An April Shroud

15

As Dalziel began to climb the stairs, Tillotson appeared on the landing and stood there looking down at him like a young hero ready to oppose the rising of the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

'You got him to bed?' asked Dalziel.

'Yes. He woke up a bit and started to sing.'

'That's bad. Has he got a bucket?'

'Sorry?'

'A jerry. A piss pot. Something to spew into. When they wake up and start singing it usually means they'll be honking their rings eventually.'

'You're jolly expert,' said Tillotson.

'I should be. I've bedded plenty of drunks in my time.'

'An interesting taste,' said Tillotson. 'Mrs Fielding was asking whether you were back. She's in her room and would like to see you.'

'Right,' said Dalziel. 'I won't be a moment. You going out to help tidy up?'

'What for?'

'Well, after the flood. Make the place look nice and please the customers. You ought to be protecting your investment, son. How are the builders getting on?'

'Oh, pretty well, I suppose.'

'Good. It looks as if you were right after all,' said Dalziel heartily. 'The place'll open on time.'

Tillotson shrugged.

'I suppose so,' he said and made his way downstairs looking disconsolate. What's up with him? wondered Dalziel. Another row with Louisa or is he just unhappy about all those lovely birds they won't let him shoot?

He put the youth out of his mind and proceeded quietly upstairs. The interview with Bonnie would have to wait a while longer. There was something else to do first. While everything he knew pointed in one direction, it was always best to cross check thoroughly.

Uniffs studio was in darkness and it took him a moment or two to find the light switch. The blinds were down over the windows, double and tight fitting to exclude all daylight. Uniff must have been working in here recently.

Dalziel moved lightly across the room to the rostrum camera. He examined it as closely as possible without touching it. If he respected anything it was expertise and he had no desire to do anything which might spoil the set-up. In the end, however, he had to undo a couple of clamps and twist the camera upwards to see what he was looking for. A line of polished brightness in the dull metal of the base-plate.

He made no attempt to return the camera to its former position but wandered around the room whistling tunelessly to himself. He stopped before the old fireplace and knelt down. Something had been burnt here recently. He let the ashes flutter through his fingers, then with a grunt of effort pushed himself upright.

Next he made for the open shelf unit which stood between the windows. There were four large buff envelopes on one of the shelves, three with photographs in them, the fourth empty. He examined the prints in each envelope with interest. Most of the pictures in the first seemed to have been taken in and around Lake House. In some of them a man appeared whom he did not know, but there were sufficient of Hereward Fielding's features in the smiling self-confident face to make him sure this was the dear departed Conrad.

The second envelope contained shots of the funeral, the coffin being mounted on the punt, the watery cortege, misty and ghostlike in the rain-soaked atmosphere; and then one of a solid but sinister figure standing at the end of a half-submerged bridge and gazing impassively over a waste of waters. It was quite a shock to recognize himself.

Pictures taken at the funeral came next. No wonder the poor sodding vicar had got annoyed! The variety of shots and angles indicated that Uniff must have been hopping around like a blue-arsed flea. Dalziel laughed quietly at the thought and looked in the next envelope.

The mood changed though the sequence was maintained. Tillotson falling into the water; Dalziel, full of wrath, preventing him from getting back into the punt; Dalziel examining his dripping suitcase. The man had a flair, there was no denying it, thought Dalziel sourly. Then came the shots taken at the Gumbelow presentation. As a record of the progressive effects of alcohol, they were superb. But their interest to Dalziel was of another kind. He examined them closely and when he had finished was still not quite sure what he had seen.

Finally he picked up the fourth envelope and checked to make sure it was empty. It was. But when he turned to go, the room no longer was.

Mavis Uniff stood by the door watching him curiously. She was so still that she gave the impression that she might have been there all along and Dalziel had to re-run his actions on first entering to convince himself she hadn't been.

'Hello,' he said. 'I was looking for your brother.'

'He's down by the lake,' she said. 'Can I help?'

