She looked seriously at him and ran her tongue along the prongs of her fork.
‘Is that right?’ said Dalziel again. ‘Short time.’
He bit into his sandwich. The egg burst, spread, overflowed faster than his mouth could take it in and ran down his chin.
‘I said it could be messy,’ said Dalziel.
8
Family History
As soon as it was a reasonable working hour, Dalziel rang the garage.
Yes, they remembered talking to Mrs Fielding. Yes, they hoped to send someone out for the car that day. No, they didn’t think it would take long to put it right, just a drying-out job. In fact if they’d realized it was so urgent, they’d have brought it in yesterday afternoon. Of course (full of rural indignation) their breakdown truck could get through the floods if it had to.
Dalziel arranged to ring them later in the day and replaced the phone thoughtfully. At that rate, he could be on his way by tea-time. In fact it sounded as if he could have been on his way the previous day.
He was in Hereward Fielding’s room and as he left the old man met him at the door.
‘I was just using the phone,’ Dalziel felt constrained to explain.
‘There are other phones in the house,’ snapped the old man. ‘But feel free. Feel free. It’s Liberty Hall here.’
‘Are you better?’ asked Dalziel.
‘Better than what? I was never unwell, if that’s what you mean. I’ve been wet before, I’ll be wet again before I go. You’ll see.’
‘There you are, Herrie. Why on earth have you got out of bed? You are being very silly.’
It was Bonnie, looking very stern and disciplinarian.
‘You must allow me to judge what is best,’ said Fielding. ‘I am perfectly well. In any case those Gumbelow people are likely to turn up today and I’ve no intention of letting a lot of damned Americans find me in bed.’
‘They may not come,’ said Bonnie. ‘Even if they do, you could have waited till they’d rung and said definitely.’
‘The phones in this house are in such constant use that it may prove impossible for them to get through,’ said Fielding, glowering at Dalziel.
‘Well, sit down in here. I’ll put the electric fire on and get Mrs Greave to bring you some breakfast.’
‘Coffee only and a slice of toast,’ said Fielding. ‘That woman’s not to be trusted with anything else. That meal last night. Vile!’
‘The sausages weren’t bad,’ said Dalziel.
‘You had sausages? I was given some nauseating stew of a kind hitherto undescribed in prose or poetry, unless on the occasion that Dr Henry Spooner recited the opening lines of “The Burial of Sir John Moore”.’
‘It was chicken fricassée and it came out of a tin,’ said Bonnie. ‘Now go and sit down.’
She spoke in a stern schoolmistressy tone and Fielding obeyed. Dalziel felt he too might have obeyed if addressed in such a way, but her voice when she spoke to him after closing the door behind her father-in-law was humorously long-suffering.
‘No wonder Herrie and Nigel got on so well! They’re both at the awkward age.’
‘Don’t you think you ought to try to find where the boy went?’ suggested Dalziel diffidently.
‘I’ll make some discreet enquiries round his friends,’ she answered with an unworried smile. ‘Boys of that age are very contrary. Any hint of a search would just make him burrow deeper. Did Herrie say you’d been telephoning?’
Dalziel considered.
‘No. No, he didn’t,’ he said. ‘But I have. I rang the garage.’
‘What do they think?’ she asked.
‘They’re not certain. I’m going to ring later.’ The lie came easily.
‘Well, you’re welcome to stay as long as you need to,’ said Bonnie. ‘If you can stick us, that is.’
‘I’ll bear it,’ said Dalziel. ‘Tell you what. I’d like to go into Orburn if anyone’s going that way. One or two things I’d like to get.’
‘There’s a shop in the village,’ said the woman.
‘Do they make up prescriptions?’ asked Dalziel.
‘No.’
‘Well then. Perhaps I can phone a taxi if no one’s going that way.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’ll drive you myself. There’s always some shopping to get.’
Any hopes Dalziel had of another solitary excursion with Bonnie disappeared when he met the car outside the house at the prearranged time of nine-thirty. It was an old Rover with what looked like the remnants of a nest in the radiator grille. In the front passenger seat was Tillotson and when Dalziel opened the rear door he found himself looking at Mavis Uniff.
