The Price of Butcher's Meat

9

“You have arrived,” said Posh Woman’s voice confidently.

“You’re a bloody liar,” said Edgar Wield.

He had been impressed as Posh directed him along a skein of unclassified byways mazy enough to confuse a Minotaur hunter, but she’d failed him at the last. The building he had halted beside bore a sign saying Lyke Farm whereas what he wanted was Lyke Farm Barn.

Time for human contact.

He climbed off the Thunderbird and banged on the oak door with a lion’s-head knocker.

He had his ID open and ready. Normally he expected folk to take him as they found him, but in remote spots the combination of his leather riding gear and forbidding features sometimes required immediate reassurance.

The door opened and the doorway was filled by a huge red-faced man who didn’t look as if he’d have been much bothered to find the devil himself on his doorstep.

“Detective Sergeant Wield,” said Wield, just to be on the safe side.

“Oh aye? It’ll be about the murder. You’ll be wanting young Fran, I daresay.”

Wield wasn’t surprised. The speed with which news traveled across miles of empty space in rural Yorkshire would fill Bill Gates with envy.

“That’s right. Mr. Roote,” he said. “I’m looking for Lyke Farm Barn.”

“Well, you’ve not looked hard enough. Back along the Sandytown road a quarter mile, lane end on your left just afore the dead oak, and there’s a bloody great sign for them as can read.”

Wield did not feel reproved. He’d lived in a remote Yorkshire village for a few years now and knew that such apparent aggression was the equivalent of familiar domestic intercourse in metropolitan areas.

“Thank you, Mr…. er?”

“Sedgwick. Wally Sedgwick. You’ve not got him yet, then?”

“Got who?”

“Him as did for Daph Brereton, of course.”

“No, we haven’t. Do you see a lot of Mr. Roote?”

“When he calls to pay the rent. My missus sees a lot more, keeping the place tidy for him like she does.”

“You own the barn then?”

“Oh aye. Got it done up a few years back when this bloody government started making it impossible to make a living by honest farming. Diversify, they said. Tek in lodgers, mek cream teas. Bugger that, I said. I’m not having a bunch of strangers clogging up my bathroom. But we got a grant to convert the barn to a holiday cottage.”

“But Mr. Roote lives there permanent?”

“Got a lease for a year, renewable. Didn’t think it would work when I saw the state of him, but it’s all on one floor and he forked out for a few changes. He said he wanted somewhere quiet so’s he could work at his writing. And my missus said it ’ud be a lot easier than having someone new there every week during the summer, then the place sitting empty when the bad weather came. Think she felt a bit sorry for the lad, and he’s got a sweet tongue on him when he talks to the ladies, no denying that! So we agreed a price plus a bit more for her doing the cleaning and a bit of cooking sometimes, so everyone’s pleased all round.”

“Aye, sounds nice and cozy,” said Wield. “Bit of cooking, you say? Does a lot of entertaining, does he?”

“Shouldn’t think so. What Maisie does is casseroles and such for Mr. Roote hisself. Puts them in the freezer. Of course he’s well secluded, so I suppose he could be having wild parties every night, but the only folk I’ve ivver noticed ganging up that lane is Tom Parker and yon Denham lad on his bike.”

“Sir Edward, you mean?”

“Aye. Rides like a maniac. Yon things should be banned, that’s what I say.”

He didn’t except present company, Wield noted, as he said thanks and climbed back onto the Thunderbird.

A couple of minutes later he slowed down as he spotted the skeletal outline of a huge dead tree against the evening sky. There was the lane end. And Farmer Sedgwick had been right about the sign too, though perhaps not in every particular, thought Wield as he toed aside some veiling nettles to reveal a lump of granite with LYKE FARM BARN painted on it in flaking white gloss.

An ancient gate, attached to an even older flaking sandstone gatepost, barred entrance to the lane. It moved smoothly enough on its rusty hinges but it still must be a bloody nuisance to a guy in a wheelchair.

