Pictures of Perfection

CHAPTER TWO

Their rescue came almost as quickly as the attack, which was perhaps just as well for the future of civilization as Pascoe knew it, or at least that part represented by Squire Guillemard.

Dalziel had fallen sideways as if in obedience to the first clause of the paralogical command, but once out of sight of the person at the window he bounced up silently and murderously with the wood axe in his hand, clearly intent on severing the gun barrel from its stock, and as much of its owner’s arms from his torso as he could manage.

After that Pascoe did not doubt but that the Fat Man would have run through the wooden wall of the shed to complete the amputative process.

As it was, a sharply upraised female voice crying, ‘Grunk! What are you doing?’ was followed by the immediate withdrawal of the gun and the almost simultaneous opening of the door.

Pascoe, recognizing the voice, was the first to step cautiously into the sunlight. A few feet away he saw Frances Harding with one restraining arm round Selwyn Guillemard’s waist and the other forcing the shotgun barrel downwards.

The weapon jerked spasmodically as Dalziel emerged, and it took all the girl’s strength to maintain it at a safe angle. On the whole, Pascoe found his sympathies with Selwyn here, for the sight of Dalziel furioso, or perhaps more precisely furiosant, for there was certainly more of the mad bull than the enraged hero in his looks, was enough to set a conchie reaching for his rifle.

‘You!’ he snarled, striding towards the old man. ‘Put that gun on the ground else I’ll chop it in half!’

‘Steady on,’ protested the Squire. ‘It’s a Purdey.’

‘I don’t care if it’s Prince Philip’s prick, put it down in one piece else I’ll put it down in two.’

Perhaps feeling that one capable of such lèse-majesté was not going to show much respect for the person of a mere country squire, the old man carefully laid the weapon on the grass.

Dalziel hurled the axe between Guillemard’s feet with a force that buried the head several inches into the turf, scooped up the shotgun and broke it in a single movement.

It was unloaded.

‘He wasn’t going to fire it,’ protested Fran Harding indignantly, then rather weakened her moral position by adding, ‘We don’t let him have any cartridges.’

Pascoe decided it was time for introductions.

‘Sir,’ he said. ‘This is Mr Selwyn Guillemard, who owns Old Hall. And this is Miss Harding, his great-niece. Squire, this is Detective-Superintendent Dalziel of the Mid-Yorkshire CID.’

The Squire, though giving the general impression of being shorter of marbles than the Parthenon, had no difficulty in taking this in.

‘Oh Lord. Bobbies,’ he said. ‘Met you before, haven’t I?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘I called earlier.’

‘Yes. Thought you looked a bit familiar when I saw you breaking in, but after Aunt Edwina, my mind was very much on burglars. And that bleeding fellow’s one of yours too, is he?’

This seemed an unnecessarily rude way of referring to Wield until Pascoe glanced round. A sliver of flying glass must have caught the Sergeant’s left ear-lobe which was gushing like a punctured wine-skin.

‘Wieldy, you all right?’ asked Pascoe anxiously.

‘Fine,’ said Wield phlegmatically, applying an already sodden handkerchief.

‘We really ought to stop that bleeding,’ said Frances.

‘Nay, lass, a good blood-letting never harmed anyone,’ said Dalziel dismissively. ‘And he’s not lost as much as ’ud make a good black pudding.’

But Frances Harding was not to be overfaced.

‘Will you be all right, Grunk?’ she said to her great-uncle.

‘Of course, my dear. You run along and stitch the fellow’s ear back on. Can’t have the place looking like Gethsemane.’

The girl offered the Squire’s arm to Pascoe, who gingerly took it. Then she went to Wield and after a brief examination of the cut urged him towards the house despite his evident reluctance.

‘Trained nurse, you know,’ said the Squire with proprietorial pride. ‘And eats like a sparrow.’

So. Another surprise from the passerine Miss Harding. Or perhaps not. Even when they ate like birds, poor relatives were probably expected to sing a varied repertoire for their supper.

‘Now, sir,’ said Dalziel, whose rage had vanished like a politician’s principles in the face of altered circumstances. ‘I’d like a quick word, if I may. We’ll let the other matter go, shall we? Genuine misunderstanding.’

