Moving gingerly around the slumped form of Penn, Mrs Gilpin did as she was asked.
After a long pause, they heard the lock click and the door swung slowly open.
Rye stood there, and Dalziel’s first thought was maybe she’d been attacked after all.
She was wearing a bathrobe and so far as he could see not much else. Her face was deathly pale except for the twin black pits out of which her eyes peered like those of a prisoner who does not know if she’s been called forth to freedom or execution.
Then they registered Hat and her features were suffused with such joy that even Dalziel’s hyperborean heart had to admit a respondent glow.
He relaxed his grip on the boy and watched with sad envy as he rushed forward to fold his arms round the girl.
‘I knew you’d come,’ she said, collapsing against him. ‘Such dreams I was having … horrid, horrid … but I knew you’d come …’
‘I always will,’ said Hat fervently. ‘Let’s get you inside, shall we?’
He half carried her into the flat.
‘Story of my life,’ said Dalziel to Mrs Gilpin. ‘I take the call, someone else gets the girl. Thanks for your help, luv. You can get back to your party now. Merry Christmas.’
Reluctantly the woman retreated behind her door, which she left slightly ajar till Dalziel glared it shut. Then he turned to Charley Penn, who was showing signs of revival. Dragging him over to the stairs, the Fat Man cuffed his left hand to the metal balustrade.
As he straightened up he heard footsteps on the stairs. He looked down to see a woman ascending. She was in her thirties, with fashionably short hair and a pleasant round face well suited to show concern, which was what registered there now as she took in the manacled man and his menacing captor.
‘Police,’ said Dalziel. ‘Who are you?’
‘Mrs Rogers. Myra Rogers. I live there –’ She indicated the door on the other side of Rye’s from Mrs Gilpin. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Just a drunk causing a fuss. You heard nowt?’
‘No. I’ve been out …’ Her gaze went to Rye’s open door. ‘Is Miss Pomona all right?’
‘I think so. This man look familiar?’
‘Vaguely. He could be the one I glimpsed that morning the nice young officer asked about, Rye’s boyfriend, only I didn’t know that till later. You’re sure she’s all right?’
‘Aye, she’s grand,’ said Dalziel. ‘Young Hat’s in with her now. You know her well?’
‘Quite well … not that I’ve known her long … in fact just since that same day, you know, when she came back and there’d been the bother … it’s good for us both, I think, women alone, to know we’ve got a friend next door … just for reassurance …’
More reassuring than Mrs Gilpin, Dalziel guessed. There was beneath her diffidence an air of competence about Mrs Rogers. Widow? Divorced? Didn’t matter. On her own long enough to know she could hack it. Not that she’d be without offers. Hers wasn’t a face to stick in your mind – though there was something familiar about her – but close up, those gentle brown eyes and smoothly rounded features were rather attractive.
‘There’s nowt like a good neighbour for reassurance,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you, missus. Merry Christmas.’
The woman came on to the landing, skirted Penn fastidiously, and went into her flat.
‘Don’t go away, Charley,’ said Dalziel.
He went through Rye’s door.
There was no sign of disturbance here, confirming his belief that Penn had never got inside. Hat had placed Rye on a sofa and was trying to pour a full bottle of vodka into a wine glass. The girl had recovered sufficiently to make a protective adjustment to her robe under the Fat Man’s appreciative gaze.
‘Not to worry, luv,’ he said. ‘When you’ve seen one you’ve seen two. Thanks, lad.’
He took the glass from Hat’s hand, emptied it with a shudder, and said, ‘No wonder them Russkis talk mush. Get the lass a cup of tea, will you? Strong, lots of sugar.’
For a second Hat looked insubordinate, but a narrowing of Dalziel’s eyes was enough to send him into the kitchen.
‘Right, Ms Pomona,’ said the Fat Man, helping himself to another slug of vodka. ‘Just a couple of quick questions. Has Charley Penn been inside your flat today?’
‘Penn?’ She looked bewildered. ‘No. Why?’
‘That was him banging at your door. You did hear someone banging at your door?’
