Dalziel And Pascoe: Pictures Of Perfection Part 7

'And would it be enough?'

'With planning permission, perhaps. We've taken unofficial soundings,' said Digweed.

'G.o.d help us, that it should have ever come to this,' said Mrs Pottinger, unhappily staring out across the Green.

The children were growing restless. A couple of little girls were giggling furiously at Wield. He recognized one of them as the child who'd run into his bike the previous day and winked at her, redoubling her giggles.

'Now don't get silly,' ordered the teacher, herself regarding Wield curiously.

'This is Sergeant Wield of the detective Police,' said Digweed ungraciously. 'Mrs Pottinger, our headmistress.'

'Nothing wrong, I hope?' she asked.

'Just routine,' said Wield. 'The little blonde girl, who is she?'

'Madge Hogbin. She lives with her grandparents up at Old Hall Lodge. Do you know her?'

'We b.u.mped into each other once,' said Wield vaguely. It would be interesting to have a chat with the child, but not here.

'Well, we must be off,' announced Mrs Pottinger. 'We're going down to the river to see if we can spot the kingfisher. Have you seen it, Mr Digweed? There have been several reports.'

'Not yet. I dare say it will turn out to have been imported by Girlie Guillemard to guarantee the success of all these new ventures at the Hall.'

'I wish there was something we could import to help us,' said the woman. 'All right, children. Move off now. And walk, don't run! Goodbye, Sergeant, Mr Digweed. See you tonight.'

'This Reverend Harding,' said Wield as the crocodile moved off. 'What did he do?'

'The school was in such a state of disrepair sixty years ago that the ancestors of our current Powers of Darkness were threatening even then to close it down and move all the kids to Byreford. Harding rebuilt the place almost single-handed and sent them scurrying back to their caves from which they have emerged, blinking and scratching their crotches, after all these years. But you don't want to stand here chattering about the mere future of a community when you've got the fate of one whole policeman to worry about, do you?'

He strode off, Wield meekly following, till very shortly they reached the village proper, marked on one side of thfc road by a village hall and the other by the Morris Men's Rest.

'Good pub?' said Wield, seeing no opening for a putdown here.

'Depends,' said Digweed, if your tastes run to Heavy Metal, flas.h.i.+ng lights, and draught lager, then it's lousy.'

Wrong again, thought Wield.

They continued up the High Street. Seen on foot, the village was much more extensive than from even a slowmoving motorbike, with frequent ginnels running off between the front cottages into yards where a second range of buildings lurked. At the corner of one of these ginnels stood the village Post Office and Store, with an ornate sign advertising the proprietor as Dudley Wylmot Esquire.

Digweed turned into the shop, with Wield following. Behind the counter, a woman was sorting out some items of mail.

'Shouldn't bother with that, Daphne,' said Digweed. 'Our grand prix of a postman has run his van off the road.'

'Oh dear,' said the woman in a voice that was upper cla.s.s without being refined, is he all right?'

'He'll live to speed another day,' smiled Digweed.

He actually likes her! thought Wield. She was certainly a good-looking woman, art having perfected what nature had well begun, her hair elegantly coiffed and subtly shaded, her face made up with that expertise in which liberality never spills over into excess. Nearer forty than thirty, judged Wield, whose own absence of beauty made him a connoisseur of it in others. And she'll probably look the same when she's nearer sixty than fifty. That at least we have in common!

'Something up, is there, dear? h.e.l.lo, Edwin.'

A man had risen from beneath the shop counter, clutching a tin of processed peas in either hand. He was not dressed for stacking shelves unless a bra.s.s-b.u.t.toned blazer and spotted cravat were the recommended garb. He had a prominent nose over a pencil moustache and from the few words he had spoken Wield guessed that when he said off it would come out like awf.

'Oh h.e.l.lo, Wylmot,' said Digweed unenthusiastically. 'I was just saying that Postman Pat has had a smash.'

Doesn't like him, but, thought Wield.

'Really?' said Wylmot. 'He's all right, I hope?'

