Correction. Almost uniformed. He was wearing tunic and trousers but was hatless, his vigorous red hair tousled by the gusting wind. Even the serious expression he was wearing and a fading bruise high on his right cheekbone couldnt disguise how young he was.
He brought his face close enough for his breath to mist the bikers plastic visor and demanded, Cant you read?
The biker sighed at this further aspersion on his literacy.
Yes, he said. I can read.
Then youll know the sign back there says five miles an hour.
Aye, I noticed, and that was what I were doing.
Oh yes? sneered the young policeman.
Slowly he began a circumambulation of the motorbike. He moved with an easy grace, like a man who was proud of his body, which to the bikers keen eye, with its breadth of shoulder and narrowness of waist, looked a body to be proud of.
His circle complete, he halted, and with his eyes still focused on the machine as though by sheer force of will he could create a fault, he thrust his left hand under the bikers nose, snapped his finger and said, Documentation.
The biker examined the outstretched hand which had half a dozen stitches, perhaps more, in a cut which ran from the thumb-ball along the wrist under the shirt cuff. Then, with another sigh, he unzipped his jerkin, reached inside and came out with a wallet.
Any particular reason I should show you this? he asked mildly.
The constables handsome young face slowly turned.
Because Im asking you, thats one particular reason. Because Im telling you, thats another particular reason. Two enough?
Plenty. As long as youll be putting em in your report.
What I put in my reports got nothing to do with you, said the constable.
You think not? Here, said the biker. He handed over the documents hed removed from his wallet, then slowly removed his helmet.
The youngster looked from the documents to the face, then back to the documents, like a soldier trying not to believe a dear-John.
Oh hell, he said unhappily. You might have let on.
And Detective-Sergeant Wield said, You need documentation to get treated politely round here, do you?
Yes, I mean, no, of course not, only youve got to keep a sharp eye open for strangers out here
He was nobbut a lad, thought Wield, noting how the embarrassed flush blended in with the rich red of his windblown hair.
He said abruptly, Worried about strangers, are you? Seems to me that come Easter, youre going to have a lot more to worry about, and from that sign on the gate, some of em will be very strange indeed. You got a hat, lad?
Yeah, Im sorry, Sarge, its back there in the car
Wear it. Wields brain, which his CID Chief, Andy Dalziel, opined should be pickled in strong ale and sold to IBM after the Sergeants death, had been punching up references to Enscombe.
He said, Post Office here got done, twice, wasnt it? Once before Christmas, once just after. We never got anyone, as far as I recall. Thatd be strangers too, I suppose?
I expect so, Sarge.
And wasnt there some bother about the War Memorial last Remembrance Day?
Yes, Sarge. It got desecrated, Id just started here then.
Did you get it sorted?
I think so, Sarge.
Anything else important happen here since you came?
No, Sarge. I dont think so.
What about those stitches in your arm? And that bruise on your face? You been in a ruck?
Oh no, Sarge. He laughed, not wholly convincingly. Walked into the branch of a tree, fell and cut myself on a rock.
Oh aye? So. Two break-ins and an attack by nature. Real crime wave! No wonder youre neurotic about strangers. But the rule is, nice first, nasty when you see a need. You got that, Bendish?
The name had popped into his head. He must have seen it on a report. Hed had nothing to do personally with either of the PO jobs here.
The young constable was clearly impressed and disconcerted at this degree of knowledge. His mind was trying to fit it in with the appearance of a detective-sergeant, some way past the first flush of youth, wearing black leather and riding a high-powered motorbike.
He said, Youre not here officially, are you, Sarge? I mean under cover ?
Wield barked the sound which friends recognized as his way of expressing amusement though others often took it as a sign that the interrupted lycanthropic process suggested by his face was about to be resumed.
No, son. Just out enjoying the countryside. And dying for a cup of tea. It said something back there about refreshments.
Youre out of luck. Sorry, said Bendish as though he felt personally responsible. Place isnt open to the public till Easter; it does say so on the sign. You must have missed it. But theres a café in the village. Dora Creeds place. Shes a smashing baker. Very welcoming.
Oh aye? said Wield. I saw it. Next to a bookshop. Make me welcome there too, would they?
Oh yes. Old Digweedll talk to you for hours about books if you let him.
So, said Wield, if we add you, that must make Enscombe about the most welcoming place in Yorkshire. It fair wears a man out. I reckon Ill head on home and make my own tea.
