The Price of Butcher's Meat

7

The room he entered was of a different order from the rather poky computer room he’d just left. It was generously proportioned, with a ceiling high enough to take a crystal chandelier, though all that depended from an ornately sculpted boss was the kind of four-bulbed wooden cross-piece fitment you could buy in British Home Stores. The design on the boss and on the matching cornicing was picked out in gold leaf looking badly in need of renewal. Above a huge marble fireplace hung an oil painting of a man in hunting scarlet against a pastoral background across which ran a cry of hounds. The furniture looked old and rather shabby.

There were two people in the room. Stretched out along a chaise longue was a young woman with a tall glass in her left hand. Dressed in baggy patched jeans and what Pascoe thought of as a sloppy Joe sweater, she still contrived to look incredibly elegant as she turned a cold gaze on him and said, “Who the hell are you?”

“Detective Chief Inspector Pascoe, Mid-Yorkshire CID,” he proclaimed with deliberate sonority.

The second occupant of the room, standing at a tall mahogany bureau with his back to the door, turned round and took a couple of rather aggressive steps forward. He was a fit, muscular young man who moved with athletic ease; very good looking in a slightly outmoded way, this being an age that valued pallid angularity over square-cut five-o’clock shadow. His vigorously curly hair was becomingly disheveled and he wore designer fatigues and the kind of polo shirt that might actually have been worn by a man playing polo, or perhaps it was just a certain arrogance of mien that gave this impression. An expensive-looking watch hung loose on his left wrist as if the bracelet catch had broken, or maybe that was the way the upper set wore their baubles to display their indifference to wealth.

He looked Pascoe up and down and said, “You the man in charge?”

His tone was on the edge of brusque and very definitely patrician.

Pascoe said, “Sir Edward Denham, I presume. And Miss Esther? These are sad circumstances in which to meet. I’m sorry for your loss.”

His face solemn with sympathy, he held out his hand.

Like Furtwängler fiddling with his baton in a vain effort to avoid being filmed shaking hands with Hitler, Denham attempted to fasten his watch, but Pascoe kept his hand steady and finally the man gave it a peremptory shake and muttered, “Thank you.”

Then, presumably as a step to regaining the social high ground, he barked, “Took your time getting here, didn’t you?”

For a second Pascoe looked puzzled, then he smiled faintly, as if spotting an understandable error, and explained, “Getting here wasn’t a priority, sir. My sergeant is more than capable of setting the mechanics of the investigation in progress. I logged straight on to the central police computer. Nowadays it’s standard practice for chief investigators to acquaint themselves with the known background of significant witnesses before heading for the locus in quo.”

He let the implications of this fiction sink in as he took a step past Denham and stared at the bureau. All its drawers were open and the desk was covered with papers, some of which had spilled onto the floor.

“Have you lost something, sir?” he asked politely.

“No!” said Denham. The watch was loose again. He gave up on it and thrust it into his pocket, so not a fashion statement. “Just checking for Auntie’s address book. There are a few people who need to be told the sad news before they hear it on the radio.”

“Very thoughtful of you, sir,” said Pascoe. “Have you found it?”

“Well no, actually-”

“Never mind. Perhaps Miss Brereton will be able to help you. Meanwhile, if I could just get you to answer a few questions…?”

Denham took a deep breath, then relaxed and said, “Sure. You’ve got a job to do, right? Take a seat, Pascoe. Care for a drink?”

The baronet was bright enough to have decided the high hand was going to get him nowhere, thought Pascoe, but the sister still looked as if she’d have preferred to set the dogs on him. The thought took his gaze back to the portrait over the mantelshelf. The man looked slightly familiar. He was staring into the room with a rather quizzical superior gaze and the suggestion of a squint.

“No, I’m okay,” he said. “Is that the late Mr. Hollis perhaps?”

“Good lord, no,” said Denham. “That’s my uncle, Sir Henry. This is Hollis.”

He went to a small ormolu table standing against the same wall as the bureau and picked up a silver photo frame that held the picture of a grizzle-haired man, his weather-beaten and heavily stubbled face glaring out with that narrow-eyed Yorkshire farmer expression that says clearer than words, There’s no bugger here getting the better of me!

