rel="nofollow" href="#litres_trial_promo">Chapter 6
Brookside Cottage,
Thornton Lacey.
September 4th.
Well hello, Peter Pascoe!
A voice from the grave! Or should I say the underworld? Out of which Ellie (who gave me the glad news of your existence when we met in town last month) hopes to lead you, for a while at least, back into the land of the living.
Ironic, thought Detective-Superintendent Backhouse, his gaze flicking momentarily to the pale-faced man who sat opposite him. He did not speak the thought aloud. He was a kind man, though he never shunned the cruelties of his job when they became essential.
He read on.
Doubtless she told you we’ve been doing up this rural slum to make it a fit place for pallid cits to recuperate in. Well, now it is complete and we’d love for you and Ellie to week-end with us in a fortnight (constabulary duty permitting, of course!). Timmy and Carlo are coming down from the Great Wen so there will be much nostalgia! Not quite as squalid as that other cottage in Eskdale (I hope) – but oddly enough life in Thornton Lacey is not without its correspondences!
‘What’s he mean by that?’ asked Backhouse.
Pascoe stared at the sentence indicated by the superintendent’s carefully manicured finger. It took him a second to bring the words into focus.
‘When we were students,’ he said, ‘we spent a few weeks one summer in Eskdale. In Cumberland.’
‘The same people?’
Pascoe nodded.
‘Colin and Rose weren’t married then.’
‘What’s this about correspondences?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t remember much about it.’
Except one evening, the six of them, golden in the low-stooping sun, walking in companionable silence across a diagonally sloping field towards the distant village and its pub. The slope had separated their courses, pulling them apart so that they were strung out across the coarse, tussocky grass, only coming together again at the wooden gate in the lowest corner of the loose-stone wall.
Make it Friday evening if possible, but bright and early Saturday if not. Do not fail us in this our command or our wrath shall be terrible and you know just how terrible my wrath can be!
Seriously, it will delight me more than I can say if you come. It’s not every day that we see Abelard reunited with Eloisa (and his vital equipment, I hope!) Love from us both,
Colin (and Rose)
Backhouse finished the letter with a sigh, made a note on a slip of paper, clipped it to the single pale lemon sheet and put it into a bright green plastic folder.
‘I’ll hang on to this,’ he said. ‘If I may.’
Not that it had any value at the moment. Probably it never would. But he preferred to work that way. Meticulousness is the better part of serendipity.
‘Would you like another cup of tea?’ he asked.
The door opened before Pascoe could answer. An ancient constable creaked wearily in, holding some typewritten sheets.
‘Mr – that is, Sergeant – Pascoe’s statement, sir.’
He laid the sheets carefully before Backhouse and retreated.
‘Thank you, Crowther,’ said Backhouse, turning the sheets round and pushing them towards Pascoe.
‘Read it,’ he said gently as Pascoe picked up a ball-point and made to sign at the bottom of the first sheet. ‘Always read before you sign. Just as you always tell others to read before they sign, I hope.’
Without answering, Pascoe began to read.
Statement of Peter Ernest Pascoe made at Thornton Lacey police station, Oxfordshire, in the presence of Detective-Superintendent D. S. Backhouse.
On the morning of Saturday 18th September, I drove down from Yorkshire to Thornton Lacey. I was accompanied by a friend, Miss Eleanor Soper. Our purpose was to spend the week-end with some old friends, Colin and Rose Hopkins of Brookside Cottage, Thornton Lacey. Other guests were to include Mr Timothy Mansfield and Mr Charles Rushworth, also old friends, though I had not seen them nor the Hopkinses for more than five years. I do not know if anyone else had been invited.
It was our intention to arrive at nine-thirty but we made such good time that it became clear we were going to be there by nine …
It was a glorious morning after a night of torrential rain. A light mist lay like chiffon over the fields and woodlands, yielding easily to the gentle urgings of the rising sun. The roads were empty at first. Even the traditionally dawn-greeting farmhouses seemed still to sleep in the shining wet fields.
‘I like it,’ said Ellie, snuggling contentedly into the comfortably sagging passenger seat of the old Riley. ‘There are some things it’s worth being worken up for.’
Pascoe laughed.
‘I know what you mean,’ he said with hoarse passion.
‘You’re a sex maniac,’ she answered.
‘Not at all. I can wait till we reach a lay-by.’
Ellie closed her eyes with a smile. When she opened them again it was an hour later and she was leaning heavily against her companion’s shoulder.
‘Sorry!’ she said, sitting upright.
‘So
