield looked up to find Digweed watching him closely.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Got carried away. Real interesting. This Edwin …’

  ‘No,’ said
the bookseller. ‘Despite my foxed and faded cover, I am not little Edwin.’

  ‘Didn’t think you were,’ said Wield. ‘Your father, right? And Ralph was your grandfather? I were looking at the War Memorial earlier …’

  ‘Yes. The war. Ironically, on the first day of spring five years later he was still waiting for dawn on the misty bank of a river. It was the Oise. But the only light he saw in the east was the flame of the German guns as Ludendorff’s army began their last big push which almost won them the war. An hour later he was dead. That copy of The Card he mentions was in his effects which were returned home. Later I inherited it in turn. It was my first valuable first edition. In a sense it set me off on the path which brought me here, so perhaps the Great War wasn’t a total waste after all.’

  He spoke in his usual dry, faintly mocking tone, but Wield had no difficulty in detecting the current of pain and anger beneath, nor in sympathizing with it as he thought of that other Digweed letting his mind wander to the peace of Enscombe and the clear waters of the Een as he stood in a cold, dank trench, waiting for his death.

  But sympathy was a dangerous dish to offer the bookseller. His eye caught a pile of unbound title pages bearing a striking design of a woman stepping through an archway entwined with flowers and the words The Journal of Frances Guillemard Harding: A Selection.

  His mind made connections.

  ‘This Frances he talks about …’ he said, holding up the Naturalist’s Year.

  ‘The same. Our Squire Selwyn’s big sister.’

  ‘And what relation is she of that little lass up at the Hall?’

  ‘Ah, you’ve met young Fran? Her grandmother, who married the local vicar back in the ’thirties.’

  ‘That’s why she’s coming out of Green Alley into the churchyard, is it?’

  Digweed’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘You recognize the arch? Well spotted. They may make a detective of you yet.’

  ‘It doesn’t have any flowers round it, but,’ said Wield.

  ‘The flowers are dear Caddy’s version of the pathetic fallacy, and a peculiarly apt conceit, I would say. By her own account the day Frances swapped the Hall for the vicarage was the day she started to bloom. Not that her family saw it like that, of course. Thus time brings in his revenges.’

  Wield said, ‘You say Caddy, the Scudamore lass, did this?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But the illustrations in your granddad’s book are his own.’

  ‘Indeed. He was a competent amateur – a talent which, regrettably, has not descended to me. Caddy is something very different. She has a truly formidable talent and is always eager to try her hand at something new. She’s produced some fascinating sketches to go in Lillingstone’s Parish History when it’s completed.’

  Digweed was sorting through a pile of drawings as he spoke, then it seemed to occur to him that such enthusiasm was not something he wanted to share with a mere policeman and he suddenly thrust them out of sight, saying, ‘But how boring you must find all this, Sergeant. You must be dying to rejoin your colleagues and catch up on all their new clues.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Can’t wait, sir.’

  Digweed gave him a sharp glance, then smiled and said, ‘It’s no use reverting to your PC Plod mode, Mr Wield. I am no longer deceived. I can see your Mr Pascoe thinks highly of you and he does not strike me as a man to suffer fools gladly.’

  ‘Because he can spot a quote?’ ventured Wield.

  ‘Quotation I assume you mean? Yes, that was … revealing. Incidentally, does he have a wife, I seem to recall the name from somewhere. A Ms rather than a Mrs Eleanor Pascoe, was it?’

  ‘Ellie. If you’d met her, you’d not forget her,’ said Wield with the fervour of an acolyte.

  ‘Then I haven’t met her, unless it was on my catalogue mailing list. Perhaps I can add your name, Sergeant?’

  ‘My shelves are pretty full,’ said Wield. ‘But I’d like to buy one of these if I may.’

  He held up the Naturalist’s Year.

  ‘Really?’ Digweed almost looked pleased. ‘I’ll be putting the dust jackets on them later. I dare say you’ll be around for some little time?’

  ‘I dare say. Don’t I get it for less without the jacket?’ said Wield.

  ‘What? Ah, a joke! No, that’s only old books, Sergeant. Don’t worry. If there’s a rush, I’ll save one for you.’

  He ushered Wield out of the room, locking the door behind him. Downstairs they found Pascoe and Filmer. Neither looked pleased.

  ‘So how’s our dear postman?’ asked Digweed.

  ‘No worse than a broken nose and a cracked rib,’ said Filmer.

  ‘Good. And are the Post Office sending a relief van?’

  ‘Pointless, seeing as the shop’s shut this afternoon. But it’ll all go first lift tomorrow, so it won’t make much difference.’

