So youve got him! cried Edwin Digweed, the Enscombe bookseller. Jolly good. Now perhaps youll admit I wasnt exaggerating when I said that here was a face marked for villainy if ever I saw one.
You what? said Dalziel, who had followed Wield into the room.
Is it Harold Bendish thats missing? asked Wield.
Thats right. Whats this old bugger on about?
The old bugger looked ready to be offended, but as Wield advanced towards him, fear took over and he retreated till his legs caught the lip of the table and he could go no further.
For heavens sake, someone! he cried. Shouldnt this man be under restraint?
Its all right, sir, said Wield soothingly. Theres been a mistake. Im a detective.
What? Digweed looked from Wield to Filmer, saw no denial there, looked back to Wield, recovered both his balance and his aplomb, and said, very Lady Bracknellish, A detective? You? That does indeed sound like a very great mistake. I still find it hard to believe. Superintendent ?
This is Detective-Sergeant Wield, one of my officers, said Dalziel in a dangerous voice. Will someone tell me whats going off here?
I was in Enscombe yesterday, sir, said Wield. I met Mr Digweed, briefly. Then a bit later on, I
You assaulted Constable Bendish! interposed Digweed. Excellent. To preserve your cover, isnt that the term? I presume that extraordinary costume you had on was some form of cover?
I spoke with Bendish, sir, said Wield stolidly, addressing himself to Dalziel.
Oh aye? And what did you say?
Wield glanced doubtfully at Digweed, who said, Yes, yes, of course. From being so vital a witness I have to be dragged from my place of business which incidentally will be doing no business at all while Im away I have become an intrusive member of the general public who must on no account be allowed to overhear high-level police discussion. Excuse me, gentlemen, I shall return home where I will spend more of my valuable time penning a strong letter of complaint. You do, I presume, employ at least one token literate to read such letters? Never mind. Ill put it on tape also. Now I give you good day.
He strode out. It was a rather good, very English sort of exit.
Dalziel jerked his head at Filmer, who went in apologetic pursuit.
Then the Fat Man turned to Wield and fixed him with a gaze which would have frozen a Gorgon.
Right, sunshine, he said with dreadful softness. Now you can tell me what you were doing in fancy dress beating up PC Bendish!
CHAPTER TWO
If I am a wild beast, I cannot help it.
Less than an hours sensible driving from Mid-Yorkshire Police HQ, Enscombe is not remote by modern standards. But as the road began to narrow and the valley sides to steepen, Peter Pascoe felt a disproportionate sense of remoteness.
Everywhere there were signs of mans presence the walls built out of stones painfully cleared from the green pastures alongside the shining river, the sheep grazing between them, the whitewashed farmhouses, the road itself but nowhere was there anything to persuade of mans permanence. Good old heartless, witless nature seemed lurking everywhere, ready to rush back in the minute man dropped his guard.
Then he rounded a bend and beheld a Vision of Beauty.
He skidded to a halt and walked back to take a closer look. Beyond a pair of elegant wrought-iron gates set in the thickest thorn hedge hed ever seen, a gravelled drive arrowed across a daffodilled lawn to a distant house which, though partially hidden by topiaried shrubs, looked as foreign to Yorkshire as a Pearly Queen in Barnsley market. No sturdy bield this, using Natures materials to resist natures onslaughts. Here was Art, naked and unashamed. Built of red, no, almost pink brick, with hipped gables, battered chimney breasts, and a turquoise slated roof along which the creamy ridge tiles seemed to have been piped by a pâtissier, it stood as bold and as bright as a Gay Rights demonstrator outside a rugby league ground.
He approached to stand near the gates which were themselves worthy of close study. Into the flowing scrolled design were woven the word SCARLETTS and the initials J.H. He reached out a hand to caress the sinuous curves.
Next moment a black shape like a young bullock flung itself against the gates, setting the metal rattling and Pascoe staggering back in terror, which was just as well, as a set of teeth like a rip saw sliced the air where his fingers had been.
Down, boy! growled a harsh female voice, and a woman appeared from behind the thorn hedge.
Bloody hell, gasped Pascoe. That thing ought to be muzzled!
Muzzles no use for keeping off trespassers, said the woman. She was grey-haired, of indeterminate age, with a hooked nose and unrelenting eyes.
I wasnt trespassing, said Pascoe indignantly.
You were touching, she said. Whats your business, mister?
I was just admiring the house.
Admiring comes afore coveting, she grated. I dare say you was admiring last night as well. Just bugger off or Ill mebbe let Fop out for a run.
Fop! If he couldnt get her under the Fighting Dog legislation, he could certainly have her under the Trades Descriptions Act. But at the moment he could see little alternative to a dignified retreat.
