He stood there a long while, feeling all about him the ghosts of the dead, and of the living too, whose departure from this place had been a rehearsal for death. Then he heard a car engine and saw a police Range Rover bumping down to the water’s edge where the divers were. Out of it climbed Dalziel followed by Wield and Novello.
By the time he joined them, they’d heard Perriman’s account of things, but their first enquiries were after Rosie.
‘Spoke to Ellie on my mobile not long back,’ he said. ‘She’s still sleeping sound, I mean really sleeping. It looks good.’
‘Great,’ said Dalziel. ‘And t’other lass, the one with the funny name?’
‘Zandra?’ said Pascoe. ‘She died.’
‘Oh, shit.’
There was a long silence, the sort which seems unbreakable. Finally, Dalziel cleared his throat and said brusquely, ‘Right, lad. So what’s going off here? How come, with all you’ve had on your plate, you know more than I do?’
‘I had help,’ said Pascoe. ‘From unexpected quarters.’
He led them to his car and took a large envelope from the front seat.
‘How much do you know about Elizabeth Wulfstan?’ he said.
‘Know that she’s Betsy Allgood who got orphaned then adopted way back,’ said Dalziel. ‘Needed a shrink to get her straight in her early teens.’
‘Right,’ said Pascoe, unsurprised at Dalziel’s knowledge, though he might have raised an eyebrow if he’d realized how recently, and how, he’d acquired it. ‘The shrink, incidentally, seems to have been Paula Appleby.’
‘Her on the telly? Thinks cops should be injected with oestrogen? Jesus!’ said Dalziel. ‘So what’s this got to do with anything?’
Pascoe extracted several sheets from the envelope.
‘These are transcripts of Betsy’s memories of Dendale and after, recalled and taped during the course of her treatment.’
‘You wha’?’ said Dalziel taking the sheets.
He ran his eye over them quickly. He might not have Wield’s almost total recall after a single reading, but when it came to sheer speed, he was county class.
‘So?’ he said when he’d finished. ‘Lass seems to be saying, bit more grown-up like, what she told us fifteen years back in Dendale.’
‘Indeed,’ said Pascoe. ‘I also have a copy of Dr Appleby’s final assessment as prepared for the Wulfstans. She concluded that the girl’s condition was the result of her desperate need to feel secure in her new home after the trauma of losing both her parents at a time when she still hadn’t recovered from what happened in Dendale, as well, of course, as her family’s forcible removal thence.’
‘Thence,’ said Dalziel. ‘I’ve been missing words like that. But what bothers me most is not thence, but whence did you get all this stuff ? You’ve not been at Wulfstan’s desk with a bent hairclip, I hope?’
‘It’s all right, sir, I wiped my fingerprints,’ said Pascoe. Then he grinned and said, ‘Relax. Nothing illegal. Not by me, anyway. I was given them, by Arne Krog.’
‘Thank God for that,’ said Dalziel, relieved not so much that no crime had been committed, but that it hadn’t been committed by Pascoe whom he didn’t trust not to get caught. ‘But why did the Turnip give you them? And what the hell have they got to do with them bones down there?’
‘There’s more,’ said Pascoe. ‘A revised version. Or perhaps the authorized version. You decide.’
He took from the envelope three sheets of blue lined paper covered with round flowing handwriting in black ink.
Dalziel took them, laid them on the roof of the car, and began to read.
There was no heading.
I’ve been thinking about what I said to Dr Appleby and I’m not sure I got it right. I’m alright up to where I got down to the mere and started shouting, ‘Bonnie! Bonnie!’ Then I think I heard someone shouting back and I know it’s daft, but I never thought it were anything but Bonnie. I were wet and frightened and only seven, so I never asked myself how come my cat could talk, and when I shouted again and heard the words, ‘Here, here!’ I just went towards the sound.