‘I was asleep … I didn’t feel so good this morning, I had this dreadful headache, and I took some tablets and went to bed. There was a lot of noise, but I thought it was in my dream … I was dreaming about being back out at Stang Tarn … it was all mixed up, the noise and everything … even when I woke up I didn’t know if I was only dreaming I’d woken up … then I heard Mrs Gilpin … it was Mrs Gilpin, wasn’t it?’
‘Aye. So, you weren’t feeling too well, went to bed, had a nightmare, that sum it up?’
She shook her head to clear it, not in denial, and said in a stronger voice, ‘Yes, I suppose it does. Mr Dalziel, it’s always good to see you, but why are you here?’
She was definitely coming out of it.
Hat reappeared with a steaming mug.
Dalziel said, ‘Young Bowler will explain. I’ve got someone waiting for me outside.’
Hat looked gratefully at the Fat Man who mouthed at him, ‘Five minutes,’ then left.
Outside he found Penn had been sick on the landing.
Uncuffing him from the balustrade, Dalziel half led, half dragged him down the stairs. In the street the bitter east wind hit the novelist like a bucket of ice water. He swayed for a moment then stiffened himself against the blast.
Dalziel nodded approvingly and said, ‘Back in the land of the living, Charley?’
‘Heading that way. You wouldn’t have a flask in your pocket, would you, Andy?’
‘Aye, and it’s staying there.’
‘Can’t we get in your car at least?’
‘With honk all down your gansy? You must be joking.’
‘You’re not arresting me then?’
‘You done owt I should arrest you for?’
Penn tried a laugh, it changed to a cough, then a bout of dry retching.
‘How should I know?’ he gasped. ‘Don’t remember much since lunch.’
‘Which you had where?’
‘None of your business.’
‘No? Let me guess.’
It wasn’t too difficult. Penn’s mother (original name Penck) lived in a grace-and-favour cottage on Lord Partridge’s estate at Haysgarth. She felt her son had betrayed his Teutonic heritage, he resented the way she bowed and scraped to the Partridges.
Dalziel went on, ‘You had a good old traditional Weinacht with your good old traditional Mutti out at Haysgarth, but the only way you could block out the sight of her kowtowing to Budgie Partridge and the sound of her going on about your dad spinning in his grave to see how completely his son has gone native was to get pissed out of your skull on schnapps or some such muck. Then you headed back here to pass on a bit of your misery to some other bugger. We won’t go into how you got here, though if I hear of any corpses, human or animal, on the road between here and Haysgarth, I’ll be jumping up and down on your belly till you bring up your ribs. How am I doing, Charley?’
‘Nice story, pity about the style. Andy, if I’m not under arrest, I’ll be on my way afore I freeze to death.’
‘Long as you understand there’s no one would give a toss, Charley, except mebbe your publishers, and they’d just be thinking of their profits. Even your old Mutti would likely just set about transforming you into one of them dead Kraut heroes, my son the Teutonic bard who’s up there in Valhalla, serenading the gods. That’s what you sentimental Krauts do with dead folk, isn’t it? Turn them into summat they’re not when they’re too dead to answer back. Get it into that thick noddle of thine, Charley. Your mate Dick Dee was a sick, evil bastard and if you can’t get your head round th
at, you’d best stand out here till you catch pneumonia, then go and ask him yourself.’
Penn shivered and pulled his jacket closer around him.
‘You done?’ he said.
‘For now.’
‘Thank Christ for that. What’s happened to you, Andy? Always thought of you as vulgar and violent. But never verbose. Tell you what I think. You’re too wise an old porker to believe you’re going to get anywhere grunting at me. So just who are you trying to convince with all those words? Yourself mebbe? Worried about how it’s going to look if the truth comes dropping through your letter box one fine morning? Or rather not if. When! Watch this space, Andy. Watch this space. I’m off. Merry fucking Christmas.’
He turned and walked away across the road rather unsteadily. When he reached the small back gate which led into the churchyard opposite, he pushed it open, raised his right hand in derisive farewell without looking round, and vanished among the gravestones.
Dalziel stood in thought for a moment, then shook his head like a man dislodging a bee, glanced at his watch, stooped to the car, reached in and leaned on the horn.
