Ruling Passion

Chapter 11

Statement of Antony Neville Dick made at Thornton Lacey Police Station, Oxfordshire, in the presence of Detective Superintendent D. S. Backhouse. I am a free-lance feature writer, working under the name of Anton Davenant. The nature of my work has brought me in close contact with many people connected with art and antiquities and I have from time to time acted as an agent for dealers. At no time have I had reason to suspect that any dealer I worked for did not have full title to the goods I handled.

'Can he get away with this?' asked Pascoe, almost in admiration.

'We can only hope you do a better job of work in Yorkshire than you've managed down here,' said Backhouse.

On Friday September 17th at about seven p.m. I called at Brookside Cottage, Thornton Lacey. My purpose was partly social as I knew the owners, Mr and Mrs Colin Hopkins, and partly business. Mr Timothy Mansfield, a house-guest, had brought with him a figurine which I had agreed to pick up from him and show to a local collector, Mr Hartley Culpepper.

'Is there anything other than Davenant's assertion to tie Timmy in with this business?' asked Pascoe.

'Circumstantial stuff only.'

'But you believe it?'

'It seems probable, that's all.'

'And the others?'

'Customers, perhaps. A couple of things went missing from the cottage at the time of the fire. I suspect Davenant picked them up just to get any evidence out of harm's way.'

'He started the fire?'

'Left a gas tap on, I believe. Eventually the pilot light ignited it. But it's all beyond proof.'

I had dealt with Mr Culpepper before. Indeed he owed me almost four thousand pounds from a previous business deal, so I was naturally concerned when his name was mentioned in connection with the book Mr Hopkins was working on. Its theme was poverty in the affluent society and it was concerned not so much with breadline poverty as with credit living, conspicuous waste, executive unemployment, that kind of thing. Mr Hopkins had gained access to information from one of the big executive employment agencies and had noticed the name of his new neighbour there. He was intrigued to find that Culpepper was still maintaining the pretence that he was employed by the Nordrill Company and he had hopes of ultimately getting the man's co-operation in using his experience as material for the book, though no approach had yet been made. Shortly after seven-thirty I left Brookside Cottage and called at the Culpepper's house. He expressed an interest in the figurine but said he had not sufficient cash on hand to pay for it and asked me to add it to the price of his previous debt. In view of the information I had just received, I refused and told him why. He denied it at first, then became very angry and demanded to know how I had found out. I told him about Hopkins's book and suggested it might be worth his while financially to co-operate with Hopkins, and even offered to act as his agent should he decide to dispose of his porcelain collection. At this he became so incensed that I left and returned to Oxford.

'And that is all we are going to get out of Master Davenant, I fear,' said Backhouse.

'And Culpepper?'

'A long and rambling statement swinging between self-justification and recrimination. I don't think you'd care to read it.'

'No.'

'It's pretty clear what happened. He went down to Brookside to protest to Hopkins. Mrs Hopkins had just gone off to the pub. He and Hopkins had a row in the dining-room. Your friend was quite drunk, of course, and perhaps did not realize just what this business meant to Culpepper.'

'What did it mean?' asked Pascoe.

'It meant the shattering of a self-image as well as a public one,' said Backhouse slowly. 'He came from a poor background, you know. Achieving the position he had done was his life's work. More. His life perhaps. Suddenly Hopkins must have seemed the focus of everything that threatened him. He picked up the nearest suitable object, which happened to be the shotgun your friend had borrowed from Pelman, and struck him on the head with it. Half unconscious, Hopkins staggered through the french window into the garden. The other two now came through the lounge to investigate. He brought the gun up and pressed both triggers. At that range you don't have to be any kind of gunman.'

'And Colin?'

'Hears the gun and sets off down the garden into the stream bed, follows the flow of water. He's on the point of collapse, remember. Culpepper's only made more furious by what he's done. Hopkins made him do it – that's the way he's thinking. There's a box of cartridges on the sideboard. He reloads it, sets out after Hopkins. Unfortunately, Mrs Hopkins arrives home at this point and comes round the back of the house to re-enter through the french window. Nothing is going to stop Culpepper now. He shoots her down without a thought and goes after Hopkins. He catches up with him by the culvert.'

