‘Fastest driver in Calleshire, bar none,’ said Sloan. ‘I must go.’
* * *
‘But you did hear a goat, Mr Collins,’ said the Bishop, as David Collins began to load some of his electrical equipment on to his van in the Close. ‘It’s still in Canon Shorthouse’s garden. And still bleating, too.’
The lighting expert gave an uneasy laugh. ‘It was quite creepy enough, anyway, I can tell you, sir, in the slype in the half dark, without odd noises in the middle distance.’
Bertram Wallingford nodded. ‘You know, sometimes when I’m sitting in my own garden and looking across at the Minster I can get quite overcome by the weight of the past myself.’
‘The Dean thought it was high time the slype was lit properly,’ put in Barry Wright, the Clerk of Works carefully. Strictly speaking, the Minster building was no concern of the Bishop of Calleford, even though it was the focal point of his diocese. A practical man himself, Barry Wright had no time for fanciful ideas about the past either. What mattered to him about days gone by was whether the medieval craftsmen had done their work in the Minster and the Close well or not. If they hadn’t – or if it was time-expired – then that just meant more work for him now: historical romance didn’t come into it.
‘It was quite a relief to see you, sir, and the Dean go by after the service yesterday evening,’ admitted Collins to the Bishop, oblivious to the finer points of ecclesiastical law.
‘I must say I didn’t hear a goat or anything else myself as we went past,’ said Wallingford, ‘but then my wife is always telling me that I’m getting deaf.’
‘And you were both talking, sir,’ ventured Collins lightly.
‘I dare say we were.’ The Bishop waved a hand to encompass the whole Minster Close. ‘There’s always something going on in a place like this that seems important at the time, if not in the judgement of history.’
Barry Wright, who considered the Close nothing but a hothouse of gossip and intrigue, put his oar in again. He had, after all, his own corner to mind. ‘The Bishop’, he explained to David Collins, ‘also wants some security lighting in his garden and over his porch but, you understand, this will be a matter for the diocese rather than the Minster authorities.’
‘Received and understood,’ David Collins acknowledged the message with a quick jerk of his head. Customers with turf wars were something that the firm of Double Felix Ltd understood only too well. More important than turf wars, though, was new business, so he pointed to Canon Shorthouse’s house. ‘Will there be anything needed there, too, in the nature of special security lighting, since there seems to have been some trouble over at the Canonry as well?’
‘I suppose you’d better give me an estimate while you’re here,’ allowed Wright grudgingly. ‘The Canon will want to know all about the goat and what we’ve done about it when he gets back.’
‘I’ll take a look-see when I’ve tied up a few loose ends in the slype,’ said Collins. ‘There’s still a little to be done there. I didn’t quite finish yesterday.’
‘Don’t forget us, though, will you?’ said the Bishop. ‘My wife is most anxious that there shouldn’t be a repetition of last night’s – er – highly undesirable activities.’
Barry Wright, who preferred plain speaking to euphemism, merely said that someone from the Calleshire Animal Sanctuary over at Edsway would be along very soon to take care of the goat. ‘A Miss Alison Kirk’, he said, consulting a file, ‘has been asked by the police to take it into protective custody for the time being.’
‘Right then,’ said David Collins, squaring his shoulders, ‘I’d better be getting on now—’
Barry Wright walked part of the way over to the slype with him. ‘They said at your office that you wouldn’t be back this morning because of a problem—’ he began curiously.
The other man looked at him with a certain distaste. ‘Nothing that can’t be handled, thank you.’
David Collins’s stiff upper lip though lasted only until he bumped into the Bishop’s wife. When Mrs Wallingford asked kindly after both his wife Margaret and little James, his face crumpled and he told her everything.
‘All you can do now’, she said simply, ‘is to keep busy and pray.’
Chapter Nine
‘Yes,’ said David Collins dully, emitting a deep sigh and swaying a little, ‘that’s my wife Margaret, all right.’
The man had been collected from the Minster at Calleford by Detective Constable Crosby and brought over to the viewing room at the mortuary at Berebury. He had taken one swift look through the protective glass window at the body lying there, the bruised face now clearly visible, and then quickly turned away.