Upstairs, Hat heard the noise and guessed its source.
So did Rye. She said, ‘Better run.’
‘No hurry,’ said Hat bravely. ‘He can wait till I’m sure you’re OK.’
She looked better but was still very pale. She said, ‘I’m fine, really.’
‘You don’t look fine. Have you had anything to eat?’
‘What had you in mind? Roast turkey and the trimmings? No thanks!’
‘I could rustle you up …’
He paused while his mind scanned his limited culinary range.
The horn sounded once more.
Rye said, ‘I don’t know if I’m ready for the Bowler book of boy nosh. Go, go.’
Still he hesitated. There was a tap at the door. He looked round and saw Myra Rogers. He’d met her a couple of times in the last few days. Rye seemed to have taken a shine to her and Hat had been delighted to know she had a neighbour she felt she could turn to. Inviting Mrs Gilpin into your life would be like volunteering to go on Big Brother.
Mrs Rogers said uncertainly, ‘I’m sorry, I just wanted to see if you were all right … I’ve been out and when I came back and saw that terrifying man on the stairs …’
‘It’s all right, he’s too drunk to do any harm,’ said Hat.
‘Yes, well actually, I meant the policeman. I’m sorry, I just wanted to say, if there was anything I could do, but I don’t want to intrude …’
She looked as if a blink of the eye would send her running.
The horn again, this blast long enough to summon Charlemagne back to Roncesvalles.
Rye said, ‘Myra, don’t be silly. Hat’s got to go, and I’ll be glad of the company. Hat, give me a ring later, will you? I think we both need to rearrange Christmas!’
Relieved, even though he suspected Rye may have invited the woman in to make it easier for him to go, Hat ran down the stairs.
Outside he found the Fat Man sitting on the bonnet of the car, which gave it a very lopsided look, and regarding him grimly.
‘I hope you’ve not been shagging,’ he said. ‘Bad manners to shag and shog off.’
‘She’s got someone with her, Mrs Rogers from next door … Where’s Penn?’
He’d just registered that the writer wasn’t in the car.
‘Gone.’
‘You let him go?’
‘Aye. Here’s a tip, lad. Always keep in with your custody sergeant. You never know when you’ll need a favour. And one certain way to make a custody sergeant your enemy for life is to turn up on Christmas Day with a drunk who’s not got blood on his hands.’
Hat was regarding him with a lack of gratitude bordering on insubordination.
‘What if he comes back? At the very least shouldn’t we put a watch on Rye’s flat?’
‘Taken care of, lad,’ said Dalziel.
He waved up at a second-floor window where a red and yellow party hat was visible.
‘Now let’s get into the car and back to the station afore my bollocks drop off and crack the pavement,’ said Dalziel.
Letter 6. Received Dec 27th. P.P
Fichtenburg-am-Blutensee
Aargau
Tues Dec 18th
Dear Mr Pascoe,
I must have been exhausted by yesterday’s adventures as the sun was shining brightly when I was woken by the sound of activity somewhere in the chalet. I emerged from my bedroom to find a young woman with bright red cheeks and wearing what I presume is some version of traditional costume, a combination giving her the look of an animated doll, making my breakfast. None of your muesli either but a substantial British fry-up!
My Coppelia chatted incessantly, and incomprehensibly, till, as she was leaving, she pointed at the letter I wrote last night and said, ‘Post?’ I quickly scribbled your address (excellent quality stationery, don’t you think?) and off she went with it.
After breakfast, I decided to get my bearings and, wrapping myself up well, I went for a stroll around the policies.
The grounds of the castle are extensive and lovely, and made even more so by last evening’s snowfall and this morning’s frost. But my appreciation that I was in a wilderness of groaning glaciers and towering Alps has proved quite false! True, looking to the south or west I can see the white swell of the Jura, but in the other direction the land is much flatter and predominantly pastoral. Nonetheless to one whose boundaries were for so long prison walls and security fences, this sense of space and distance was exhilarating. I strolled without plan, drinking in the beauty of the frost-laced landscape where every tree seemed festooned with glittering diamonds which seemed to my suddenly poetic mind to harbinge the arrival of that still fairer jewel, the lovely Emerald!