He rode carefully up the lane. Its surface was rutted and potholed, fine for a tractor or four-by-four perhaps, but day after day it couldn’t do an ordinary car’s suspension any good. When it rained, it must be a quagmire. After a hundred yards or so, above the roar of his own engine he heard another engine start up, and as he rounded a bend that brought a building into view, a motorbike came hurtling toward him, moving at twice his speed, with the black-leathered rider crouched low over the handlebars. For a second, collision seemed inevitable. Wield came to a halt and prepared to abandon ship. Then the other rider leaned sideways and swept past close enough for him to feel the wind of his passing.

“Wanker!” yelled Wield.

It had all happened too quickly for him to get the number, but at a guess he’d have said the bike was a Buell Lightning, the long-base model.

He set off once more. Soon the track ran into a cobbled yard where a blue Kangoo was parked before the converted barn. Long and low and covered with cream-colored pebble dash, it showed little of its origins except perhaps for a disproportionately wide front doorway, which must be very useful to a wheelchair user.

The barn door was open, and as Wield dismounted, a figure in a wheelchair appeared on the threshold.

“Sergeant Wield! How nice to see you. I wondered who would come. Still riding the Thunderbird, I see. I thought I recognized that throaty growl as you came up the lane.”

The greeting was perfect in its form, but Roote’s voice was a little breathless and his face a little flushed.

“I wonder you could hear anything above the noise made by yon Lightning. Was that Edward Denham? I thought he were going to ride right through me.”

“Oh dear,” said Roote. “I’m sorry about that. Yes. It was Teddy. Well spotted, and you’ve only been here two minutes! Your reputation for thoroughness is well deserved. I’ll read Ted the riot act, or perhaps the Road Safety Act would be more appropriate. Happily, you survived and it’s so good to see you, Sergeant Wield. How are you? You look so well, hardly changed at all.”

“I’m fine, Mr. Roote,” said Wield, wondering what had brought Ted Denham round to Lyke Farm Barn on this particular night.

“Come in, do,” said Roote, spinning the chair around and leading the way into a living room simply furnished with a low table and a wood-framed three-piece suite standing on a granite-flagged floor. The walls were whitewashed and there was no ceiling, just the sharp vee of the cruck-beamed roof, giving the room a slightly churchy feel. The twenty-first century was represented by a small flat-screen TV hung on one of the end walls and a wheelchair-height computer workstation.

Observing his visitor take all this in, Roote said, “There were rugs on the floor to make it all seem a bit more homely, but I asked Maisie if she’d mind taking them away. That way I get a smoother run and she gets more wear out of her rugs.”

“That would be Mrs. Sedgwick?”

“Sorry, I should have said. But what need when talking to Sergeant Wield? Anyone dear Peter rates so high is always going to be one step ahead of the game. How is he, by the way? And his lovely wife? And of course, their delightful daughter?”

Wield felt a frisson of pleasure at the praise at the same time as he consigned it to the recycle bin. His personal acquaintance with Roote was much slighter than Pascoe’s or Dalziel’s, but from listening to them and studying the records, he knew he was dealing with a master of misdirection who made most political spin doctors look like Blue Peter presenters.

“They’re grand, all of them,” he said.

“Great! Now, can I offer you some refreshment, Mr. Wield?” said Roote. “No alcohol, of course. You’re on duty. But I know how duty can devour time unawares for you chaps, leaving precious little space to devour anything else. So a cup of tea and a slice of cake? Maisie bakes an incredible Madeira loaf.”

“Thanks, no,” said Wield. “Just a few questions, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“No problem there then,” grinned Roote, running a hand over his shaven skull. “Sorry. Nervous frivolity. This is a truly terrible business with ramifications beyond the immediate ghastly tragedy. But I do not doubt your sensors have already begun to trace those out.”

“Always glad to use local knowledge to point us on the right track,” said Wield invitingly. When witnesses tried to control the direction of an interview, he often found it helpful to give them their head and see where they led.

