‘Like a fish,’ said Fielding.
‘Right then,’ said Dalziel, standing so that the punt rocked dangerously. He ignored the movement and scanned the waters. It was pretty obvious where the lake proper ended and the floods began. A line of trees and half-submerged undergrowth delineated the sweep of the farther bank and, beyond this, the geometric outlines of fields were marked where their hedges broke the surface of the water.
‘OK,’ said Dalziel. ‘Shout.’
‘What?’
‘Shout,’ he said. ‘If he is stuck somewhere, he’ll answer.’
They started to shout, sometimes separately and sometimes with Fielding’s reedy tenor, Papworth’s strong baritone and Dalziel’s totally unmusical bellow blending into a single dreadful cry. The damp air absorbed all their effort with indifferent ease and returned nothing.
‘Let’s try a bit farther out,’ said Dalziel finally, reaching for the punt pole. But as he did so, he realized their yellings had not gone entirely unheard. Standing in the garden near the flooded landing-stage were the rest of the Fieldings and Tillotson. He guessed what anxieties were swarming through Bonnie’s mind and spoke to Papworth.
‘We’d best let Mrs Fielding know what’s going on,’ he said. ‘Can you scout a bit farther in that thing while I take the punt back?’
‘If you like,’ said Papworth. He removed the oar from the thole-pin and using it as a rather cumbersome paddle began to move away.
‘Where’s that fellow going?’ demanded Fielding. He looked to be in the extremities of distress, both physical and mental. Even without his daughter-in-law’s right to an explanation, it would have been necessary to get him back to the house soon.
‘He’s going to search,’ said Dalziel, wielding the pole inexpertly and for the first time feeling some sympathy for Tillotson. ‘We’d better get back to the house and organize things there.’
Mrs Fielding remained controlled when she heard what Dalziel had to say, but he sensed a strong underlying concern.
‘Let’s get inside,’ she said. ‘Herrie, you’re soaking! What possessed you to go out in only your jacket?’
She gave a half-accusing glance at Dalziel. She had the kind of solid, bold-eyed face much admired by the Edwardians and which had still stared provocatively at an adolescent Dalziel from Scarborough What-the-Butler-Saw machines a couple of decades later. He felt an in the circumstances incongruous urge to wink invitingly.
Surprisingly in the light of her earlier indifference, Louisa was outwardly the most agitated.
‘We can’t just hang about, doing nothing,’ she cried. ‘Let’s get something organized.’
Her urgency seemed to infect the others and her mother and brother began to move back to the house at an accelerated pace almost beyond the means of the old man who hung on to his daughter-in-law with the stoic look of one who is ready at a moment’s notice to make his final exit.
Dalziel followed, eager to get out of the rain but without any feeling of urgency. He doubted whether speed was going to contribute much to Nigel Fielding’s safety now. Either the lad was safe or his body was waiting to be grappled from the water by a boat-hook. But the illusion of great activity was a useful anodyne.
The Uniffs who had had enough sense to stay out of the wet met them at the door and received explanations in the hall.
Mavis displayed the same calm competence as before and even Hank made conventional soothing noises, putting his arm round Louisa’s thin shoulders and pressing his University of Love T-shirt (the same one? or did he have duplicates?) against her soaking sweater whose new skin-clinging properties managed the merest hint of a female figure.
‘We must ring the police,’ she said. Dalziel sighed and prepared to step forward to reveal himself. It would be unprofessional to let this short-tempered girl give her unstructured and semi-hysterical account of the situation to the local bobby when he could get things moving in half the time.
‘Perhaps,’ he began. And the telephone rang. For a moment they all froze. It was Bonnie Fielding who was quickest off the mark, heading for the room which old Fielding claimed as his own.
They heard her pick up the phone.
‘Nigel!’ she exclaimed.
‘Yes,’ she said, as the rest of them crowded into the room. ‘Yes. Look, Nigel, where are … no … oh, damn!’
It was clear from her face that the boy had rung off.
‘Where is he?’ demanded Fielding.