'Oh God.'

'And that's that. As some kind of rationality returns, he sets about tidying things up. He goes back to the cottage and unearths your friend's notes for his book. These he must destroy. Then he comes across the jottings from the poem and sees how these might just sound like a suicide note. So he sets it all up. He's lucky. No interruption and later it rains so heavily that all traces of Hopkin's passage up to the stream are obliterated. Back home. His wife is out – with Sam Dixon, of course – and he's safe. Except that his mother sees him, and then or later discovers the gun. Poor old woman. She suspected something, but with Hopkins still missing and apparently the killer, she persuaded herself all was well. Later however… Not a good way to end your life.'

'No,' said Pascoe. 'Davenant must have suspected?'

'He claims he believed like everyone else that it was Hopkins. I believe he went back to the cottage to remove the dangerous pieces and also got hold of the notes for the book. He was worried in case anyone coming across the reference to Culpepper might stir things up and he wasn't very keen on Culpepper in his present frame of mind having any pressure put on him. Pure self-interest, of course. He tried to set fire to the cottage in case the manuscript was still there somewhere, and he searched your bedroom just in case you'd got hold of it as Hopkins's friend. But once again, this is pure speculation. Nothing to show in court.'

'It makes sense. More than anything I ever speculated about the case. I had it all worked out. Every premise a false one! I sometimes wonder if I'm fit for this business.'

'Not for this particular bit of it, perhaps,' said Backhouse gently. 'But that's not surprising. I'm sure you do sterling work back home.'

'Home,' said Pascoe. 'That's a nice word. It's only a scruffy old bachelor flat, but it'll do for the time being. That's what I'd like to do now. Go home.'

'There's no place like home,' said Dalziel, like a man making a completely original discovery.

'True,' said Pascoe.

'That's where they got that fellow Atkinson, in an old folks' home in Romford. Told them he was seventy-two! He's an old con artist from way back. He felt seventy-two when I'd done with him! But we've got enough to put Cowley away for a long time now.'

'I'm glad,' said Pascoe, relaxing in his chair and looking round the room with pride.

It was remarkable what a pleasant civilized place his flat had become. The candles on the table had seemed a little too much in the light of the afternoon, but now they were perfect. A woman's touch worked wonders. Oh yes indeed.

He and Dalziel were sitting opposite each other, finishing off the sharp white wine which had accompanied their baked trout.

'It taught me one thing,' said Pascoe suddenly.

'What?'

'Information. If you're cut off from local channels, you're lost! Everyone knew about Culpepper except me. Everyone knew that it was Sam Dixon who was having a bit on the side with Marianne except me.'

'Backhouse always did play his cards too close,' said Dalziel. 'I hope your promotion doesn't get you transferred anywhere near him. You made a lousy impression!' He laughed. 'But he's not such a hot judge. He reckons nowt to me either!'

'Amazing,' commented Pascoe. 'Anyway it was Dixon who rang Crowther and told him Davenant was at the Culpeppers'. Marianne mentioned he'd come back and Sam was jealous! Not of her husband, mind you. No competition there. Old Mrs Culpepper knew what was going on, of course. She knew everything. That's why she was so angry when Dixon turned up at the house. She made him break half a box of scotch!'

'Tragic,' said Dalziel. 'But if he knew Culpepper was broke, why was he willing to supply the stuff anyway?'

'Culpepper's usual tradesmen were beginning to dig their heels in. The bills are huge, it seems. That's why he turned to the local pubs for booze. Palfrey wasn't going to play. He brought a couple of bottles to keep on the right side, so to speak, and shot a line about his low stocks. Dixon now, well, Dixon was in love. It made him willing to act quite irrationally. I told you it was him that banged me on the head at Brookside.'

'Yes,' said Dalziel. 'A bloody ghoulish place, that, for a lovers's tryst.'

'Too true. Pelman had run into Marianne in the village and mentioned he'd met me where I was going. She dived for the nearest phone to warn Dixon. Rang twice, a pre-arranged signal so he'd know who it was. Naturally, he didn't want me to answer and recognize her voice. So bang!'

'A violent lot in Thornton Lacey.'

