‘Nicely, thank you. Not chemically clean, of course, and far too big, but it serves the purpose.’
He let me take one more look before he consigned the button to the bag. It was small, about a half-inch in diameter, made of a yellowish plastic, with four holes, the sort of button one might find on the cuff of a man’s jacket. A few scraps of tan thread still clung to it. ‘A clue!’ I exclaimed in awe. ‘A real clue!’
‘Was you wantin’ to go someplace, mate?’ The cabby had arrived without our noticing, and was growing impatient.
‘Yes, sorry.’ We clambered into the cab. Alan said, ‘The police station, please, and wait for us. We won’t be long.’
‘All the same to me, mate.’ He gestured toward the meter, which was running up an appalling total. I hoped he accepted credit cards; we never carry much cash and hadn’t anticipated spending a fortune on transportation in a town even smaller than Sherebury.
‘I suppose we do have to take it to the police,’ I said wistfully.
Alan just looked at me.
‘I mean – yes, of course we do. It’s just that it’s our discovery, and – oh, okay, forget it. But can I take a picture first?’
He carefully opened the bag and exposed the unexceptional button to the light. I took a couple of pictures. He put the button back.
‘I suppose you’ll get scolded for removing it,’ I said.
‘Almost certainly. But I did cut away part of the rose, and can show them where it was. And you saw me remove it.’ He looked at me over the top of his glasses and I nodded agreement to the fib. I heard him remove it, at least. I smiled to myself at the thought of my utterly truthful, law-abiding husband stretching a point. I was teaching him bad habits.
The Bishop Auckland police were frigidly polite. Yes, sir. I see, sir. And you removed it because? Ah, tangled in your wife’s hair. I see.
I winced a little at that one, but made no comment. The conversation went on. And you were searching the property for what reason, sir?
All their questions were directed at Alan, of course. Women are necessary, but are not important. Still, in the twenty-first century … Ah, well.
Alan refrained from pulling rank on them for as long as he could stand it, but was finally obliged to let them know that he was a retired chief constable, that he was still a sworn police officer, that he was aware of the rules about evidence collection, that he was happy to have been of service, good afternoon.
It was doubtless a good thing that we couldn’t hear their comments after we left.
‘Ungrateful bunch, aren’t they?’
Alan slammed the door of the taxi with unnecessary vigour. ‘We found something their people missed. Of course they’re not happy about that, and I’m sure someone will get a wigging. But they could have been more respectful, I agree.’
‘They didn’t know who you were until the end,’ I pointed out.
‘That shouldn’t matter. Any member of the public … oh, very well.’ He relaxed and grinned. ‘I would almost certainly have done the same with an interfering busybody who turned up with a bit of rubbish my officers should have found. They were insufferable toward you, however. I would not have taken that attitude.’
‘No. You are always courteous to women. Overprotective at times, but never rude.’
‘Where next, mate?’ He had driven away from the police station, which was on a one-way street, but had now reached a corner where a decision had to be made.
Alan looked at me.
‘I don’t know any more than you do about the town, dear. Is there,’ I asked the cabby, ‘some place we as tourists shouldn’t miss?’
‘There’s Bishop’s Castle. Being restored, but worth a visit. The bishops of Durham lived there back in the old days.’
‘Um … I thought they lived in the castle at Durham.’
‘Both, but they liked this one better. Lived there until a few years ago. You want to see it?’
‘Certainly,’ said Alan. ‘We can lay claim to two bishops’ residences during our visit. We’re staying in Durham Castle at present.’
‘Oh, yes? Wouldn’t be my choice. Cold, damp places, castles.’
‘This one is actually very nice,’ I put in. ‘Of course it’s been remodelled a bit.’
And we talked about castles for the rest of the brief ride. I don’t use taxis much, and I’d forgotten the delights of cabby conversation. Even here, far to the north of London, the drivers are a breed of their own, independent and fascinating.
