Читать книгу Ruling Passion - Reginald Hill - Страница 8

Brookside Cottage,

Thornton Lacey.

September 4th.

Well hello, Peter Pascoe!

A voice from the grave! Or should I say the underworld? Out of which Ellie (who gave me the glad news of your existence when we met in town last month) hopes to lead you, for a while at least, back into the land of the living.

Ironic, thought Detective-Superintendent Backhouse, his gaze flicking momentarily to the pale-faced man who sat opposite him. He did not speak the thought aloud. He was a kind man, though he never shunned the cruelties of his job when they became essential.

He read on.

Doubtless she told you we’ve been doing up this rural slum to make it a fit place for pallid cits to recuperate in. Well, now it is complete and we’d love for you and Ellie to week-end with us in a fortnight (constabulary duty permitting, of course!). Timmy and Carlo are coming down from the Great Wen so there will be much nostalgia! Not quite as squalid as that other cottage in Eskdale (I hope) – but oddly enough life in Thornton Lacey is not without its correspondences!

‘What’s he mean by that?’ asked Backhouse.

Pascoe stared at the sentence indicated by the superintendent’s carefully manicured finger. It took him a second to bring the words into focus.

‘When we were students,’ he said, ‘we spent a few weeks one summer in Eskdale. In Cumberland.’

‘The same people?’

Pascoe nodded.

‘Colin and Rose weren’t married then.’

‘What’s this about correspondences?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t remember much about it.’

Except one evening, the six of them, golden in the low-stooping sun, walking in companionable silence across a diagonally sloping field towards the distant village and its pub. The slope had separated their courses, pulling them apart so that they were strung out across the coarse, tussocky grass, only coming together again at the wooden gate in the lowest corner of the loose-stone wall.

Make it Friday evening if possible, but bright and early Saturday if not. Do not fail us in this our command or our wrath shall be terrible and you know just how terrible my wrath can be!

Seriously, it will delight me more than I can say if you come. It’s not every day that we see Abelard reunited with Eloisa (and his vital equipment, I hope!) Love from us both,

Colin (and Rose)

Backhouse finished the letter with a sigh, made a note on a slip of paper, clipped it to the single pale lemon sheet and put it into a bright green plastic folder.

‘I’ll hang on to this,’ he said. ‘If I may.’

Not that it had any value at the moment. Probably it never would. But he preferred to work that way. Meticulousness is the better part of serendipity.

‘Would you like another cup of tea?’ he asked.

The door opened before Pascoe could answer. An ancient constable creaked wearily in, holding some typewritten sheets.

‘Mr – that is, Sergeant – Pascoe’s statement, sir.’

He laid the sheets carefully before Backhouse and retreated.

‘Thank you, Crowther,’ said Backhouse, turning the sheets round and pushing them towards Pascoe.

‘Read it,’ he said gently as Pascoe picked up a ball-point and made to sign at the bottom of the first sheet. ‘Always read before you sign. Just as you always tell others to read before they sign, I hope.’

Without answering, Pascoe began to read.

Statement of Peter Ernest Pascoe made at Thornton Lacey police station, Oxfordshire, in the presence of Detective-Superintendent D. S. Backhouse.

On the morning of Saturday 18th September, I drove down from Yorkshire to Thornton Lacey. I was accompanied by a friend, Miss Eleanor Soper. Our purpose was to spend the week-end with some old friends, Colin and Rose Hopkins of Brookside Cottage, Thornton Lacey. Other guests were to include Mr Timothy Mansfield and Mr Charles Rushworth, also old friends, though I had not seen them nor the Hopkinses for more than five years. I do not know if anyone else had been invited.

It was our intention to arrive at nine-thirty but we made such good time that it became clear we were going to be there by nine …

It was a glorious morning after a night of torrential rain. A light mist lay like chiffon over the fields and woodlands, yielding easily to the gentle urgings of the rising sun. The roads were empty at first. Even the traditionally dawn-greeting farmhouses seemed still to sleep in the shining wet fields.

‘I like it,’ said Ellie, snuggling contentedly into the comfortably sagging passenger seat of the old Riley. ‘There are some things it’s worth being worken up for.’

Pascoe laughed.