‘Do you think I could possibly sit down somewhere, please?’ he said to Detective Inspector Sloan, looking round for a chair. ‘It’s all been a bit of a shock.’
Sloan led the way back to the waiting room, where Collins sank down on a chair, his head between his hands.
‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ he admitted presently to Detective Inspector Sloan, lifting his head a little. ‘Not after I heard she’d gone missing.’
‘Really, sir?’ said Sloan at his most encouraging.
Collins moistened his lips. ‘I’ve always been a bit afraid that she might do something like this. Since James was ill, I mean.’
‘Ah,’ Detective Inspector Sloan nodded sympathetically.
‘You’ve no idea of the strain we’ve been under, Inspector,’ he said, his face starting to crumple again. ‘Nobody could possibly imagine what it’s like who hasn’t been through it themselves…’
‘Quite so,’ said Sloan, clearing his throat. ‘Do you think you might be able to give us some help on timing? For the record,’ he added sedulously.
‘I can’t help a lot,’ David Collins managed to say. He seemed to be having some difficulty in forming his words. With a visible effort he struggled into speech. ‘I left Margaret at the hospital just before half-past two yesterday afternoon – they try to get the children to sleep after lunch, although it doesn’t work with all of them…’
‘Naturally.’ It always worked with Superintendent Leeyes, although nobody at the police station ever acknowledged the fact. Any member of the Force below the rank of Commander who disturbed him after lunch did so at their peril.
‘And that was the last time I saw her,’ finished Collins uncertainly, lowering his head again. ‘Poor Margaret.’
‘I see, sir,’ said Sloan. ‘And after that?’
‘I don’t know what she did after that, Inspector. The hospital couldn’t tell me.’
‘And what did you do?’ asked Sloan in a tone completely devoid of emphasis. Sporting rules about not hitting a man when he was down didn’t apply to police questioning. You caught your subject when he – or she – was at his most vulnerable. Sitting targets might be too easy for sportsmen, but they were easier for detectives to hit than moving ones. Only he didn’t know whether David Collins was quarry or not.
Yet.
‘Me?’ the man answered indifferently, ‘Oh, I went over to Aumerle Court first to check out the maze there. They’re planning to have a sound and light exhibition in the grounds as soon as it’s dark enough in the early evening and I was taking some measurements in there for the wiring circuits and so forth.’
‘On a Sunday?’
‘The owner’s great-nephew only comes down at weekends,’ he said. ‘We needed to talk about the lighting arrangements for the performance.’
‘No peace for the wicked,’ said Detective Constable Crosby from the sidelines.
Sloan, who had been judging to a nicety the point at which he could go into the question of David Collins’s other movements decided against saying anything more. Crosby he would deal with later.
Collins, though, seemed not to have heard the Constable. ‘The old lady over there seems to be some sort of control freak—’
‘You can say that again,’ muttered Crosby under his breath.
‘So Jeremy Prosser advis
ed me just to slip in there with the paying customers while I sussed the place out. So I did.’
‘And then?’
‘Then I met up with Jeremy – Captain Prosser, that is – and Mr Bevis.’ His head suddenly went down between his hands again. ‘How am I going to tell Margaret’s mother?’
‘Difficult,’ agreed Sloan. ‘It’s always very difficult, that. And then?’
‘What? Oh, then we talked about what would need to be done before they could start rehearsals – that sort of thing. After we’d all finished Jeremy offered me some tea, but I wanted to get over to Calleford Minster – besides, I had a Thermos in the van. And Mr Bevis had to report back to his aunt.’
‘That figures,’ said Crosby.
But Margaret Collins’s husband had lost interest in his own narrative. ‘What happens next?’ he asked bleakly.
‘An examination to establish the cause of death by the pathologist,’ said Sloan, avoiding the word autopsy. ‘The Coroner’s officer will be in touch. By the way,’ he added casually, ‘you spoke as if you knew Captain Prosser—’
‘But I do,’ said Collins readily. ‘That’s how Double Felix comes to be doing the work at Aumerle Court. Jeremy’s a neighbour of ours over at Nether Hoystings.’ A stricken look suddenly came over his face as a new thought struck him. ‘Oh, God! The neighbours—’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan out of a lifetime of working in the police force. ‘This sort of news travels very fast.’