It were coming from right near the water’s edge, where the ruins of Heck were. I climbed over the fallen walls, still shouting, and again I heard the reply, and it were coming from a gap half-blocked by a big stone and a lot of rubble but I managed to push some of this aside and there were space enough for me to get through. Only it looked dark and wet down there, and I knew where it was, it was the cellar where Mr Wulfstan kept his fancy wine. I’d been down there with Mary and it was really eery, even with the electric light on. Now it looked like the hole in our yard, I mean the yard at Low Beulah where Dad used to hose all the muck down when Mam started complaining it were like living on a midden. I used to watch muck and watter bubbling down into it and imagine what it ud be like to be down there with the rats and all. So I didn’t fancy going into the Heck cellar one little bit, only suddenly I heard not a voice but a long miaow that I’d have known from a thousand others. I didn’t hesitate now. Bonnie were down there and he needed my help.
So I climbed through the gap. There were bits of rubble lying around to make a sort of staircase and when I’d got down a bit I found I were stepping into water. It wasn’t all that deep yet, just above my knees, and the good thing about it was that the bit of light coming through the hole reflected off the surface and after a while I began to see what there was to see.
I said, ‘Bonnie, are you there?’ and a voice said back, ‘Here I be,’ and it was then I made out this shape in a corner of the cellar and realized there was a man there, and I strained my eyes and I saw that it were Benny Lightfoot and he had Bonnie in his arms.
After that it happened more or less like I told Dr Appleby.
Except that when Bonnie scratched his face and he had to let him go and I ran off with the cat, I recall Benny tried to come after me. And he got quite close and I thought he were going to catch hold of me again. I turned to try and fight him off, but suddenly he pulled up short and I could see something stretched out taut behind him, and I saw it was a chain, one end wrapped around his waist, t’other fixed to the wall.
He strained towards me with his hands outstretched, and his eyes were big as saucers ‘cos his face were so hungered and waste. And he didn’t look frightening any more. No, he looked more frightened than frightening. He looked real sad and lost. And all he said was, ‘Help me, please help me.’
Then I turned and scrambled out, and I recall I pushed a lot of stone and stuff back into the gap, and I ran off up the fell hard as I could, I didn’t know where, till I had to stop and rest. And it was then that Dad came and found me.
I think this is the truth ‘cos Dr Appleby said I’d feel a lot better when I recalled the truth of what happened and told someone, and I do feel better now I’ve told someone even though it’s not Dr Appleby. I don’t want to tell anyone else,but, not now, not ever. All I want is to live quietly in London with Aunt Chloe and go to school and do my lessons and be a good daughter like a daughter ought to be.
When Dalziel finished reading, he turned and looked towards the sunlit remains of Heck on the edge of the bright and placid mere. He wasn’t a man at the mercy of imagination but, like a movie director, he could let it loose when he chose. Now he chose to turn off the sun and bring the rain lashing down and the mist swirling in. And he chose to see a man chained to a wall under the ground with rising water lapping round his thighs. And he chose to be the man and hear someone calling what he thought was his name and feel hope rise faster than the water that rescue was close…
He thrust the sheets into Wield’s hand and said to Pascoe, ‘All right, clever clogs. Everything was going nice and simple till you got back in the game. Would you like to tell me what you think is going off here?’
Nice and simple didn’t seem to Novello a possible description of any aspect of the investigation that she’d observed. She looked greedily at the sheets of blue paper in Wield’s hands and longed to get hol
d of them to see what it was that had brought Dalziel to the edge of being gobsmacked.
Pascoe said, ‘We’ll need dental records for absolute confirmation, but for my money, the plate in the skull’s enough. That was Lightfoot down there. Someone chained him up. Most likely candidate is Wulfstan. That would explain why he started climbing up the Neb recently when the drought brought the village back to the surface. Not nostalgia, not grief. Just good old guilt and worry that after all this time he was going to be found out.’
‘Explain, too, why he didn’t comment on the benny’s back signs,’ said Wield. ‘He knew he couldn’t be.’
‘Why’d yon lass not say anything?’ demanded Dalziel.
‘A terrified kid answering questions the way she thought the police wanted them answered?’ offered Pascoe. ‘It happens. Or it used to.’Dalziel glowered but let this pass.
‘And Wulfstan, if it were him, what was he up to? Trying to beat a confession out of Lightfoot?’