‘I’m sorry, Herrie,’ said the woman. ‘But he didn’t say. Just that he wanted us to know he was OK. He saw the boat go adrift after he’d abandoned it and thought I’d be worried. Anyway, thank God he’s safe. Now, Herrie, let’s see about you before you get pneumonia.’
She ushered the old man out of the room, and though the news of his grandson’s safety revived him enough to snap a token protest at this unwanted solicitude, he let himself be led upstairs with no physical demur.
‘End of crisis,’ said Uniff cheerfully. ‘All’s well etcetera.’
The telephone rang again and the bearded man picked it up.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Yeah. Look, man, you take that up with the Post Office, OK? No, she’s not available right now. I mean, we just had the funeral so she may not want to talk insurance. OK. I’ll tell her.’
He replaced the phone.
‘Sphincter?’ said Bertie.
‘That’s it. Seems to think we’re trying to avoid him. The usual moans. He’s a pain. I should have asked if we were insured against Nig’s taking off!’
Louisa’s sibling solicitude, recently overflowing, was now completely spilt.
‘Little bastard,’ she said. ‘He should have been drowned at birth.’
‘That’s a bit strong,’ protested Tillotson, but she ignored him and followed Uniff out of the room.
Tillotson caught Dalziel’s eye and grinned sheepishly.
‘Someone ought to tell Pappy,’ said Bertie suddenly. He was right, thought Dalziel, but he obviously had no intention of doing anything about it himself.
‘Yes, they should,’ said Tillotson. ‘I’ll take the punt.’
He left, whistling cheerfully.
‘Go with him,’ said Dalziel.
‘Do you mean me?’ said Bertie incredulously.
‘I’m not so old I see bloody spectres,’ said Dalziel. ‘Who else? You really want a drowning on your hands, then let the lad go punting by himself. Hurry up.’
‘Why can’t you go?’ demanded Bertie.
‘I’m older than you,’ said Dalziel, patience draining away. ‘And I’m colder than you, and I’m wetter than you, and I’m a guest in your fucking house, and I don’t care a toss if yon silly bugger ends up in the south Pacific. But he’s your friend. So get a bloody move on!’
Bertie moved, looking rather dazed. At the door he paused, opened his mouth goldfish-like, but left without speaking.
‘You’ve had practice,’ said Mavis admiringly. ‘What was it? Army?’
Dalziel had lost sight of her presence and looked at her assessingly, working out if an apology were in order. He decided not.
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Natural leadership qualities. That one needs a bit of stirring.’
‘Mebbe so,’ said the girl. ‘But don’t be too certain about Bertie. Some people develop that kind of complacency as a cover. The world’s ruled by calm, smug, self-righteous pigs, and they’ve all been clever enough to get to the top of the dungheap.’
‘Cocks,’ said Dalziel.
‘Eh?’ said the girl warily.
‘It’s cocks on dunghills, not pigs,’ he explained. ‘I don’t expect there’s a lot of nature study in Liverpool.’
‘You’d be surprised. Hank’s right. You are wet. Better get into something dry or you might find yourself spending more time here than you plan.’
‘I don’t plan to spend any time here,’ said Dalziel. ‘What about you? Just down for the funeral, are you?’
She shook her head, her straight black
hair moving with it and stopping when the negative movement stopped. It was heavy and wiry, perfectly natural and with none of the gloss and bounce the TV commercials projected as the most desirable qualities of the female – and male – coiffure.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Business mainly.’
Dalziel sneezed.
‘Business,’ he echoed invitingly, but all she answered was, ‘You’re mad to hang around like that.’
‘I suppose I am,’ he said. ‘I’d best go and see if I can borrow any more clothes from the late lamented. Hey, he didn’t die of anything catching, I hope?’
‘Not unless having a hole drilled through your chest’s catching.’
‘What?’
‘He fell off a ladder in the Banqueting Hall,’ said Mavis. ‘You’ve seen the Banqueting Hall, have you? Well, when the builders stopped coming, Conrad decided to have a go at the do-it-yourself. He was up the ladder with an electric drill trying to fix one of the beams. The ladder slipped. Down he came. Unfortunately he fell on to the drill and it was locked on. Straight through his ribs into the heart. Goodbye, Conrad.’