'Oh yes. I think so. But they'll need to send someone else for the mail.'

'Not today, they won't. Half-day, or had you forgotten?' said Wylmot cheerfully. 'We were just waiting for Paget before closing.'

'But the mail.. .' protested Digweed.

'It's all right. Nothing that can't wait till the morning.'

'You think not?' said Digweed. 'Does that mean you read all the mail posted here? If so, you must be a quick reader as I myself brought in several packets this morning containing expensive and in most cases closely printed books. I might add that I paid first-cla.s.s postage in expectation of a first-cla.s.s service.'

'You're always saying how these book-collecting chappies spend years chasing up a single volume,' said Wylmot. 'Another day won't make much difference. I say, something that could be important. Kee Scudamore was in earlier and she was saying that Girlie's starting up a shop at the Hall - postcards, stamps, souvenirs, that sort of thing. Have you heard about this?'

'Something,' said Digweed.

'Well, I think it's a bit off.' (Wield smiled invisibly. A definite awf.) 'Don't want to tread on any toes, but give and take's the essence of village life, and it seems to me that the Guillemards are doing a bit too much taking.'

'Then you'd better get yourself up there and make your point clear,' said Digweed. 'Daphne, my dear, nice to see you. Goodbye.'

He looked at Wield as if expecting the door to be held open for him.

Wield said, 'Excuse me, Mr Wylmot, I'm a colleague of Constable Bendish. You've not seen him around, have you?'

'Can't recall last time I saw him. Never around when we were getting burgled, that's for sure!'

Mrs Wylmot said, 'He called in to settle his paper bill yesterday lunch-time.'

'Didn't say anything about his plans for his day off, did he?'

'No. He bought a box of chocolate gingers, I recall, and seemed in a very good mood.'

'He'd probably just booked old Jocky Hogbin for jay- walking with his Zimmer frame,' said Digweed.

'Wouldn't surprise me,' said Wylmot. 'Little Madge used to pick up her granddad's black twist till Bendish threatened me with a summons for selling tobacco to a juvenile. What did he imagine she was going to do with it?'

'Chew it, probably,' snorted Digweed.

On this rare note of unity they parted.

Outside, Wield said, 'Mr Wylmot is like yourself, I take it, sir?'

'Then you can just take it back,' said Digweed indignantly.

'I only meant he's an off-comer, settled here by way of business.'

Digweed said acidly, 'Sergeant, my native woodnotes wild may have lost some of their sylvan resonance, but without wanting to make a chauvinist issue out of it, let me a.s.sure you I am born of good Yorks.h.i.+re stock and that my family tree has its roots deep in this parish. I deeply resent being categorized with Mr Dudley Wylmot who is one of those pathetic souls who, having dreamt all his urban life of the joys of rustic retirement, has been foolish enough to pour his severance pay into realizing that dream.'

'His wife seems a nice lady, but,' prompted Wield.

'But, indeed. How such a creature came to marry Wylmot is a question at least as puzzling as what song the Sirens sang or what name Achilles a.s.sumed when he hid himself among women.'

'Wouldn't know anything about that,' said Wield, 'Is that where I'll find the lady who saw the hat? The Eendale Gallery?'

They had reached the Tell-Tale Bookshop.

'Yes,' said Digweed, 'It is by the way Kee you want, the elder sister, the blonde.'

'There's another, is there?'

'Yes. Caddy. She is - how shall I put it? - artistic. In your pursuit of hard factual clarity, you would be well advised to avoid converse with Caddy.'

His tone was almost devoid of irony. I wonder why, thought Wield.

He let his gaze drift from Digweed's face to the sign above the Wayside Cafe.

'Creed,' he said suddenly.

'Is that a request? A command? Or the beginnings of a conversion?' asked Digweed.

'It says up there the lady who runs the cafe is Dora Creed. Any relation of that farmer back there?'

'Brother and sister.'

'Ah.'

'Ah what?'

'I'd been wondering how a man up to his eyes in lambs could have heard so quick about Constable Bendish.'