  ‘Indeed not. What’s a few hours when the normal service can take days? Now, about my burglar, Mr Pascoe …’

  ‘Sergeant Filmer will take care of it. This is his patch,’ said Pascoe rather acidly. ‘Looks to me like whoever it was got scared, grabbed what he could, and ran.’

  ‘That’s it? Oh good. Another case solved. Well, I’ll go and repair the window so that no one will even notice there’s been a crime, and that way we’ll all be happy, won’t we?’

  He went into the rear room, banging the door.

  ‘Is he always like that?’ wondered Pascoe.

  ‘Bark’s worse than his bite,’ said Filmer defensively. ‘He’s well liked by the locals. It’s just a question of knowing what’s what.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Pascoe. ‘Perhaps from time to time you might care to share these arcana with me. For now, you’d better hurry in there to make sure you’ve completed your observations before Mr Digweed starts his repairs. And once you’ve finished here, you might care to head back to Church Cottage to make sure there’s nothing else you’ve missed.’

  He made for the door.

  And Wield, pausing only to murmur, ‘He’s well liked by the locals,’ followed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘I suppose you see the corpse? How does it appear?’

  Outside, he found Pascoe breathing deep of Enscombe’s fresh spring air and the fragrant baking smells from the Wayside Café.

  Hope and his digestive juices rose, making his stomach rumble.

  ‘Bit hard on old Terry, weren’t you?’ he said conversationally.

  ‘All he had to do was say, whoops, sorry, I didn’t think of looking for uniforms in the bottom of the wardrobe. Instead he went stroppy on me.’

  Wield smiled. He knew a lot of people who’d found out the hard way that Pascoe’s mild manner was not an invitation to take liberties. You didn’t survive long in Andy Dalziel’s chocolate box if you had a soft centre.

  He said, ‘Thirsty work, being in a bad temper, but.’

  Instead of taking the hint, Pascoe was staring across the street.

  ‘Are my flies open, Wieldy?’ he asked. ‘There’s a young woman across there can’t take her eyes off me.’

  Wield turned. Standing at the window of the Eendale Gallery was Caddy Scudamore. Seeing that she had his attention, she raised her hand and waved. Or was she beckoning? He looked away.

  ‘Dammit, it’s you she’s after, Wieldy,’ said Pascoe with mock regret. ‘Friend of yours?’

  ‘That’s Caddy Scudamore,’ said Wield. ‘She’s a painter. Any chance of a cup of tea and a bite to eat? I’m clemmed.’

  ‘Later, I promise,’ said Pascoe. ‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you it was rude to keep a lady waiting?’

  And with many a longing backward glance, Wield let himself be led across the street and into the Gallery where Caddy Scudamore was waiting with undisguised impatience.

  Close up, Pascoe’s first thought was: What a marvel it is that a small place like Enscombe should be so full of extremely attractive women. And his second was: What a shame it is that none of them seems the least bit int
erested in me!

  Caddy Scudamore had seized Wield’s sleeve and was pulling him through an inner doorway leading to a flight of stairs.

  ‘Can you spare just a moment, please,’ she said. ‘It’s the colouring and shadows. They just don’t come out right on film. Honestly, it won’t take a minute.’

  Pascoe was interested to observe that being gay didn’t seem to make it any easier to resist being dragged upstairs by a gorgeous girl.

  He followed uninvited and stopped in the studio doorway to cope with a triple surprise.

  First there was the studio’s size, much bigger than he’d expected and full of light. Second there was the chaos. The floor was littered with discarded sketches, half-finished paintings, jars full of brushes, hi-tech equipment, rainbow-coloured palettes, newspapers, books, mugs, plates … he’d seen rooms left tidier by a bunch of vandalizing burglars!

  And third, dragging his attention from the surrounding chaos, was the huge Crucifixion scene.

  Caddy had guided Wield across the floor with surefooted ease and stood him by an easel. With one hand she explored his features while the other transferred lines and shapes on to a sheet of paper. Wield showed no emotion but the sight of those paint-stained fingers pushing themselves against his tight-closed lips gave Pascoe a voyeuristic charge.

  He dragged his eyes away, tiptoed across the room and examined the Crucifixion more closely.

  The Enscombe background teemed with three-dimensional life. Not only was every inch of canvas crowded but much had been painted over, not so much to obliterate it as to relegate it to a kind of misty other world where it still continued to exert its existence, even its simultaneity. Beneath trees heavy with both blossom and fruit lay an Adam and Eve couple, their faces pressed too close for identification. But Digweed was recognizable, slinking furtively down the High Street clutching what looked like a pile of drawings rather than books. Outside the Hall a column of smoke veiled but did not conceal Girlie Guillemard. The inn sign outside the Morris had a tiny but identifiable sketch of Justin Halavant clutching his crotch, and everywhere there were bushes and shadows which concealed or even grew into the slim but menacing figure of Jason Toke.