The Price of Butcher's Meat

1

“And you’re sure this is our Franny Roote?” said Pascoe, staring at the name underlined in red on the guest list.

Sergeant Edgar Wield nodded and regarded the chief inspector inscrutably. With a face like the dark side of the moon, inscrutability came easy to him. Nevertheless Pascoe scruted reproach.

“Sorry, I’m not doubting you, Wieldy,” he said defensively. “But Franny Roote! I thought he must be dead.”

“Lady Denham’s dead,” said Wield. “Doc says looks like manual strangulation. Dead anything from an hour to three hours when he saw her. Being roasted over a charcoal pit didn’t make the timing easy.”

His tone matched his expression. It was Jeevesian in its neutrality. Not a hint of insubordination to the young master. Yet once again Pascoe felt reproached.

And he knew he deserved it.

A detective chief inspector, arriving at a crime scene ninety minutes after his sergeant-courtesy of a flat tire and an even flatter spare-to discover an incident room set up; witness statements being taken; and a CSI unit, clothed in white nylon, mystic, wonderful, busy performing its priestlike tasks, ought to fall to his knees and give thanks.

Of course the fact that the sergeant was Edgar Wield meant that this was only what his bosses at Mid-Yorkshire CID had come to expect. He was indeed to them what Jeeves was to Bertie Wooster. He performed wonders with quiet efficiency, had a mind which could process information at silicon-chip speeds, and took care never to let his superiority embarrass his superiors.

“Plus,” as Andy Dalziel had observed when the parallel was suggested to him, “if yon’s the first face you see in the morning, you don’t need Jeeves’s fancy hangover cure.”

Pascoe took a deep breath and pulled himself together. A titled lady roasting over her own barbecue pit was what he should be concentrating on.

“So fill me in, Wieldy,” he said.

It took Wield two minutes. It would probably have taken Andy Dalziel three; Pascoe himself three and a half; most of his junior CID officers five; uniformed six or seven; an articulate civilian at least ten; and Molly, the HQ tea lady, an hour and a half.

Wield concluded, “To date, latest reported sighting of the victim is around half three, when she was observed having an animated conversation with one of the guests, a Mr. Godley.”

“Animated as in, When I run out of words I’m going to strangle you?”

Wield shrugged. He liked to advance as far as possible on the firm ground of fact before risking the slough of speculation.

“He’s some kind of healer,” he said.

“And isn’t death the cure of all diseases?” said Pascoe. “I look forward to talking to him. I assume, following best Golden Age practice, you’ve got Mr. Godley and the other guests corralled in the library awaiting the arrival of the Great Detective?”

“Didn’t realize he was coming,” said Wield. “No, sorry. First, there isn’t a library. Second, seems a lot of them had already headed off home by the time the local sergeant, Jug Whitby, got here. Most of the rest had drifted away by the time I arrived.”

“This Whitby made no attempt to stop them?” said Pascoe.

“Fair do’s,” said Wield, who was very protective of sergeants. “Not a lot one man could do to keep them here. Can’t blame ’em for not wanting to hang around, not with that out there.”

They were standing by a window in the incident room, which was being set up in a disused flat above the stable block. It consisted of a living room, a bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a toilet. By contrast with the well-kept stable below, the flat looked pretty derelict, even though the worst of the dust and debris had been swept away.

Pascoe and the sergeant were in the bedroom. Through the cracked and weather-stained glass they looked out across the lawn to where they could glimpse over the shrubbery the billowing gray of the protective tent erected over the dreadful barbecue.

“So what’s Sergeant Whitby doing now?” asked Pascoe, putting off the moment when he’d have to see the horror for himself. “Gone home for his tea?”

“No, I sent him off to round up one of them that left,” said Wield. “Chap named Ollie Hollis. He were in charge of the hog roast. I thought, all things considered, he was one guy we really ought to chat to.”

Pascoe scanned the list.

“Hollis? There’s an Alan Hollis here, no Ollie.”

“That’s because he weren’t a guest,” explained Wield. “Works for Lady Denham. Gate man at the Hollis pig unit. That’s Hollis’s Ham, the Taste of Yorkshire, by the way. Howard Hollis was Lady Denham’s first husband and she inherited the business.”

“This is really going to help sales,” said Pascoe. “Hang on. Wasn’t Howard Hollis known as Hog? And wasn’t there something odd about his death?”

“He had a heart attack among his pigs. They’d chewed him up a bit afore someone found him. We looked at it, I recollect. Odd but not suspicious.”

“Jesus. I’ll be sticking to Danish from now on. This Ollie…same family?”

“Aye. And Alan. Landlord at a pub owned by the victim. Seems the Hollises divided into them as cried foul when Hog left everything to his widow, and them as kept their counsel and their jobs. Hog used to stage an annual hog roast for his workers and the locals. Quite a nifty setup. As you’ll see for yourself eventually, I daresay.”

Pascoe ignored the gentle mockery. His distaste for the nastier sort of crime scene was well known. He’d never got close to the philosophical detachment of Andy Dalziel, who’d remarked on viewing a triple slaying with a chain saw that he’d seen worse deaths at the Glasgow Empire.

“So Lady Denham kept up the tradition of the annual hog roast,” he said.

“No. In fact, there hadn’t been one for years, not since Hog died. This were a one-off. Ollie Hollis used to help in the old days, so he got called in to work the machinery.”

“So where was he when the pig was being removed and the body substituted?”

“Won’t know for sure till Whitby brings him in,” said Wield. “Sheltering somewhere, likely. It was a really violent storm and they got the worst of it here by all accounts. You’d not want to be anywhere near metal with that lightning about, and the machine hut’s got a tin roof.”

