Pictures of Perfection

CHAPTER TWO

And now the villagers began at last to sense that this year’s Reckoning might hold some surprises, though none as yet could guess their full extent.

The first hint came when Girlie appeared and instead of taking her customary place in the factor’s chair stood to one side. Behind her, looking very old, and assisted by Guy the Heir, came the Squire. Normally he didn’t appear till the business was transacted and the feasting began. Now he allowed himself to be led to the table, seated himself in the only chair and watched with grey indifference as Guy somewhat officiously laid the estate ledgers before him and opened them at the requisite page.

Then Fran Harding appeared, and the villagers realized that they had missed seeing her hurrying around at Girlie’s beck and call.

Her cousin watched her breathless approach with a stony face.

‘Nice of you to come,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how we’ve managed without you, but we have.’

‘Oh, Girlie, I’m sorry … I can explain …’

‘What’s to explain? You’re a free agent. Obligations, responsibilities, desert, what the hell do things like that mean at Old Hall?’

There was a bitterness here which went beyond simple rebuke. Fran’s attention had been so focused on her cousin that she hadn’t noticed the Squire’s presence till now.

‘Girlie, what’s happened? Why’s Grunk collecting the rents?’

‘He’s entitled. They’re his tenants, aren’t they?’

The Squire had noticed Fran’s arrival. He spoke briefly to Guy who came towards them.

‘My favourite cousins!’ he said with gushing mockery. ‘Doesn’t it give you a sense of the continuity of things, all the living Guillemards gathered here for this ancient ceremony? And I do mean all of them! I do so love history, the old traditions, that sort of thing. You too, I bet, Girlie?’

‘Within reason,’ she said with cold control.

‘But reason has prevailed, hasn’t it, my sweet? Good try, though. I’d say better luck next time, only I don’t think there’s going to be a next time. Fran, the Squire was a tad distressed to find himself deserted by his little accompanist on this important day …’

‘Yes, I’m sorry, I’ll go and tell …’

‘No need. He’s asked me to say that your services won’t be required as he has decided to dispense with the promised performance of his ghastly ballad. Good Lord! What’s he doing here? And him? And them?’

His voice rising in an accelerando of indignation was clearly audible in the hush which the latest arrivals had caused.

First, and the object of greatest amazement, was Justin Halavant. That he should be here at all was astounding. That he should be here hand in hand with Caddy Scudamore was as far beyond explanation as it was precedent.

Alone, the limping figure of Harry Bendish might have raised a groundswell of speculation. In the wake of history-in-the-making, he barely occasioned a ripple.

As for Kee, Larry, and the three policemen trailing along behind, they went almost unnoticed till the Vicar detached himself from the group and approached Mrs Pottinger with his message of hope. Soon the news was buzzing round the crowd. The vicarage belonged to the village … the school belonged to the village … the Morris and Hall belonged to the village … the greater part of Mid-Yorkshire belonged to the village! But not for this did the Enscombians, who were quite capable of juggling three or even more rumours in the air at once, cease to conjure up speculation about Justin and Caddy, while still analysing the reasons for the unusual arrangements behind the big oak table.

Halavant, whose air of sang-froid concealed an uneasiness at the risk he ran of inspiring another Guillemard rebuke to match that which Jake had taken so badly all those years ago, advanced to the table, decided against offering his hand, but instead raised it and gave a cross between a friendly wave and a military salute to the Squire.

The old man gave him a puzzled frown and looked questioningly towards second slip. The village held its breath. The old man’s gaze swung back, his hand rose to ear level, and the fingers twitched in a respondent wave.

The village breathed again, and voices rose up even more strongly as favourite theories were advanced and demolished. Then they were reduced to silence again as Guy the Heir banged his fist on the table and proclaimed that the Squire was now ready to collect his rents.

There weren’t many of them and much of what there was was hardly worth collecting.

First to come forward were the pensioners to offer their pride-saving tokens. Next came a trio of smallholders who scratched a living out of poultry and rabbits and a few strips of vegetables. Then came the estate’s cottagers, among them Elsie Toke, her myopic gaze still straining round in search of Jason. It was indeed rare that she was seen outside her home without her son, but her kindly friends and neighbours assured her the lad would be taking advantage of the occasion to pick up a few birds in the Squire’s woods, and he’d be along just as soon as the Feast began.

Finally it was the turn of the farmers. Only three remained of the dozen or more who had once owed allegiance to the Old Hall estate. Like the others before them, they advanced in turn, declared the name of their property, paid their dues, watched while the payment was entered in the ledger, received formal thanks in their own name, then shook hands with the Squire in a gesture which owed more to feudal fealty than modern social convention.

George Creed was the last to come forward.

‘Crag End,’ he announced loud and clear, and laid his rent on the table.

Guy Guillemard picked up the cheque and took his time examining it, underlining his offensive intention by holding it up to the light like a dubious banknote.

Neither Creed nor the Squire paid any attention to his pantomime but regarded each other steadily till at last Guy made the entry in his ledger.

