Asking For The Moon dap-16

by Reginald Hill

  He studied a framed map of the West Riding, dated 1786, which hung on one side of the fireplace. It was no more helpful than the O.S. 2 ^l /2 inch sheet he had examined on Dalziel's suggestion. There were a few patches of woodland around Wearton but the nearest thing to a 'dank tarn' was a small reservoir in open country some three miles to the north.

  No, the thing was a mess or at best a confusion. His mind was trying to draw connections which could easily be coincidences, as for example Geoff Rawlinson's accident occurring on the very night Kate may have disappeared. Well, at least that gave Rawlinson an alibi, if he needed one. Unless, of course, he had jumped from that tower because of something on his conscience. Or perhaps was pushed because of something he had seen. Seen? Where? In the churchyard, of course. That's what he'd be looking down at – from a vantage point no one would expect to be occupied at midnight. Or perhaps someone had remembered too late that there was a chance it would be occupied, and gone up to check, and…

  No, he was straining; too much speculation and too little evidence was a bad diet for a policeman. But there was something else about the churchyard. Arthur Lightfoot claimed to have seen Swithenbank skulking about there – which meant Lightfoot himself had been skulking about there.

  And where else were you likely to find 'the door of a legended tomb'?

  'Rapt in thought, Inspector?'

  Unheard, Peter Davenport had entered the room. He had a full glass in his hand but seemed to have taken at least temporary control of himself.

  'I was just wondering how far the church was from Wear End. You walked here tonight, didn't you?'

  'Yes. We came down the old drive that used to be the Aubrey-Beesons' private route to church.'

  The who?'

  'The old squires of Wearton. They died out in the nineteenth century and by the time Boris's family bought the place, the road had been metalled and motor cars were the new status symbol. It's no use looking at that map, you'll see it much better on here.'

  He indicated a picture on the other side of the fireplace in an ornate gilt frame matching that of the map.

  'You know a lot about this,' observed Pascoe as he approached.

  'Local history's easy for parish priests,' said Davenport. 'We've got most of the records.'

  He was making a real effort to sound normal as though eager to postpone an unpleasant moment. But Pascoe lost interest in the vicar's state of mind as he looked more closely at the picture before him.

  It was entitled A Prospect of Wear End House 7799 and as from a fair elevation showed the house and its estate. The tree-lined drive was clearly marked running up to the churchyard but close by the churchyard wall a much denser area of woodland was indicated with a small lake in the middle of it.

  'These woods, are they still there?' asked Pascoe.

  'No. They've all gone. It's a wonder the avenue survived.'

  'Why's that?'

  'Economics,' said Davenport shortly, as though beginning to feel rather piqued that his reluctance to bare his soul to Pascoe was matched by Pascoe's present indifference to the baring.

  'You mean they were sold?'

  'Not just them. The Kingsleys had wool money when they came here, but the last two generations, Boris's father and grandfather, were better at spending than making. The estate's nearly all gone. There's a housing development here, a new road there, the village sports and social club playing fields are here, Geoff Rawlinson's bungalow's there… all Boris is left with is this thin triangle with the old drive running up to the corner here.'

  His long forefinger, its whiteness stained with nicotine, stubbed viciously at the Prospect.

  'And the lake?'

  'What? That pond? Drained and filled in when the Kings-leys were still spending money on improvements. About the same time as the "library" was refurbished, I expect. There are limits to what money can buy, aren't there, Inspector? I mean, you can't buy culture. Or peace of mind.'

  The hysterical note was beginning to return to his voice, but Pascoe wasn't done with the Prospect yet.

  'The old drive – what kind of trees are they?'

  'Beech mainly.'

  'No cypress?'

  'There's a pair of cypress trees by the old lych-gate at the end of the drive, but they're in the churchyard itself. What's your concern with trees, Inspector? Stop trifling, man! Come out with whatever it is you want to say. It's no secret to me why you're here!'