Bonnie drove with considerable panache, passing through the flooded bottom end of the drive with an angel’s wing of water arcing away on either side. Dalziel hoped the undercarriage was in better repair than the bodywork, but no harm seemed to be done. The suspension felt as if it had given its best and was now in decline, a state understandable if corners were always taken like this. The humped railway bridge where they had stood the previous night provided another interesting obstacle, but the Rover took it like a thoroughbred ’chaser which was more than Dalziel’s stomach did.
They slowed to a sedate fifty to pass through Low Fold village, which was a cluster of cottages, a Post Office, a pub and a church. A thought occurred to Dalziel as they passed this last building.
‘Why didn’t they bury him there?’ he asked Mavis sotto voce.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied and, leaning forward to tap Bonnie on the shoulder, asked, ‘He wants to know why you didn’t bury Conrad in Low Fold?’
Dalziel shook his head reprovingly at the girl but Bonnie seemed happy to answer.
‘Lake House dead have always been buried in High Fold churchyard. You see, Low Fold’s high and High Fold’s low, if you follow me. Mike my first husband’s there as well, so it’s convenient for all the family.’
Dalziel glanced surreptitiously at his companion but no one seemed to find the comment either amusing or odd. He scratched his left armpit thoughtfully and the rest of the journey was completed in silence.
Orburn appeared to him as a town he’d visited many years ago in his youth rather than one he had left just the previous morning. The main street widened into a kind of square, or rather an ovoid, as if someone had pressed his thumb on the narrow thoroughfares which ran out of it and the street had blebbed to four times its normal width. At one end of the bleb was the Lady Hamilton. Bonnie parked a little farther along, next to a marble statue which age or modesty seemed to have rendered anonymous.
‘There’s a chemist’s over there,’ said Bonnie. ‘I’ll make for the supermarket first, I think. What are you two going to do? Labour for me or your own thing?’
Tillotson and Mavis seemed uncertain of their respective plans and in the end Bonnie said to Dalziel, ‘See that baker’s over the road? There’s a little café behind it. We’ll have a coffee there in about forty-five minutes. All right?’
She strode away, long firm strides stretching her simple denim skirt taut against her thighs. Tillotson hesitated a moment before following. One thing about your posh upbringing, thought Dalziel. Properly done, it instilled good manners. Their fatal weakness.
‘What about you?’ he said to Mavis.
‘I never go into shops if I can help it,’ she replied. ‘Especially supermarkets. I’ll show you the sights if you like.’
‘That’s kind,’ said Dalziel, which it was. It was also a bloody nuisance. Time was short and he didn’t want the girl hanging around.
‘But it’s shopping I’m after, too,’ he went on. ‘Just bits and pieces, but the sights’ll have to wait till another time.’
‘You are staying long enough for another time then?’ she asked. ‘Should I welcome you to the club?’
‘We’ll see. Thanks for your offer anyway.’
‘That’s all right. I’ll go and brood on nature.’
She smiled at him and walked s
lowly away. He crossed the road and went into the chemist’s where he watched Mavis out of sight while the assistant wrapped a bottle of aspirin.
‘Anything else, sir?’ asked the girl.
‘Yes,’ said Dalziel. ‘Where’s the police station?’
Fortunately it turned out to be in the direction opposite to that taken by Mavis and with the other two trapped in the canyons of the supermarket, Dalziel was able to enter the single-storeyed building which was the local station with minimum furtiveness.
‘Yes, sir?’ said the uniformed constable seated at a typewriter resting on a paper-littered desk.
‘Always stand up for the public, son,’ said Dalziel, producing his warrant card. ‘Who’s the boss here?’
‘Inspector Grantley, but he’s not in just now, sir,’ said the constable, standing at a curious semi-attention occasioned by the fact that he had eased one foot out of its boot and was unable to fully re-insert it.
‘CID?’
‘That’s Detective-Sergeant Cross. He’s in his office. Shall I ring him?’