He was moving away when a metallic aubergine cabriolet turned off the road and stopped in front of the gate. The driver stood up and peered over the screen at him. He was at the turn of forty with a mobile, sensual face beneath an aureole of Titian hair. He wore a cordovan jacket which matched his car and round his neck was wound a shot silk scarf just long enough when he drove at speed to give him something of Isadora Duncans panache without risking sharing her fate.
In fact the first general impression Pascoe got was of a man who judged his effects carefully.
The second impression was that he knew him from somewhere.
And what, pray, may your business be?
The voice was light, educated, and redolent of the complacency of one who knows that if things of beauty are a joy forever, hes OK, mate.
Im a policeman, said Pascoe, taking the question literally. DCI Pascoe, Mid-Yorks CID.
Good Lord, said the man, leaping lightly (yet with a weighty awareness of his light leaping) out of the car. You chaps are taking this seriously. Im impressed.
Pascoe took the proffered hand but not the allusion. The shake was firm, warm, dry, and just the right length.
As you doubtless know, Im Justin Halavant. Bayle, the gates.
Bayle! The womans name was as apt as the dogs wasnt! As for the mans, this confirmed his sense of recognition. This was Justin Halavant who edited the Posts Arts Page and frequently hosted TVs North Light Show.
Leave your car, suggested Halavant as the gates rolled open. Hop into mine.
Pascoe, feeling Fops hungry eye upon him, hopped, and Halavant sent the car shooting up the drive at a speed which suggested he might be intending to enter without bothering to get out.
Happily, a deftly controlled skid brought them to a halt parallel to the façade. Pascoe, determined to show no reaction to these automotive histrionics, climbed out and said, Some house! But not exactly the vernacular tradition, is it?
Hardly, smiled Halavant. My great-grandfather had it built, partly to disoblige certain of his neighbours, partly to open up this part of darkest Yorkshire to the new light of taste. Basically its a Morris design with a few exuberances added by the architect who was a rather wayward pupil of Butterfields.
Butterfield? He did the parsonage at Hensall, didnt he?
You know about such things? Come inside and let me give you the quick tour.
He led the way through a series of rooms so full of goodies that Pascoe began to feel as he often did in great museums that the total somehow came to less than the sum of the parts. The saving trick he had discovered was to focus on a single item and absorb all it had to offer, otherwise Art became Everest, bloody hard work, and essayed merely because it was there.
He paused in a long drawing-room, blanked his mind, and trawled his gaze around the paintings which crowded the walls. It snagged on a small portrait whose narrow oval frame perfectly echoed the face of its subject. She was a young woman, not beautiful but full of character, with deep brown eyes, a rather long nose, and glowing skin tones. She met his gaze directly but demurely, yet he got a sense of fun, as though laughter were tugging at those modest lips, and wasnt there just a hint that her left eyelid was drooping in a cheeky wink? He looked closer and the impression was gone.
This is nice, he said. Does she have a name?
Probably, I dont recall. Some ancestor, eighteenth-century, of course, said Halavant vaguely. Are you specially interested in portraits, Inspector?
No. She just caught my eye. That serious, rather solemn posing expression, yet you get a sense shes amused, almost on the brink of a wink, so to speak.
What? Halavant came to stand alongside him. Yes yes perhaps
He turned away abruptly and said, Youll forgive me if I dont offer you any hospitality, but having just got back, I have things to do so if we could get this business sorted
Clearly the tour was over. Time to be a policeman again.
What business would that be, sir? said Pascoe courteously.
The false alarm last night, of course.
Perhaps you could tell me about it, sir.
What can I tell you that you dont know? he said in some irritation, tugging at an old-fashioned bell-pull by the fireplace. I rang Mrs Bayle last night to confirm what time Id be back today, and she filled me in ah, Mrs Bayle. This incident last night. Tell us what happened.
The woman, who had appeared with silent speed and, to Pascoes relief, without Fop, said, Bell rang at nine oclock. I looked through the peephole and when I saw it were him, I opened the door
Him? interjected Pascoe.
Him. The constable. Mr Bendish.
Ah, said Pascoe noncommittally, but he felt Halavants curious gaze on him and guessed he was beginning to suspect something odd here.
Mrs Bayle took the ah as an instruction to proceed.
I asked what he wanted and he said thered been a report of a man hanging about, looking suspicious, and had I noticed anything. I said no I hadnt and good night. But he said hed better take a look inside just to be sure as it were more than his job was worth, and likely mine too, if Mr Halavant came back and found something missing, and hed been on the doorstep.