Pictures of Perfection

CHAPTER THREE

‘It really needs a stitch,’ said Fran Harding.

‘Does it? Well, it’ll have to wait,’ said Wield.

‘I could do it,’ the girl offered diffidently. ‘It’s OK. I wouldn’t be using a sewing kit, I’ve got the proper gear.’

‘Have you now? How come?’

‘After I finished my training, jobs were hard to find where I wanted them and Girlie said, why didn’t I stay on here to look after the Squire?’

‘The old gent seems like he can look after himself,’ said Wield drily.

‘He’s frailer than he looks, and he’s got … various things wrong with him. He doesn’t need a full-time nurse by any means, but having one on the spot puts off the time when he will need one, if you follow. At least that’s what Girlie said. And I said yes, because I love it here. Anyway, the point is, I’ve got my own medical store with everything for emergencies. So I can put a stitch in if you like. You’d need to see a doctor about anti-tetanus, though.’

‘That’s all right. My jabs are up to date,’ said Wield. ‘OK, luv. Go ahead.’

She led him upstairs to a small sitting-room comfortably furnished with a couple of old armchairs, a writing bureau, and a few pictures on the walls. She left him here and went off into an adjacent room, returning with a well-stocked medical bag. The stitch took a few seconds to put in, hardly hurt at all and looked a neat, efficient job.

‘That’s grand,’ said Wield. ‘Right professional.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling with pleasure.

He smiled back and said, ‘I were looking at your grandma’s journal before.’

Her expression changed to one of such alarm he hastily added, ‘No, it were more Caddy Scudamore’s picture I were looking at,’ but that didn’t seem to improve matters either.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t prying but I happened to notice it when I was round at Mr Digweed’s, and I know it’s not out yet, but it is going to be published, isn’t it?’

‘What? Oh yes. Of course. Just some extracts. It was Larry, that’s the Vicar, who found it when he was sorting out some old papers in the vicarage. Grandma used to live there, you know, she married Mr Harding, and the journal must have got left behind when they went abroad …’

Something (relief perhaps, though for what?) was making her garrulous. First rule of interrogation was, if you get ’em talking, go with the flow whatever direction it takes. This wasn’t an interrogation but the principle held.

‘Abroad? Where was that?’

‘Africa. That’s where my mother was born.’

‘Africa? You mean, like missionaries? That must have been a change from Enscombe!’

‘I suppose so. But they couldn’t stay on here … well, the family didn’t approve of the marriage, and in those days if there was a row between the church and the Hall, it was the vicar who went.’

‘When your mum were born, didn’t that help mend matters?’

‘If it had been a boy, it might have done, I suppose. But they didn’t rate girls.’

‘Not unless they wanted to marry someone from the hoi polloi,’ said Wield. ‘How did the present Squire react? He must have been your gran’s brother?’

‘He wasn’t around when it all blew up. I think he was in New Zealand or somewhere and by the time he came home, they’d gone out to Africa. His younger brother, Guy, was here, but he seems to have taken the family line.’

‘That ’ud be the present Guy’s grandfather?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah,’ said Wield non-committally, but not so much so that there wasn’t a moment’s silent sympathy between them.

‘And did your gran ever get back here?’ he resumed.

‘No. She died in Africa. They both did.’

‘And your mum?’

‘She was sixteen or seventeen, she wrote to tell them back here what had happened. There was no reply. The Squire, our Squire, found the letter a couple of years later when he inherited, and he wrote off straightaway, but she’d moved on by then and by the time the letter finally caught up with her, she was having too good a time in London in the ’sixties to pay it any heed.’

‘So how did you get here?’ he asked.

‘Mum was in her thirties when she had me. A mistake maybe. Or maybe she wanted something a bit more permanent than anything else she’d got out of the past few years. I never knew who my father was. I’m not sure if she did. But she looked after me as best she could which was a lot better than she looked after herself. When I was nine she knew she was dying of cancer. She wrote a letter to the Squire saying I would be arriving on such and such a train, packed my things, took me to the station, put me aboard, and kissed me goodbye. Girlie met me at the other end. By the time they traced Mum to the hospital she’d been admitted to, she was dead.’

