D&P23 - The Price of Butcher's Meat aka A Cure for all Diseases

by Reginald Hill

  “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 fi gure in Sandytown. I don’t just mean socially, but economically. The times 2 4 0

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  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.”

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  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 2 4 2

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  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-fi ve 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 estrange-ment 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 investi-gate. 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 fi nal flurry, provoking me to T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 2 4 3

  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, 2 4 4

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  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 S
ergeant 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 fl ourish, 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 en-trusted 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 ar-duous 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?”

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

  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 En gland, where else would I come but Yorkshire, which has played such a signifi cant part in my life?”

  “Like getting you jailed, getting you shot, and getting you crip-pled?” 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 gno-mon, 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 2 4 6

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  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 fi nally 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 accep tance, 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 T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 2 4 7

  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 fi nd 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.

  10

  As Peter Pascoe approached the Avalon Clinic, he had a dilemma.

  Who should he contact first, the two witnesses—Dr. Feldenhammer and Nurse Sheldon—or Andy Dalziel?

  Proper procedure required that as chief investigating offi cer he made straight for the witnesses.

  But Dalziel, though on sick leave, was still his boss, and having been on the spot for a little while he might be able to provide some useful background . . .

  No, scrub that!

  It was simply an excuse to mask his awareness that one of the horns of his dilemma was bigger and sharper and could penetrate a lot deeper than the other, an awareness heightened by what he now acknowledged was a growing taste for inde pendence.

  During his years in Mid-Yorkshire CID, Pascoe had grown used to being answerable only to himself and Dalziel. The Fat Man’s absence had left a huge gap that no other senior figure could possibly fi ll. At first he was always aware of it. But in the last week or so he had felt it less and less, not because anyone was filling it, but because he himself had somehow expanded into the space.

  Eventually Daddy Bear would come back home and bump Gold-ilocks out of his bed. That was an inevitable part of the scheme of things. But it belonged in the future. In the present Dalziel was a convalescing colleague, taken out of the loop both by medical regime and bureaucratic regulation, and not even the unfortunate coincidence of a big case exploding right on his doorstep entitled him to
move back into his old space.

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  So, dilemma solved. Professional duty first, sick visit second.

  The golden gates of Avalon loomed ahead. He peeped his horn. A man emerged from a small gatehouse, opened the gates, and waved him forward.

  He drew up alongside the gatekeeper and wound down his window.

  “Detective Chief Inspector Pascoe to see Dr. Feldenhammer.”

  Behind him Pascoe heard his rear door open. The car’s suspension sighed under a sudden weight. He looked in his mirror knowing what he would see. It was still a shock. Though it shouldn’t have been. Why would God leave important decisions to mere mortals when he could so easily take them himself?

  “You took your time,” said that all-too-familiar voice. “Okay, Stan, this is the bugger I were telling thee about.”

  “Right, Mr. Dalziel. I’ll see you later.”

  The gatekeeper waved the car forward.

  Pascoe obeyed.

  “Bear left here,” commanded the Fat Man. “That’s it, toward the old house.”

  “Where, no doubt, I shall find Dr. Feldenhammer,” said Pascoe, trying to get back on even terms.

  “Don’t be daft. Old Festerwhanger can wait. Any road, he’s got Pet up there with him. Probably giving her one. Common reaction to some traumatic episodes, that’s what the book says.”

  This was the point to stop the car and resume control. Instead Pascoe heard himself ask, “Whose book? And who is Pet?”

  “Pet Sheldon, head nurse. And Fester’s own book. Posttraumatic Stress— A Patient’s Guide. Catchy title, eh? You’ll likely have seen the movie. He gave me a copy. Bet he didn’t think I’d read it, but I whipped through it, looking for the mucky bits. Park here.”

  Pascoe brought the car to a halt but he kept the engine running.

  He’d made up his mind. This was as far as he was going.