The castle was very nice. Though the restoration was not yet complete, one could get a good idea of how lovely the place would soon be. More of a palace than a castle, actually, it had little of the fortified feeling of Durham Castle. I could easily see it as the palatial home of the prince-bishops of past centuries. The deer park was lovely and the art gallery stuffed with remarkable paintings, and I was more than ready for a substantial tea after we’d walked for what seemed like miles and seen all there was to see.
‘I wish,’ I said after I’d downed about a month’s worth of carbohydrates, ‘that we could take a nap. I’m tired, and my feet hurt.’
‘Have another cup of tea. Or order some coffee. That should keep you awake.’
‘Yes, because I’ll be looking for the loo every half hour!’
But I ordered the coffee anyway, and waiting for it and drinking it helped to pass the time until we needed to head for the theatre.
In my years of teaching, I’d assisted at enough amateur dramatic presentations to know that there was no point in trying to talk to the cast beforehand. Even though these were adults and not excited children, and even though this was the second night of the run, everyone would be nervous, anxious about forgetting cues, or lines, about watching the baton without being obvious about it, about that tricky lighting cue in the second act, about all the thousand things that can go wrong in a complex production. They would have no attention to spare for a nosy outsider. Alan and I meekly paid an extra pound for a programme, found our seats, and settled down hoping that all would go reasonably well.
As it worked out, we enjoyed ourselves. The Pirates of Penzance has always been one of my favourites of the G&S canon, and this production was well done. True, the stage was a bit small for the large cast, and some of the choreography had to be ingeniously devised to fit in the confines, but the acting and singing were good, and the small orchestra played their hearts out. Most of Gilbert’s plots are pretty silly, and Pirates is one of the silliest yet, but it’s all great fun. Alan and I were delighted that the audience were invited to join in the well-known chorus that ‘A policeman’s lot is not a happy one’, a sentiment that Alan could echo with considerable feeling.
We did not stay for the several curtain calls but rose as soon as the applause began (to the irritation of those seated between us and the aisle) and headed for the stage door. I would have been shy about asking to go backstage, but Alan’s training as a policeman had given him a commanding manner when necessary, and he was not above flashing his old warrant card in a pinch. This time his strongly voiced request did the trick, and as soon as the cast left the stage for the last time, we found ourselves surrounded by noise, movement, and the mingled smells of greasepaint and warm bodies.
It was all a bit overwhelming, but again Alan’s experience with crowd control worked a small miracle. Without appearing to push, without discourtesy, he managed to cut off one of the singers dressed as a policeman and draw him into a relatively quiet spot behind one of the scenery flats. He shook hands with the man and turned on his charm. ‘Well done, sir! Before I retired I was a real policeman, and I must congratulate you and your colleagues on your portrayals!’
The man looked embarrassed. ‘We had to play them as bumbling idiots, as per the script. No insult intended, of course …’
‘Certainly not, and none taken. This is my wife, by the way, an American who knows quite a lot about idiotic police.’
I accepted the slur on my native country and picked u
p my cue. ‘Yes, I’ve known a few American constables who weren’t maybe the brightest bulbs in the chandelier. Your interpretation of the type was terrific.’
‘In fact,’ Alan went on genially, ‘we were hoping to treat you and your colleagues to a congratulatory pint when you’ve freed yourselves from your costumes and makeup and all.’
‘Oh, please do!’ I chimed in when I saw the hesitation on his face. ‘You must be hot and dry after all that work, and we’d love to talk with you!’
‘Well … it’s very kind of you. I’ll ask the others, shall I?’
Alan didn’t leave it to chance, but accompanied the man to the men’s chorus dressing room while I tried to look inconspicuous among the jostling crowd backstage, cast members as well as stage hands trying to strike the set without trampling on each other or dropping a sandbag on anyone’s head. I enjoyed it. Our school productions were never anything like as professional as this one, nor had our theatre been nearly as well equipped, but the atmosphere was identical, and to me intoxicating.
Evidently Alan managed to persuade the bobby chorus that the other sort of intoxication sounded like a good idea, for in remarkably little time we were joined by seven somewhat dishevelled and malodorous men, all expressing thanks.