* * *
Milly Smithers stood poised in the doorway of the Long Gallery of Aumerle Court. ‘Would you be wanting anything else, Miss Daphne, before I go downstairs and start to get dinner?’
‘Just my telephone book, Milly, thank you.’ Daphne Pedlinge laid her binoculars down on her knee rug. ‘I don’t think there’ll be anything to watch outside for a bit.’
‘I’m sure I hope not, indeed.’ Milly sounded quite indignant. ‘There’s been quite enough excitement out there to be going on with.’
‘Yes, Milly,’ said the old lady with uncharacteristic meekness. She waited until the carer had gone before she picked up her cordless telephone and flipped through a list. She tapped out a London number.
‘United Mellemetics,’ said a voice at the other end. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I wish to speak to the Assistant Head of Corporate Affairs,’ said Daphne Pedlinge, ‘Human Resources Division.’
‘Just one moment, please.’ Then, ‘I’m putting you through now.’
‘Mr Bevis Pedlinge’s’ office,’ said a young female voice.
‘I want to speak to him, please.’
‘I’m sorry, but he’s in a meeting.’
‘Then get him out of it,’ said Miss Pedlinge in a tone that long ago had commanded instant attention closely followed by absolute obedience.
‘May I ask who’s calling?’ countered the young female voice.
‘Tell him’, she ordered, ‘that his great-aunt wishes to speak to him.’
The voice faltered. ‘His great-aunt, did you say?’
‘Daphne Pedlinge.’
The voice capitulated. ‘Hold on and I’ll get him for you.’
She didn’t have to wait long.
‘Aunt Daphne? Is that you?’ asked a breathless Bevis Pedlinge.
‘Well, it’s hardly likely to be someone else impersonating me, is it?’
‘It could have been Milly ringing on your behalf.’ Bevis always resolved not to be steam-rollered by his great-aunt and always was.
‘Ha!’ she pounced. ‘What you hoped was that it was Milly ringing to tell you that I’d croaked it at last.’
‘No, I wasn’t,’ he protested.
‘You surprise me,’ she said acidly. ‘Well, I’ve got another sort of surprise for you.’
‘Tell me—’
‘We’ve got a body in the maze.’
‘What? A dead body, you mean?’
‘Of course I mean a dead body, Bevis. I wouldn’t have rung you otherwise. You aren’t out to lunch already, are you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘I was speaking figuratively,’ she said. ‘And what’s the meaning of your job title? In my day,’ she grumbled, ‘we had men and materials, not human resources. I don’t know what the world is coming to.’
‘Aunt Daphne,’ he interrupted her, ‘what sort of a dead body?’
‘Female,’ she said.
‘But who?’
‘Ah, that’s what nobody knows yet.’
‘But I was in the maze myself yesterday afternoon.’
‘Nobody knows that either, Bevis. Yet. But they will. And pretty soon, too. You can be sure of that. So…’ Daphne Pedlinge carefully put the telephone down while she was in the middle of speaking herself.
That, she had found over the years, always confused everybody nicely.
* * *
‘Yes, I’m Dr Dilys Chomel,’ agreed the young House Surgeon when the two policemen had finally tracked her down to the children’s ward at the Berebury and District General Hospital. ‘When did I last see Mrs Margaret Collins? It would have been sometime yesterday afternoon – today’s Monday isn’t it?’
Detective Inspector Sloan nodded. He’d often found that people who worked weekends or nights didn’t always know which day of the week it was, and this girl looked tired enough to have forgotten more than that.
‘We get a lot of visitors on this ward on Sunday afternoons,’ she said, adding unenthusiastically, ‘especially fathers, which doesn’t help.’
Sloan raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘Fathers always want things spelling out more,’ she said wearily. ‘Somehow mothers seem to know the answers without asking.’