'No. Nothing really. He showed me some photographs this morning.' he held up the empty envelope.

'Yes. The ones of me.'

'Oh no,' said Dalziel. 'These were – well…'

'Me,' she said calmly, in close-up.'

'Jesus Christ,' said Dalziel. 'You mean you've got a tattoo?'

'No. But we use transfers. The skin-mags like a gimmick. That's all it is, Mr Dalziel. A commercial proposition. Nothing incestuous.'

Dalziel looked at her and shook his head.

'Shocked, Mr Dalziel?' she said. She was as impassive as ever, but observing him very closely.

'Hardly. Surprised a bit. Where are the photos?'

'Burnt,' she said, pointing to the fireplace.

'Why's that?'

'Hank got worried, thought you might remember your civic duty and speak to the local police. It didn't seem worth having a confrontation about a few pictures, not when he can replace them any time. So to be safe, he burnt them.'

'I told him they didn't bother me,' said Dalziel.

'Yes, I know. Seems you changed your mind.'

She turned and left. By the time Dalziel reached the door, turned out the light and stepped into the corridor, she had disappeared.

Quickly he ran downstairs and into Herrie's sitting-room where the telephone was. Balderstone and Cross were planning to leave for Lake House in another fifteen minutes.

'Make it a bit longer,' suggested Dalziel. 'I've got things to do. Oh, and there's something else you can find out for me.'

Before he went back upstairs he looked out of the window. Bertie, Uniff, Papworth and Mavis were standing in a little group, talking earnestly together. Tillotson was sitting alone in the duck punt gazing over the still-swollen waters of the lake.

Grinning broadly, Dalziel climbed the stairs once more and knocked on Bonnie's door. There was a long pause, then, 'Come in,' she called.

She was sitting in front of her dressing-table as if she had not moved since he left her there that morning.

'Sorry I'm late,' he said.

She smiled at him, a cautious tentative smile, not the full beam.

'All alone?' he said.

'Till we get some things sorted,' she said.

'I'm all for that.'

He took his jacket off and laid it on the bed.

'Do you mind?' he asked.

She looked at his broad khaki braces with wry amusement and shook her head.

'Right,' he said, sitting on the bed and beginning a complicated two-handed scratch down the line of his braces. 'Sort away.'

'Andy,' she said. 'There's something going on here I don't know about.'

Dalziel grunted in disbelief.

'They must be doing it underground then,' he said. She ignored him.

'I'll tell you what I know if you tell me what you know.'

'Do we spin a coin for first off?' he asked.

'No. If you agree, I'll trust you,' she answered. 'I'll start.'

Dalziel held two fingers up, like a gun.

'On your mark,' he said. 'Bang.'

‘It's hard to know where to begin,' she said, it's all so mixed up. Listen. This theft business. I suppose you know all the stuffs been accounted for? Well, they wanted you out of the way this morning to sort things out.'

'Who's they!'

'I'm not sure. Bertie certainly. Herrie said he wanted to go into town to arrange about the money and naturally I offered to take him. But Bertie said no. It had to be you. He rang the garage later, you know, and asked them to deliver your car. He wants rid of you altogether.'

'I'd noticed,' said Dalziel. He arranged the pillows as a back rest and stretched himself out on the bed. The brandy fumes were rubbing like a cat against the inside of his eyeballs and sleep would be easy.

'But why, Andy? I can't get any sense out of him.'

'Perhaps he doesn't like my after-shave lotion,' yawned Dalziel.

'No! I mean what's going on? Has there or has there not been a robbery? Where's Mrs Greave?'

'Questions, questions,' murmured Dalziel, his eyes half closed. 'You've told me nowt and already you're asking questions. Tell me this, why'd the old man change his mind?'

'I don't know. Family loyalty; God knows. Herrie's mind doesn't work like other people's.'

'Oh aye. He's a poet. Some folk used to think that was a defence in law. Like being daft. It's a lot like being daft, isn't it? I mean, if you're wise enough not to put cash into a half-baked business scheme when it's got some faint chance of succeeding, you've got to be daft to put it in just after a robbery's removed most of the visible assets. Don't you agree?'