‘No, it can’t be far in a place this size. Which one? Second on the left. Thanks. You haven’t got a rupture, have you, son?’
‘No, sir!’
‘If you stand like that much longer, you’ll likely get one.’
Dalziel rapped sharply on the indicated door and entered.
The sole occupant of the room was not a pretty sight. He looked as if in the best of circumstances he would have been unprepossessing; unshaven, haggard from fatigue, his shirt collar open, feet on his desk, a still steaming mug of coffee propped perilously on his belly, he was quite revolting. Dalziel regarded him with vast approval. This was how a hard-working Detective Sergeant ought to look at least once a day.
‘Who the hell are you?’ said the man with semi-somnolent irritation.
Dalziel reached forward and plucked the threatening mug from his lap.
‘Embarrassing that,’ he said. ‘Scalded cock. Makes the nurses wonder about you. I’m Dalziel.’
His fame clearly had not penetrated to these dim recesses of the land and though the production of his warrant card set Cross struggling to his feet, it was a Pavlovian reaction to the rank rather than a spontaneous tribute to the reputation.
‘Sit down,’ ordered Dalziel, ‘before you fall down. Hard night?’
‘A bit,’ said Cross, running his fingers through black spiky hair which might have been petrified for all the effect this had on it. ‘Eight hours in a hen battery. God, the stink!’
‘I thought there was something,’ said Dalziel, sniffing. ‘Anything to show for it?’
‘No, sir,’ said Cross gloomily. ‘A waste of time. I’ve got my report here if you’re interested.’
He proffered a sheaf of typewritten papers which Dalziel waved aside.
‘No, thanks, Sergeant. I see enough of those on my own patch. This is unofficial. I’m on holiday in the district, so I thought I’d drop in and pay my respects.’
Cross looked at him with the utter disbelief of one who had seen enough of detective superintendents to know that courtesy calls on sergeants belonged with Father Christmas and the fairies.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘Nice to see you. Can I show you round?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Dalziel. ‘Seen one, you’ve seen ’em all as the actress said. But you might be able to help me on another matter.’
He pulled up a chair and sat opposite Cross who smiled slightly. Dalziel decided this wasn’t insubordinate and grinned back.
‘Family by the name of Fielding,’ he said. ‘They live about ten miles out of town near a village called Low Fold.’
‘I know them,’ said Cross. ‘A big house; Lake House it’s called. They’re converting part of it to a restaurant. Mr Fielding died recently. That the one?’
‘That’s it,’ said Dalziel.
‘Ah,’ said Cross.
Dalziel watched and waited for a moment, scratching his left buttock vigorously, a luxury he had been consciously eschewing in the company of Bonnie Fielding.
‘I’m a stranger here,’ he said after a while. ‘I don’t understand all the dialect. Ah. What does that mean? Nice weather we’ve been having? Or hello cheeky, give us a kiss? It’s important I know.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Cross. ‘I was just wondering; I mean, are you a friend, or what?’
‘It makes a difference? That’s a start. I never knew these people existed till yesterday when they helped me after my car broke down. Now I’m curious. That help you?’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Cross, rising and going to a filing cabinet. ‘They’re well known in the locality, the Fieldings. They’ve been around for about eight years now, and, of course, Mrs Fielding was here before that when her first husband was alive. Here we are.’
He extracted a file and returned to the desk.
‘The house belonged to Mr Percival, of course.’
‘Who?’
‘The first husband. The Percivals were very well known. Been around a long time. Not your aristocracy though they made some claims, but comfortably off. Their money came from trade, I believe.’
He said the word as though it still had a definite pejorative meaning in these parts.
‘Trade?’ echoed Dalziel.
‘That’s right, but distant enough to be all right. Too distant, perhaps. It was cotton mainly and the Percivals were worse hit than most during the slump. I don’t know the ins-and-outs but, by the end of the war I get the impression they were pretty well finished financially. And as a family too. The war saw three of ’em off, two in action, one in the blitz. The older survivors dropped off pretty rapidly afterwards, and Michael Percival, your Mrs Fielding’s first, got what little survived of the family fortune all concentrated in his own bank balance. It seems to have been enough for him to live modestly on – by his standards – and his wife too, when they got married in 1954. The girl, Louisa, was born the following year and a couple of years later, Percival died. Six months after that, Mrs Percival married Mr Fielding.’