  Now Pascoe gave him his full attention. The problem of why the anonymous phone-caller's geographic references should be a century out of date would have to wait. Perhaps (could it be as easy as this?) it wouldn't be a problem in a few minutes. Whatever it was that was devouring this man would soon be revealed. All he had to do was wait. But he wasn't sure if he would have time. He glanced at his watch. Already he'd heard a couple of cars pulling away from the house. Pretty soon he was likely to be interrupted. So, although his judgement told him to sit quietly opposite this man and wait till he spoke of his own accord, instead he took an aggressive feet-apart stance before the fireplace and said sharply, 'All right. If you don't want to talk about trees, suppose you tell me exactly what did happen in the churchyard last October?'

  The man looked at him, a curious mixture of relief and wariness in his eyes.

  'Happen? What does happen mean to the dead?'

  'The dead? Which dead?' asked Pascoe urgently.

  'The churchyard's full of the dead, Inspector. In a way since last October I have been one of them.'

  'You can drop that rubbish!' said Pascoe scornfully. 'You're here and now and as alive as me. But who's dead, Davenport? Who is dead?'

  The vicar held out his glass. Obediently Pascoe slopped it full of gin. The man opened his mouth, was seized by a fit of coughing, drank as though to relieve it, coughed the more, recovered, drank again and made ready to speak.

  The door burst open.

  'Thank God that's over!' said Boris Kingsley. 'Once one goes, the others soon follow. It's the sheep principle. Mr -Inspector – Pascoe, how would you like us – one by one or all at once?'

  CHAPTER VII

  There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the Past.

  Some women cross their legs provocatively. Stella Rawlinson crossed hers like a no-entry sign and regarded Pascoe with all the distaste of an assault victim scanning an identity parade.

  'It's kind of you to talk to me,' he said with as much conviction as he could manage. His mind was still on the kind of admission or confession Davenport had been about to make before Kingsley's ill-timed entrance. After that the vicar had risen and withdrawn without another word and Pascoe, deciding it would be poor policy at this time to invite the man along to the station to 'help with enquiries', had exercised his only other choice and pretended nothing had happened. He'd get back to Davenport after he had chatted to the others, by which time another half-bottle of booze might have put him in the talkative mood once more.

  He had picked Stella Rawlinson first on Kingsley's advice. Evidently when the last of the drinks-only guests had gone, Swithenbank had told the others precisely why it was that

  Pascoe was here. Pascoe would have liked to have done this himself to observe reactions, but he made no complaint and accepted Kingsley's diagnosis that the only likely non-co-operator was Mrs Rawlinson and it might be well to get her in before her indignation had time to come to a head.

  'Can we start by going right back to this time last year?' he said. 'Most people would have a hard time remembering anything after twelve months, but in your case it shouldn't be difficult.'

  'What do you mean?' she demanded as if he had accused her of immorality.

  'Just that it was the time of your husband's unfortunate accident arid I know how an unpleasant experience like that sticks in the mind,' said Pascoe soothingly. 'It must have been a terrible shock to you.'

  'I thought you wanted to talk about Kate Swithenbank,' she said.

  'You knew her well?' said Pascoe, abandoning charm.
r />   'We grew up together.'

  'Close friends?'

  'I suppose so.'

  'What was she like?'

  She looked genuinely puzzled.

  'I don't know what you mean.'

  'What words describe her?' said Pascoe. 'Plain, simple, open. Devious, reserved. Emotional, hysterical, erratic. Logical, rational, cool. Et cetera.'

  'She kept herself to herself. I don't mean she wouldn't go out or was shy, anything like that. But she didn't give much away.'

  The woman spoke slowly, feeling for the words. She was either very concerned to be fair or very fearful of being honest.

  'I believe she was sexually very attractive as a young girl,' he probed.

  'Who said that?' she asked. 'John, was it?'

  'You sound as if that would surprise you.'

  'No. Why should it? It would be natural, wouldn't it? He married her.'

  'In fact it was his mother,' said Pascoe. 'It's interesting when a woman says it. That's why I wondered what your opinion was.'

  'Yes,' she said, not bothering to conceal her reluctance. 'She was very attractive. In that way. When she wanted to be. And sometimes when she didn't want to be.'