‘Right,’ said Alan when we had picked our way to the outside door and stood enjoying the fresh air. ‘I don’t know Auckland at all. Where’s the best pub near here? We’re staying in Durham and came here by train, so I don’t have a car at hand.’
‘The Mitre has the best beer,’ volunteered one of the group. ‘Not as fancy for the lady, though.’
I expressed my preference for good beer over pretty surroundings, and we headed down the street to an establishment whose décor could best be described as basic. It had a bar, a dartboard, tables, chairs that looked ancient and teetery, and one or two lamps waging a losing battle against the stygian gloom.
Our new friend had been quite right. Not at all my kind of place. The beer would have to be very good indeed to make up. However, this gathering was not intended for my entertainment, but for investigation. Onward, Dorothy!
Alan guided me through the dimness to the largest table they had, and pulled over another, and he and two of the other men went to the bar to fetch our drinks.
TWENTY-ONE
When we had settled in our chairs, one of the men raised his head and sniffed ostentatiously. ‘Bit of a pong, isn’t there? Sorry about that. It was warm under those lights, and our costumes were wool.’
‘Can’t be helped. At least it’s draughty in here.’
I hadn’t intended a pun, but the men took it as such and laughed, and I felt that friendly relations had been established. Our pints arrived, Alan made a toast, and we drank and chatted about nothing for an amiable interval.
I was sure Alan would have worked out a subtle way to approach the subject of the ‘prank’ a few nights before, and I was right. We were on our third round (Alan and I still working on our first) when he said, ‘I read in the programme a listing of events at the hall. Busy place. I wonder that you were able to work out rehearsal times.’
‘Oh, we don’t rehearse there,’ said the baritone who’d led the chorus and sung the solo bits. ‘Too expensive, for one. The Players operates on a shoestring. And you’re right, they couldn’t have fit us in anyway. No, we rehearse in an old church hall. The church moved out years ago, but the building is still sound, if a bit dingy. Much cheaper than a real performance space.’
‘But not really equipped for opera,’ said the bass. ‘It’s fine for drama, with a small cast. But bobbies, pirates, and daughters popping up everywhere—’
‘Not to mention a portly major general—’ interjected a tenor, to laughter.
‘It was all a bit crowded,’ concluded the bass. ‘And hot!’
‘Ah,’ said Alan sympathetically. ‘I hope you’ve a good pub near there, as well.’
The laughter and chattering died. The leader cleared his throat. ‘Yes, but we … um—’
‘We may not be welcome back there,’ said a small man who had not yet contributed any comments, a tenor, by the sound of his speaking voice. ‘We … there was a bit of a fuss.’
I shook my head, smiling. ‘Had a few drops too many, did you?’
‘Not really. We only—’
‘It wasn’t our fault,’ said the other tenor hotly, the one who had joked about the major general.
I made a disbelieving face. ‘Of course not,’ I said, laughing. ‘It never is!’ I held my breath. Were we going to get it?
‘You may laugh, but this time we weren’t to blame.’ The tenor was getting a bit belligerent; he’d finished his second pint and was well into his third, and as small as he was, it probably took less beer to get him well lubricated.
‘Back off, Reilly,’ said the bass. ‘No rudeness to a lady. And it’s not quite true. We could have said no to the chap.’
‘But what happened?’ I put as much puzzlement as I could dredge up into my voice and face. ‘A bar fight?’
‘No. Not as bad as that. Or maybe worse; I don’t know.’ A chorus arose, taking sides one way or the other. ‘Shut it!’ the bass roared. ‘I’m trying to explain to the lady. We were taking a break during rehearsal,’ he said when the babble subsided a bit. ‘It was dress rehearsal, and they’d run into a spot of trouble with one of the pirates’ choruses. We were all hot and thirsty, so we popped across the road, still in our costumes, of course, and had a couple of quick ones. We were just heading back when a chap came along with a bright idea. He wanted to play a trick on one of his friends, he said. We were dressed like policemen. He’d give us twenty pounds each if we’d pretend to stage a raid on a house just over the road. We were all a bit tipsy, and it sounded like easy money, so naturally we agreed. He handed Reilly a wad of notes and we charged ahead.’