‘That’s one possibility, sir.’
‘One? Give us another.’
‘Well, it could be he had a vested interest in making sure the chief suspect in the Dendale child disappearances disappeared also.’
‘Eh? Come on, lad. You going doolally, or wha’? Tell me one thing which ever suggested Wulfstan could be in the frame for any of them, let alone all.’
‘Can’t, sir. I wasn’t there, remember?’
‘So you’ve got nowt.’
‘Not quite,’ said Pascoe. ‘What I do have is a witness who saw Wulfstan assaulting Lorraine Dacre on Sunday morning.’
No doubt about it this time, thought Novello. Dalziel was definitely gobsmacked. And angry.
‘Now listen,’ he finally got out. ‘I’m making allowances, but if this is one of thy clever games…’
‘No game, sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘Though I doubt if it would stand up in court. In fact, I’m absolutely certain I won’t be letting this witness get anywhere near court. You see, it’s Rosie.’
And the Fat Man was gobsmacked again. Twice in twenty seconds. Plus that earlier near miss. Novello’s respect for Pascoe soared to new heights.
And her own mind was sparked by his example to make a connection.
‘The earring,’ she said, knowing she was right but not why.
Pascoe smiled at her and said, ‘Her crucifix substitute, actually. She picnicked early Sunday morning at the viewpoint on the Highcross Moor road. She was looking through Derek Purlingstone’s binoculars. And she saw her imaginary friend, Nina, get taken by the nix.’
‘The nix?’ said Dalziel, clearly still not convinced Pascoe’s recent trauma hadn’t pushed him over the edge.
‘That’s right. Nina is a little blonde girl with pigtails, like this.’ He reached into his car and produced the Eendale Press volume.
‘And that’s what the nix looks like. Remind you of anyone?’
Dalziel shook his head, still in denial. But Novello said, ‘That photo in the Post…’
‘Right,’ said Pascoe. ‘I showed Rosie that pageful of photos and she pointed straight at Wulfstan and said, there’s the nix. I’m sure she saw him, sir.’
The Fat Man shook his head, more to clear it than express absolute doubt.
‘Pete,’ he said gently. ‘The lass has been through a bad time. You too. Can do funny things to you. On t’other hand, she’s the only one in your family I’d trust with two pigs at Paddy’s Market. So there’s no harm in checking it out.’
With a sudden renewal of energy, he strode down to the mere’s edge where the divers were packing up their gear, spoke to Perriman, picked up the length of chain, and dragging it behind him like Marley’s ledgers, made for the Range Rover.
‘Right,’ he called. ‘Pete, you travel with us. Esther Williams down there will fetch your car back to Danby. I’m not letting you out of my sight, else God knows how many morewhences and thences you’ll be plucking out of the air.’
‘Where exactly are we headed, sir?’ asked Pascoe, as he climbed into the front passenger seat.
‘Where do you think? You like music, don’t you? We’re off to a concert. And I reckon if we shout Piss! Pis! loud enough we might just get some of them buggers to sing us an encore.’
‘I think you meanBis! Bis! suggested Pascoe.
‘I know what I mean,’ said Andy Dalziel.
EIGHTEEN
The opening concert of the twentieth Mid-Yorkshire Dales Summer Music Festival started late.
This was expected. Despite posters, local press announcements, and word of mouth, news of the change of venue hadn’t reached everyone and several patrons had had to be redirected from St Michael’s Hall to the Beulah Chapel.
In the circumstances, no one complained. In fact, commercially speaking, it was no bad thing, thought Arne Krog as he observed the throng of people examining the tapes and discs on sale at the foot of the chapel. There were half a dozen on which he figured, though only two on which he was the sole artist. His recording career had paralleled his performing career - a steady effulgence that rarely threatened to explode into stardom.
Elizabeth had only the one disc on offer, but it was the one attracting most attention. Krog wasn’t surprised. The clever among them would buy half a dozen copies and get her to sign and date them. Fifteen years on they could be a collector’s item. Whereas his voice would hardly even rank as forgotten because it had never really ranked as rememberable. He could smile ruefully at the thought. The trappings of stardom he had always envied, but the possession of the kind of voice that brought them he regarded as a gift of God, and therefore simply to be marvelled at. So it didn’t bother him that Elizabeth might be a star, only that her brightening might be at the expense of others’ darkness.