“Lady Denham is…sorry…was a very important figure in Sandytown. I don’t just mean socially, but economically. The times they are a-changing, Mr. Wield, and a-changing faster than ever before. To stand still is to decline. Development is all, and here in Sandytown the main thrust of development has been in the safe hands of our two charismatic figures, Lady D herself and Tom Parker. Have you met Tom yet?”

“No, but he’s being interviewed,” said Wield. “Got on all right, did they?”

Roote frowned and said, “Impossible not to get on with Tom, though it’s true he and Lady D are two very different characters. In the hands of either alone, the good ship Sandytown would probably have quickly foundered-on the reefs of quick profits and personal gain under the captaincy of Lady D, or the shoals of vague idealism and personal obsession under the helmsmanship of Tom Parker. In other words, together they formed a team greater than the sum of its parts. Alas, with dear Daphne gone…”

He shook his head and looked tragic. He did it very well, Wield had to admit. Out of the mouths of many people those fancy words would have sounded merely overblown, but Roote gave them real force and life.

He said, “You’re saying mebbe this could be a motive for killing Lady Denham? Wanting to wreck what she were doing in this consortium?”

“On Tom’s part? Impossible. But others might see things differently, so it’s a possibility. You might want to add it to your list of the usual motives.”

“Them being?”

“Money-who inherits? Sex-who has been scorned or impeded? Mental disturbance-who’s off their chump?” replied Roote promptly.

“You’ve obviously thought a bit about this.”

“I had several years to contemplate the field of murder investigation, Sergeant Wield, with especial attention to the errors that an early false premise can lead even an honest and conscientious investigator into.”

He looked Wield straight in the eyes as he said this.

If he’d been selling me a used car, I’d be reaching for my wallet, thought the sergeant, who found he was almost enjoying himself. Nowt one expert likes more than seeing another at the top of his game.

But enough was enough. He’d seen where Roote wanted to take him, now it was time to rein him in.

“Right,” he said. “Thanks for that. Now about the party at Sandytown Hall. What time did you arrive, Mr. Roote?”

He took out his notebook, opened it, clicked his ballpoint, and held it poised to write. But the young man was not ready so easily to concede control.

“No need for that, Mr. Wield,” he said, smiling. “I knew you’d want a statement, so the first thing I did when I got back here with everything still fresh in my mind was…”

He picked up a plastic folder from the floor and handed it over.

“…write this.”

Wield opened the folder.

STATEMENT OF FRANCIS XAVIER ROOTE OF LYKE FARM BARN, NR SANDYTOWN, YORKSHIRE

“Why don’t I make us that cup of tea while you cast your eye over it, then you can ask any supplementary questions and I’ll sign it in your presence?” said Roote.

“I’m impressed, Mr. Roote,” said Wield. “Bet if I’d come to arrest you, I’d have found you in handcuffs.”

Roote exploded a laugh.

“I can see you and I are going to get along famously, Sergeant,” he said.

He went toward a door that opened at his approach, giving Wield a glimpse into a kitchen. Everything was at wheelchair height: work surfaces, sink, electric oven. Presumably Roote had paid for the alteration and would have to pay for the restoration when he vacated the property. The rumors of the high level of compensation, obtained in part at least through Pascoe’s efforts, must be true. A setup like this, plus automatic doors, wouldn’t come cheap. Wield found that the low-level oven in particular brought home the change in the young man’s life even more than the sight of him in a wheelchair. He concentrated his attention on the statement.

It was clear in language, precise in description, concise in expression. Every sighting of Lady Denham was highlighted. None sounded significant. The only bit that caught Wield’s interest came toward the end. When the storm started, Roote had taken shelter in the conservatory, where he sat in a quiet corner watching the play of lightning in the eastern sky.