He finished his pint in one massive gulp. ‘But it didn’t work out quite as well as we’d hoped. The chap who answered the door wasn’t the one who lived there. That one was gone, no one seemed to know where. And the one we talked to was a retired copper.’ He paused and looked at Alan, and I could see wheels turning. He wasn’t exactly drunk, but his mental processes were a bit fuddled. ‘Didn’t you say you were once a copper, too?’
‘I did, and I was, a good many years ago now. But I can’t help being curious about this chap who got you and your mates into trouble. Did any of you know him?’
No response except for headshakes.
I sighed, but silently. We’d lost their confidence with the revelation of Alan’s past profession. Now they wouldn’t tell us a thing.
‘Pity,’ said Alan. ‘He did you a bad turn and deserves to be disciplined. Ah, well. Who’s for another?’
But no one seemed thirsty anymore. Almost as one man they stood and mumbled excuses and melted away.
Alan stood, too. ‘All for naught,’ he said. ‘Shall we?’
I’d been sitting for too long in that wretchedly uncomfortable chair. He had to help me to my feet. ‘It really was good beer, though.’
‘A trifle costly,’ he said, putting away his now distressingly slim wallet.
Night had fallen, making the interior even darker than before. We stumbled out and stopped, wondering what to do next. We hadn’t booked a room anywhere, and it seemed much too late to try to find a car to hire.
‘Excuse me.’ We turned. It was the bass. ‘I’m sorry I blew the gaffe. You’re serious about this, aren’t you?’
He had sobered, quickly. I nodded. ‘Don’t worry, though. Will your friends hold it against you that you led them into the situation?’
‘No. They’re good chaps, and honest, but not over-fond of the police after what happened that night. They tore us off a strip, more than we deserved, we thought, though we were daft to take on that prank. But you’re looking for the tyke who put us up to it?’
‘Yes,’ said Alan. Just that. No explanation.
‘We weren’t lying when we said we didn’t know him. Neve
r set eyes on him before. But he was young, and I’d lay odds he was a student from Durham.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘There’s a look. I can’t describe it. Scruffy but snobby. And he was flash with the cash. Not a working lout, for sure.’
‘Can you describe him at all?’
‘Nothing to stand out. It was all too quick. Caught us, threw his money about, vanished.’
‘Anything? Tall, short, thin, fat?’
The bass shook his head. ‘Ordinary. Wearing jeans and a tee, like everyone else.’
‘Accent?’ I put that one in.
‘Not from here. Southern. But I can’t say more than that.’
Alan shook his hand. ‘Even that much is a help. Thank you.’
The man sketched a salute and walked quickly away, and Alan’s phone rang.
The conversation was brief and when he ended the call he was smiling. ‘David, wondering where we were, and when I told him, he said he’d come pick us up.’
I sighed with relief. ‘And so the old woman got home that night.’
We tried to talk over what we’d learned on the way home, hoping David would have some suggestions, but he was in a defeatist mood and didn’t want to talk about it. I gathered he’d had no luck finding a suitable home for Amanda and was growing desperate, but he didn’t want to talk about that, either. He dropped us off at the top of Owengate and we made our way up the hill and across the cobbles and up the many stairs to our room in glum silence.
‘A better day tomorrow, love.’ Alan fell into bed without even brushing his teeth.
‘I sure hope so. I thought we’d make some real progress today, but we’re nowhere. And poor Amanda!’
Alan’s reply was drowned in a yawn.
Wednesday morning I woke early, far earlier than I intended. The cool evening had prompted us to open our windows wide, and the birds were joyously greeting a lovely dawn. Their racket was enough to wake the dead in the nearby churchyard.
I was considerably less joyous about the whole thing. I got up to go to the bathroom, firmly intending to go back to sleep.
Death Comes to Durham Page 16