'Why the hell didn't you ask Herrie yourself?' demanded Bonnie. 'You're his big mate at the moment.'

'Oh, I did, I did,' said Dalziel. 'But he's very close. Talks a lot but says nowt. That's what comes of being a poet. Tell you what I think, though.'

'What?'

'Come and sit beside me,' said Dalziel, patting the bed. 'Don't want to risk being overheard.'

Bonnie glanced uneasily round the room then brought her chair close to the bedside.

'This'll do,' she said in a low voice. 'You ought to get one thing straight in your mind, Andy. I bed down for pleasure, nothing else.'

'Me too,' said Dalziel. 'Here's what I think. I think Herrie must have known that the stolen stuff was going to be returned. And he must have known because someone told him last night. You had a long chat with someone in here last night.'

'So you listen at bedroom doors too!' she said scornfully.

'Only for pleasure,' he said. 'Nothing else. Anyway I heard nowt, just voices. Did you tell him?'

'How could I tell him what I didn't know?' she demanded.

'All right. So Herrie came to tell you he'd changed his mind, which means someone else had been talking to him already. What made him change his mind? Two things, I think. One selfish. The poor old sod's shit-scared of dying. He wraps it up in words, but that's the bottom of it. Which is interesting, eh? He thinks there's someone in this house capable of knocking him off.'

'And the other thing?'

Dalziel's eyes were fully closed now. Repose did nothing for his face.

'Unselfish. I've got this lad works for me in Yorkshire. Bright. Got degrees and things. I listen to what he says, pick the pearls out of the pig-crap. He'd say that most people doing something selfish like to find some unselfish reason for doing it. Not that you're going to change your crime figures much by saying things like that! No, but sometimes… anyway, what's old Hereward got to be unselfish about? I tell you; one thing only that I've observed.'

'What's that?'

'Nigel.'

Dalziel opened one eye and squinted at Bonnie.

'Why don't you fetch him in?'

He closed his eye again, heard Bonnie rise and walk across the room, heard the bathroom door open.

When he opened his eyes again, Nigel was standing at the foot of the bed.

'Where's the grapes, son?' asked Dalziel.

'What?'

'You're standing there like a reluctant relative on a sick visit. For Christ's sake, make yourself comfortable.'

The boy came round the bed and sat in the chair vacated by his mother. Bonnie pushed Dalziel's feet aside and sat at the foot of the bed. She opened her mouth to speak but Dalziel shushed her.

'I'll do the talking,' he said. 'You listen. Both of you. I'll be brief. Don't interrupt. This whole project was never a serious attempt to get a restaurant going. At least not on your dad's part, Nigel. I mean, think about it! A medieval Banqueting Hall! Did you ever hear of owt so daft! So what was going on? I'll tell you. Bertie came home from Liverpool one fine day with a bright scheme for burning this place down and picking up the insurance. Only, it had to be a bit more complicated than that. To really collect you need something worth insuring, not just a tatty old house.

'He'd got a taste for this when he was in Liverpool and he was dealing with Uniff's bit of fire trouble. They recognized fellow spirits and came to an arrangement by which Uniff claimed for ten times more stuff than got damaged. It was so easy, they reckoned they could make a good living out of it.

'So they work out this scheme. It's ingenious. Launch what looks like a genuine business venture, so you're insuring not only a building which has rocketed in value since it got refurbished, but also the business itself. I haven't seen the policy yet, but I gather they're covered for six months' loss of estimated profits. Plus, of course, a little bonus. You're covered for all fittings, furnishings, stock etc. But why burn it? Why can't it, like Uniffs equipment, just be moved elsewhere? Resold later? I wondered why anyone should want to store all that junk I found. But I soon caught on. If you're going to claim for expensive reproduction furniture and hangings, not to mention costumes, you need lots of ash of the right kind. It's a grand scheme. Really grand.'

