Everyone froze, then everyone moved. Some pressed forward to offer assistance, some pressed back to summon it. Ruby Huby leapt into the grave to succour her husband and landed with both knees in his kidneys. Eden Thackeray, no longer needing Miss Keech for aegis, released her and was then constrained to grab her again as she too started the easy descent into the pit. The vicar stopped smiling comfortingly and Rod Lomas looked across the grave, caught Lexie Hubys eye, and laughed aloud.
Gradually order was restored and the unquiet grave emptied of all but its proper inmate. It was only now that most of those present realized that at some point in the confusion the catalystic stranger had vanished. Once it was ascertained that the only permanent damage was to John Hubys blue serge, Miss Keech, still leaning heavily on the arm of Eden Thackeray, signalled that the obsequies were back on course by announcing that a cold collation awaited those who cared to return with her to Troy House.
Walking away from the graveside, Rod Lomas found himself alongside Lexie Huby. Stooping to her ear, he murmured, Nothing in Aunt Gwens life, or her fortune for that matter, became her like the leaving of it, wouldnt you say?
She looked at him in alarmed bewilderment. He smiled. She frowned and hurried on to join her sister who glanced back, caught the young mans eye, and blushed beneath her blusher at his merry respondent wink.
Chapter 2
The façade of the Kemble was a mess. To rescue the old theatre from bingo in these hard times; to renovate, refurbish and restore it; to divert public money and extort private sponsorship to finance it; these had been acts of faith or of lunacy depending on where you stood, and the division in the local council had not been on straight party lines.
But the will had been great and the work had been done. Creamy grey stone had emerged from beneath a century of grime and Shakespeares numbers had triumphed over the bingo-callers.
But now the huge eye catching posters which advertised the Grand Opening Production of Romeo and Juliet had been ripped down, and what caught the eye now were aerosoled letters in primary colours taking stone, glass and woodwork in their obscene stride.
GO HOME NIGGER! CHUNG = DUNG! WHITE
HEAT BURNS BLACK BASTARDS!
Sergeant Wield took a last look as he left the theatre. Council workers were already at their priest-like task of ablution, but it was going to be a long job.
When he got back to the station, he went to see if his immediate superior, Detective-Inspector Peter Pascoe, was back from the hospital. Long before he reached the inspectors door, a dull vibration of the air like thunder in the next valley suggested that Pascoe was indeed back and was being lectured, doubtless on some essential constabulary matter, by Superintendent Andrew Dalziel Head of Mid-Yorkshire CID.
The very man, said Dalziel as the sergeant entered. What odds is Broomfield giving against Dan Trimble from Cornwall?
Three to one. Theoretical, of course, sir, said Wield.
Of course. Heres five theoretical quid to put on his nose, right?
Wield accepted the money without comment. Dalziel was referring to the strictly illegal book Sergeant Broomfield had opened on the forthcoming appointment of a new Chief Constable. The shortlist had been announced and interviews would take place in a fortnights time.
Pascoe, slightly disapproving of this frivolity when there was serious police business toward, said, How was the Kemble, Wieldy?
Itll wash off, said the sergeant. What about the lad in hospital?
Pascoe said, Thatll take a bit longer to wash off. They fractured his skull.
The two things are connected, you reckon? said Dalziel.
Well, he is black and he is a member of the Kemble Company.
The attack in question had taken place as the young actor had made his way to his digs after an evening out drinking with some friends. Hed been found badly beaten in an alleyway at six oclock that morning. He could remember nothing after leaving the pub.
The trouble at the Kemble had started with the controversial appointment of Eileen Chung as artistic director. Chung, a six-foot-three-inch-tall Eurasian with a talent for publicity, had gone instantly on local television to announce that under her regime, the Kemble would be an outpost of radical theatre. Alarmed, the interviewer had asked if this meant a diet of modern political plays.
Radicals content, not form, honey, Chung said sweetly. Were going to open with Romeo and Juliet, is that old-fashioned enough for you?
Asked, why Romeo and Juliet? she had replied, Its about the abuse of authority, the psycho-battering of children, the degradation of womanhood. Also its on this years O-level syllabus. Well pack the kids in, honey. Theyre tomorrows audience and theyll melt away unless you get a hold of them today.
Such talk had made many of the city fathers uneasy, but it had delighted a lot of people including Ellie Pascoe who, as local membership secretary of WRAG, the Womens Rights Action Group, had quickly got in touch with Chung. Since their first meeting, she had talked about the newcomer with such adulation that Pascoe had found himself referring to her in a reaction, which privately at least he recognized as jealous, as Big Eileen.
It was after her television appearance that trouble had started in the form of obscene phone calls and threatening letters. But the previous nights attack and vandalization had been the first direct interpretation of these threats.
