Ruling Passion

Chapter 9

'Stop here,’ said Pascoe. Ferguson obeyed him as literally as possible and despite their low speed managed to skid noisily on the gravel drive.

I was right to drive all the way down, thought Pascoe with a shudder as he climbed out.

'I don't anticipate any trouble,' he said through the open door. 'But keep your eyes skinned. Poke around the garage and see if you can spot the Citroen.'

He slammed the door and a hand gripped his shoulder. Dalziel's philosophy included the dictum if anyone grabs you from behind, don't think, give 'em the heel and the elbow.

Pascoe turned slowly and smiled at Culpepper's mother. He was glad he had ignored Dalziel's advice, not just out of chivalry but also because he doubted whether his judo could cope with the vicious-looking secateurs she carried.

'That could ruin a machine!' snapped the old woman, pointing at the scattering of gravel the car-wheels had sprayed on to the lawn. 'Have you no consideration?'

'Sorry,’ said Pascoe. 'Ferguson, see that all these bits of stone are returned to the drive, will you?'

'What are you after anyway? You're that policeman, aren't you?'

'Yes. I'm that policeman. I'd just like a word with your son,' said Pascoe, walking across the lawn towards the front door. The old woman accompanied him, matching him stride for stride.

'I knew there'd be trouble,' she said suddenly.

'Sorry?'

'When I was young, police coming to the house always meant trouble.'

'We only trouble those who trouble us,' said Pascoe with a smile.

They had come to a halt outside the front door. He had not spotted any movement through the windows.

'I liked your friends,' she said as she pushed open the door. 'Some things beat explanation. Step inside.'

'Thank you,' said Pascoe. He glanced back down the garden. Ferguson was on his knees in search of gravel, a light breeze spilling his longer-than- regulation hair over his face.

'You can say goodbye to the good weather,' said the old woman ominously, and as though in confirmation a rout of beech leaves came scuttering round the side of the house and preceded them into the hallway.

The Culpeppers were seated in the lounge and Hartley rose and held out his hand in greeting when he saw his visitor. He looked perfectly at ease, not without cause Pascoe was sure. If there had been anything of doubtful provenance in Culpepper's collection, it was probably long gone now.

'You're fully recovered, I hope, Pascoe? I was talking to Pelman last night. He was in a terrible state, terrible. Poor fellow, to come so close to injuring you was bad enough, but then to realize he was under suspicion for the murders!'

'Yes, I'm recovered, thank you.'

No one seemed very keen to ask what he wanted, Pascoe noted. He hoped Davenant wasn't slipping quietly out of the kitchen door. Or if he was, that Ferguson had abandoned his gravel hunt and was fully alert.

'It's difficult to know what to say,' Culpepper went on. 'No one who knew him ever really believed it was possible that Colin did the killings, but we didn't want him proved innocent in this way.'

'Some believed it,' objected Pascoe. 'The coroner's jury and the coroner for a start. But it's none of my business, officially anyway. Mr Culpepper, I believe Anton Davenant is staying with you at the moment.'

The doorbell rang. Only old Mrs Culpepper showed no desire to answer it. Her son and daughter-in-law both seemed keen to get out of the room, but Marianne won by a short head.

'So it's Davenant you're after? Well, well. Would you care for a drink or is it too early?'

As though in answer to his query, the door opened and Major Palfrey came in clutching two brown-paper-wrapped bottles.

'Morning, Hartley, morning, Mrs Culpepper.' He noticed Pascoe and gave him a neutral nod.

'Sorry to butt in, but as I was just saying to Marianne, you've caught us on the hop, old boy. Pity I hadn't been around when you rang. That potman of mine's a bit dim! The thing is, we're very low on spirits at the moment. Can manage a couple of bottles, but boxes are out of the question. Sorry.'

It was a more than usually gruesomely hearty performance, Pascoe felt. But why? Because I'm here? Do I always bring out the worst in people?

'Don't fret about it, JP,' said Culpepper equably. 'Sam Dixon will probably be able to cope. Give him a ring, will you, Marianne? They do quite a large off-licence trade at the Anne, I believe.'