The Squire shot a glance to second slip as if in search of guidance.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I shan’t bring any charges. But you really ought to get permission before you start breaking into a fellow’s property.’

Pascoe watched to see if this legal one-upmanship would continue, but Dalziel was not a man to lose sight of the main object for long. A patient man, he reckoned that once you’d got what you’d come for, there’d still be a lot of time to kick the other bugger in the balls.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘But you weren’t about. I believe you are a chum of Tommy Winter’s, sir.’

‘That’s right. You know him, do you? Yes, I suppose you would. Run off to the West Indies with the mess funds, your chappie here was telling me.’

‘Was he now,’ said Dalziel. ‘Well, we like to keep these little upsets in the family. What I wanted to talk about was this letter you wrote to Tommy. About Constable Bendish.’

‘He did get it, then? Good. Took his time about replying, I must say. So what are you going to do? Sweep it under the carpet, eh?’

‘We take the matter very seriously, sir, believe me,’ said Dalziel. ‘So you’ll understand if I ask you a few questions, just to make sure we’ve got the facts straight.’

‘Help with inquiries sort of thing, you mean? I’m with you. Fire away.’

Pascoe closed his eyes and wondered how in a world full of politicians, prelates, insurance salesmen, alternative comedians, and Dalziel, evolution had failed to come up with a closable ear.

‘Right. First off, what was the weather like?’

Pascoe opened his eyes.

‘Weather? Let me see. Yes, I’ve got it. Sunny, I recall he was silhouetted against the sun. Had to squint a bit to make out who it was.’

‘Yes, I see. Excuse me, sir, but I wonder, could you tell me what kind of bird that is? Sorry to change the subject but it’s an interest of mine.’

Dalziel pointed upwards. Pascoe strained his eyes to glimpse the object of this hitherto unsuspected ornithological interest circling high to the north.

The Squire said, ‘Buzzard. Useful Johnny for clearing up carrion. Excellent eyesight. Like mine. That satisfy you, Dalziel?’

Stark bonkers he might be, but he was no fool, this Squire.

‘Thank you, Squire,’ said Dalziel, inflecting the word ambiguously so that it fell between feudal address and saloon bar familiarity. ‘Warm sun, was it?’

‘Hardly, man. It was the middle of winter. Sharp wind coming over the moor if I recall.’

‘What we used to call crinkle-ball weather, eh?’

‘Long time since I heard that. But yes. Only in this case …’

‘Yes, sir?’ prompted Dalziel.

‘Fellow didn’t seem to be very crinkled to me. On the contrary. Rigid above and swinging free. Lots of it too. No shortage of coupons when he got his meat ration. Is any of this significant? I mean, are these clues or something?’

‘Could be,’ said Dalziel. ‘So what happened?’

‘He jumped down out of sight.’

‘And what did you do, sir?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, sir. Today when you saw what you thought were odd goings-on around your walled garden, you came belting over here like the Fifth Cavalry.’

‘Well, I didn’t do that for three very good reasons. One, I was in the conservatory and by the time I got me woollies on, he would probably have been long gone. Two, even if he wasn’t, what could I say? You chaps probably go on courses which tell you how to deal with fellows flaunting their tackle, but I’ve led a sheltered life.’

‘You said there were three reasons?’

‘Oh yes. It was time for me tea. But I got to thinking about it, and I thought: It’s not on, this fellow exposing himself all over the place. Could give that little girl of Hogbin’s down at the Lodge a nasty turn. Or even young Fran.’

‘I thought you said Miss Harding had trained as a nurse, sir?’

‘What? Oh yes. Take your meaning. But it’s not the same when it’s in the line of duty. Like a wife. Bound to get the odd glimpse but doesn’t want the thing flaunted at the breakfast table. So I sat down and wrote to Winter. Thought he should know what his troops were up to.’

‘And you were quite right, sir,’ said Dalziel unctuously. ‘Now you just leave it to us. You said something about being worried by burglars earlier.’

‘Did I? Wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘About your Aunt Edwina, I think it was. She’s been having bother, has she?’

The old man laughed, putting Pascoe in mind of those eerie fragmentary bugle notes Mahler was so fond of.