What did Big Eileen have to say? inquired Pascoe.
Miss Chung, you mean? said Wield, correctly. Well, she was angry about the paint and the beating-up, naturally. But to tell the truth, what seemed to be bothering her most was getting someone to replace the lad in hospital. He had an important part, it seems, and theyre due to open next Monday, I think it is.
Yes, I know. Ive got tickets, said Pascoe without enthusiasm. It was Ellie whod got the tickets and also an invitation to the backstage party to follow the opening. His objection that there was a showing of Siegels The Killers on the telly that night had not been sympathetically received.
Do we count it as one case or as two, sir? inquired Wield, who was a stickler for orderliness.
Pascoe frowned but Dalziel said, Two. You stick with the assault, Peter, and let Wield here handle the vandals. If they tie in together, well and good, but at the moment, whatve we got? Someone gives a lad a kicking after closing time. Happens all the time. Someone else goes daft with a spray can. Show me a wall where they havent! Its like Belshazaars Feast down in the underpass.
Pascoe didnt altogether agree but knew better than to argue. In any case, Dalziel didnt leave a space for argument. Having disposed of this policy decision, he was keen to get back to the main business of the day.
Whos Broomfield making favourite, Wieldy? he asked.
Well, theres Mr Dodd from Durham. Two to one on. Joint.
Joint? Who with.
Mr Watmough, said Wield, his craggily ugly face even more impressive than usual. It was well known that Dalziel rated Watmough, the present Deputy Chief Constable, as a life form only slightly above amoeba.
What? He wants his head looked at! Find out what hell give me against our DCC finding his way out of the interview room without a guide dog, Wieldy!
Wield smiled, though it hardly showed. He was smiling at Dalziels abrasive humour, at Pascoes faintly pained reaction, and also just for the sheer pleasure of being part of this. Even Dalziel would only speak so abusively of a superior before subordinates he liked and trusted. With a slight shock of surprise, Wield found he was happy. It was not a state he was much used to in recent years, not in fact since he had broken up with Maurice. But here it was at last, the dangerous infection breaking through, a slight but definite case of happiness!
The phone rang. Pascoe picked it up.
Hello? Yes. Hang on.
He held out the phone to the sergeant.
For you, they say. Someone asking for Sergeant Mac Wield?
The phone rang. Pascoe picked it up.
Hello? Yes. Hang on.
He held out the phone to the sergeant.
For you, they say. Someone asking for Sergeant Mac Wield?
The note of interrogation came on the Mac. This was not a name hed ever heard anyone call Wield by.
The sergeant showed no emotion on his rugged face but his hand gripped the receiver so tightly that the tension bunched his forearm muscles against the sleeve of his jacket.
Wield, he said.
Mac Wield? Hi. Im a friend of Maurices. He said if ever I was in this neck of the woods and needed a helping hand, I should look you up.
Wield said, Where are you?
Theres a caff by the booking office at the bus station. You cant miss me. Im the suntanned one.
Wait there, said Wield and put down the receiver.
The other two were regarding him queryingly.
Ive got to go out, said Wield.
Anything we should know about? said Dalziel.
Mebbe the end of life as I know it, thought Wield, but all he said was, Could be owt or nowt, before turning away abruptly and leaving.
Mac, said Pascoe. I never knew Wield had Scottish connections.
I dont suppose they know either. He gives nowt much away, does he?
It was probably a snout and we all like to keep our snouts under wraps, said Pascoe defensively.
If I looked like Wield, Id put my snouts on display and keep my face under wraps, growled Dalziel.
Thank you, Rupert Brooke, thought Pascoe, regarding the superintendents huge balding head which his wife had once likened to a dropsical turnip.
But he was careful to sneeze the thought into his handkerchief, being much less sure than Sergeant Wield of his ability to shut his mind against Dalziels gaze, which could root up insubordination like a pig snuffling out truffles.
Wields capacity for concealment was far greater than anything Pascoe ever suspected.
Mac, the voice had said. Perhaps it had served him right for relaxing his guard and letting happiness steal in like that, but such instant retribution left the courts for dead! That a voice would one day call to change his life as he had chosen to live it had always been possible, indeed likely. That it should sound so young and speak so simply he had not anticipated.
Im a friend of Maurices. That had been unnecessary. Only Maurice Eaton had ever called him Mac, their private name, short for Macumazahn, the native name of Allan Quatermain, the stocky, ill-favoured hero of the Rider Haggard novels Wield loved. It meant he-who-sleeps-with-one-eye-open and Wield could remember the occasion of his christening as clearly as if He snapped his mind hard on the nostalgia. What had existed between him and Maurice was dead, should be forgotten. This voice from the grave brought no hope of resurrection, but trouble as sure as a War Office telegram.