But he still wasn’t sure he’d been wise to hand that envelope to the detective. It had been a moment’s impulse, unlikely to have been acted on had the man been that fat bastard, Dalziel!
He went into what would have been the vestry if the Beulahites
had vestries. Elizabeth was in there, looking as calm as a frozen mere. Inger was going through her usual pre-performance finger-suppling exercises. Walter was looking at his watch as though it had disobeyed a direct command.
‘I think we must start,’ he said.
‘Fine,’ said Krog. ‘I’m ready. Inger?’
‘Yes.’
They looked at Wulfstan. There had been a time when, as chairman of the committee, he had acted as a sort of MC, introducing the performers. But there had been something so unbending about his manner that in the end the experiment had been discontinued. ‘Not so much a warm-up’, Krog had described it, ‘as a chill-down.’ Now it was his custom to signal to the regulars that things were about to start by simply joining Chloe on the front row.
Tonight, however, he said, ‘I will stay with Elizabeth so she is not sitting here alone.’
The singer looked at him and smiled with a kind of distant compassion, like some classical goddess gazing down on the mortal coil from her Olympian tea table.
‘No, I’ll be fine. You go and sit with Chloe. She’ll be expecting you.’
Wulfstan didn’t argue. He simply left. He might not be much good on a stage, but he certainly knew how to get off it.
In a broad American accent, Krog said, ‘OK. Let’s do it.’
He stood aside to let Inger go out before him.
‘Good luck, Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘Or, if you are superstitious, break a leg.’
She met his gaze with an expression blank beyond indifference and he turned away quickly.
The applause which had begun as Inger took her seat at the piano swelled at his appearance. Small audiences loved him. If he could have performed to the whole world, fifty or sixty at a time, in village halls on summer eves, he would have been an international favourite.
He smiled on them and they smiled back as he bade them welcome with easy charm. As he spoke, his eyes ran along the rows. Many he recognized from previous years, the Mid-Yorks culture v
ultures who came flapping down to feast, and be seen feasting, on these musical bar-snacks. Then there were the tourists, glad of an evening excursion from musty hotel lounges, or holiday cottages not half as comfortable as home. And scattered among them were other faces he remembered or half-remembered, from those long off days when he stayed at Heck and was a popular customer at the village shop and patron of the Holly Bush Inn.
Wasn’t that Miss Lavery from the village school? And old Mr Pontifex who’d owned half the valley? And those wizened features at the back of the hall, didn’t they belong to Joe Telford, the joiner, by whose gracious permission they were performing here tonight? And that couple there, she like patience on a monument, and he like the granite it was carved from, were not they the Hardcastles, Cedric and Molly?
His gaze came forward and met Chloe’s on the front row, and his voice faltered. His instinct had been right. This was no occasion for the Mahler cycle. Elizabeth had wanted to end the concert with it, but at least his resistance had prevented that. He wanted the concert to end on an upbeat note with a rousing encore or two. No one would be calling for encores after the Kindertotenlieder. So finally she had agreed to end the first half with it. Now he saw even that as a mistake. God help us, they’d probably all go home!
But it wasn’t possible to change now. All he could hope was that the Vaughan Williams Songs of Travel which sat ill with the Kindertotenlieder but which he’d chosen deliberately for that reason would act as a kind of advance antidote.
By the time he came to the ninth and final song, he knew he’d been wrong. Sometimes an audience creates its own atmosphere, let the artist do what he will. He could feel them turning from the masculine vigour and sturdy independence expressed in several of the songs, and immersing themselves in the fatalistic melancholy which he’d always regarded as their lesser component. Even this last song, ‘I Have Trod the Upward and the Downward Path’, a sort of middle-brow ‘My Way’ in its assertion of stoic refusal to be overwhelmed by the vagaries of unfeeling fate, somehow came out positively plangent with despair.
On Beulah Height Page 41