‘Can’t say what kind of bother Edwina’s having, but I doubt it’s from burglars. Must be nigh on sixty years since she got carried down Green Alley. It’s her picture I meant.’

‘And it’s been stolen?’

‘Thought it had. Noticed the gap. Took me a bit of time to get used to not noticing it, if you know what I mean, so I noticed it all the more because it’s not long since I got used to noticing it wasn’t there any more. You with me?’

Was he taking the piss? wondered Pascoe. If so, he was doing it too well for Dalziel to risk a confrontation.

‘If you could mebbe be just a little clearer?’ said the Fat Man.

The Squire said, ‘It’s simple really. Girlie said Fran needed a sitting-room of her own. Funny ideas these women get. And I said, all right, because she was a nice child, and very hardy considering the size of her, hardly ever needed a fire lit. So Girlie gave her Frances’s old room.’

‘Another Frances?’

‘My sister. Fran’s grandmother. She moved out, you know, to marry the Vicar. Took her pictures. They were her own, not the family’s. Edwina had left them to her, you see. So she was entitled even though they did leave gaps.’

‘The gaps you got used to?’

‘That’s right. Till Edwina came back.’

For a moment Pascoe thought they were deep in Corpse Cottage country.

‘Her portrait, you mean,’ said Dalziel.

‘That’s right. That blighter Halavant … do you know the man? You chaps ought to take a close look at him. Peasant family, ne’er-do-wells, not two pennies to rub together, then suddenly they’re rolling in the stuff. Can’t have got it honestly, that stands to reason. But he acted decently here, I must say. His father, Job, had got hold of Edwina somehow and said on his deathbed she had to go back, so Halavant sent her round. No great loss to him or gain to young Fran, really. She was no oil painting, not even when she was, if you follow me.’

‘And this was the painting you thought was stolen?’ asked Pascoe.

‘Haven’t I just told ’em that?’ said the Squire, glancing towards second slip in exasperation. ‘I popped in to see Fran on my way to bed last night, only she wasn’t there. And nor was Edwina. I thought: Hello, you were gone when I came back …’

‘Back?’ said Pascoe. ‘From where?’

‘New Zealand, of course. ‘Thirty-two or-three. Frances had gone off with the Vicar by then — I thought I explained all this!’

‘Ignore the lad, sir,’ advised Dalziel. ‘He’s a bit slow.’

‘Know the type. Good NCO material, but no grasp of strategy. Where was I? Oh yes. Edwina. I thought … then you came back by yourself …’

‘By herself?’ said Pascoe faintly.

‘Yes,’ said the Squire as if to an idiot child. ‘Not with Frances.’

‘There was another picture? Of your sister?’

‘Don’t be an ass! Great-great-something Frances. Now she was a bobby-dazzler. Probably gave Edwina the idea of having herself done. Thought a bit of nifty brushwork could make up for what nature left out. Never works. If God had wanted us perfect, we’d have all been manufactured in Japan!’

Dalziel’s stomach rumbled like an underground train.

‘You hungry?’ said the Squire. ‘Pop round to the kitchen, say I said you could have some scraps.’

Dalziel smiled a saurian smile.

‘Kind of you, sir. Just to get this sorted first, you didn’t report it to the local police by any chance, did you?’

‘To young thingie with the dong? Didn’t want him back up here, did I? No, I went to bed. Mentioned it to Girlie at breakfast this morning. She went off to look, came back and said Edwina was still there where she’d always been, except when she wasn’t, of course. So there you are, all a dream, I expect. Can’t hang around here all day talking about dreams, can I? Work to do. Get some of my best ideas on the move. Wordsworth was the same, you know, used to walk around composing.’

He picked up the Purdey and, using it as a walking stick, tottered off towards the woods which lined the river.

‘What do you make of that, sir?’ asked Pascoe.

‘Composing, he says? Looks more like decomposing to me,’ said Dalziel. ‘But nice neat little feet these Guillemard men have got, haven’t they?’

Uncertain whether the reference was to prosody or cordwainery, Pascoe didn’t reply.

‘Not to worry,’ said Dalziel. ‘Let’s go and see about these kitchen scraps, shall we?’