‘Thank you, George Creed,’ said the Squire.

‘Thank you, Squire,’ said Creed, taking the proffered hand.

They shook. Creed took a little step back, but the Squire held on and used the leverage of the other’s grip to draw himself upright. The watching villagers, already alerted to the possibility of something out of the ordinary by the Squire’s active participation, abandoned hope of immediate encounter with Dora Creed’s confections and with quite a different appetite concentrated their attention on her brother.

‘George, will you come round this side of the table. Please,’ said the Squire.

Creed’s eyes went from the Squire to Girlie. Then he nodded and went round the table, taking up a position between the woman and her grandfather.

‘What’s going off?’ muttered Wield to Digweed while this was going on.

‘I think,’ said Digweed, ‘that the Squire has at last discovered what most folk in the village have always known, that George Creed is his grandson.’

‘By God,’ said Wield. ‘Rider Haggard never wrote owt like this. Does this mean that Guy the Heir’s going to get disinherited?’

Digweed shook his head.

‘God, His angels, and everyone in Enscombe would certainly like to see it, but I fear that natural justice has never figured large in the calculations of the English gentry. Bastards and daughters rate only slightly higher than the horses in the stables when it comes to inheritance. No, I suspect the worst. The Squire looks far too unhappy to be about to do something as enjoyable as ditching the ghastly Guy!’

It was true. The old man’s face was set in the grim mask of one about to set foot on the scaffold. Curiously, it made him look younger. His back was straight, his eyes clear and his voice strong as he started to speak.

‘My friends, you are welcome as always to this our traditional Reckoning. Once it was purely the occasion of necessary business with some equally necessary hospitality thrown in. For many years the business has contracted and could just as well be carried on in other more casual ways, but the hospitality, the coming together of village and hall, has grown in importance. This is far from being the only day on which we meet and enjoy each other’s company. But it is a good day and one I should be reluctant to see disappear.’

There were several cries of ‘Hear! Hear!’ and a scattering of applause which he let die down before proceeding.

‘Today, however, I do have some business to transact which can only be dealt with on such an occasion, because I want all of you who belong here in Enscombe to witness it. I have lately discovered what I dare say many of you have long known, or at least suspected. That George Creed here is my grandson.’

He paused. The absence of oohs and ahs confirmed his guess at general knowledge and he slowly nodded.

‘I have always known him as a good tenant, a skilled farmer, and a fine man, so the discovery causes me no pain save that of not having the pleasure of this knowledge long ago. It also means I have another granddaughter who happens to be the best baker in Yorkshire, so there’s another cause of joy.’

He directed a smile of great charm towards Dora who was looking gobsmacked, then went on.

‘Of course, I have already been blessed by one granddaughter who has been to me and to Old Hall a tower of strength, a helpmeet, a friend. Without her … Well, I am not sure where we would be today without her.’

Girlie had lit her pipe and was hiding her emotions behind a cloud of smoke. George Creed reached out his hand and took hers, preparing those who needed to be prepared for what was to come next.

‘So when, after telling me about George’s relationship with me, she went on to tell me about her relationship with George, I could only be delighted for them both. For what she told me was that they are in love and intend to marry.’

More applause from the village, more gobsmackery from Dora. But the smile which had touched the Squire’s thin lips faded quickly to prepare the watchers for bad news to come.

‘But all this good news brought me sorrow too, for naturally, once I had digested it, my thoughts turned to the question of the inheritance of the estate. I had wrestled with this problem before. My granddaughter has proved herself in every respect fit and worthy to run Old Hall. She has known all her life that she could never inherit, but not for this has she ever stinted her efforts on the family’s behalf. And her great desert some few years ago made me debate whether the time had not come to cut through the old law of male primacy, bar the entail, and make her my heir. You see how freely I speak to you.’

This last was apparently addressed to the listening villagers, but to Pascoe it seemed that for a moment the old man’s steady gaze moved away to that second slip with whom he seemed to be in such close communion.

Now it jerked back and he went on, ‘But I felt that I who was Squire because my ancestors had stuck so rigidly to this tradition did not have any right to change it. By law, by custom, by right of birth, I had an heir and I would be doing him great wrong to disinherit him on a personal whim.’

Guy tried to look serious but only succeeded in looking smug. A couple of his colourful entourage clapped their hands but were quickly shushed by the others who were more sensitive to the mood of the meeting.

‘But now,’ resumed the Squire, ‘I find I have a direct male descendant. What is more, a descendant who is soon to ally himself even more closely with the family by marrying my beloved granddaughter. The struggle is renewed, and you may imagine how much more fiercely it has raged this time even than last.’

‘Always a lot easier to leave unwanted daughters out on the hillside to die,’ murmured Digweed.

Wield didn’t respond. He was concentrating all his attention on the drama going on behind the table.