‘That’s nasty,’ commented Dalziel, more because he felt it was expected of him than because he felt any distress. But it was certainly an interesting way to go.
‘Was he by himself?’
‘Yes.’
‘So no one saw it happen?’
‘What do you want? Colour pictures?’
‘No. I don’t think so. Well, I’d best get dried. It’s been nice talking to you, Miss Uniff.’
‘Mavis will do. It makes me feel younger.’
‘You want to feel younger?’ he said, surprised.
‘Oh yes,’ she answered. ‘When I see what age does to you, I want to feel as young as I can possibly get, Mr Dalziel.’
‘And what does age do to you?’
‘It makes you crazy for money, I think,’ she said slowly. ‘Like, in the end perhaps that’s the only way left to keep on pretending you’re young.’
‘I’ve stopped pretending,’ grinned Dalziel.
‘That’s what they all think. But you’ll see. You’re not rich are you, Mr Dalziel?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It might do. If you’ve got money and you stay in this house much longer, you’ll be offered a deal. You might not even notice but you will. Go and get dry now.’
Dalziel lay naked in the dead man’s bed under half a dozen blankets. After stripping off his wet clothes and towelling himself down till his flabby and fat-corrugated skin glowed, suddenly a warm nap had seemed best of all things.
He had pondered a long time on the events of the day and decided that though there was enough in this household to make him curious, so far it was curiosity at a personal rather than professional level. There must have been an inquest on Fielding and the usual investigations. It wouldn’t require much effort on his part to get an unofficial look at the finding. But he had no intention of doing so. Oh no. This was an interesting interlude, a bit damper but probably a bit more lively than following a guide round some mouldy cathedral or making conversation with some poofy hotel barman. But tomorrow he’d be on his way. If they couldn’t do anything about his car, then sod it. He’d hire another and collect his own later.
Relaxed by his resolve, he fell asleep.
When he awoke it was quarter to six and he was starving. He rubbed his eyes, yawned, scratched his groin sensuously and headed for the bathroom.
What kind of nosh did they dish up here? he wondered as he pushed open the door. Old Fielding had made some nasty crack about Mrs Greave, the cook. But it’d have to be very bad to blunt Dalziel’s appetite tonight.
The bathroom was full of steam. He paused in the doorway. Someone moved among the wraith of vapour and he had no difficulty in recognizing Mrs Fielding though her head was half covered by a towel and the rest of her body was not covered by anything but a healthy post-hot-bath glow.
‘Beg pardon,’ he said, stepping back and closing the door. But he couldn’t close out the mental picture of what he had seen and when he sat down on the bed, he realized he had the beginnings of an erection.
He whistled softly as he considered the phenomenon. He was far from being a sexual obsessive. Indeed, since his wife had left him, his sex life had been minimal. Not that opportunity was short. Like any society dedicated to money and male chauvinism, Yorkshire provided the kinds of relief strong men need from the pressures of the day. But a police officer had to be very careful. It was on the surface a very conventional society and scandals were easily kindled. As for paying for it, Dalziel refused on a point of pride rather than principle.
So generally he went without. It wasn’t too difficult. With age, lust became an aesthetic tingle rather than a physical shock. It was a long time since desire had manifested itself to him so uncompromisingly as this!
He felt absurdly pleased with himself, as though something valuable had been proven. She was a fine-looking woman, mature, well-fleshed, without the flabbiness which his own once well-muscled body had declined to. He looked down at himself with distaste and his pleasure drained away at the thought that this ton of lard was all that she had had to look at in return. Not many women reacted to the pleasures of visual stimuli in the same way as men, but revulsion at ugliness must be a shared reaction.
There was a tap at the bathroom door and he jumped up, and dragged a blanket off the bed and wound it round him.
‘May I come in?’ she called.
‘Yes,’ he answered.
She entered, wearing a dressing-gown and carrying with her a coathanger festooned with his clothes.