'I suppose they do,' said Palfrey as if he suspected a slur. 'You must give us warning if you're going to start spreading business locally. So you're with us once more, Sergeant Pascoe? What brings you back?'

'I really wanted a word with Mr Davenant. Is he here, Mr Culpepper?'

Culpepper exchanged glances with his wife, but before either could speak, his mother burst out. 'Well, if he is, they've kept very quiet about him. I've not seen hide nor hair of him.'

'Thank you, Mrs Culpepper. Well, sir. Is he here?'

'Of course he is, darlings. Though he almost wasn't.'

Standing at the door, one hand on his hip, the other behind his head, was Anton Davenant. Behind him in the hall, Pascoe caught a glimpse of Ferguson.

'I had no idea you were here, my dear fellow. And I was just setting off for a little circumambulation in search of Nature, red in tooth and claw, when I ran into your boy.'

Boy came out beautifully round and succulent. Pascoe held back a smile. It must have been a good test for Ferguson's temper under stress.

'I'd like a word with you if I may, Mr Davenant,' said Pascoe.

'By all means. Here?'

'Would you care to use my study?' intervened Culpepper before Pascoe could suggest retiring to the station. It seemed a good idea to start here at least. Things were on the boil, though he was far from sure what the dish was going to be.

'Thanks,' he said. 'That's kind.'

Culpepper led the way across the hall to a room next to his porcelain room.

'I'll ring Sam Dixon now,' said Marianne suddenly. 'About that drink.'

'Do, darling,' said Culpepper. 'In here, gentlemen.'

Pascoe paused as he passed Ferguson.

'Nicely fielded,' he murmured. 'Get on to Backhouse and tell him I'm opening up the batting here.'

The study was more like a businessman's office than the gentleman's retreat Pascoe had for some reason expected. Modern desk with typewriter, a book-shelf filled mainly with reference and technical volumes, a filing cabinet; nothing here which showed any desire to emulate the landed gentry.

'At last we are alone,' said Davenant.

'So we are, Mr Davenant, what were you doing in Birkham village yesterday morning?'

'Passing through, dear boy.'

'It's a little off the beaten track.'

'That depends on where you are beating your track from and to.'

'And where was that?'

'Which?'

'Which?'

'From or to?'

'Begin at the beginning, please,' said Pascoe, quite enjoying himself. Dalziel would have been clenching his fists and making sinister grunting sounds by now. The only thing which darkened his mood was the cloudy connection between this man and Brookside Cottage.

'Well, let me see. From first? From Barnsley then.'

'Barnsley!'

'Why so amazed? Contrary to rumour Barnsley is not a volcanic cavity full of flames, fumes and the stench of sulphur. A trifle naive, yes; something of a frontier town, yes. But not without its attractions, one of which is a superb restaurant, the delights of which I check annually for the Gourmet's Guide. So I left Thornton Lacey on Tuesday, after the inquest, missing all the excitement and the tragedy too, of course, and headed for Barnsley.'

'So. From Barnsley to-?'

Davenant threw up his hands in exasperation. 'It's self-evident surely! To here! I arrived here yesterday evening, so I must have been heading for here, mustn't I?'

'I don't know if you consult maps, Mr Davenant, but Birkham would take you many miles out of your way.'

'Of course. I see your difficulty. I wanted to take a look at the Old Mill about five miles to the north. Do you know it? Fascinating. Do you know I spent a week in Birkham last year doing a feature article and I never found time to get to see the Old Mill! So when I was in Barnsley…!'

He was doing a very good job, Pascoe had to admit. Fitting everything nicely into a reasonable pattern. So nicely that Pascoe had to keep on reminding himself of all the other little bits and pieces. All? Mainly Etherege's agreement that Davenant had been the middleman!

He stared down at Culpepper's desk for inspiration. It was empty but for a tray which held one of the Sunday paper business supplements. Egotistically, it was opened at an account of Nordrill's annual general meeting held the previous Wednesday afternoon.

At which time, the thought popped into his mind like a well-browned piece of toast, Culpepper was wandering around Sotheby's, wishing he could afford to bid.