Dalziel shook his head in reluctant admiration. Bonnie let out an incredulous sigh.

'I don't believe it,' she said. 'I don't believe it.'

Dalziel put on his favourite-uncle look and reached across to pat her knee with one hand while with the other he squeezed Nigel's arm reassuringly.

'I know it's hard,' he said. 'I'm sorry. They didn't tell you; knew it would be no good. You wouldn't have gone for anything like that. Aye, the criminal mind recognizes honesty when it sees it.'

Bonnie looked at him sharply but his expression matched his tone of vibrant sincerity.

'No, I reckon that in on the deal were Bertie and his father, the Uniffs, and Mrs Greave and Papworth, of course.'

'Why Mrs Greave?'

'Obvious. You wanted to take on someone who'd look after the skivvying behind the scenes. They couldn't risk you getting hold of some nice ordinary kitchen manager who'd spot something funny was going on right off. So they brought in Mrs Greave. As Papworth's recently widowed daughter, she wouldn't be asked for references, that kind of thing. And she was very useful to have around. No doubt she and Papworth were going to start things burning while the rest of you were giving each other nice alibis a good distance away. A big fire like this, you see, they'd look very closely at it. That's where your husband came in.'

'How?'

'Well the REME's one branch of the Army where they let officers know things. With his electrical know-how, it must have seemed a good idea to have some kind of electrical fault causing the fire. Now in an old place like that, especially an old stables, you must have had a lot of rats. Stands to reason. Right then. A big hungry rat comes along, sees some nice new wire, decides to have a chew. What happens? It sinks its teeth in, gets electrocuted and sets up a short. I won't get technical, because I know bugger all about it, but it's possible. It has happened. A little glow becomes a big fire. When the fire-investigation officer has a look, what does he find? Well, the charred remains of a rat for one thing. And if there's enough left to do any tests on, he finds it's been electrocuted. Problem solved. Insurance coughs up. Everyone's happy.'

'How do you know all this, Andy?' asked Bonnie quietly.

'I'm guessing. But it seems likely unless Mrs Greave kept frozen rats in your fridge to make pies with. Frozen electrocuted rats.'

'What happened to Mrs Greave.'

'Simple,' said Dalziel cheerfully. 'She spotted me right off. Didn't need to search my pockets. Her kind know a bobby when they see one. So she got cold feet in the end and took off. She was scared that Bertie and Uniff might still go ahead even with me around. She wanted no part of it, so off she went to sell her wares down Lime Street again.'

Nigel shifted in his chair and Dalziel looked at him thoughtfully.

'Of course, if you suspected some of this, it might explain why you decided to run away, lad,' he said. 'You're a puzzle to me, I must admit.'

'I just wanted to be by myself,' said the boy unconvincingly.

'Like Garbo,' guffawed Dalziel. The boy flushed and began to stand but the big hand caught hold of his arm again, not reassuringly this time, but like a clamp.

'Sit still, lad. Visiting time's not up yet. I've not finished my story. You see, everything was fixed to go ahead. All that was needed was to get at the wiring and plant the rat. So first they got the workmen out of the way. Someone, the Uniff girl I think, rang Gibb and said there was no money in the kitty. Gibb remarked how badly Conrad conducted the interview, not his usual persuasive self at all. You see, he wanted the workmen out of the way so he could work at his leisure. And also having Gibb off the job gave him the excuse for carrying on himself so that no one i.e. you, or Herrie, or Louisa or even Charley Tillotson, would be surprised to find him up a ladder with a drill. But then he did something very silly which spoilt everything.'

'Yes,' said Bonnie.

'He had his accident and got killed. Jesus! I bet that upset everybody. Careful, son!'

He spoke sharply to Nigel who had forced himself upright and glowered threateningly down at the recumbent policeman.

'Never hit a man when he's down,' advised Dalziel. 'Not unless you can hit him so hard, he'll stay down. Stand if you want, but don't go away.'