To give unalloyed joy is a rare privilege. Observing the undisguisable relief and pleasure which broke out in the young mans face, Wield thought: Mebbe I should say goodbye to folk more often.
Sorry about the misunderstanding, Sarge, said Bendish.
Youll be sorrier if I catch you wandering around again baht at, said Wield heavily. This isnt Ilkley Moor. Take heed!
He revved up and set off slowly through the gateway. The watcher at the window had vanished but the little girl was still standing in the porch. He waved at her as he passed and she waved back, then ran into the house.
The young constable watched him out of sight. Then he flung up his right arm in a gesture as much of exultation as derision and yelled, And goodbye to you too, you ugly old sod!
Then, laughing, he turned and ran back into the rhododendrons.
CHAPTER THREE
so young, so blooming and so innocent, as if she never had a wicked thought in her life which yet one has some reason to suppose she must have had
so young, so blooming and so innocent, as if she never had a wicked thought in her life which yet one has some reason to suppose she must have had
Kee Scudamore watched the last motorcyclist move away, then crossed the street. She walked with an easy and unconscious grace untroubled by the gusting wind which unfurled her long flaxen hair and pressed her cotton skirt to the contours of her slender thighs. Under her left arm she carried a box file.
Dora, Edwin, good day to you, she said in a soft voice with just enough music in it to take the edge off a certain almost pedantic note. And what did Guy the Heir want with you?
Pie for his cronies, said Dora Creed. I sent them packing. Ruless no good if you make exceptions. No hippies, no bikers.
Take care, Dora. Once he comes into his own, it will be his decision who caters for the Reckoning, not to mention the new café.
Dora shrugged indifferently and said, Hall may stand higher than the church, but its the church I look up to.
Well said, replied Kee. I wish everyone had your principles, especially up at the Hall.
Oh Jesus, said Digweed. Not more revelations?
Dora Creed shot him an indignant glance and said, The Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh His name in vain.
Digweed replied with some irritation, If the Lord can tolerate the enthusiasm of a vessel as holy as yourself for the works of Harold Robbins I am sure he will permit me the occasional profanity. Kee, what now?
Its this gift shop Girlies planning. First there was your brothers carved crooks, Dora. Not that I can really complain about that. George is a free agent and goes his own way.
As an ox goeth to the slaughter, or as a fool to the correction of the stocks, said Dora Creed fiercely.
Kee raised her eyebrows questioningly at Digweed who shook his head as if to say he didnt understand either.
However, resumed the blonde woman, Beryl Pottingers a horse of a different colour. Ive put in a great deal of time and effort there, and shes learned a lot from Caddy. Her watercolours have become our bestselling line. Now she tells me Girlies offering her a better deal. This is blatant poaching.
I cannot believe Beryl would let herself be bought.
With her job at the school on the line, money may seem a little more important.
He that hasteth to be rich shall not be innocent, said Dora.
Lets hope we can save her job, said Digweed.
By selling the Green, you mean? Even if thats what the village opts for, would it raise enough?
With planning permission, possibly. The Parish Council put out some unofficial feelers and got a working estimate. But lets leave all that till the meeting tomorrow night, shall we? Meanwhile I hope you get your difference with Girlie sorted out. Shes a reasonable woman.
Shes also a Guillemard, and Fucata non Perfectas a hard virus to get out of your blood. Holistic healing and executive cowboys and indians may save the Hall, but what kind of people do you think theyll be bringing into the village?
Hippies. Bikers, said Dora promptly. They go to and fro in the evening: they grin like a dog, and run about through the city.
Digweed and Kee laughed out loud and the bookseller said, Certainly that last creature that was here, the one by himself, he was straight out of Mad Max! But there cant be many around like him, thank heaven. Kee, that deed of gift you want me to look at
Ive got it here, said the woman, opening the box file which was full of what looked like old legal papers. Here you are.
My law is very rusty, he said warningly as he took the document she handed to him.
Mines non-existent, she replied, closing the file. Ive probably got the wrong end of the stick. Nevertheless, it could be worth a look. Meanwhile Ill drop the rest of this stuff off at the vicarage and I might just carry on to the Hall and have a talk with Girlie about Beryl. Edwin, if you see anyone going into the Gallery, you might pop across. Caddys supposedly in charge, but once she gets stuck into something in her studio, you could blow up the till and she would hardly notice.
She set off up the street with the wind dancing attendance.
Digweed, watching her go, said, Interesting how well Kee managed to suppress her fascination with parish history while old Charley Cage was up at the vicarage.