“How’d you know about this Hollis if he’s not on the list?”

“There’s this relative living with Lady Denham. Clara Brereton, sort of companion cum dogsbody, I reckon. She mentioned Ollie when she gave me the list. I got a preliminary statement from her, and I’ve set her to preparing a full account of the party, including the run-up to it. With her being in charge of organizing things, could be helpful. Also she were one of the first to see the body.”

“Must be a toughie, discovering something like that but still able to function, produce guest lists, write statements,” said Pascoe. “Worth a close look?”

“Aye, she is that,” said Wield. “And you’ll find two other relations in the house. Sir Edward Denham and his sister, Esther. Nephew and niece by marriage.”

“They live here too?”

“No,” said Wield patiently. “Their address is on the list if you look. Denham Park, a few miles along the coast. It was Sir Edward said we could set up our incident room here.”

“Didn’t want us in the house then,” said Pascoe, looking round discontentedly. “Would have been a damn sight more comfortable than this dump. The horse downstairs looks better situated! So why didn’t Lady Denham live at this Denham Park place?”

“Because Edward, being male, inherited the Denham title and estate on the death of his uncle, Sir Henry, the victim’s second husband. Sandytown Hall, which is here, Lady Denham inherited from Hog Hollis, her first husband,” explained Wield.

“Hollis family home then?”

“Not really. Hog Hollis bought it when he made his money. Bought himself one of them local titles with it, Lord of the Sandytown Hundred. But Lady Denham’s title, which she derived from her second marriage, is real enough.”

“Real? You surprise me, Wieldy. I thought it was well established that one way or another all titles have been bought these days. And this slum that Sir Edward so generously says we can use, I hope no one lives here?”

“Not now,” said Wield. “Expect it were used by the head groom or some such when they had a lot of horses.”

“Are there any domestics?”

“Nobody living in, unless you count Miss Brereton. She seems to run things.”

“And being a relative probably does it for bed and board,” guessed Pascoe. “So if Sandytown Hall is part of the victim’s Hollis inheritance, and this cousin-companion is so much in charge of things, what makes the nephew feel entitled to order you around?”

And why did you let yourself be ordered around? hung on the air.

But at least it appeared that Pascoe’s mind was now fully refocused on the job.

“I did ask Miss Brereton where would be best,” said Wield, “but Sir Edward cut in afore she could reply. Like he wanted to establish proprietorial rights.”

“Meaning he thinks the house is coming to him,” mused Pascoe. “Which information a guilty man would be likely to conceal, right?”

“Unless he’s a dead clever guy, like you,” said the sergeant.

“Thank you kindly,” said Pascoe, though he wasn’t sure if it had been kindly meant. “But alas, I’m not clever enough to see how I can put off the evil moment any longer. I’d better head out to the scene and spoil my appetite. Doctor here?”

“Been and gone. Confirmed death and, like I said, guessed at strangulation, estimated between four and six. Said to ring him if you wanted anything more, but he had people coming to dinner.”

“Hope they’re not having pork,” said Pascoe. “And you’ve set the ball rolling interviewing the fugitive guests? Great. Who’ve we got on the team, by the way?”

“I was lucky. Bowler, Novello, and Seymour were all available. Told ’em to start with the Parkers. Old Sandytown family, plus there was a close business association with the deceased, I gather. Thought it best to get to them afore they had too much time to sit around chewing over events and coming up with a collective memory.”

Pascoe did the one-raised-eyebrow trick he’d finally mastered after years of practice.

“A conspiracy, you mean?”

“No. Just human nature,” said Wield. “Couple of guests from the Avalon Clinic. Head man and head nurse. Thought you might want to tackle them yourself.”

“Because the Super’s up there, you mean?” interpreted Pascoe. “Cap Marvell says he doesn’t want visitors yet.”

“Mebbe not, but with a murder on his doorstep, he’s likely to come visiting us if he doesn’t get put in the picture soon.”

Pascoe shuddered.

“You’re right. I’ll get over there as soon as I’ve had a look and talked to the CSI.”

Pascoe, always a touch pedantic, had resisted the Americanization longer than most, but eventually even he had bowed to the power of television.

“One thing more,” said Wield. “Sammy Ruddlesdin’s here. Turned up shortly after I did.”

“Listening in on our wavelength again. Naughty old Sammy,” said Pascoe. “What did you do with him?”

Ruddlesdin was Mid-Yorkshire’s premier crime reporter. He and Pascoe had a good long-standing relationship, which was just as well. Some journalists would have made a lot of being at the scene an hour before the senior detective.

“Saw him off the premises. He’s likely wandering around the town now, getting background. Said he’d be back.”

“Could be useful,” said Pascoe.

“Mebbe,” said Wield, sounding unconvinced. “About Roote, Pete. You want I should take his statement?”

His meaning was clear. With their personal history, Pascoe should stay well clear till Roote had been properly processed.

“I’d be grateful.”

“I’ll tell him you’ll be round to talk to him sometime, shall I?”

“What do you think? What I owe him’s beyond payment,” said Pascoe. “Not that I won’t be bollocking him for dropping out of sight like that. Incidentally, that’s one thing I’ll be asking Fat Andy. Why the hell didn’t he let me know Franny was here?”

“Mebbe he didn’t know himself,” suggested Wield.

“You’re joking! Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And if they are, unless the old sod’s had a relapse, he’ll know which of them’s crapped on the washing! No, Andy knew. And he decided I didn’t need to. He’s got some explaining to do.”

He clattered away down the stairs. Through the window Wield watched as he made his way across the lawn.

To himself he murmured, “Always thought when we got up before the Almighty, it was us who’d have to do the explaining.”