‘Yet basically I knew that nothing had changed. The laws of legitimacy are as strong as, indeed are an integral part of, the laws of male primogeniture. I am admitting you to the workings of my thought today because I want you to understand the workings of my heart also. Before you all I want to acknowledge, and to acknowledge with pleasure and pride, this man George Creed as my grandson. But equally, at the same time …’

He paused. Guy the Heir was regarding him with rapt expectation. The villagers of Enscombe too were raptly expectant, but not, from their faces, of aught for their comfort.

‘Here it comes,’ hissed Digweed. ‘The face of tomorrow, God help us every one.’

The Squire was peering openly now at second slip as if hoping like a monarch of old that even at this late stage a champion would ride forth to defend his family’s honour. But second slip had no help to offer, and now the Squire shrugged and turned to Guy. At last he showed every year of his age.

‘But equally, at the same time,’ he repeated, ‘I have to acknowledge my great-nephew, Guy Guillemard …’

‘Wait!’

And, as in all the best legends, at this very latest of last minutes, a Champion appeared.

It was Wield, moving steadily and purposefully forward. Digweed took an anxious step after him, then stopped. Dalziel said to Pascoe, ‘What’s yon daft bugger up to?’

Girlie Guillemard stopped puffing at her pipe and wafted away the concealing clouds so that she could more easily view the interrupter.

Wield advanced till he was standing directly opposite Guy the Heir.

He’s going to issue a challenge! thought Digweed with mingled anguish and delight.

‘Guy Guillemard,’ intoned Wield in a voice which carried to the furthermost corners of the garden. ‘I am arresting you for an offence under the Protection of Birds Act 1954, Schedule One, Part One, insomuch as it is alleged that on the banks of the River Een within the Parish of Enscombe you did feloniously shoot and kill a protected bird, to whit a kingfisher. You have the right to remain …’

But before Wield could complete the caution, the Squire had seized Guy’s arm and demanded in a voice strong with anger, ‘Is this true? You shot the kingfisher?’

‘So I shot a bird,’ said Guy, trying unsuccessfully to shake the old man off. ‘You must have killed many a thousand in your time. This stupid plod’s jerking us about. What a man does on his own land …’

‘This is not your own land,’ said the Squire. ‘Have you no idea what the kingfisher means to the Guillemards?’

Guy, suddenly aware that this might be more serious than the humiliation of a public dressing-down, tried to compose his features to conciliation.

‘Look, if I did this, I’m sorry. But I’m not sure I did. OK? I take the occasional pot at a pigeon or a crow while we’re working in the woods, so do most of my team …’

He looked towards his team and a couple of heads finally nodded in belated confirmation.

‘… and these aren’t country boys, they wouldn’t know the difference between a kingfisher and a capercaillie, so if one of them …’

‘It was shot with a crossbow,’ said Wield. ‘The bolt was retrieved from the body so there could be little doubt that the killer knew what he had done. The same bolt was later fired into the inn sign of the Morris Men’s Rest. Assaulting this sign seems to be a hobby peculiar to the Guillemards, or do your team emulate you in this also?’

‘How do you know it was the same bolt?’ demanded Guy desperately.

‘Forensic examination of blood traces,’ said Wield promptly. ‘DNA testing has linked the blood on the bolt to this precise bird.’

Dalziel and Pascoe looked at each other incredulously, knowing this was pure invention. Guy too was trying to look incredulous but making a pretty poor fist of it.

The Squire said, ‘Guy, I have never been fond of you, but I always thought that at least you were a Guillemard. Now I hope that my poor dead brother, or his son, your father, was cuckolded, because it shames me to call you kin.’

And now Guy finally abandoned hope.

‘Well, I hope so too,’ he said, his good-looking face twisted in rage. ‘Because you don’t think I ever got any pleasure out of having people know I was related to an antique loonie who spends his time composing doggerel that would disgrace a nursery rhyme, not to mention this pipe-smoking freak of a granddaughter. Helpmeet, you called her. What’s that mean? That she rocks you to sleep with a hand job once a week … Jesus!’

The old man had released his arm and stepped back to give himself room for a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree swing of the right hand which ended with a crack on Guy’s face that sent the rooks squawking up out of the Wilderness trees.

For a second Guy looked as if he might retaliate.

Then: ‘Fuck you,’ he said. ‘Fuck the lot of you.’

And he strode away towards the house and a few moments later they heard the roar of his Land Rover as he gunned it down the drive.

The Squire stood nursing his hand. Girlie and Fran rushed up to him.

‘Grandfather, are you all right?’ asked Girlie anxiously.

‘I think I may have sprained my wrist,’ said the old man.

‘Let me take a look,’ said Fran.

‘In a moment,’ said the Squire. ‘Friends …’

As he raised his voice once more, the excited buzz of speculation faded away.

‘Fucata non Perfecta,’ proclaimed the Squire. ‘The rents are paid.’

‘What’s that mean?’ demanded Dalziel.

‘From the look of it,’ said Pascoe, ‘I think it means grub’s up.’

‘About bloody time too!’ said Dalziel. ‘Let’s get stuck in while there’s some left!’