Sorry, Hog. Can’t win ’em all, thought Pascoe, not without sympathy. If anything of human consciousness survived, what must Hog Hollis feel to find himself gazing across his own drawing room to see pride of place given to his successor!

He turned back to Sir Harry’s portrait, then glanced at Edward. No squint but the same superior expression.

“Of course. Now I see the resemblance,” he said. “Fine portrait. Very…big.”

“Should never have left Denham Park,” said the woman. “It’s a daub, you know.”

“Oh surely not so bad as that,” said Pascoe.

The woman gave him a look which would have been contemptuous if she’d thought him worth her contempt. But her brother laughed and said, “Bradley d’Aube, one of the Huddersfield school, very well thought of, and prices have shot up since he died ten years back. Well, it can go back to its rightful place now.”

“It’s here on loan then, rather than part of the late Lady Denham’s estate?” said Pascoe innocently.

Esther Denham yawned as if she found the observation too tedious to need a response, but her brother said smoothly, “Loan covers it, I think. My late aunt naturally wanted to have some memento of Uncle Harry when she returned here after his death and we raised no objection when she chose the portrait. But it was always understood it belonged in the park. Not a problem. Loan or legacy, either way it will come to me.”

Well, well, thought Pascoe. Cards-on-the-table time, is it? Aimed at making me think no one so open can possibly have anything to hide.

The clever move of a clever mind?

Or maybe subtle sister, reckoning you’re not bright enough to deceive me, has advised you to play it this way.

“As to that, I think we should wait and see,” said Pascoe. “Promises have been broken, wills have been changed. And perhaps, in order not to muddy the waters, and for your own protection, it might be as well to regard all papers and property in the hall as private until the legal formalities have been observed.”

He let his gaze drift to the open bureau.

Denham looked ready to revert to patrician indignation, but this time it was his sister who chose the conciliatory path.

“Told you not to go poking about, Teddy,” she said. “That’s what we pay the police for. Come on. Let’s go home.”

Exit left, leaving the grateful plod spluttering his appreciation, thought Pascoe.

“If I could have a word first,” he said as the woman swung her legs off the chaise.

“Another word? I think I’m worded out, Inspector,” she said. “You do know we’ve written our statements and given them to one of your people, I forget his name, the one with the interesting face.”

She drawled the adjective in a way that made it sound more abusive than abuse.

“Yes, I know,” said Pascoe. “And very helpful too. Impressions close to the event are always valuable. But sometimes, as time passes, things surface which the first effort of recall failed to trawl up.”

Esther Denham stood up, shaking her head.

“Sorry, nothing like that,” she said.

The sloppy Joe was so big it hung loose on her, with the sleeves dangling a good six inches beneath her hands. But the knit was wide enough for Pascoe to be uncomfortably aware that she was braless beneath it.

He was standing between her and the door and when he made no attempt to move, she yawned widely in his face, then said, “Look, if you’re going to keep us hanging around, is it okay if I get another drink, or does that come under muddying the waters too?”

“So long as you don’t take the bottle,” said Pascoe, who decided he would be happy to dislike this young woman when he was sure that making him dislike her wasn’t simply a distraction tactic.

She smiled faintly and moved across the room to a long sideboard on which stood a vodka bottle and an ice bucket. Her left hand wriggled sexily out of the long sleeve, dropped a couple of cubes into a glass, and covered them with vodka.

Her brother watched her uneasily. He didn’t have a drink. Keeping his head clear?

“And you, sir?” said Pascoe. “Anything occur since you gave your statement?”

“Not really,” said Edward. “Last sightings of poor Aunt Daphne are clearly going to be of the essence and I’ve been racking my brain to see if I can come up with anything significant in our brief final exchange.”

“Just let your mind go blank, sir,” advised Pascoe, provoking a satirical snort from the sister. “See if anything pops up.”

Denham closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head.

“No. As I told Sergeant Wield, last time I saw her was quite early on. Some of the children who were there wanted to have a swim from the private beach and I volunteered to help keep an eye on them. I hung around there for a while, then, realizing there were more adults than was really necessary, I thought I’d rejoin the party. Always hate to miss my share of a good bubbly and Auntie had really pushed the boat out for a change.”

“So you didn’t notice Lady Denham when you got back.”

