'So, a lot of people with grudges,' said Pascoe. 'You included?'
'Nay, takes more than that to cause a grudge round here. As for me, I were grateful to have an excuse to get to bed at a decent time. This pubbing takes up far too much fishing time as it is.'
'I notice you don't exactly advertise,' said Pascoe.
'Them as I want in here knows where it is,' said Wapshare. 'Plus a few discerning travellers like yourself, of course. But if it's the sign you mean, there's a story behind that.'
A policeman in full possession of his trousers might have avoided the temptation and pressed on with official inquiries. But Pascoe felt himself in the grip of stronger forces than mere duty. He finished his beer and said, 'A story, you say?'
'Aye. You'd like to hear it? Let me get you the other half. And what about summat to eat? Only take a tick to fry up some chips and a slice or two of my black pudding. Nay? You'll have a piece of cold pie, but? My good lady would never forgive me if I let you go without trying her game pie. That big enough for you? If not there's plenty more. Now let me see. The sign. We've got to go back a few hundred years . . .'
Pascoe began to feel this might have been a very serious mistake. But as he sank his teeth into the wedge of pie and found it matched in quality the superb ale, he comforted himself with the argument that this came under the heading of gathering local colour.
'Thing is,' began Wapshare, 'there never used to be a pub here in Enscombe at all. There was no way we were going to get one without the approval of the Guillemards, and the Guillemards reckoned that the last thing working men needed was a pub to get bolshie in.'
'The Guillemards? They're the family at Old Hall, right?' said Pascoe, recalling the brief briefing he'd received from Terry Filmer about the last sighting of Harry Bendish.
'That's right. Used to be a big bunch of them and right powerful.'
'And now?'
'There's the old Squire; his granddaughter, Girlie; his great-nephew, Guy Guillemard, who's the heir; and little Franny Harding, the poor relation.'
'I'm sorry?'
'Every posh family needs a poor relation to remind 'em how well they're doing. Only in recent years they've not been doing so well. But way back, when I'm talking about, they were rotten rich, and they made sure Enscombe stayed dry till well into the last century.'
'What happened then?'
'What happened? They were rude to Jake Halavant, that's what happened!'
'Halavant? Any relation to Justin Halavant at Scarletts?'
'You know Justin? Then mebbe you'll be surprised to learn that at the start of the last century the Halavants were nowt but a bunch of raggedy-arsed peasants who could hardly pronounce their own name let alone spell it. The only one on 'em with enough brains to make a pudding was Jake. Good with his hands too - carving, painting, owt of that. And a real artist with his tongue, by all accounts. So it didn't surprise anyone when he decided he'd had enough of living like a pig, and he upped and vanished. But everyone was knocked right back twenty years later when who should turn up in the village, looking, talking and spending money like a gent, but young Jake!'
'How did people react?' wondered Pascoe.
'They were pleased, most on 'em. Enscombe folk like to see their own get on, so long as they don't forget who they are. Jake was a real Fancy Dan, but he was generous with all his old friends, and with what remained of his family too after the smallpox and the gallows had taken their share. Then one day he took it into his head to stroll up to Old Hall and send in his card. A bit provocative, maybe, but all they had to do was send word out they weren't at home.'
'Oh dear,' said Pascoe. 'I take it they didn't.'
'No. They kept him waiting on the doorstep twenty minutes. Then the butler brought his card back with a message that if he cared to go round to the kitchen entry, the cook would be happy to extend the usual courtesy of the house to members of his family and dig out some scraps of food and old clothing for him. That was the biggest mistake they ever made.'
'How so?' asked Pascoe, partly to hurry the story on but mainly because he wanted to know.
'Most folk reckon if they'd have been polite, after a while Jake would have headed back to London or wherever he'd come from. But instead what he did was this. He sniffed around and found that the Guillemards, who had a nasty habit of buying up local property at knock-down prices - which is to say, they knocked down anyone else interested in buying - were after this house and a parcel of land down the river alongside Scarletts Pool which is the best fishing pool on the Een. At the last moment, Jake nipped in and upped the ante and bought them both under the Guillemards' noses! If that weren't enough, next thing he gets himself engaged to a second cousin of the Finch-Hattons of Byreford who'd got tired of being a poor relation. The Finch-Hattons are proper Yorkshire gentry, and when they saw Jake had the brass, they were glad to get the lass off their accounts and on to his. Naturally they invited the Guillemards to the wedding, and they had to take a holiday out of the country to get out of going!'
'Game, set and match to Jake,' applauded Pascoe. 'But how did this place become a pub?'
'I were coming to that. Jake set up house here, started a family, and in the fullness of time sent his eldest, Jeremy, to Oxford. Put a real polish on him, came back very arty-crafty. When he got married, he wanted a place of his own and it was him as started building Scarletts on the bit of land his dad had bought by the river. Things had been quiet between the Halavants and Old Hall for a bit, but this set them going again. First off the Guillemards complained the builders were interfering with the fishing. Then, when they realized what kind of house Jeremy was building, they played merry hell. Said it looked like a Chinese brothel and such outrages shouldn't be allowed in a godfearing community like Eendale. Naturally that just egged Jeremy on to make it as bright and beautiful as possible.'
'And how did the villagers feel?' asked Pascoe.
