and causes of death, I should think. The usual procedure. Two-thirty. We won’t need Miss Soper at this stage. I’ll send a car for you.’
‘Yes.’
The rest of the short journey passed in silence. I’m a serious disappointment to him, thought Pascoe. All that kindness wasted.
Ellie was still asleep, so Pascoe went downstairs once more. Mrs Crowther put her head out of the kitchen door and asked how the lady was.
‘Sleeping,’ said Pascoe. ‘But she’s got her colour back.’
‘Good. It’ll do her good. You’ll be hungry, I don’t doubt. What about a gammon rasher and egg?’
‘No, I couldn’t put you out,’ protested Pascoe, realizing, slightly to his surprise, how hungry he was.
‘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?’
‘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 was anything 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.
