along the side of the whitewashed garage into the garden. At the bottom of the dew-damp lawn, audible though not visible, ran a stream in a deep cutting, shaded by alders and sallows. The murmuring water, the morning-fresh garden unheated yet by the lemon sunlight, the flight of a white-browed blackbird from a richly laden apple-tree, all helped to make unreal the tableau formed by the man on his knees by the dead woman at the foot of the sundial. Only the gnomon of the dial, cutting the fragrant air like a shark’s fin, seemed to be of menace.
Something shone, brighter than dewdrops, in the grass around the body. Pieces of broken glass. Her first concern was intimate, domestic. Pascoe’s trousers might be torn or, worse, his knees cut.
She knew, and had known since she first looked from the window, that Rose was dead. Calling for an ambulance was a gesture, the drowning swimmer’s last clutch at the crest of the wave that will sink him. The ugliness of it, visible now as Pascoe laid the woman on the grass once more, was the greater shock. But even that she assimilated for the moment as she turned back to the cottage, looking for the others. Pascoe stopped her before she went in through the open french window.
But it had been too late to stop her seeing what lay inside.
The police-station at Thornton Lacey was merely the front ground-floor section of the pleasant detached house in which Constable John Crowther and his wife lived and which they would give up with great reluctance when Crowther reached retiring age in a couple of years. Neither he nor his wife was particularly impressed by the arrival of major crime in their little backwater. There was nothing in it for the constable except trouble. At this late stage in his career, not even personal solution of the crime and apprehension of the criminal could bring him promotion. But he was a conscientious man and, unasked, was already preparing for the superintendent a résumé of all local information he felt might be pertinent.
His wife, a craggy woman whose outward semblance belied her good-heartedness, took one look at Ellie on her arrival at the station and led her into the kitchen for tea and sympathy. Ellie had deteriorated rapidly under the treatment (a necessary process, well understood by Mrs Crowther) and by the time Pascoe came away from Backhouse, she had been given a mild sedative by the doctor and removed to a bedroom.
Doctor Hardisty, a rangy, middle-aged man whose unruly grey hair gave him a permanently distraught look, met Pascoe at the kitchen door. They had encountered once already at Brookside Cottage.
‘You all right?’ he now asked diffidently.
‘Fine,’ said Pascoe. It wasn’t altogether a lie. The act of signing the coolly formulated statement had produced a temporary catharsis. Momentarily the morning’s discoveries had been reduced to the status of a ‘case’. He even found himself prompted to question the doctor about his examination of the bodies, but decided against it. Hardisty was the local man, living and practising in the village. By now the bodies would be on their way to the mortuary and the probing knife of the pathologist.
By now Timmy and Carlo and Rose would be on their way …
He nipped the thought off smartly.
‘Miss Soper?’ he asked. ‘How is she?’
‘Resting upstairs. I’ve given her something.’
‘May I see her?’
‘If she’s awake. It’s straight ahead on the landing.’
Pascoe turned and began to climb the stairs.
Ellie opened her eyes as he came through the door. Her dress was draped tidily over a chair and she lay under a patchwork quilt in her slip.
‘OK, love?’ said Pascoe, taking her hand.
‘Doped to the back teeth,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to sleep. It’s always worse remembering when you wake up.’
‘You’ve got to sleep,’ he said gently. The sight of her lying there so palely moved him almost as deeply as the discovery of the three corpses had done.
She nodded as though he had performed some feat of subtle persuasion, and closed her eyes. But as he opened the door to leave, she spoke again.
‘Peter,’ she said. ‘Where’s Colin? He’s got to be told.’
‘It’s all in hand,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Sleep now.’
On the stairs he felt dizzy and had to pause, leaning heavily on the banister. It was certainly in hand, the business of finding Colin. But the searchers’ motives were far from humane.
‘You OK, Sergeant?’ said Backhouse from the foot of the stairs. He sounded more concerned than the doctor had done.
‘Yes sir,’ said Pascoe, descending.
‘Miss Soper asleep?’
‘I think so.’
Backhouse looked closely at him, his thin scholarly face solicitous, assessing.
‘I’m going back to the cottage. The lab boys should be finished now. I wondered if you felt up to coming with me. I’d appreciate your assistance.’
The ghost of a grin flitted involuntarily over Pascoe’s lips at this semi-formal courtesy. Fat Dalziel, his own superintendent, must have missed out on this part of the senior officers’ training course.
‘Certainly, sir,’ he said.
Some minor telepathy must have operated. As they climbed into the waiting car, Backhouse said, ‘I’ve been talking to Mr Dalziel on the phone.’
‘Oh.’
‘He was naturally sorry to hear what had happened.’
Naturally. But I bet the sod didn’t make the normal polite distressed noises. Backhouse was doing a translation job.
‘He says you’re too important to be spared past the week-end, but I would appreciate what help you can give me in that time.’
Appreciate again. He was being given kid-glove treatment. You didn’t have to be a detective to work out why. But let them say it. He was damned if he was going to broach the matter.
Them. With surprise Pascoe realized that he was thinking of the police as them.
‘Stop here,’ said Backhouse to his driver. The car pulled up outside a high-roofed, pebble-dashed building with narrow, church-like windows. A well-kept notice advertised that this was Thornton Lacey Village Hall. Beneath the gold and black lettering a typewritten sheet supplied the menu of activities that could be sampled in the hall during the current week. Last night, for instance, the Village Amenities Committee had met. And tonight the Old Time Dancing Group was scheduled to waltz, fox-trot, two-step, and polka its way down Memory Lane. But the light fantastic would have to be tripped somewhere else, thought Pascoe as he followed Backhouse into the building.
The large musty-smelling room was full of activity. Shirt-sleeved policemen were arranging tables and two Post Office men were fixing up telephones. All the lights were on to supplement the meagre ration of sunlight the windows let in.
‘The station’s too small,’ said Backhouse. ‘Especially if this turns into a large scale operation. Which I hope it won’t.’