'Loved it,' said Wapshare. 'Not had so much fun since the Civil War. You see, we don't take sides here, Mr Pascoe, we take seats and sit back to enjoy the show. But most folk thought things had gone too far when the Guillemards set fire to Jeremy's house when it were nearly done.'
'Good Lord! But surely they couldn't get away with that?'
'Couldn't they just? Mind you, nothing were ever proved, but everyone knew,' said Wapshare. 'The Guillemards had to call in a lot of favours to get themselves clear, and that left them vulnerable to Jeremy's next move a year later when old Jake finally fell off the perch. This place were empty again. Most folk expected Jeremy to sell. Instead .. .'
'He turned it into a pub,' completed Pascoe. 'Brilliant! Do you think my trousers will be dry yet?'
'Nay, but your throat will be,' said Wapshare, topping up his glass. 'Naturally, once word got to Old Hall what he was up to, hell broke loose again. The Guillemards opposed the licence, but they were short on favours now, and getting short on money. Aye, I reckon even then the Guillemards' day was over, though they still couldn't tell twilight from noon. In the end they were left with nothing to fight about except the pub's name.'
'Why? What did Jeremy want to call it?'
'He really tried it on! His first suggestion was The Guillotine and Basket! No one was very happy about that, and the Guillemards screamed loud enough to get his next two ideas vetoed too. These were The Cobden Arms and The Tolpuddle Martyrs. Politically provocative, said the Squire. And when Jeremy finally came up with The Morris Men's Rest, you'd have thought the Guillemards had won the Battle of Waterloo!'
'Because they'd got something all feudal and pastoral instead of radical and provocative? I see their point,' said Pascoe.
'Aye. And they saw Jeremy's when the sign went up,' said Wapshare gleefully. 'Not straight away, I shouldn't think. Likely they were just puzzled when instead of a picture of daft buggers with bells on their knees dancing around a pole, what they got was a portly gent with a big beard. But finally it clicked.'
He looked expectantly at Pascoe who felt h
is detective credentials were at stake. He wrestled mentally, was ready to admit defeat, then it came, the click.
'Morris!' he said. 'Not Morris dancers, but William Morris, the socialist. Good Lord, yes, that must have annoyed them. I presume the sign was a bit clearer then? It's a bit of a mess now.'
'So would you be if you'd been shot at, attacked with an axe, tossed on a bonfire,' retorted Wapshare. 'The Guillemards put their people up to it, of course. But every time it happened, Jeremy just got his lads to put the sign up again, no repairs or anything, so everyone could see what silly asses the Guillemards were making of themselves.'
It was a good story, but even as local colour he doubted if Dalziel would reckon it relevant to inquiries. Perhaps Mrs Wapshare had been eavesdropping till her husband finished, for now the door opened and she appeared with Pascoe's trousers, cleaned and ironed and looking rather better than they had done when he put them on that morning.
He waited till she'd left before he started removing the borrowed bags.
'Mr Halavant, Justin, does he own the pub now?'
'Aye. It's still his. Though for how much longer, I don't know.'
Suddenly the merriment faded from Wapshare's voice.
'Why? Up for sale, is it? And would that affect your tenancy?'
‘If Justin sells to who I think he's got in mind ... but it's still all hush-hush. We'll have to wait and see. We're good at that round here.'
'I can imagine,' said Pascoe, stepping out of the trousers which he folded neatly and laid on the bar. 'This feud between the Guillemards and the Halavants, does it still go on?'
'Not so's you'd notice. They don't exchange visits, but Justin and the old Squire are polite enough when they meet. Might be different when Master Guy inherits, though.'
'Oh? Why's that?'
'He's a bit rumbustious, young Guy. Hadn't seen much of him for years, then he showed up a few weeks back. Seems he's started up some company that runs courses for executives and such; you know, where they run around the woods playing cowboys and indians. Not the lot who camp out and sniff each other's bums, I don't think. Saw a programme about them on the box. Yanks, of course. Tell you what, couple of pints of my best and a black pudding fry-up, and they'd not be so keen on bum-sniffing!'
He roared his laugh and Pascoe smiled wanly.
'So he showed up,' he prompted.
'Aye. Must have got wind of the development up at the Hall. This Health Park thing that Girlie, that's the Squire's granddaughter, is organizing. Well, Guy reckoned there was room for his lot to expand up here and use the Hall for his kids' games some weekends. Girlie didn't fancy the idea at all, and from what I hear, there was an almighty row.'
'Wouldn't it be up to the Squire?' asked Pascoe.
'Oh aye. So it were no contest. Guy's the heir, you see. Women don't come second with the Guillemards, they're not even entered for the race. He went off again soon after, but he came back yesterday with some mates to start setting things up. Funny-looking bunch. They got in here last night and made a bit of a row. Nothing I couldn't handle, but I doubt if Justin would thole it. Doesn't care for noise when he's drinking, Justin, except if he's making it.'
'Yes, I got the impression he liked the sound of his own voice,' said Pascoe, testing how far employee loyalty went in the Morris.
It clearly didn't get in the way of a good gossip.
'Only one thing he likes better,' said Wapshare.
'Art, you mean?' said Pascoe with deliberate naivety.
'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 V
'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.
Dalziel 14 Pictures of Perfection Page 7