Death Comes for the Fat Man

6

Edgar Wield was woken by hot lips nibbling his ear.

He lay there enjoying what was a rare treat. Edwin Digweed, who admitted to being at least ten years older than his partner, had made it clear at an early stage that his vital juices ran sluggishly till the sun stood high in the sky, so matutinal dalliance was rarely on the menu at Corpse Cottage.

Then Wield recalled that they’d said their good-byes last night and only half an hour ago he’d heard his partner’s car cough to life and drive away.

He sat bolt upright to check whose hot lips they were.

“Jesus, Monty!” he said. “You’ll get me shot if Edwin finds out you’ve been here.”

Monty drew his lips back and grinned his indifference.

He was a marmoset whom Wield had “rescued” from a drug company lab in somewhat dubious circumstances. Digweed had put up with his presence till a dietary experiment with old books had led to an edict of banishment. Happily Wield had been able to find a new home for the beast in the small wildlife compound at neighboring Enscombe Hall. But Monty never forgot his old benefactor and from to time returned, though he had the wit to keep out of sight when Edwin was around.

It was not yet six o’ clock but with the sun already flooding Eendale with gold, it was pointless trying to get back to sleep, even if Monty were in the mood to permit it. He made himself three slices of white toast, doubled their thickness with butter and raspberry jam, put two spoonfuls of instant coffee and an equal amount of sugar and milk into a mug, filled it with boiling water, and sat down in the sunlit garden. There were some compensations for Edwin’s absence. Breakfasts like this, for instance, with a guest like Monty who accepted a slice of toast gratefully and retired to an apple tree to eat it.

This was Eden before the Fall, thought Wield, not usually a religious man. But the outside world still lurked and, never afraid to face up to reality, he decided to use the borrowed time to perform his promise to Pascoe.

Happily a wireless connection enabled him to use his laptop in the garden and soon he was winging his way through the vast inane of cyberspace.

It proved a relatively easy journey. After an hour he looked at what he’d got, then at his watch, smiled, and took out his mobile.

It was some time before he heard Pascoe’s sleep-slurred voice.

“Wieldy, what the hell’s happened?”

“Nowt. Just ringing in with that stuff you wanted. You did say before eight o’clock, and it’s nearly seven now.”

“Jesus! I’ll get you for this. Hold on while I get a pen. OK, shoot.”

“Here we go,” said Wield. “Kewley-Hodge, full name John Matthew Luke, only son of Alexander John Kewley-Hodge, deceased, and Edith, née Hodge. Well-known Derbyshire Catholic family, hence perhaps the choice of names-”

“I wonder what Mark did to miss out?” said Pascoe.

“Mebbe he interrupted his friends trying to do him a favor,” said Wield.

“Ouch. Go on.”

“Educated Ashby College and Sandhurst. Not married. Served with the SAS in Northern Ireland, Bosnia, Iraq, and Afghanistan. Rose to the rank of major. Badly injured by a mortar shell in Afghanistan. You want the gory details?”

“At this hour in the morning? The outcome will do.”

“Paralyzed from the waist down. Permanent. No hope of recovery. Now lives with his mother at the family home, Kewley Castle, near Hathersage, Derbyshire.”

“Lives with mummy in the family castle, does he?” said Pascoe. “Shouldn’t he have a title or something?”

“No, there’s no title. Family never amounted to much and their castle wasn’t exactly state of the art. Took the Roundheads less than a day to overrun it during the Civil War, so the Kewleys didn’t get a lot of loyalty points to cash in after the Restoration. Being RC didn’t help either, what with the Popish Plot and all. Settled for being gentlemen farmers, declining eventually to genteel poverty with the option of bankruptcy, till the major’s father, Alexander, did a rescue act by marrying Edith, elder daughter of Matt Hodge of Derby, founder of Hodge Construction UK, and worth a bob or two. Tagging the Hodge name on to Kewley was presumably part of the deal.”

“Where are you getting all this stuff?” said Pascoe, impressed.

“Mainly from a local history group’s website.”

“Oh yes. I know the type,” said Pascoe. “Bunch of incomers angling for an invite to the castle with the real peasants. You’ve probably got one in Enscombe.”

“Edwin’s the chairman,” said Wield. “He’ll be interested in your analysis. But as it happens there ain’t no real Kewley Castle to get invited to. Seems the original building was already falling apart by the end of the eighteenth century. The family took over what had been their factor’s house, seventeenth-century farmhouse with improvements. But they kept their old address. There’s little to see of the original castle except a few stones and half a gate tower. Doesn’t even get a mention as a visitor attraction.”

“Might have attracted one visitor I can think of,” said Pascoe. “Anything more?”

“Bit of detail if you’re interested. Real Boy’s Own stuff. Our laddo was top cadet at Sandhurst, commissioned into his local Yorkshire regiment but rapidly transferred to the SAS, awarded DSO for something he did in Bosnia. Bright too. Good linguist, fluent in main European languages, gets by in the rest. Rapid promotion. Looked like he was on track to becoming one of the youngest lieutenant colonels since World War Two, then bang! the wheels came off in Afghanistan. Literally.”

“Farewell the plumed troops, and the big wars,” murmured Pascoe.

“Sorry?”

“I was just wondering what a man does when his occupation’s gone,” he said. “Thanks, Wieldy. As always, you are a wonder.”

“No problem. Oh shit.”

A movement by the open bedroom window had caught Wield’s eye. He looked up to see Monty emerge and perch on the sill. In his paws he held what looked like a very old, very pricey vellum-bound volume.

“What?”

“Got to go. Take care, Pete.”

He switched off the phone. Pursuit he knew was counterproductive. In the marmoset’s eyes, it just became a game. But a clever detective knows that sometimes the name of the game is Softly, Softly…

He went into the kitchen to make some more toast.