'Yes. Not just me! Then off Dixon goes, worried sick about me. Picks up his car and drives back to find me 'accidentally'. But good old Sergeant Palfrey's done the job for him. So his guilty secret is safe. Was safe. The proud Marianne's come out in the open now. Poor old Molly Dixon! They seemed perfectly matched.'

'Aye. Well, it happens,' said Dalziel dourly.

'What happens?' asked Ellie cheerfully, coming in from the kitchen with a vegetable tureen.

'Policemen do the decent thing and get themselves engaged,' announced Dalziel with heavy jocularity. 'What's next? It smells good.'

'Surprise,' said Ellie, grinning at Pascoe as she went out again. She had not been overenthusiastic at the prospect of playing hostess to Andrew Dalziel, but somehow it had seemed a necessary thing to do. Why, she could not imagine! In the event she was enjoying her role tremendously and deriving much pleasure from the fat man's vacillations between hearty, old-fashioned guestmanship and his more customary blunt vulgarity.

'So Dixon was a dark horse,' resumed Dalziel when he felt Ellie was safely out of earshot. 'But his part was only incidental really, wasn't it?'

'Oh yes. Though he frightened the pants off me when he followed me up the drive at Culpepper's that night on his way to his rendezvous with Marianne!'

'This fellow Pelman sounds more interesting.'

'He was,' said Pascoe. 'Backhouse told me afterwards that, alibis apart, he couldn't really suspect anyone being motivated to such a crime who could cheerfully dump loads of chicken-crap into the pool where his wife and her lover had killed themselves! Odd reasoning!'

'Not at all,' said Dalziel. 'It's being able to reason like that that makes you a superintendent! I don't understand why he was willing to loan Culpepper a thousand quid. They weren't great mates, and he knew the old man was pretty well bust.'

'Oh, it wasn't sentiment, rest assured of that!' laughed Pascoe. 'Culpepper went to see him the previous night to ask for the loan. And he took as security half a dozen pieces from his collection – all the bits, naturally, that Davenant had flogged him and which he wanted to keep out of sight for a while!'

'Cunning old Culpepper,' said Dalziel.

'Yes,' said Pascoe with sudden passion. 'I hope he's not so cunning that they don't put him away for ever!'

'Easy,' said Dalziel, glancing warily at the kitchen.

'Sorry, sir,' said Pascoe. 'It's just that it's relatively so easy to be objective and impersonal in our business. You strain after it all the time. X kills Y. Find him. Charge him. Forget him. X has many names, we spend all our lives looking for X. He's not unique. But sometimes Y has one particular name. Y is unique. Something has gone which to you personally is irreplacable. And then you begin to think it's like this every time. For someone.'

'Forget names,' urged Dalziel. 'Stick to X and Y. Life's a series of wrecks. Make sure you're always washed up with the survivors.'

'Gosh,’ said Ellie at the kitchen door. 'Does promotion get you a course in philosophy too? Sorry to interrupt the Socratic moment, but here we are!'

Triumphantly she brought to the table a large serving dish on which lay side by side two roast pheasants.

'Jesus!' said Dalziel in admiring anticipation. 'Well, that's buggered my diet!'

They all laughed. Pascoe, watching Ellie's genuine uninhibited amusement, felt the springs of his own laughter dry up. He busied himself with the carving knife and sharpening steel. It would be easy to become permanently suspicious of happiness, to taste no joy without glancing sharply over the shoulder to check who was watching. Perhaps this was the formula for survival that Dalziel would offer, though he could not think so, looking at the fat man this very moment.

But then, to look at Ellie now, proudly explaining the subtle modes by which the birds had been brought to their present fragrant succulence, who would know that a few hours previously he had found her standing in tears, looking down at the unplucked pheasants whose plumage's iridescent green and purple gleamed on the kitchen table like the silk of a woman's evening gown?

To be a look-out, to keep alert, was not a bad role. Particularly if you did not make a great show of it.

He put down the sharpening steel and approached the pheasants with the knife. Poker-faced, he jerked his head at Dalziel and said to Ellie, 'Which one is his?'

They all began laughing again. This time Pascoe laughed to the finish.