'And you conclude this is explained by his having a sister working in the centre of the village? How beautifully logical, Sergeant. And how elegantly ill.u.s.trative of the deficiencies of the detective process.'

'Oh? Why's that?'

'Because Dora Creed stopped speaking to George yesterday lunch-time.'

'I see,' said Wield, who didn't. 'And why was that?'

'Because of George's sin, Sergeant,' said Digweed gravely. 'Dora is a most religious lady. I myself regard religion as mostly pie in the sky, but if the pie is Dora Creed's apple, I may be a convert yet.'

'And just what was this sin?' persisted Wield.

Digweed laughed his superior laugh and said, 'That's where you could really impress with your detective skills. You see, no one has yet been able to find out. Sniff it out, Sergeant, sniff it out!'

I'd rather sniff out one of Dora's pies, thought Wield, his nose twitching at the delicious smells wafting from the cafe.

But duty called.

'I'll do my best, sir,' he said to Digweed. 'Thank you for your help.'

And hoping, though doubting, that his courtesy might give the bookseller a brief frisson of shame, he headed for the Eendale Gallery.

CHAPTER VI.

'Our Improvements have advanced very well.'

In England, before the Great War destroyed the eternal verities, for a n.o.ble family to stop 'improving' their country seat was pretty clear evidence of financial difficulties.

In the years since, however, it has been the arrival of the contractors which has signalled trouble, for no longer are 'improvements' made in the name of beauty, taste or even convenience, they are offerings on the altar of commerce.

Such thoughts ran through Peter Pascoe's mind as he negotiated the driveway up to Old Hall and came to a halt on a building site.

It was not a particularly large building site but typical of the genus in that order was minimal and activity non-existent. The work seemed centred on a building separate from the main house and he guessed this was the stable block which was going to house the Holistic Health pract.i.tioners.

Like many men who see the clouds of middle age on the horizon, Pascoe's scientific scepticism about alternative medicine cloaked a superst.i.tious hope that some astounding revelation would blow the clouds back before it was too late. So it was with the reverence of a man entering a church that he pushed open the stable door.

The smell that met him was just about right for a man in search of a quasi-religious experience. Thuriferously spicy, malty and leafy, it seemed to emanate from a column of smoke. A burning bush perhaps. If so, it should speak.

It spoke. A warbling bird-like note, once repeated. Then a female voice. G.o.d after all was a woman.

'Yes, this is Girlie Guillemard. No, I do not see the point of checking again, but I shall do so. Wait.'

Out of the smoke emerged a woman. Her tangle of ochrous hair was restrained by a fillet of baling twine. She wore a moulting brocaded waistcoat over a once elegant silk blouse tucked into a pair of overlarge jeans whose rolled-down waist underpinned her heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s and whose rolled-up legs overhung a pair of Wellingtons, one green and one black. Her face was round, her eyes were grey, her nose was snub, her mouth too large, allowing plenty of room for both the meerschaum which was the source of the smoke, and the mobile telephone into which she was speaking. She was incredibly attractive.

At sight of Pascoe she halted and said, 'You from Wallop?' Or perhaps it was 'You for wallop?', meaning some startling new therapy. But Pascoe knew he was fantasizing, having glimpsed the sign proclaiming that the mess outside was the responsibility of Philip Wallop (Contractor) Ltd.

He said, 'No.'

'Is there anyone out there?' she asked.

a.s.suming the question was neither theological nor thespian, he shook his head.

'There is no one here,' she bellowed into the phone. 'And as it is now past the hour when Mr Wallop's employees start packing up when they are here, I doubt if anyone's coming today, wouldn't you agree? So just tell Mr Wallop this when he finally emerges from his box of Transylvanian earth. Tomorrow lunch-time the whole village will be turning up here for my grandfather's annual Reckoning Feast, and if the area in front of the house isn't clean as a new penny by then, a new penny is a b.l.o.o.d.y sight more than Mr sodding Wallop will get out of me. Got that, dearie? Goodbye!'

She switched the phone off and said, 'Right. Now who the h.e.l.l are you? And what do you want?'