As the storm receded, feeling the need for some air, I left the conservatory and went out onto the paved area. I saw someone move in the shrubbery at the end of the lawn. I only got a glimpse and this in poor light at a distance of say twenty-five to thirty meters, but I’m sure he had a beard. The only person I saw at the party with a beard was Gordon Godley, the healer, but I could not say definitely it was him. If anything, the man more closely resembled Harold, known as Hen, Hollis, brother of Lady Denham’s first husband. Against this, Hen’s reaction to his brother’s will had led to an estrangement from Lady D and I knew that he was unlikely to have been invited to the hog roast.

Curious as to why anyone would have stayed out there in the rain, I rolled my chair onto the grass and went to investigate. Unfortunately the lower end of the lawn was so soggy after the downpour that the wheels of my chair sank and I found myself stuck. To make matters worse, the rain, which had slackened off to a few negligible drops, suddenly returned for what proved to be a final flurry, provoking me to make such an effort to move that I tipped the whole thing over and ended up sprawled on the lawn. There I remained till others came out of the house and Petula Sheldon, head nurse at the Avalon Clinic, rescued me and wheeled me back to dry land.

Shortly afterward the body of poor Lady Denham was discovered. For a while all was confusion. In a wheelchair, soaking wet, and extremely distressed by the news, I could see no way that I could assist. So, confident that details of all the guests would be made available to the authorities, I followed the example of many others and went home where, after changing my clothes, I prepared this statement.

Signed in the presence of……………………by……………………………

Roote was still clattering crockery in the kitchen, a little more loudly than necessary?

Mebbe he wants to give me time to poke around, thought Wield. Happy to oblige!

He rose and went to the workstation. It was a top-of-the-range setup. A clued-up operator could probably go almost anywhere he wanted on this. Tempting for a man in a wheelchair…no, Wield corrected, tempting for any clued-up operator, as he knew!

“Questions?” said Roote, appearing out of the kitchen with a tea tray bearing mugs, teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl, and a cake set across the arms of his wheelchair.

“Aye. Did you see this bearded man again when you were out on the lawn?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Roote. “I thought I heard some movement in the shrubbery, as though someone were pushing through it, but I actually saw nothing more.”

“Pity,” said Wield, returning to his chair. “And it’s a pity you didn’t hang around to give this bit of information to us a lot sooner, Mr. Roote. You’re not the only person who had time to get home, change his clothes, and dry himself off.”

“I’ve no idea what time you arrived at the hall, Mr. Wield, but I suspect the person I saw would have had ample time to do all that anyway.”

“Mebbe so, but you could have told Sergeant Whitby, who got there a lot sooner.”

“Ah yes. Sergeant Whitby.”

Had he put into words what his tone implied, Wield might have felt impelled by his sergeants-union loyalty to offer a defense. As it was he answered silence with silence and accepted the mug of tea that Roote poured for him.

So much for taking control of the interview, he reflected as he sank his teeth into a slice of Madeira cake. At least in his assessment of this, Roote had been completely accurate. It was delicious.

“So, may I sign it?” said the young man.

“Aye, it’ll do. For now.”

Roote took the statement and signed it with a flourish, then handed it back and watched as Wield countersigned.

Then he said, “Now tell me about dear Peter Pascoe. Does he know I’m here? When may I hope to see him?”

“Aye, he knows. Sir Edward tell you he was here?”

“Yes, I believe he did. Though I would have guessed. With poor Mr. Dalziel hors de combat at the Avalon, who else would be entrusted with a case of such moment?”

“You’ve met Mr. Dalziel then?”

“Oh yes. Fate threw us together, though it can’t have been too arduous a task for Fate in a place the size of Sandytown. Not altogether himself, I felt, but majestic though in ruin. The second occasion we met, I was glad to see him getting closer to his old self. In fact, the improvement was so marked I felt able to ask his assistance with my appeal.”

“Your appeal?”

“For a review of my conviction, which I hope may result in a pardon.”

Wield drank some tea, then said in a voice as flat as Norfolk, “You asked the superintendent to help you appeal against your conviction?”

“That’s right.”

Wield drank some more tea.

“And he said…?”