“No. Sorry.”

“What about you, Miss Denham?”

“Oh, I glimpsed her from time to time. Noticed her backing poor old Lester Feldenhammer into a corner. Probably inviting him to examine her private parts.”

“Ess, for God’s sake!” protested Denham. “She’s only been dead a few hours.”

“I’m sorry,” said Pascoe. “I’m missing something here. This is Dr. Feldenhammer from the Avalon you’re referring to, is it?”

“Right. Come on, Teddy, do you imagine the police aren’t going to winkle it out? That’s your speciality isn’t it, Inspector, winkling?”

“Chief Inspector, if we are to be precise, Miss Denham. Any assistance you can give me with my winkling would be much appreciated.”

She laughed and for the first time looked at him as if he were possibly something more than a disregardable footman.

“No big secret,” she said. “Get chatting to anyone down at the Hope and Anchor and they’ll tell you that Auntie had set her sights on Feldenhammer.”

“You’re saying there was a romantic relationship between Lady Denham and Dr. Feldenhammer?”

Esther Denham laughed again.

“Not quite how I’d put it. Daphne liked men. Liked in every sense. But she liked her social standing too, so no Lady Chatterley stuff. Wouldn’t have cared to be caught making hay with a well-hung peasant. What she wanted was a consort who could service her both socially and sexually. Hollis, her first husband, brought her wealth and local influence; Uncle Harry, her second, brought her social standing and, because she had a mind like a calculating machine, a lot more profit than he ever managed from the Denham estate. Since his death, she’d been casting around for a successor to scratch all her itches.”

“And why did the election light on Dr. Feldenhammer?” wondered Pascoe.

She raised her eyebrows at his choice of words, then said, “He would make a pretty impressive trophy husband. Not so young he could be called a boy-toy, which would have made her ridiculous, but not so old he can’t get it up. Not rich, perhaps, but earning enough not to be a drain on her resources, and of sufficient distinction in his profession for there to be plenty of reflected light for her to wallow in. Plus, of course, despite her frequent boast of never having ailed from anything in her life, at her age it must have seemed both prudent and economic to have a doctor permanently in the house.”

You really didn’t like her, thought Pascoe. But how far would your dislike make you go?

“And Dr. Feldenhammer received these attentions…how?”

“Like a missionary pursued by a starving cannibal,” responded Esther. “Seeing that prayer was getting him nowhere, he tried running and even went as far as the Swiss Avalon near Davos on a job exchange for six months, but she was soon in hot pursuit.”

“Don’t complain, Sis. We got a skiing holiday out of it,” said her brother, grinning, apparently happy after his initial protest to endorse her lighthearted openness.

Grief hit people in different ways, thought Pascoe, trying to be nonjudgmental. At the very least, this pair weren’t trying to fake it!

“Why didn’t the doctor just say no thanks, I don’t want to play?” he wondered.

“Aunt Daph was very good at unleveling playing fields,” said Ted Denham.

His sister cut in quickly, “And Lester’s no novice at the game. For the past six months or so he has been ducking and weaving pretty skillfully. But box as prettily as you will with Aunt Daph, eventually you end up in a corner. I felt rather sorry for him. It was starting to look as if his only recourse was going to be to elope with Fatty Nightingale.”

“Sorry? You’ve left me winkling in the dark again.”

“Petula Sheldon, chief nurse at the Avalon. Pound for pound she might come close to auntie, and she could give her twenty years in the age stakes, but I think a bookie would have called it a mismatch.”

“This Nurse Sheldon is close to Dr. Feldenhammer, is that what you’re saying?”

“She’d certainly like to be. Nurses are always on the hunt for doctors, aren’t they? What he feels about her, God knows. She probably looks pretty attractive by comparison with Aunt Daph. Could be her attractions will fade now Daph’s dead. She is, after all, just hired help. Talking of which, Chief Inspector, does your interdict on poking around Aunt Daphne’s stuff apply to Clara Brereton too?”

“I’m sorry?” said Pascoe, thrown by the sudden change of subject.

She rolled her eyes as if in appeal to some upper-class god for protection from the dullness of the proletariat.