  Pascoe scratched his head in a parody of puzzlement.

  'Now you're bewildering me,' he said.

  'A bitch on heat's got no control over who comes sniffing around,' she said viciously, then relenting (or at least regretting) almost immediately, she added, 'I'm sorry, I don't mean to be unkind. She was a nice quiet ordinary girl in many ways. We were truly friends. I should be very distressed to think anything had happened to her.'

  'Of course. How terrible it must be for all her friends,' said Pascoe fulsomely. 'But if what you say is true, there might be no cause for worry.'

  'If what I say…?'

  'About her sexuality. Another man, perhaps; a passionate affair. She takes off with him on a sudden impulse. It's possible. If what you say…'

  'Oh, it's true all right,' she said. 'Right from the start. Ten or eleven. I've seen her. In this room.'

  She tailed off. Funny, thought Pascoe. Everybody wants to talk, but they all want to feel it's my subtle interrogative techniques that made them talk!

  'This room?' He glanced at the Prospect of Wear End. 'You used to play in here as children?'

  'Oh no. When we visited Boris, this was one room we were never allowed in,' she answered. 'But I was looking for Kate. We'd lost her. I just opened the door and peered in. She was…'

  'Yes?'

  'She was sitting on his knee. Her pants were round her knees.'

  Pascoe gave his man-of-the-world chuckle.

  'So? Childhood inquisitiveness. A little game of doctors with Boris. It's not unusual.'

  'It wasn't Boris. It was his father.'

  Pascoe tried to look unimpressed.

  'Who is dead, I believe?' he said. 'Just as well. It's a serious offence you're alleging, Mrs Rawlinson. Very serious.'

  'I felt sorry for him,' she said vehemently.

  'For him?'

  'And for Kate, too.' It was relenting time again. 'She couldn't help what she was. Her parents died while she was young. Her brother brought her up. That can't have helped. He's an animal. Worse!'

  Dear God! thought Pascoe. Incest is it now?

  'I've met Mr Lightfoot. He seems an interesting sort of man. He's very sure his sister's dead.'

  She shrugged uninterestedly.

  'He says he's seen her ghost continued Pascoe.

  'He's a stupid ignorant animal,' she said indifferently.

  'Perhaps so. But he may be right about his sister. She could very well be dead.'

  She laughed scornfully.

  'Because some yokel sees ghosts? You must be hard up for clues these days!'

  'No,' he said seriously. 'Because what you've been insinuating about the missing woman's morals makes it seem very probable she could provide her husband with a good motive for killing her.'

  Her mouth twisted in dismay and for a moment this break in the symmetry of that too well balanced face gave it real beauty.

  'No! I've said nothing! I never meant… that's quite outrageous!'

  She stood up, flushed with what appeared to be genuine anger.

  'But what did you imagine we were talking about?' asked Pascoe.

  'You're trying to find out who's been suggesting these dreadful things about John.'

  'Oh no,' said Pascoe, shaking his head. 'That would be useful, of course. But what we're really trying to discover is whether or not these dreadful things are true!'

  Rawlinson looked angry when he came into the room and Pascoe prepared to deal with a bout of uxorious chivalry.

  'What have you been saying to Peter?' demanded the limping man. 'He's in a hell of a state.'

  'Nothing,' said Pascoe, taken by surprise. 'Why should anything I say disturb him?'

  The question seemed to give the man more cause for rumination than seemed proportionate as he subsided into an armchair and Pascoe moved swiftly to the attack.

  'Tell me about falling off the church tower,' he invited.

  Rawlinson gripped his right knee with both hands as though the words had triggered off more than the memory of pain.

  'Have you ever fallen off anything, Inspector?' he asked in reply.

  'Yes, I suppose so. But not so dramatically. A kitchen chair, I recall, when replacing a light bulb.'

  'Chair or church, it's all the same,' said Rawlinson. 'One second you're on it, the next you're off. I must have overreached.'

  'What precisely were you doing?' asked Pascoe.

  'Watching a pair of owls,' said Rawlinson. 'I'm a draughtsman by training, a bird illustrator by inclination. I watch, note, photograph sometimes, and then do a picture. It had never struck me as a dangerous hobby.'