What pickleheads love, or lust, makes of us rational thinkers!
Eventually, shame at finding myself behaving more like an adolescent boy than a rational adult made me force my mind back to the real purpose of my presence here. I recalled my feelings of the previous night when I found myself confronted by those weird paintings which reminded me so much of Beddoes’ play. The circumstances and my state of mind had been peculiarly Gothic, of course, and probably in daylight there would be very little correspondence.
I decided to test this out and, more by luck than judgment, found my way back to the ruined chapel.
I saw at once that I was right and my impressions of the night before had been considerably distorted. In daylight the chapel was much smaller than I had recalled and thus even further removed from the ‘spacious Gothic cathedral’ of Beddoes’ play. Nor was there anything there to correspond to the sepulchre of the dukes of Munsterberg from which the resurrected Wolfram emerges. As for the frescos, there seemed to be much less to see by daylight than moonlight. Any fancy I may have entertained that perhaps Holbein or one of his pupils had popped across from Basel to try out designs for his Dance of Death soon evaporated. The style of these is pretty crude, completely lacking the Holbein wit and energy my imagination had given them the night before.
Yet I found myself thinking that Beddoes lived in north Switzerland for some time. And doesn’t Gosse say in his memoir that when he fled from Zurich after the troubles of 1839, he went to the neighbouring canton of Aargau, which is where I am now?
Brooding on these matters, I strolled away from the chapel not paying much heed to my direction, till finally I came out of the forest at the crest of a gentle rise overlooking the castle. Distantly I saw a car crawling up the snow-covered driveway towards the main entrance, and all thought of Beddoes and rationality went clean out of my mind.
This had to be the car bringing Emerald to Fichtenburg. Without conscious decision, I was running down the slope, driven by my desire to be the first person to greet her as she stepped out. I believe I even had some crazy notion of throwing my cagoule on to the ground before her, so that her dainty feet wouldn’t have to touch the snow.
Well,
naturally I paid for my impetuosity, and instead of the perfect gentle knight greeting his lady with due courtesy, the first glimpse the inmates of the car had of me was more like a court jester desperate for laughs, rolling down the slope in a human snowball.
By the time I picked myself up and brushed off the worst of the snow and made my way to the forecourt, the new arrivals were already unloading their vehicle and Frau Buff was standing in the doorway of the castle to greet them.
One glance told me that Emerald was not among them. How could I have imagined she might be travelling in a battered VW Estate with snow chains!
The party consisted of three young women, all strangers to me, though the smallest of them did have something familiar about her.
This familiarity and the nature of the huge misunderstanding I had been labouring under became clear when we exchanged introductions.
The small woman was Musetta Lupin! This was the Tochter Frau Buff had been preparing for. A moment’s thought should have told me that the divine Emerald in search of winter sport wouldn’t waste her time and beauty on a little pond like Blutensee; she would be adorning some fashionable resort where the beautiful people strut their stuff.
Naturally I was at pains to conceal my disappointment, but when the girls (for that is what they are; all under twenty and none of them, I suspect, much experienced in life) invited me to share the lunch that Frau Buff had prepared for them, I refused politely and returned to the chalet to nurse my wound. And to seek solace in starting this letter to you.
How lucky I am to have someone like yourself I feel I can turn to in my troubles, though I sometimes suspect that my good luck may be based on your bad luck. What I mean is, I would have anticipated that a man of your ability and amiability would have flapped his wings and flown far afield during the years following our first encounter.
Please don’t be offended. I’m not belittling your achievement. For many officers, being a Detective Chief Inspector at your age would seem pretty fair progress. And you were very lowly (meaning highly!) rated in the Syke; a clever, sharp player, one not easily deceived, and offering you a bung was a waste of time! Your one perceived weakness was your reluctance to cut corners. Not that they rated you soft. Oh no. Hard as nails and a terrier once you took hold. I didn’t need anyone to give me chapter and verse on that!
Death's Jest-Book Page 23