‘This lot’s dry,’ she said. ‘I’ve been over them with an iron, so they should be fit to wear.’
‘That’s kind,’ he said stiltedly.
‘I brought them an hour ago, but the bedroom door was locked. You must be a distrustful soul, Mr Dalziel. Whereas me, I don’t even remember to lock the bathroom.’
She laughed as she spoke, but he took it as a rebuke.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Fielding,’ he began.
‘For what?’ she said. ‘I’d be sorry if you were altogether sorry. We’ll be eating soon. First come, first served, so I shouldn’t hang about.’
She went back through the bathroom and Dalziel followed her a few moments later, making sure the door into the farther bedroom was locked before setting about his ablutions.
She was a kind woman, he thought, and she didn’t shock easily. But that was hardly a basis to build erotic fantasies on. She didn’t sleep with her husband, that was an interesting point. Could be good. Could be bad. He’d guessed at first it was because the poor sod was sick. But now it seemed he’d died from an accident.
Dalziel opened the cabinet again. One shelf was now entirely clear and all the pill bottles had gone. The process of clearing out in the wake of the departed had begun.
Or perhaps, some ridiculous and hitherto unsuspected romantic area of his imagination suggested, perhaps she had cleared the space for him, anticipating a longer than overnight stay …
These were mere hunger-fantasies, he told himself. He shook them out of his head and began to dress.
6
A Step into Summer
Dinner was served in the room in which they had taken their nourishing broth. The only alteration was the covering of the big kitchen table with a white cloth liberally spotted with the stains of previous meals and with one corner unravelling. Mrs Greave was present to start with, emerging from the back kitchen with a series of covered serving dishes which she deployed over the table with more panache than strategy. Dressed now in a pair of tight-fitting yellow slacks and a flowered blouse, with her red hair piled high in a precarious beehive, she looked less like a flower of the field and more like some exotically gaudy insect. Dalziel made no attempt to make contact with her, but he felt her eyes examining him from time to time as she came in and out.
‘You all right now, Mrs Fielding?’ she asked finally.
�
��Yes, thank you, Mrs Greave,’ said Bonnie from the head of the table.
‘Good night then.’
She left and there was a general uncovering of serving dishes as though no one had cared to delve beneath the china surface while the cook was still in the room.
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Louisa.
‘What?’
‘Sausages. And some of them look only mildly burnt. First or second degree.’
‘It must be because we’ve got a visitor.’
Pleased to be thought the cause of such a treat though unable to comprehend its particular nature, Dalziel, seated at Bonnie’s right hand in the place of honour, piled bangers and mash on to his plate.
‘Mr Fielding not coming down?’ he asked, glancing round the table.
‘No. He’s a bit under the weather, I fear. He’s well over seventy you know and today’s been a great strain,’ said Bonnie.
‘I hope he doesn’t snuff it before Gumbelow’s cough up,’ said Louisa.
‘Would it make any difference? The award has been announced,’ mumbled a fast-chewing Bertie whom Dalziel had picked out as his only serious rival in the race for a second dip into the depleted sausage dish.
‘Children!’ reproved Bonnie. ‘This is no way to talk!’
She smiled apologetically at Dalziel. She was wearing a white sleeveless blouse, semi-transparent. Her right bra strap had slipped and was visible at her shoulder. Dalziel concentrated on his plate.
‘What’s Gumbelow’s?’ he asked.
‘Oh, haven’t you heard?’ said Tillotson. ‘Herrie’s got an award.’
‘What for?’ asked Dalziel, meaning to be polite. But they all laughed.
‘That would please him!’ said Uniff. ‘Where’ve you been, man? Herrie’s a great poet. At least that’s what Gumbelow’s have decided. Yes, sir. Sixty years, but they get there in the end!’
‘It’s an American thing called the Gumbelow Foundation,’ explained Bonnie, seeing Dalziel’s puzzlement. ‘They have various artistic prizes they dish out every so often. Herrie’s will, of course, be for his poetry. He gets a silver plaque, I believe.’
An April Shroud Page 6