The Price of Butcher's Meat

11

Pascoe had his strategy all carefully worked out as he made his way to the big drawing room. Esther would be sitting on the sofa that Beard had occupied, her expression a mix of weary indifference and intellectual superiority. Novello would be sitting watchfully opposite her. On his entrance, the DC would rise and vacate her seat. He would sit down, smile, apologize for keeping Esther waiting. And then he would take her through her initial statement, getting her to reconfirm every last detail. Eventually he would start gently nudging her into making alterations. Why, if she’d avoided the storm, had she felt the need to change her clothing? How, if she hadn’t been among those who removed the body from the hog roast basket, had she come to burn her arm? What was that? You haven’t burnt your arm? Perhaps you’d care to roll up your right sleeve…?

Eventually she would have to abandon her script and move on to his and then the drama was ready to unfold.

But when he pushed open the door, he realized that he’d been rehearsing the wrong play.

Esther Denham wasn’t sitting on the sofa but was at the open bureau, writing. She wasn’t wearing an arm-concealing blouse, but a sleeveless top, revealing a neat dressing on her right forearm. Novello, standing behind her, looked round at Pascoe’s entry and shrugged helplessly.

“Miss Denham,” said Pascoe.

“Almost finished,” said the woman without looking up. “When they said you were delayed, I thought it would speed things up if I wrote out my revised statement. There, that’s finished.”

She signed her name with a flourish, gathered together the sheets of notepaper and handed them to Novello.

“Shouldn’t you sign as a witness?” she inquired. “I think we’ve probably had enough problems with forgeries for one day.”

Novello glanced at Pascoe again. He nodded, and she took the pen and signed, then handed the papers to Pascoe.

How cooperative everyone was being in this case, he thought. Roote had had a statement prepared for Wield; Feldenhammer had handed his to Dalziel: now here was Esther Denham getting in on the act.

He sat down on an armchair. The woman came from the bureau and declined elegantly onto the sofa.

So now the scene was physically as he’d envisaged it, but even before he studied the sheets in his hand, he guessed that his prepared script was out of the window.

Written on Sandytown Hall-headed notepaper in an elegant cursive hand, the new statement was both confession and rebuttal. To Pascoe the style bore the mark of the lamp.

Making my way back to the Hall after a stroll round the grounds, I stumbled upon the body of Lady Denham concealed in some long grass in the vicinity of the hog roast machinery. Having ascertained that she was dead, my first thought was to call for help. Then I became aware of a man’s wristwatch snagged on her blouse. On closer examination, I realized that it belonged to my brother, Sir Edward Denham. Knowing that earlier he had been involved in an angry altercation with Lady Denham over changes she had made to her will, I began to fear that he might have something to do with her death. Marks around the body’s neck made me suspect there had been foul play. With time for leisurely thought, I am sure I would have reached the conclusion that my brother was incapable of such an act, but I did not have this time. My only thought was for Edward. I removed the watch. Then I tried to think of other ways in which I could misdirect any investigation. Knowing of her long-standing feud with animal rights extremists, I looked for a means to suggest their involvement here. The hog roast machinery was close by. It occurred to me that substituting Lady Denham’s body for that of the pig in the basket could be seen as a clear statement of the motives behind the murder. There was no sign of Ollie Hollis, who was in charge of the actual roast, and the developing storm made it unlikely that anyone else would come this way to disturb me, so I winched the basket off the pit, and, using the heavy insulated gloves I found in the hut, I managed to remove the pig and substitute the cadaver, burning my forearm slightly in the process.

I then made my way back to the Hall, entering unobserved by a rear door, and went to the room I knew my brother used for changing in when he went swimming. I found him there, toweling himself down. It soon became clear to me as I told him what I had done that he had no idea what I was talking about. He in fact had spent the last hour or so in the company of Sidney Parker, his homosexual lover. He was completely bowled over when I told him about Lady Denham. I was convinced of his innocence, and I realized the presence of his watch on the scene meant that someone was trying to point the finger of suspicion his way. Not knowing what other false clues might have been deposited, it seemed best to say nothing but to try to outthink the perpetrator. To this end, we agreed that Edward must be among the first on the spot when the body was discovered so that any other physical evidence of his involvement that might have been planted could be explained by contact made in removing it from the basket. Edward, though not the clearest of thinkers, has always had a great deal of self-possession in trying circumstances, so, though naturally deeply distressed, he was able to carry this off with relative ease.

I had hoped that the police investigation might have led rapidly to discovery of the real culprit and that my role in this affair would never need to surface, but clearly this has not happened. In fact, I am glad of this opportunity to get this burden of concealment off my chest. I regret that any action of mine should have muddied the waters, and hope that by volunteering this statement, I might leave the way clear for the police to get on the trail of the real perpetrator.

Pascoe sighed deeply as he finished reading and said, “Miss Denham, you realize that, however we take this statement, in it you are admitting to a very serious offense?”

“Yes.”

“And if in fact your assertion that you were mistakenly trying to cover up for your brother turns out itself to be an attempt to cover up for your brother, you are committing an even more serious offense?”

“I had worked that out. But my statement is true.”

“Really? Work out a lot, do you, Miss Denham?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Visit the gym two or three times a week? Weight training, that sort of thing?”

“Certainly not.”

“I didn’t think so. I don’t observe any of that definition of the biceps, triceps, or deltoid muscles that usually accompanies such exercise.”

“How about my pecs, Chief Inspector? Are they defined enough for you?”

“Excellently defined, if God did all,” said Pascoe. “But my point is, young, healthy, and fit though you appear to be, I find it hard to believe that you could have done all you claim to have done without assistance. Your aunt was no spring chicken. The winch and the pulley systems, even though well oiled, still require a fair amount of strength to work them.”

“Your point being?”

“My point being that it seems to me far more likely that this was the work of you and your brother working in concert.”

“You think we conspired to murder Lady Denham?” She smiled. “I assure you, if my mind had ever turned that way, I would have come up with something a lot less muddled than this!”

“I believe you,” said Pascoe, smiling in his turn. “This smacks of masculine anger and impulsiveness. I think you probably chanced upon the event as it reached its climax. Too late to prevent the murder, you immediately set about setting up the diversions. That much of what you write is true, except of course that Edward was with you, following your instructions.”

“No,” she insisted serenely. “I was alone. Teddy was never there. I’m sure that Sid Parker will be able to provide him with an alibi.”

“So am I,” said Pascoe. “If the love of a sister can do as much, then surely the love of a lover will not fall short. Mr. Parker’s story will, I fear, carry as much or as little weight as yours.”

“You don’t seem to regard love very highly, Mr. Pascoe.”

“Oh, but I do. It comes second only to truth in my pantheon,” said Pascoe. “I’m going to talk with your brother now. Knowing him as you do, how do you think he’s going to stand up to interrogation?”

“Very well. All he’s got to do is tell you what little he knows. As such a devout worshipper of truth, eventually you’ll have to acknowledge the presence of your deity.”

He felt he was beginning to see what Andy Dalziel had clearly seen from the beginning, the real woman beneath the polished shell. From the Fat Man she won sympathy. From himself she won merely admiration.

Her one point of weakness was Ted. He did not doubt for a moment that she was trying to cover up for him.

But he didn’t doubt either that her serene confidence in her brother’s ability to be able to withstand close interrogation was misplaced. That was the trouble with love. It made you do silly things. But worse, it made you blind to weakness.

He said, “I’ll let you know how I get on then, shall I?”

Then he stood up and left the room.