An April Shroud dap-4

by Reginald Hill

'Would you step inside for a moment, please.'

  'Right. See you around,' said Gibb happily to Dalziel.

  So, thought Dalziel. Mystery solved. But a bigger one put in its place. What had produced this complete turnabout by the old man?

  He approached the men sitting on the tail-board of the truck who looked at him incuriously.

  'What do you think of it then?' he asked jerking his head at the Banqueting Hall.

  'Think?' said a venerable grey head wearing overalls overlaid with paint to the consistency of armour. 'There'll be fancy prices, no doubt.'

  The others grunted with the sagacity of men who knew better than to be caught by fancy prices.

  'Sad about the accident,' said Dalziel.

  Grey-head nodded agreement but another rounder, jollier man piped up, 'Silly bugger shouldn't have been up there. Not his job.'

  'Whose job was it?' asked Dalziel.

  This flummoxed them for a moment.

  'Depends what he were doing,' said grey-head cautiously.

  'Come and have a look,' invited Dalziel.

  Ghoulish curiosity proved stronger than Gibb's command and they followed him into the Banqueting Hall, dropping their voices to the hushed murmurs of a stately-home-tours party.

  'He was up a ladder, there,' said Dalziel. 'With a drill. They thought he was fixing a beam.'

  'Nothing to fix,' said grey-head. 'We put that beam up ourselves, last thing we did before knocking off. That won't come down in a hurry.'

  'So what could he have been fixing? Up there along the wall a bit. You can see where he was drilling.'

  They peered into the shadowy arch of the high roof.

  'Christ knows,' said grey-head. 'There's nothing there. I plastered right along this wall after they finished the wiring.'

  Suddenly everything was illuminated.

  Gibb stood by the door with his hand on the light panel.

  'So here you are then,' he said. 'Right, lads, let's get the gear in. We're in business.'

  The men streamed out of the hall with no signs of over-enthusiasm.

  'So the old man's coughing up,' pried Dalziel.

  'Don't let on you didn't know,' said Gibb. 'I'll have cash in my hand before the day's out. That's the deal.'

  'And how long will it take you to finish the job?'

  'Working hard at it? With lots of overtime, two or three days.'

  'That's not bad.'

  'No. Well, frankly, Mr Dalziel, with things the way they are, I'd prefer to take it easy, give the lads a week, ten days even. But the old man's a tough nut. He's made it quite clear that he's no party to the original agreement. If I go to law, there's no way I can get my hands on his cash. So he's calling the tune. And that says, three days at the outside. So we're dancing the quickstep. Excuse me.'

  Dalziel followed him out, musing on what had been said, but especially on the flash of illumination which had come to him as Gibb switched on the lights.

  Hereward Fielding was standing in the doorway of the main house once more. He beckoned imperiously.

  'Come in, come in,' he said impatiently. 'I've a great deal to do and it won't get done hanging around here, waiting for you.'

  'You're expecting me then,' said Dalziel.

  'Of course. When I saw you out in the yard with that man, I knew you'd be here in a short time.'

  'Well,' said Dalziel. 'That saves the bother of being subtle.'

  'Really,' said Fielding. 'A pity. That I should have liked to observe. To business then. I've changed my mind. I've decided after all to invest my newly acquired wealth in the family business. A foolish decision, you may think, but freely made. Blood after all is thicker than water.'

  'Your blood than lake water, mebbe,' grunted Dalziel. 'That's got shot of the crap. Now tell me what really changed your mind.'

  Fielding shook his head in reluctant admiration.

  ‘If I could have written poetry of such simple directness,' he said, 'I would have been a set-book by now. No, Dalziel. That's all I have to say. Pry no further; or else.'

  'Or else what?'' Or else I shall command my daughter-in-law to forbid you the house.'

  His eyes twinkled and an ironic smile tugged at his thin lips.

  'You see, I am a man of influence now.'

  Dalziel was unimpressed.

  'Think on,' he said. 'You might think it's bad having me here privately, but that's nowt to having me officially.'

  'I believe it,' said Fielding. 'But come now, there's no cause for us to quarrel. In your younger, greener days you must have been trained to help old gents cross the street. Now you may drive me into Orburn if you would be so kind. I must visit my bank and make arrangements for the malodorous Gibb.'

  'And buy a big hat,' added Dalziel.

  'Perhaps not today,' laughed Fielding. 'But I shall certainly be laying in a stock of decent brandy. They can use this stuff for flaming Christmas puddings. We could do a little sampling at the Lady Hamilton after lunch. On me, of course.'

  'I haven't got a car,' said Dalziel.

  'We'll take the Rover. I have the keys.' He held them up as evidence.

  'Five minutes then,' said Dalziel, turning away.

  Fielding's manner interested him. His speech style was normally what Dalziel designated as 'clever poofy' but there was an element of strain behind it today which had nothing to do with intellectual affectation. Nor did he much care for the quick production of the Rover's keys. Fielding must have got them from Bonnie. And the house was full of young drivers. Indeed there was no apparent bar to the old man's driving himself.