‘I know what you mean,’ he said with hoarse passion.

‘You’re a sex maniac,’ she answered.

‘Not at all. I can wait till we reach a lay-by.’

Ellie closed her eyes with a smile. When she opened them again it was an hour later and she was leaning heavily against her companion’s shoulder.

‘Sorry!’ she said, sitting upright.

‘So much for the attractions of the early morning! We’re making very good time, by the way. You’re sure they really want us for breakfast?’

‘Certain. When I talked to Rose on the phone she was very angry we had to cry off arriving last evening and insisted on first thing today. Poor girl, she probably had a fatted calf roasting or something.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry. It was a shame.’

Ellie put on her indignant look.

‘Shame! That fat sadist Dalziel doesn’t know the meaning of the word.’

‘It wasn’t his fault. It’s this string of break-ins we’ve been brought in on. The phone rang just as I was leaving.’

‘So you said,’ grunted Ellie. ‘Bloody queer time for a burglary. I bet Dalziel did it.’

‘The break-in happened some time earlier in the week,’ explained Pascoe patiently. ‘It was only discovered yesterday when the people got back from holiday.’

‘Serves them right for coming back early. They should have stayed away for the week-end. Then we could have enjoyed all ours too.’

‘I hope we will,’ said Pascoe, smiling fondly at her. ‘It’ll be good to see them all again.’

‘Yes, I think it will be. Especially for you,’ said Ellie thoughtfully. ‘You’ve been cut off too long.’

‘Perhaps so. I didn’t do all the cutting, mind. Anyway, cutting’s the wrong image. They were always there. Like securely invested capital! I’ve never doubted that one day I would see them all again.’

‘It took an accident to bring me to light again,’ admonished Ellie.

‘There is a something power which shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we may,’ proclaimed Pascoe solemnly. ‘Colin’s not the only one who can quote.’

‘Here’s to it,’ said Ellie, relaxing in the window-warmed light of the now completely triumphant sun.

We arrived at Thornton Lacey at eight-fifty. I noted the exact time as I looked at my watch to see how close to our forecast time of arrival we were. I suggested to Miss Soper that we should wait for half an hour before proceeding to Brookside Cottage, but after discussion we decided against this. Thus it must have been two or three minutes before nine o’clock when we reached the cottage. The curtains were all drawn and we received no reply to our knocks.

‘We should have waited,’ said Pascoe smugly.

‘Nonsense. If they got so pie-eyed last night that they can’t hear us knocking, they weren’t to be ready for nine-thirty either.’

The professional part of his mind felt there was some flaw either of logic or syntax in this statement, but this week-end he was very firmly and very consciously off duty. So he grinned and stepped back from the doorway, craning his neck to spot any signs of activity behind the bedroom curtains.

It was a lovely cottage, just stopping this side of biscuit-tin sentimentality. Tudor, he told himself, half-timbered, doubtless full of wattle-and-daub whatever that was (those were?). A not very successful attempt had been made to train a rambling rose around the doorway. Above the thatched roof a flock of television aerials parted the morning breeze and serenely sang their triumph over charm and Tudory.

‘Colin’s quite ruthless,’ said Ellie, following his gaze. ‘If you modernize, modernize. He doesn’t see any virtue in pretending that a pair of farm-labourers’ cottages was once a desirable sixteenth-century residence.’

‘Nor in keeping farming hours, it seems,’ said Pascoe, banging once more on the door and rattling the worn brass handle.

‘Though perhaps,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘they do preserve some old country customs, such as never locking your door.’

He pressed the door-handle right down and pushed. The hinges creaked most satisfactorily as the heavy oak door slowly swung open.

Now it was Ellie’s turn to show reluctance.

‘We can’t just appear at the foot of the bed,’ she protested, hanging back.

‘Well I’m not going to go and get a warrant,’ answered Pascoe. ‘At least we can find the wherewithal to make coffee and a lot of noise. Come on!’

The front door opened directly into a nicely proportioned lounge, with furnishings which, though comfortable looking, were antiquated rather than antique. Two or three whisky tumblers stood on a low table in the middle of the room; they were still half full. An empty bottle of Teacher’s stood beside them. A Churchillian cigar had been allowed to burn out in a large cut-glass ashtray. Ellie sniffed the air distastefully.