‘The father of her eldest son, you knew that?’ said Dalziel.
‘Oh yes. She made no secret of it. The local gentry didn’t like it. They prefer to hide their bastards. But she didn’t care. They weren’t around much for a few years in any case. The house was let and the Fieldings, according to best report, were living it up in swinging London. But money doesn’t last forever and they’d spent so little of it on maintaining the house that it became unlettable. Also the marshlands where the tenants used to go shooting were drained and reclaimed in the mid-sixties and no one was interested in the place any more. So they came back to live in it. By this time, they had had the youngest boy, of course, and they brought Mr Fielding’s father along, to help pay the rates, I suppose. He’s some kind of writer, they tell me.’
He spoke, Dalziel noted approvingly, as if to be some kind of writer was the equivalent of being physically handicapped.
‘You know a lot about these people, Sergeant,’ he said.
‘I did a bit of research when this last business occurred,’ said Cross. ‘You heard about it?’
‘You tell me,’ said Dalziel.
Cross opened his file.
‘The deceased, Conrad Fielding, was discovered by his wife in what they’re calling the Banqueting Hall at Lake House. Unfortunately by the time we became involved the body had been moved, but according to Mrs Fielding’s statement the man was lying on the floor there –’ he passed over a glossy half-plate print of the Hall floor on which an outline of a body had been chalked ‘– with his chest pierced by the bit of an electric drill. The drill was still switched on. There was a ladder lying alongside the body, and there were drill marks in the wall about twenty feet up. It seems that the building contractors had packed up work till they got paid and Mr Fielding had been trying to do it himself. The coroner decided that the ladder had slipped, he’d fallen down with the drill in his hand with the switch locked on, and unfortunately
had fallen right on to the bit. Three-eighths doing two thousand four hundred revs. It makes a hole like that.’
‘I’d have expected it neater,’ said Dalziel, looking at the close-up of the naked chest on a mortuary slab.
‘The bit stayed in the wound after death,’ said Cross. ‘The weight of the drill would force the bit sideways through the flesh till an equilibrium was reached. That’s what the doctor said. Here’s the p.m. report.’
Dalziel scanned it quickly, expertly. He usually left it to his subordinates to extract what was important from technical reports and relay it to him succinctly and accurately. But Cross had not been moulded on the master-potter’s wheel.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Accident. What’s your interest?’
‘We’ve a duty to investigate all sudden deaths, sir,’ said Cross blandly.
‘Get knotted,’ said Dalziel amiably. ‘If I fell off this chair and broke my neck, you wouldn’t dig into my family history for the past thirty years. So?’
‘There were a couple of things,’ said Cross slowly. ‘First, the way they all behaved. They’re an odd lot up at Lake House, you may have noticed, but you’d have expected a bit of, well, respect. Instead they all chattered away, ten to the dozen, and seemed bent on carrying on just as normal, except that they were a bit annoyed at the disturbance. Mark you, I didn’t see any of them till some time after the death, so I can’t report on immediate reactions. Mrs Fielding seemed a bit distressed, but very much in control, and the boy, Nigel, seemed genuinely upset. But the others … well!’
‘Even the old man?’
‘Old Hereward? He was the oddest of all. No sign of grief but he said, “I told him no good would come of it. I told him,” and that was all. Not another word.’
Dalziel glanced at his watch. He was running out of time.
‘You said there were a couple of things which aroused your interest. What else besides the family reaction?’
‘There was a phone call,’ said Cross. ‘Not to us, but to the insurance company carrying Fielding’s policies. One of their investigators, Spinx they called him, came round to tell us. Co-operation, he called it. What he was after was for us to tell him they needn’t pay up! Evidently someone rang up their office the day after the death and said they should look very closely at the circumstances before handing out any money. Well, we have to take notice.’
An April Shroud Page 9