'Not a bit. Crowther'll be in any minute for his, so it's no bother at all.'
It was a well cooked meal, interrupted twice by the telephone.
The first time it was Dalziel.
'You all right?' he asked.
'Fine,' said Pascoe.
I've got your report on the Cottingley break-in here. You write like a bloody woman's magazine advertiser. When you mean he pissed in the kettle, why the hell don't you write he pissed in the kettle?'
'Sorry.'
'He's a dirty bastard this one. But clever with it. If we don't get him soon, he'll be retiring. How's your girl?'
'Sorry.'
'He's a dirty bastard this one. But clever with it. If we don't get him soon, he'll be retiring. How's your girl?'
'Resting. She'll be OK.'
'Good. They're going after your mate, I hear.'
'That's right.'
'Aye. We've had the look-out notice up here. What do you think? Did he do it?'
'It looks bad.'
'But you don't think so? Well, listen. A word of advice. Don't get mixed up more than you have to. Say your piece, sign your statement and get on home. Leave it to Backhouse. He's a bit of an old woman, but he's not a bad jack. And don't be taken in by his good manners. He'll drop you in the cart if he thinks it'll help.'
'Yes, sir. We'll probably get back tomorrow.'
'I should bloody well hope so. You're due in here at eight-thirty on Monday morning. Don't be late. Cheeroh.'
And up you too, thought Pascoe, looking at the receiver. The fat bastard was probably congratulating himself on his subtle psychological therapy.
The phone rang again as Mrs Crowther reached into the oven for his warming plate. This time to his surprise it was Hartley Culpepper.
'I hoped I'd find you there, Mr Pascoe. Look, it struck me after I left you at the cottage, are you staying in the village tonight?'
'Well, yes,' said Pascoe, surprised. 'Yes, I expect we are.'
'Have you fixed up anything yet?'
'No. Not yet. I haven't really thought,' answered Pascoe. It was true, he hadn't given a thought to what they would do that night. The Crowthers, he suspected, would at a pinch keep Ellie, but it would mean a great deal of inconvenience for them.
'Perhaps one of the pubs,' he mused aloud.
'Nonsense,' said Culpepper firmly. 'We would be delighted if you would stay with us. I was going to ask you and your friend to come to dinner, anyway. So why not bring your bags with you? This must have been a terrible strain for both of you. It'll do you good it will do us all good to be in friendly company. Please come.'
'It's very kind of you,' said Pascoe doubtfully.
'Good,' interrupted Culpepper. 'We'll expect you, about tea-time then. The Crowthers will be able to direct you. Goodbye.'
Everyone else is having the last word today, thought Pascoe,
Constable Crowther had arrived home and was taking his place at the other side of the kitchen-table. He nodded an acknowledgement at Pascoe and settled down to eating his meal.
Either hunger or some form of diplomacy kept him silent, and Pascoe himself did not speak until he had disposed of his food without further interruption.
This will mean a lot of work for you,' he said finally.
Crowther nodded.
'A bit. There's a beer in the cupboard behind you if you fancy it.'
'Thanks,' said Pascoe. 'This'll be a quiet patch normally?'
'Quiet enough. Popular for break-ins.'
'Is that so?'
Crowther nodded and chewed his gammon systematically. About thirty chews to the mouthful, Pascoe thought.
'It's mostly business people now, you see,' resumed Crowther. 'Working in the town. There's been a lot of building.'
Another mouthful. Another thirty chews.
'And renovation.'
'Like Brookside Cottage?'
'That's right,' said Crowther, nodding vigorously.
'Was it empty when Mr Pelman decided to sell it?'
That's right.' Another mouthful. This time Pascoe counted. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine. 'Mr Pelman didn't like that. It was a handy way into his woods from the road for anyone wanting to pot a few birds. And the cottages themselves was always getting broken into. Not that there wasanything to take, you understand. Practising for bigger stuff, I reckoned. But they did a lot of damage.'
So. Vandals and poachers all swanning round Brookside Cottage. Homicidal? It was surprising how many people were under the right conditions.
Even people you knew quite well.
'Pelman put it on the market then?' mused Pascoe. 'That was quite clever. He'd make a bit of money and have someone there to man his frontier post.'
'Hardly that,' objected Crowther. 'You can get into Pelman's woods at a dozen places. And there's not all that much in there anyhow.'
'No red deer and grizzly bear?'
'No,' answered Crowther, adding, as though in reproach of Pascoe's mild levity, 'just a lot of coppers at the moment.'
Pascoe sipped his beer. Crowther's tastes ran to lukewarm brown ale, it appeared. The thought put him in mind of the two village pubs, in one of which Rose Hopkins had last been seen by anyone alive to tell the tale. Except one person.