‘And the children?’ asked Crosby, staring uneasily at a preternaturally bald child playing with a giant teddy bear. He’d been planning that sort of haircut himself, but he decided against it rather quickly now.
‘Oh, the children don’t worry half so much as you’d think because, of course,’ she carried on with painful honesty, ‘they’re still young enough to think that we know all the answers and that we’re going to get them better soon.’
‘And you don’t?’ suggested Detective Constable Crosby. Crosby did not like hospitals any more than he liked attending post-mortems. He liked seeing sick children, though, even less, especially very sick ones. Nor did the deceptively cheerful lemon-coloured decor and ample supply of toys on the children’s ward raise his spirits one little bit.
‘We don’t know quite everything about James’s trouble,’ admitted Dr Chomel, ‘although I suppose that goes for many serious conditions. And as for getting him better…’, she shrugged her shoulders, ‘it’s still too early to say, though we’re quite optimistic at this stage.’
‘But you talked to Mrs Collins about her child yesterday all the same?’ said Detective Inspector Sloan, who had not for one moment forgotten the object of their visit to the hospital.
‘Of course I did,’ responded the doctor. ‘The poor woman was worried stiff about James and no wonder.’ She pointed to the end of the ward, where a little boy with one eye bandaged was engaged in the systematic destruction of a model car, and opened her hands in a gesture of despair, ‘But telling parents that their little one has had to lose an eye at this age—’
‘Difficult,’ agreed Detective Inspector Sloan, who in his time had had to break much less palatable news to families about their sons.
‘Mind you,’ she said, automatically pulling herself up and resuming her professional mantle of careful optimism and encouragement, ‘most people can manage very well with monocular vision.’
‘Oh,’ said Crosby, light dawning, ‘so that’s why they call them binoculars.’
‘And, after all, losing an eye isn’t the end of the world,’ she said, intent, like all doctors, on minimizing other people’s disasters. ‘We mustn’t forget that.’
‘Didn’t do King Harold a lot of good, though, did it?’ said Detective Constable Crosby.
‘Really?’ said the young doctor politely. Dr Chomel had been born in Africa and her interest in European history began somewhat later than William the Conqueror.
‘That’s when he lost the Battle of Hastings,’ said Crosby.
‘Ah…’
‘He’s the one that had an arrow in his eye,’ Crosby informed her.
‘Let us hope, Doctor,’ interposed Sloan swiftly, ‘that your treatment has done the trick with little James.’
‘We hope so,’ sighed Dr Chomel. ‘The earlier that the treatment’s started the better, of course, and we think this case has been caught in time.’
‘And the exact nature of James’s trouble is…?’ asked Sloan. James’s father, David Collins, had given his permission for the police to ask the doctors whatever they wanted to know, merely expressing the mumbled hope that they would understand the answers better than he did. James’s mother was no longer alive to be asked about anything: especially whether she had found the strain of James’s illness altogether too much to bear.
‘Retinoblastoma,’ responded Dr Chomel promptly.
‘Ah,’ said Sloan, looking with new respect at the young doctor. Being so fluent in English was quite something, but being as fluent in medical English as she was, was something very different. It was a new language to him, too. ‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough to spell that out for me.’
‘It’s the commonest intraocular tumour of childhood,’ she said when he’d written it down.
Crosby winced. ‘Does that mean there’s a lot of it about?’
‘Not really,’ the doctor said. ‘One baby in every twenty thousand suffers from it.’ She smiled faintly ‘That’s what I think you could call long odds.’
‘There’s nothing that statistics don’t make worse, said Detective Inspector Sloan briskly. ‘Nothing at all. Now what causes this … thing?’
‘James has got the inherited form,’ said Dr Chomel. ‘It’s an autosomal dominant condition.’
‘Really?’ said Detective Inspector Sloan. His own introduction to inherited diseases had come from seeing Ibsen’s play Ghosts, but he didn’t think this was the same. ‘And Mrs Collins knew this?’ There was something his own mother had been fond of quoting from the Bible – the Old Testament, for sure – about the sins of the fathers being visited on their sons, which didn’t seem quite to fit the bill here, but had fitted Ghosts. He would have to think about that later.
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