far as I know.’
She glanced across at Pascoe. Backhouse could not read her expression.
‘You talked to Mrs Hopkins on the phone last night,’ he said. ‘Did she say anything specific about their plans for the evening?’
‘Well, she may have done. We talked for about ten minutes. But nothing’s stuck, nothing specific. I’m sorry.’
She looked bewildered. Backhouse patted her hand where it rested on the arm of the sofa.
‘Never mind. If anything comes to mind, you can let me know. Anything new from you, Sergeant?’
Pascoe shook his head.
‘I’d better get back to work then,’ said the superintendent, standing up. ‘What are your plans for tonight?’
‘We’ve been asked to stay with the Culpeppers,’ said Pascoe, recalling his earlier decision to find somewhere else. It didn’t seem worth the bother now. And if the Eagle was the only place in the village which let rooms, his chances of success were slim.
‘Culpeppers? I remember. The committee secretary woman?’
‘And the man who came to the cottage with the coroner. I’m sure they’ll be in Crowther’s dossiers.’
‘No doubt. I’ll know where to find you, then. Thank you, Miss Soper. You’ve been most helpful. Please believe me when I say you have my deepest sympathy.’
He did it better than Dalziel. Not that Dalziel wasn’t good when he wanted, but good in the style of the old actor-managers. There was always a sense of performance. Backhouse was more natural. There was even a chance that he was sincere.
‘Just one thing more,’ he said, pausing at the door. ‘What was Mr Hopkins writing his book about?’
‘His book? Poverty! He laughed when he told me. Coming to Thornton Lacey to write a book about poverty in modern Britain was like hunting polar bears in Africa, he said.’
‘It doesn’t sound a best-selling subject,’ opined Backhouse cautiously.
‘I don’t know. Full of case histories, hard-luck stories, people driven to crime, the effect of inadequate diets on sexual performance, that kind of thing. It’s the kind of pop sociology that could sell.’
‘You sound disapproving.’
‘Not at all. Envious perhaps. Until this morning.’
‘Yes. Not much cause for envy now. Goodbye.’
They sat in silence for a while after he had gone. Ellie spoke first.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘For before, what I said. Grief’s a selfish emotion really. I had forgotten they were your friends too.’
‘Yes. And Colin still is.’
‘Do you think he did it, Peter?’
Pascoe made a hopeless gesture.
‘I don’t know. I can’t believe it, but I’ve got to admit the possibility. People kill those they love all the time.’
‘But you were willing to attack some poor bloody stranger because he accepted the possibility? Odd behaviour for a policeman,’ she mocked affectionately.
‘I’m an odd policeman,’ he said, kissing her gently.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Now I’m going to pull myself together and face the world. Whatever the truth, Colin will need friends when they catch up with him.’
She stood up and stretched her arms as though newly roused from sleep.
‘Do I gather you’ve got us invited somewhere for the night?’
Pascoe explained briefly about the Culpeppers, concealing his own irrational dislike of Marianne.
‘I see,’ said Ellie. ‘Sounds all sweet sherry and sympathy. I’ll go and freshen up, then I wouldn’t mind sampling the country air for half an hour or so before we present ourselves to our hosts.’
‘A good idea. There’s plenty of time,’ said Pascoe.
The door opened and Mrs Crowther reappeared.
‘He’s gone then,’ she grunted. Her gaze fell on the tea-tray.
‘And no one wants my tea?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ exclaimed Ellie. ‘It’s my fault. I just forgot.’
‘Look,’ said Pascoe. ‘Why don’t you two sit down and have a cup? It should still be hot. I just want to pop out and check the car. It seems to be eating oil lately.’
Ellie shot him a curious look, but he left quickly before she could say anything. As he had expected, the office section of the house was empty. Crowther would be very busy about the village this afternoon. He made straight for the table which carried the solid old Imperial typewriter, and saw what he was looking for straightaway. In the wooden tray by the machine were Crowther’s notes on local colour plus the carbon of the typewritten version given to Backhouse. He ignored the original in the constable’s crabbed hand and picked up the copy.
He had just started on the first of the five quarto sheets when a voice spoke behind him.
‘Excuse me.’
Pascoe started so violently that his leg twitched and cracked painfully against the rim of the desk. Christ! he thought, your nerve ends really have been exposed today, my boy.
Instinctively he let the sheets of paper slide out of his hands into the tray before he turned.
Standing behind the small counter across which the public could seek audience with their local guardian of the law was a rather frail old lady who seemed to be wearing a military uniform of sorts. WVS? wondered Pascoe.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘I was hoping to find Mr Crowther.’ She had a slow, gentle voice. Definitely good works, he decided. Moral samplers and nourishing broth round the farmworkers’ hovels.
‘I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. I don’t know when he’ll be back. Is it urgent?’
‘I’m not sure.’
She stared hard at him and asked dubiously, ‘Are you a policeman?’
‘Well, yes. Yes, I am,’ said Pascoe. ‘Sergeant Pascoe.’
‘Sergeant? That ought to be all right then. I am Alicia Langdale.’ She paused. For effect? thought Pascoe. Is she the lady of the manor? Should I be impressed?
‘Yes?’ he prompted.
‘And it’s connected with my job, you see. That’s