Which thought prompted one obvious question and a second not quite so obvious.

But now was not the time to ask them.

'Is this about poor old Jonathan Etherege?' asked Davenant.

Pascoe looked up, pleasantly surprised. His musings on Culpepper had had an unforeseen spin-off, the breaching of a minute gap in Davenant's unperturbability.

'Who?' he said.

'Etherege. I read about him in the papers and it just struck me that this is why you people are suddenly finding anything to do with Birkham so fascinating. Mind you, there must be a mistake! Jonathan as a burglar is too much. As a killer, it's not on!'

'Many people find it in them to be killers,' Pascoe said flatly.

The doorbell rang and at the same time there was a tap on the study door. Pascoe opened it. Marianne Culpepper stood there with a coffee tray, but she was looking down the hallway to the front door.

'Angus. How nice to see you. Come in, please,' said Culpepper.

Pascoe peered out, rudely pushing his head almost up against Marianne's. Pelman was just stepping into the hall. He stopped short as he spotted Pascoe, then came forward quickly.

'Pascoe. I heard you were here. I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to see you again on Tuesday. Let me say how sorry I am. It was a terrible thing. Terrible. I was more distressed than I can say.'

He was referring to the discovery of Colin, Pascoe realized, not the shooting. The priorities were right, he had to admit.

But Pelman hadn't finished.

'And I'm sorry too about taking a pot-shot at you. Or rather over you. The superintendent was on me so quick that I didn't even know you'd been hit by a splinter till later. Is it OK?'

'Smiling was painful for a while,' said Pascoe.

Pelman laughed.

'Good man. I thought you were a blasted poacher. Anyway, to make some amends, I put a brace of pheasants in the car when I heard you were about. If you've been shot for a poacher, you might as well go home like one. Hartley, give us a hand, will you?'

The two men went out of the front door once again and Pascoe retreated into the study. There was something about Pelman he could admire. The man had said nothing at all about his own ordeal as a suspect for several hours.

He turned back to Davenant who was pouring out the coffee.

'Black?' asked Davenant.

'Thanks,' said Pascoe. He was getting nowhere. Backhouse wanted him to play it cool, but if Backhouse insisted on keeping his own hand so well concealed, then he could get on with his own bloody game!

'Etherege says it was your idea for him to organize the burglaries,' he said conversationally.

Davenant hardly flinched.

'Which burglaries? You don't mean…? Good Lord, how clever! he must be trying for a plea of insanity!'

'I thought you said it was impossible for him to be guilty?'

'So I did. But that's not the same as it being impossible for your lot to prove him guilty!'

'My word,' said Pascoe. 'I thought you loved us bobbies?'

'A simple country boy's got to be careful who he loves, Inspector.'

'Like you loved Timmy?' There, that did it. He was well off the rails laid down by Backhouse now.

'Perhaps,' said Davenant. 'But he's dead, isn't he? Pity you couldn't have got there on Friday night. It might have helped.'

'Why?' asked Pascoe, keeping a tighter rein on his temper than was yet necessary. 'You managed it and that didn't help at all.'

Davenant put his coffee cup down and his gaze flickered momentarily around the room, finally coming to rest steadfastly on Pascoe.

Escape? or a weapon? wondered Pascoe. This hygienic, functional study offered little chance of either.

'No,' said Davenant sadly. 'It didn't, did it?'

For a moment Pascoe was unable to grasp the significance of the words.

'You were there?' he said finally. 'You admit it?'

'Yes,' said Davenant. 'I was there.'

Outside in the hallway there was a crash and the sound of upraised voices. Pascoe was glad of the diversion and opened the study door to peer out yet again.

Just inside the front door stood Sam Dixon holding a cardboard container in his arms. Another lay on the floor at his feet and a damp stain was spreading quickly from it. There was a strong smell of whisky. Old Mrs Culpepper stood alongside Dixon, glaring at him angrily, while her son and daughter-in-law came out of the lounge to investigate the noise. Pelman and Palfrey were close behind.

'What's happened?' asked Culpepper.

'Sorry,' said Dixon. 'Bit of an accident. My fault.'