“You seem to fear that my brother might be tempted to poke around the house if he remains here,” she said slowly and very distinctly. “Miss Brereton actually lives here. What is to stop her from poking around all she likes when she’s alone in the house tonight?”

Denham exclaimed, “Good lord! I’d never thought of that.”

For a moment Pascoe thought he was sharing his sister’s uncharitable suspicions. Then he went on, “Poor Clara won’t want to stay here by herself all night, not after what’s happened. We must invite her back to the park.”

He strode out of the room.

Nice to see that one of this pair has got some human feelings, thought Pascoe.

He said stolidly, “Looks like you’ve got yourself a houseguest, Miss Denham.”

She drained her glass and smiled at him. It was a mocking smile, no sun through April clouds here, more will-o’-the-wisp through marsh mist. But he couldn’t deny that she was a very good-looking woman.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Five gets you ten she won’t come.”

“I’m not allowed to gamble on duty, miss,” said Pascoe.

Which was just as well, as he’d have lost.

“Says she’ll be fine here,” said Denham, coming back into the room.

He sounded rather chastened. His sister said sweetly, “I’m surprised you didn’t offer to stay and hold her hand, Teddy.”

He ignored her and said, “You done with us, Chief Inspector?”

“Just one other thing, sir,” said Pascoe. “This private beach you mentioned, how do you reach it?”

“There’s a path down the cliff.”

“Is there anything at the bottom to stop anyone unauthorized from coming up?”

“What? Ah, I see where you’re going. No, apart from a sign saying private, and of course local terror at the possibility of encountering Auntie, there’s nothing to deter an intruder. You don’t think-”

“Rest assured, we’ll check all possibilities. One thing more, sir. I gather that you and your aunt had a conversation earlier today, before the party started.”

“We were always having conversations,” he blustered. “We got on very well.”

“I’m sure you did. But the smoothest of relationships can have abrasive moments. I gather this conversation may have been a little heated.”

“Who’s been saying that?” he demanded.

His sister, who’d taken the opportunity offered by the extended exchange to refill her glass, let out a snort as if this were the stupidest question she’d ever heard.

Pascoe said, “So you’re saying such a conversation never took place.”

Denham glowered at him for a moment.

He’s trying to recall the circumstances, what he can and cannot deny, thought Pascoe.

He said, “Oh yes. Auntie did give me a bit of a rocket for getting involved in setting out the tables for the refreshments and buffet. I explained that Clara was getting her knickers in a bit of a twist about it and I was just trying to help, but she said that the girl had to learn from her mistakes. End of story.”

An ingenious explanation closely linked to the known facts. Perhaps he was a clever bugger after all.

“Thank you for that, and thank you both for your indulgence,” said Pascoe. “I may need to talk to you again, so if you could keep me apprised of any plans you may have to be away from Denham Park in the next few days, I’d be grateful.”

“Don’t worry. We won’t be straying far till things are sorted here,” said Edward.

“We’ll be as quick as we can, sir,” said Pascoe, though he did not for a moment think that the man was referring to the investigation.

He stood aside from the door, making it clear he was ushering them out of the room. Esther finished her drink and set her glass down. She’d used only her left hand, Pascoe noticed, both for preparing and disposing of the drink. This he felt was a proper observation for a senior detective to be making, and it helped distract him from the very improper observation of the plump brown breasts pushing like baby seals against the net of wool.

After they left the room he went over to the bureau. He leafed through the papers on view but found nothing that cried for attention. He made a note to tell Wield to get someone to make a detailed list. At least it might tell him what young Sir Edward wasn’t looking for. The one thing he found that sparked his interest was a small diary, but when he opened it he saw it seemed to contain nothing but appointments. He slipped it into his pocket for further examination.

He left the drawing room and went back to Clara Brereton’s room.

“I gather you’ve turned down Sir Edward’s invitation to stay at Denham Park,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Your decision, but it might be better not to stay here by yourself tonight.”

“Better for whom?”

“For yourself.”

“But won’t you have policemen patrolling the grounds?”

“Perhaps. Nevertheless…”

She regarded him shrewdly for a moment, then said, “Teddy’s been poking about, hasn’t he? And Esther thinks I might do some poking of my own.”

He still wasn’t certain how bright the bart was, nor indeed whether his sister had anything more than that superficial brightness derived from a posh school and an ingrained assumption of superiority, but he had no doubts about Clara Brereton.