'Why are you doing this, Andy?' asked Bonnie.

'Because he's got as much right as you have to know what his dad was up to. Frankly I don't think either of you find it too hard to believe. He sounds a likely lad, does old Conrad. But it's better you hear about it now, straight, than that you get it through some roundabout questioning later on.'

'Questioning? Who from?' asked Bonnie. 'You mean that the police can still do something about it, even though nothing happened?'

'Mebbe,' said Dalziel grimly. 'There's a thing called conspiracy. Hard to prove if people keep their mouths shut. Me, I reckon that Bertie's got sense enough to try to cut his losses and actually make a go of the business. I think that's the other reason Herrie has decided to invest his money. I don't know how much he knew, but he must have had a shrewd idea of what his son was like. But then so must you.'

He eyed Bonnie thoughtfully for a moment before going on.

'Anyway, now the only way of protecting the investment and protecting your and Nigel's interests is to make a go of things, I don't know if it's possible but it looks as if they're going to have a try. I just want to be sure there aren't any fires around here in a couple of months time when everybody's forgotten I ever existed. Well, that's it.'

He made to rise from the bed, but Bonnie restrained him.

'You run along, Nigel,' she said to her son. 'There are one or two things Mr Dalziel and I have to talk about.'

The boy rose and left without speaking.

'He looks as if he could do with two good nights' sleep,' commented Dalziel.

'Couldn't we all?' said Bonnie. 'Andy, why are you doing this?'

'Doing what? I'm doing nowt except having a private chat.'

'Private chat nothing! You know damn well Bertie will screw everything you've said out of Nigel in ten minutes flat. And if he didn't talk, well, I'd have to.'

'That's honest,' said Dalziel. He eased his braces off his shoulders, settled back on the pillow and inserting his hand into his shirt began to scratch his belly. Impatiently she snatched his hand away. He opened one eye and looked at her. With a sigh she leaned forward so that her head rested on his chest, pulled his shirt out of his waist-band and began to scratch for him.

'Oh Andy,' she said. 'What are you up to?'

'What do you mean?'

'Well you're a policeman, and I think you believe in it. But you seem to be giving us a warning.'

'I'm on holiday,' he said. 'A little bit to the left. That's grand.'

'Well,' she said dubiously. 'I suppose there's a bit of the Sydney Cartons even in the nastiest, most cynical of us.'

'Of the what?'

'Oh, do stop pretending to be pig-ignorant! Yes, I suppose one generous, unselfish act might squeeze even you into heaven.'

'I'm at it all the time,' protested Dalziel. 'Farther down please. Ah!'

She kneaded away at his flesh with strong fingers.

'Oh Andy,' she said. 'I need someone to trust and rely on. I really do. I'm tired of trying to hold things together single-handed.'

Dalziel reached over her shoulder and cupped her right breast in his broad palm.

'Why don't you take two hands to it?' he asked.

Forty-five minutes later after a perfunctory tap on the door, Tillotson burst in and halted, red with embarrassment, when he saw the two heads on the pillow.

'What is it, Charley?' asked Bonnie in an exasperated tone.

'I'm sorry,' said Tillotson, retreating, it's just that the police are here again. They want to see everyone. They say that Mrs Greave is dead.'

He left and Bonnie poked Dalziel hard with her forefinger.

'You knew about this?'

'Aye,' he said, sitting up and yawning.

She watched him in silence as he got out of bed and began to dress.

'Listen, love,' he said as he peered in the mirror and dragged her silver-backed brush through his greying and retreating stubble, ‘It's no good lying there looking suspicious. My shoulders are no good as public leaning posts. I either carry you or I drop you. Partnership means doing things my way.'

She laughed at this, realized he hadn't intended a joke, frowned, then flung back the sheets and jumped out of bed.

The brush paused in mid-stroke as Dalziel regarded her in the mirror.

'All right,' she said. 'You're the boss. Lead on, Sydney. Even if we are travelling by tumbril.'