It was a moving story, and though Wield found himself stumped for a response it certainly deserved a better one than it got, which was the eruption of Dalziel into the room saying, ‘Now then, take my eyes off him for a second and he’s off upstairs with the prettiest lass in the house. By God, that’s neat, Sergeant. Have you ever thought of an ear-ring?’

‘We’ve been looking for the kitchen,’ said Pascoe apologetically. ‘The Squire offered some refreshment.’

‘Aye, scraps from the gentry’s table are a feast to us common folk,’ said Dalziel. ‘Which is Aunt Edwina, then?’

There wasn’t much contest as there was only one portrait amid a host of watercolour landscapes. It was a competent rather than striking painting of a lively rather than beautiful woman, in a handsome oval frame, and signed with the initials R.D. at one side.

The three detectives stood before it and studied it with the judicious interest of a Royal Academy selection committee.

Pascoe was struck by an odd sense of familiarity. Wield was musing on the initials. Dalziel was concentrating on the wall.

Fran said, ‘Look, if you’re really hungry, I’m sure we could rustle up something.’

As she spoke she ushered them firmly towards the door.

Wield, unfed since breakfast, was far from loath. Pascoe, recalling how the tea he’d been offered earlier had been snatched from his lips, was cautiously hopeful. Only Dalziel, usually a tiger on the trail of food, was uncharacteristically reluctant.

But even he was unable to resist the gentle pressure applied by the girl to get them out of her room.

But as they descended the stairs they were greeted by Girlie who said, ‘Don’t know if it concerns any of you lot, but there’s a car talking to itself out there.’

They went outside and found Dalziel’s radio crackling his call sign impatiently.

The Fat Man slid into the driver’s seat and admitted his presence. He was told the Chief Constable would appreciate a phone call from him. He looked at his watch. It was past four. Plenty of time for Desperate Dan’s macho brandy to have been diluted by Mid-Yorkshire’s notoriously bromide tea.

‘Right,’ he said.

He got out of the car. Girlie was standing in the doorway, presumably in the hope of seeing them off the premises. He went towards her and said, ‘Is that a phone round your neck, luv, or do you make your own jewellery?’

Without a word, she unhooked the instrument and handed it over. He walked away from them all, dialling, but if this was in the interest of confidentiality, he’d have needed to walk for another ten minutes to render his side of the conversation inaudible.

‘Hello, sir … Aye, it’s me … What? … Oh, that. Group O? Forty-six per cent of the population, nose bleed, gave a lift to a kiddy that had cut its knee, hundred explanations … That’s why I came out myself, to be sure … Aye, I’ve not forgotten the Area Liaison meeting tonight … on my way back now … Mr Pascoe too … no, Sergeant Wield’s spending the night here … at the cottage … the lad’s not due on duty till eight in the morning … likely he’ll turn up right as a trivet, and the Sergeant’ll be there to greet him … Well, if he doesn’t, we’ll have to think again, won’t we? … ’Bye now.’

He returned and handed back the phone to Girlie.

‘Thanks, luv,’ he said, and to Fran standing behind her cousin, ‘Sorry we can’t stay for that grub. Some other time mebbe?’

The two women withdrew into the house.

‘Right,’ said Dalziel. ‘Peter, you hop in and we’ll pick up your car on our way through the village. Wield, you can walk down to the cottage. Do you good, a bit of exercise. You look to me like you’ve been eating too much.’

‘Yes, sir. Sir, why precisely am I spending the night at Corpse Cottage?’

‘What’s up? You’ve not got something better to do? Don’t answer that. Nay, lad, it’s just that I’m not sure what’s going off around here, but if owt else happens, I’d like to think there were someone handy who’s not completely doolally. Right?’

‘Right,’ said Wield unenthusiastically.

‘One thing, but,’ said Dalziel through the car window.

‘Yes?’

‘Gets dark about half-six at this time of year, doesn’t it? I’d make sure you were locked up indoors with a cross round your neck and a clove of garlic up your jacksie! Take care!’

And with his laughter echoing back from the ivied front of Old Hall, Dalziel sent the car lurching out of sight round the curve of the bosky drive, and left the village to darkness and to Wield.