  Well, if they wanted him out of the way, he'd go. It suited him to go to Orburn anyway. But he'd go on his own terms.

  He headed for the kitchen fast. Tillotson and Louisa were drinking coffee together. They weren't speaking to each other but the atmosphere between them was manifestly more cordial than ever before in Dalziel's limited experience. When he had a moment, he must find out why she'd punched the poor sod on the nose that night.

  'Morning,' he said brightly.

  'Hi,' said Louisa. 'Fancy a cup?'

  This was real cordiality.

  'No time, thanks all the same. I'm running Herrie to town. Like to come?'

  They exchanged glances.

  'No thanks,' said Louisa.

  'Things to do,' said Tillotson.

  'Great news about the restaurant,' said Dalziel.

  'Yes, isn't it,' said Tillotson brightly. 'With a bit of luck we can still open on time. I always knew it would be all right.'

  Unimpressed by this unlikely claim to clairvoyance, Louisa said nothing but pulled her lower lip forward so that the moist inner flesh showed. It was quite sexy, thought Dalziel. If you were as skinny as she was, he supposed you had to do your best with whatever protuberances you could lay your hands on.

  'Grand,' said Dalziel. 'Excuse me.'

  He went into the back kitchen and returned a moment later with something in a plastic carrier bag.

  'Taking a picnic?' asked Louisa.

  'Just a nibble,' said Dalziel. 'Sure you won't come?'

  'Sure. Any news about Mrs Greave?' asked Louisa.

  'No. You'll have to do your own dinner,' said Dalziel. 'Perhaps the great white hunter here will shoot a couple of flying fish. You owe me for a cleaning job, Charley.'

  Tillotson was full of apologies when he finally grasped Dalziel's meaning. Louisa was unsympathetic.

  'Messing about in boats is messy,' she said firmly.

  'It seemed safer than the landing-stage,' commented Dalziel.

  'Poor old Sphincter,' sighed Tillotson.

  'Yes?' nodded Dalziel.

  'Nothing,' said Tillotson, puzzled. 'Just poor old Sphincter.'

  'A sad loss,' said Dalziel. 'Especially to Anchor Insurance. They'll have to send someone else to investigate you.'

  He left on this good line. As he approached Herrie's sitting-room he thought he heard the noise of the door clicking to but when he peered in, the room was empty. Cross mu
st have finished, which meant Bonnie would be ready for her talk.

  On an impulse he pushed open the door of the next room in the corridor and stepped inside. It was the billiards-room, still heavily curtained, perhaps (though he doubted it) in recognition that Fielding's coffin had lain in here.

  He found a light switch and clicked it on. A tent of light fell over the green baize, but enough spilled sideways to reveal a figure standing in the shadows of the old marble fireplace.

  Another switch turned on the main light.

  'Well, well,' said Dalziel genially. 'The wanderer returns.'

  Standing before him with an ancient rucksack slung over one shoulder was Nigel Fielding.

  He looked very pale and in need of a good night's sleep.

  'Just got back?' enquired Dalziel.

  The boy nodded.

  'And you thought you'd like a bit of peace and quiet before showing your face? Well, it always takes a bit of nerve to come home. Take the piss a bit, do they, Bertie and Lou?'

  'A bit,' said the boy.

  'Pay no heed. Look, I'm just off upstairs to see your mam for a moment. I'll tell her you're here if you like. OK?'

  'Thanks very much, Mr Dalziel,' said the boy.

  A polite lad, thought Dalziel as he went up the stairs. But he didn't look well and it boded no good that he should shut himself up in the darkened billiards-room as soon as he got back.

  Bonnie was sitting at her dressing-table applying with great care a rich damask lipstick to her lower lip. It must be sex zone of the day, thought Dalziel.

  'Cross gone?' he asked.

  'Yes. Did you want to see him?'

  'No sweat. I can see him in town. I'm driving your father-in-law to the bank.'

  'That's kind of you. What about our talk?'

  ‘It'll keep, won't it. Anyway there's someone more important than me for you to see.'

  'Who's that?'

  'Nigel,' he said. 'He's just got back. He's in the billiards-room.'

  It is always good to see that one's exit lines are effective and before he left he allowed himself the indulgence of watching the surprise round her lips to a roseate O reminding him of Uniff's cartoon.

  He thought of mentioning Nigel's return to the old man, but decided he would certainly have wanted to go straight in and see the boy. Bonnie was entitled to some time alone with him. He'd only been away a couple of days, true, but in Dalziel's estimation it wouldn't be long before he went away and didn't come back for much, much longer. So he drove the ancient Rover down the rutted and pot-holed drive without mentioning the boy.

  Fielding was very quiet on the short journey and Dalziel made no attempt to break the silence. In Orburn he parked the car in the ovoid square once more and watched Herrie step smartly through the dignified portals of the bank. For a poet, he had a surprisingly stiff and military bearing, or perhaps it was just his contact with commerce which had effected the change.