'What's the difference between the Eagle and Child and the Queen Anne?' he asked. It sounded like a child's conundrum, but Crowther didn't seem puzzled.
'The Eagle's a free house. Owned by Major Palfrey. The Anne's tied to the brewery. Mr and Mrs Dixon just manage it. Not just. They manage it very well, I mean. Nice couple.'
'Who uses which? Or is it just the nearest that people go to?'
Crowther looked at him closely.
'Couldn't say, he said. 'I use the Anne myself.'
'Just because it's the nearest?' insisted Pascoe. 'I should have thought the local law would have had to preserve a fine show of impartiality towards licensed premises.'
'I do, said Crowther. 'When I'm on duty. But off, I like to be comfortable where I drink.'
He seemed to make his mind up that Pascoe had a sympathetic ear and leaned over the table confidentially.
'Difference is, and this is just me, mind you,' he went on, 'the Dixons make you feel welcome, the Major always makes me feel he's doing me a favour by pulling me a pint.'
He nodded emphatically and started rolling an absurdly thin cigarette in an ancient machine. Pascoe laughed knowingly.
'Major Palfrey thinks he's the squire rather than the landlord, does he?'
'That's the trouble with this place now,' averred the constable, lighting his cigarette which burnt like a fuse. 'It's full of bloody squires. Trouble is, there aren't enough peasants to go round.'
Constable Crowther, it appeared, invariably took a ten-minute nap after his lunch and could see no reason to interrupt his routine today. Pascoe was sorry about this. The man's conversation interested him and he was still desperately in need of things to interest him. He decided to take a walk, down to the village perhaps, find out what was going on. As he stood up, he realized he hadn't mentioned the arrangements that had been made for the evening.
Mrs Crowther came into the kitchen and bustled around her snoozing husband, clearing the table with no effort at noise-evasion.
'Miss Soper and I are going to spend the night at Mr Culpepper's house,' said Pascoe. 'I'd like to let Miss Soper sleep, though, as long as possible. Is that OK?'
'We could have kept you here,' answered the woman. 'Our lad could have used the camp-bed.'
'Thank you very much. But I didn't want to trouble you. And Mr Culpepper was most insistent.'
Crowther opened his eyes and looked straight at Pascoe.
'Culpepper,' he said. He made it sound like an accusation. Then he went back to sleep.
In Crowther's book, Culpepper was probably one of the self-appointed squires, thought Pascoe as he stood outside the station in the bright sunlight and took his bearings. He wasn't certain if he altogether liked what he saw. Not that it wasn't pretty. In the rememberable past Thornton Lacey must have been a roadside hamlet of a couple of dozen houses plus a church, a shop and a pub which served the numerous farms in the rich surrounding countryside. But things had changed.
Over the hill one day, perhaps only a couple of decades ago, had come the first the first what? He remembered the phrase in Colin's letter. Pallid cits. The first pallid cit. Soon there must have been droves of them. And they were still coming. He recalled as he had driven in that morning an arrowed notice on the outskirts of the village had directed their attention to a High Class Development of Executive Residences. It had made them laugh to think of Colin and Rose in such company. Many things had made them laugh on the journey.
With an effort of will he returned his attention to the village. Pallid cits had to be catered for. There was a ladies' hairdressing salon very tastefully slotted beneath an awryly-timbered top storey. At least two Gothic-scripted antique shops were visible. Passing pallid cits had to be tempted to stop and invest in the past. But not to stop permanently, he suspected. No one defends the countryside and its traditions more fiercely than he who has just got planning permission for his own half-acre. The Village Amenities Committee didn't sound like a farmworkers' trade union, somehow.
It's that bloody woman again, thought Pascoe gloomily. Why have I taken against her so much so rapidly? And I'm spending the night under her roof.
But why the hell should I? I didn't want to.
That anger which had been bubbling under the surface all morning suddenly broke through again. He had progressed about a quarter of a mile down the long, winding village street and now realized he was opposite the Queen Anne. On an impulse he crossed over and went in.
It wasn't long till closing time and the bar was empty.
'Lager, please,' he said to the attractively solid-fleshed woman who came to take his order.
'Thirsty weather,' she said with a smile.
'Do you put people up?' he asked, sipping his drink.
'Sorry. You might try the Eagle and Child. They have a couple of rooms there they sometimes let.'
'Thanks. Is it Mrs Dixon, by the way?' Pascoe asked.
That's right,' the woman answered, looking at him with sudden wariness. 'Why?'
'You served Mrs Hopkins, Mrs Rose Hopkins of Brookside Cottage, last night I believe.'
'Yes. Yes, I did.' She glanced through into the other bar.