The old woman muttered something inaudible and stamped off into the garden.

'Your birds are on the back seat of your car,' said Pelman to Pascoe. 'Don't forget 'em! I really must be on my way now, Marianne, Hartley. Work to be done!'

He set off up the hall but his passage was impeded by yet another arrival. This time it was Backhouse with Crowther close behind.

'May I come in?' asked the superintendent, sniffing. 'This smells interesting. You're not trying to corrupt Inspector Pascoe, I hope?'

He came down the hallway, nodding at Pelman as he passed. Even now the way out was now clear, Pelman's impetus seemed to have been completely spent and he made no attempt to leave.

'Sorry to intrude, Mr Culpepper, but I wanted a word with Inspector Pascoe.'

'By all means,' said Culpepper.

Pascoe backed into the study where Davenant still stood. He had lit a cigarette and looked perfectly at ease.

'Well?' said Backhouse.

'He admits he was there.'

'Where?'

'At Brookside Cottage on the night of the murders.'

Backhouse rolled his eyes heavenwards in mock-appeal.

'How right I was to come so quickly,' he murmured. 'You seem incapable of following instructions, Inspector. I suppose I should think myself lucky he hasn't been beaten unconscious! Wait outside now, will you? Crowther, step in here, will you?'

'Sir,' said Pascoe and went out, passing Crowther in the doorway. He was beginning to feel once again the simmering fury which seemed to be his normal emotional state in Thornton Lacey.

The hall was empty now; everyone had retired to the lounge, doubtless to discuss the constabulary goings-on. Pascoe, in no mood for small talk, made for the front door. On the steps he took a couple of deep breaths of fresh, cool air. It was perceptibly colder now. The old woman had been right. This was the bouquet of winter.

The drive in front of the house was like a car-park. Pelman's Land-Rover was still there, Palfrey's car, Dixon's van, and of course Backhouse's official limousine.

'Excuse me, sir,' said Ferguson behind him.

'Yes?'

'I don't know if it's important, but when the big fellow came out to get those birds from the Land-Rover, he gave something else to Mr Culpepper.'

'What?'

'A packet of some kind. About so big. White paper wrapping.'

'Did they know you were watching?'

'No. It wasn't surreptitious or anything like that. Just quick, if you know what I mean. Not much said. That's what made me take notice.'

'What did Culpepper do with this packet?'

'Stuck it in his pocket. But after that, I don't know what. It was quite bulky and he's got rid of it somewhere, I noticed just now.'

'Well done, Hawkeye,' said Pascoe.

He turned and re-entered the house. Everything was quiet. A man of Culpepper's money and taste didn't build doors which let ordinary conversation trickle through. He wondered again about Culpepper and Davenant. How guilty was the collector? Just suspicious of the source of the sale items? or with definite knowledge they had been stolen? The law made little distinction between the two states, but the individual conscience was a much more refined beast, able to pick and crop at definition and qualification.

These thoughts ran through his mind as he made his way silently and swiftly upstairs. Davenant was using the room which Ellie had occupied. There was surprisingly little evidence of his presence – pyjamas, toilet articles, all with his initials monogrammed on them; but nothing really personal.

He left the room and stood a moment on the landing. Still silence below.

Now he moved on to what his memory of the geography of the house told him was Culpepper's room. While it was clearly a man's room there was sufficient evidence of occasional female occupation to indicate Marianne's departure from the marriage bed was by no means a permanent move.

What am I doing here? wondered Pascoe as he gazed at the Chinese watercolours which decorated the walls. Backhouse would not be pleased if Culpepper found me and started making a fuss.

Stuff Backhouse.

He began searching. It didn't take long.

No attempt had been made to hide it. It lay beside the pastel-green telephone on the bed-side table.

The Sellotape binding was still intact. Whatever the packet contained, Culpepper hadn't felt the need, or perhaps had the time, to check.

Unpicking the Sellotape as neatly as possible, Pascoe pulled the white wrapping paper open.

It didn't look very much at first glance, but a quick check gave him the exact figure.

It was surprising how little space was taken up by a thousand pounds in fivers.