“He undertook to give it serious consideration. I always found him a man open to reason and compassion: His outward semblance doth belie his soul’s immensity.”

Wield finished his tea.

There must be something in it, he thought. Magic mushrooms maybe.

He folded the statement, put it in his notebook, stood up, and said, “I’d best be off. Thanks for the tea. And the cake. By the way, what brought you here to Sandytown?”

It was meant to be casual, but Roote grinned broadly and said, “Of course. You’ll need to be debriefed by Peter. The answer is, familiarity and coincidence, Mr. Wield. When I finally gave up my quest for a cure and resolved to return to England, where else would I come but Yorkshire, which has played such a significant part in my life?”

“Like getting you jailed, getting you shot, and getting you crippled?” said Wield, thinking, If the bugger wants straight talk, let him have it!

“Indeed, though I try not to dwell on those things. Fate may have decreed I live my life like a gnome, but I try to record it like a gnomon, telling only the sunlit hours.”

He paused as if anticipating applause, though whether for his mental resolution or verbal convolution wasn’t clear. Wield’s face remained as unreadable as a footballer’s biography. Roote smiled and went on, “That explains Yorkshire. But why Sandytown? you wonder. During my wanderings around Europe in my vain search for restoration-I even visited Lourdes, God help me! — which He didn’t-the best palliative care I encountered was at one of my first ports of call, the Avalon Clinic at Davos. I returned there last year when I finally admitted defeat. Not for treatment-I knew I was beyond that-but because I needed to be somewhere that I would get understanding without pity. To be accepted is the first step to acceptance, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Wield?”

Wield said, “Mebbe,” and glanced surreptitiously at his watch.

“To cut a longish story short,” resumed Roote, “I was disappointed to find that Herr Professor Doktor Alvin Kling, the head of the clinic, with whom I had struck up a good relationship, was away on a six-month exchange with a colleague. But I soon found that the man he’d exchanged with, Lester Feldenhammer, was even more on my wavelength. Talking to him, plus of course my renewed involvement with Third Thought, brought me back fully to the realization that life must be tasted to the full, not wasted in pursuit of a vain dream. And when I discovered that Lester’s home clinic was the Avalon, here in Yorkshire, it seemed like a sign. So back in January I relocated here, and it was the best move I ever made.”

Wouldn’t be difficult, seeing where your other moves got you, thought Wield.

“How did Dr. Feldenhammer take it?” he asked.

“He was delighted. From being a patient, I was converted to being a kind of colleague, unpaid, of course. Lester has such an open and receptive mind. Most mainstream medical practitioners would have found Tom Parker’s enthusiasm for alternative therapies at best quirky, at worst positively dangerous. But Lester has thrown his own energy and the resources of the Avalon wholly behind Tom’s Festival of Health.”

Wield looked at his watch again, this time openly, and said, “Very interesting. Now I’d best be off. Thanks again.”

“My pleasure. And you’ll give Peter my fond regards, and tell him I should love to see him. But it’s his call. If he’s uncomfortable with the idea, I shall completely understand. This must be a very important case for him, I’d guess.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“With Mr. Dalziel hors de combat…need I say more? I very much hope Peter does well.”

“I’ll tell him. ’Bye now.”

As he rode away, Wield tried to score his encounter with Franny Roote. The best he could get it to was a points draw, but in his heart it felt like the man in the wheelchair had shaded it. It was a small comfort to remember a remark of Dalziel’s: If you ever find yourself thinking you’ve got the better of yon bugger, that’s when you’re in real trouble.

His mobile rang as he approached the lane end. He halted, put the phone to his ear, and said, “Wield…what? Hang on…reception’s lousy.”

He ran the bike out of the crowding trees onto the road.

“That any better? Okay, Hat. What were you saying?”

He listened, then said, “Have you contacted Mr. Pascoe? Do it! I’m on my way.”

And thrusting Franny Roote right out of his mind, he set the Thunderbird roaring back toward Sandytown.