‘What a fug! I was right – they must have been having themselves a quiet little ball last night.’

She began drawing curtains back prior to opening a window. Pascoe too was sniffing gently, a faintly puzzled look on his face. He crossed the room to the door in the farthermost wall. It was ajar and he pushed it fully open and stepped through into the next room. It was clearly the dining-room. The round, highly polished mahogany table still bore the debris of a meal.

But it wasn’t the table which held his attention.

White-faced he turned to stop Ellie from following him. She had moved to the rear window now and was just drawing the curtains there.

‘Ellie,’ he said.

She froze, her hand on the window-latch, staring incredulously through the pane.

A thin, single-noted scream forced its way from the back of her throat.

Two men were lying on the dining-room floor in the positions indicated in the police photograph ‘A1’. They had both received severe gunshot wounds, and had been bleeding copiously. The nature of the wounds and the strong cordite smell I had noticed in the air led me to assume the wounds had been caused by a shotgun fired at close range. The man lying beside the dining-table (position ‘X’ on the photograph) I recognized as Timothy Mansfield of Grover Court, London, NW2. The other man I was not able to recognize immediately as he had received the greater part of the gun-blast in the neck and lower face, but later I was able to confirm he was Charles Rushworth of the same address. I turned to prevent Miss Soper from following me into the room, but she was clearly disturbed by something she could see from the rear window. I looked out into the garden at the back of the house and saw the figure of a woman lying at the base of the sundial in the centre of the lawn (photograph ‘C3’) I could not recognize her from the window as her face was pressed to the grass. There had been a great deal of bleeding from the head.

‘It’s Rose,’ said Ellie, not believing herself. ‘There’s been an accident.’

She made for the dining-room, seeking a way into the garden. Pascoe caught her by the shoulders.

‘Telephone,’ he said, his voice low, his mind racing. From the dining-room a narrow flight of stairs ran to the next floor. His ears were alert for any slight sound of movement above.

‘Yes,’ said Ellie. ‘Doctor. No, ambulance is better, there was a hospital sign, do you remember?’

There was a telephone on the floor beside one of the two armchairs. She bent over it.

‘No,’ said Pascoe, taking her arm and pushing her towards the front door. ‘We passed a phone box down the road. Use that. And get the police. Tell them they’ll need an ambulance and a doctor.’

‘Police?’ repeated Ellie.

‘Hurry,’ said Pascoe urgently.

He heard the Riley start as he placed his foot carefully on the first stair. It creaked, the second even more so, and, abandoning stealth, he took the rest at a run, narrowly missing cracking his head against the ceiling cross-beam halfway up.

He went through the nearest door low and fast. A bedroom. Empty. Bed unslept in.

The next the same. Then a bathroom. A tiny junk-room. One more to go. Certain now the first floor was uninhabited, he still took no chances and entered as violently as before.

Looking down at the bed, his heart stood still. A pair of children’s handcuffs lay across the two pillows. In one bracelet was a red rose. In the other a young nettle. On the bedhead above was pinned a paper banner.

It read Eloisa and Abelard, Welcome Home.

Pascoe felt the carapace of professionality he had withdrawn behind crack across. The room overlooked the rear of the house. He did not look out of the window but descended rapidly. With a great effort of will, he forced himself to confirm by touch what his eyes had told him, that the two men were dead.

Timmy used to play the guitar and when in funds gave presents of charming eccentricity to those he loved. Carlo (it was Carlo, the one eye which remained unscathed told him that) had a fiery temper, adored Westerns, demonstrated for civil rights, hated priests.

These were memories he didn’t want. Even less did he want to kneel beside this woman, turn her gently over, see the ruin of soft flesh the shotgun blast had made in Rose Hopkins.

She was wearing a long silk evening gown. Even the rain and the dew had not dulled its iridescent sheen of purple and green like a pheasant’s plumage. But her eyes were dull.

The sundial against which she lay had an inscription on its pedestal. He read it, desperately trying to rebuild his carapace.

Horas non numero nisi serenas.

I number only the sunny hours.

He was still cradling the dead woman in his arms when Ellie returned, closely followed by the first police car.