“Perhaps,” he said. “If Sir Edward were doing some poking, what might he expect to find? Where for instance might Lady Denham have kept her private papers?”

“I’m not sure. The bureau in the east drawing room, perhaps.”

“That was where I met the Denhams, right? And was the bureau kept locked?”

“Not usually. I doubt if she kept anything there she felt was really confidential. She’d deposit anything like that with Mr. Beard, her lawyer.”

“And he’s local, is he?”

“Oh no. London. Aunt Daphne didn’t believe in employing local firms for confidential matters. That was a piece of advice she gave me. She liked dishing out advice. Local professionals might be very competent but they employ local people. A wise woman takes care that her correspondence with her lawyer cannot be looked at by, say, the daughter of her milliner. That’s what she told me.”

“I’m sure you took it to heart,” said Pascoe, smiling. “Did she go to see Mr. Beard or did he come up here?”

“He came here pretty regularly as far as I can gather.”

“She had a lot of legal work then?”

“She enjoyed changing her will, certainly,” she said, pulling a face.

“Really. And the last time Mr. Beard was here was…when?”

“Week before last.”

“And was that about a will change?”

“You’ll need to ask him,” said Clara Brereton dryly. “I may have been a sort of cousin, but in some respects I was still a sort of milliner’s daughter.”

“Do you have Mr. Beard’s address?”

“Gray’s Inn Road, I believe. The number will be in Auntie’s address book. Shall I get it for you?”

Pascoe shook his head.

“No. I’d rather you didn’t. In fact, Miss Brereton, if you’d care to put a few things of your own together, I really do feel you ought to move out of the hall for a couple of days.”

“This is beginning to sound more like an instruction than an option. And where am I to go?”

“You could change your mind about Sir Edward’s invitation.”

She shook her head and said, “No, I couldn’t.”

“Any particular reason?”

Before she could answer, the phone by the computer rang.

“Am I allowed to answer that?” she said.

“Of course.”

She picked it up and said, “Hello…yes, it’s me.”

She listened for a while, then said, “Yes, in fact, the police have suggested I move out for the time being…that’s very kind of you…very kind indeed. Thank you.”

She put down the phone and said, “You haven’t been talking to Tom Parker, have you?”

“No, I think one of my officers should have interviewed him by now, but I haven’t encountered him personally yet. Why?”

“It was just so timely. That was Tom. He said he and his wife had just realized that I would be all by myself here and they’ve invited me to stay with them at Kyoto House.”

“That was kind of them. And purely fortuitous, I assure you,” said Pascoe. “You’ve no objection?”

“They’re kind people,” said Clara. “No, I’ve no objection. Right, I’d better go and pack. Are you going to supervise me?”

Pascoe said gently, “Please, Miss Brereton, don’t feel badgered. You’ve had a terrible shock. I admit there are other considerations but, more important, I really feel it’s better all round that tonight you should be among friends. Do you have transport?”

“Not my own. I sometimes borrowed my aunt’s Jeep, but I’d better not risk that or Esther might be demanding you arrest me for theft.”

She said it lightly but Pascoe noted it was the sister she focused on.

“Okay. I’ll fix a lift for you. Now off you go and pack.”

She nodded, more, it seemed to him, at some inner decision than in acknowledgment of anything he’d said, then left the room.

Pascoe took out his mobile and rang Wield.

“Car round to the hall ASAP please to take Miss Brereton to Kyoto House, Tom Parker’s residence. And when she’s gone, get someone to give the house the once-over.”

“Looking for anything special?”

“Not really, but Sir Ted was looking for something and I don’t think he found it. Will maybe. Lady Denham’s bedroom might be a good place to start.”

“On the principle that’s where women are most likely to keep their secrets?”

“I’m surprised you knowing a thing like that, Wieldy,” he said and switched off.

Clara Brereton came back into the room, carrying a small grip.

“You were quick,” he congratulated her.

“I didn’t pack for a long stay,” she said.

He smiled as he recalled Ellie explaining to him that packing for a short stay was much harder than packing for a long stay when you just threw everything in.

How should I pack for this case? he wondered.

“Then let’s get you on your way,” he said.