  'It's enthusiasm that makes things dangerous,' observed Pascoe sententiously. 'The Reverend Davenport found you, I believe.'

  Rawlinson frowned at the name.

  'Yes. It was a good job he came when he did. There was a sharp frost and if I'd lain there till morning, I'd probably have died of exposure.'

  'And immediately before falling, you remember nothing?'

  'I remember arriving at the church, unlocking the door to the tower. Nothing more.'

  'How did you get to the church that night?'

  'I walked along the old drive, I suppose. I usually did. My bungalow's right alongside.'

  'Mr Kingsley didn't mind?'

  'Boris?' said Rawlinson in surprise. 'Why should he? I don't think I ever asked him.'

  'Technically a trespass then,' smiled Pascoe. 'Do you recall seeing or hearing anything unusual along the drive or in the churchyard that night?'

  'Well now,' said Rawlinson slowly. 'I'm not quite certain it was the same night – it's a long time ago – but once I rather thought I heard a crossbill in one of the cypress trees over the lych-gate. Probably I was mistaken.'

  He spoke perfectly seriously, but Pascoe did not doubt he was being mocked.

  'Your father built the bungalow, you say,' he said abruptly. 'So there's money in the family.'

  'A little. He was a jobbing gardener by trade. I earn my own living, if that's what you mean.'

  'I'm pleased to hear it,' said Pascoe, faintly sneering. 'Mr Kingsley now, does he also have to find ways to eke out the family fortune?'

  If they start being funny, hit 'em hard, was a favourite maxim of Dalziel's.

  'I don't see what this has got to do with anonymous letters, Inspector,' said Rawlinson.

  'Don't you? Well, I'll explain. I want to get a clear picture of the missing woman. One thing that's starting to emerge is that she came from a very different background from most of the people she called her friends in Wearton. Just how different isn't quite clear to me yet.'

  Rawlinson looked unconvinced but replied, 'All right, there's no secrets. Me you know about. Boris has some inherited money, but not much. I believe it came as something of a shock to find out just how little wh
en his father died earlier this year. But in addition he's a "company director", whatever that means. You'd better ask him. John you'll know about, too…'

  'Not his family. What did his father do?'

  'He was a solicitor, rather older than Mrs Swithenbank, I believe. He died ten years ago. The Davenports – well, Ursula's my sister, of course…'

  'And therefore shared in the family fortune?'

  'We split what little there was,' said Rawlinson acidly. 'When I married, I bought out her share of the bungalow. Shortly afterwards she married Peter, who is also one of the family. A cousin. His family live in Leeds. He had delicate health as a child and used to come down here for the good country air nearly every holiday. No real money in the family, and a damn sight less in his job! Now, let me see. Anyone I've missed out?'

  'Yes,' said Pascoe. 'Your wife.'

  'I thought you'd have quizzed her yourself,' said Rawlinson. 'Stella's from farming stock, one of the biggest farms in the area.'

  'Well off?'

  'Oh yes. Though show me a farmer who'll admit it!'

  Pascoe laughed, though the attempt at lightness came awkwardly from Rawlinson's lips.

  'So I'm right to say that Kate Lightfoot was the odd one out? Everyone else had some kind of well-established financial and social background.'

  'Village life is surprisingly democratic,' protested Rawlinson. 'We all went to the same schools, no one bought their way out.'

  'Democracy works best where there's a deep-implanted pecking order,' observed Pascoe cynically. 'Everybody can be equal as long as we all know our places. What was the Lightfoots' place, do you think? Her father was an agricultural labourer, I believe.'

  'That's right. He used to work for Stella's father, in fact. Not that he was much of a worker at the end. He boozed himself to death. The mother took off soon after and there was some talk of putting Kate in care, but she made it clear she wasn't going to leave her brother easily. He was about twenty at the time, working on the farm like his father. Then suddenly he gave up his job and the tied cottage that went with it and bought up a smallholding just on the edge of the village, opposite the war memorial, you might have noticed it as you drove in?'