  Dalziel's first call was the same as on the previous day, the chemist's shop. The girl assistant smiled knowingly when he asked to see the chemist himself. She thinks I want a packet of rubbers, thought Dalziel, and he leered so grossly at her that the smile vanished and she retreated quickly into the dispensary.

  'Yes, sir,' said the chemist, a man with a Douglas Fairbanks profile and what looked like a duelling scar down his left cheek. He might have been Rupert of Hentzau in retirement.

  Dalziel took him to one side and presented him with a piece of paper. On it he had written PROPANANNAL(?)

  'What kind of condition would you take this for? I'm not sure of the spelling.'

  'Well,' said the chemist dubiously. 'May I ask why you want to know?'

  Dalziel sighed. The less he had to use his police authority at this stage, the better he'd be pleased.

  'My old mother,' he said. 'She's very independent but we're desperately worried. You understand?'

  'I see,' said the chemist, weakening.

  'She's not local,' urged Dalziel.

  ‘In that case,' said the chemist.

  It turned out that the chemist was not a romantic hero in retirement but rather a physician manque. Once he started, even Dalziel, famed throughout Yorkshire for his ability to halt the most garrulous of witnesses in midsyllable, found it hard to drive home the plug. In the end he plucked a packet at random from the nearest shelf, pulled out his wallet and escaped in the caesura produced by the reckoning of change.

  But it had been a profitable visit none the less, though he felt no very great sense of triumph as he made his way to the police station.

  There was another man closeted with Sergeant Cross this morning. Something about the way in which Cross introduced him as Detective Chief Inspector Balderstone made Dalziel feel that they had just been talking about him prior to his arrival. He wasn't surprised. It would have been strange if Cross's report on the presence in Lake House of a senior police officer had not produced some reactions from above.

  Balderstone's attitude was very correct but to start with at least very reserved. He can't make his mind up if I'm a biased witness, impartial observer, or fifth column, thought Dalziel. And he wasn't altogether sure he knew himself.

  After ten minutes or so, the atmosphere had thawed considerably.

  'Look,' Dalziel had said. 'I'm just there by accident. It's Sergeant Cross's case, for what it is. And what is it? Well, there's two accidental deaths. Curious, but not criminal as far as we can see. A woman and a man have disappeared. It happens all the time. Christ, I'm not where I was planning to be three days ago, so in a sense I've disappeared. And lastly there's been a theft. That's the only crime. Simple theft. And, I tell you straight, it wouldn't surprise me if that didn't get quietly brushed under the carpet soon.'

  'I don't understand,' said Balderstone. He was about forty, with the squashed face of a bulldog.

  'A mistake,' said Dalziel. 'The booze not ordered, or stored elsewhere. A misunderstanding about the kitchen equipment. Mrs Greave exonerated.'

  'Why do you say this, sir?' asked Balderstone.

  ‘It's just a theory,' said Dalziel. 'That's why I came here this morning. Like I said, it's the sergeant's case. Any information or ideas I've got, well, it's my duty to pass them on. So here I am.'

  He looked for a moment staunchly dutiful, like the centrepiece of a First World War music-hall tableau depicting patriotic pride.

  A few moments later, after hearing what Dalziel had to say, Cross began to feel that it wasn't so much his rights as the officer in charge of the case that Dalziel was interested in as the facilities at his disposal. This was confirmed when Dalziel delved into his plastic carrier, produced a paper bag and handed it over with the instructions, 'And get your labs to take a look at that.'

  Cross opened the bag and peered in.

  'Any special instructions, sir?' he asked.

  'What do you think?'

  Out of the box in the paper bag, Cross lifted a large aerosol can of what was coyly described as an intimate deodorant.

  'I don't know what to think, sir.'

  Angrily Dalziel snatched it back and put it on the desk top. From the carrier he produced another bag, took from it a cake box, opened it and showed its contents to Balderstone and Cross. It was a dead rat.

  'I'd like to know how it died,' said Dalziel.

  'That's very interesting,' said Balderstone after listening to Dalziel for some moments after Cross had left the office. 'But what do we have if it all turns out to be true?'

  'Bugger all,' said Dalziel. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly eleven-thirty.

  'Are you in a hurry, sir?' asked Balderstone.

  'No. I've arranged to meet the old boy at twelve in the Lady Hamilton. He's buying me my dinner. I should think we'll be there till two or later. So if anything turns up by then, you know where to get in touch.'

  They talked a little more, exchanging gossip about mutual acquaintances till Cross returned with the news that Dalziel's enquiries had all been set in motion and the rat wa
s on its way to the forensic laboratories.

  'Grand,' said Dalziel. 'Well, I'd best be on my way. I'll hear from you later, I hope.'

  He got up to go.

  'Oh sir,' said Cross.

  'Yes?'

  'Don't forget… this.'

  He handed over the deodorant can.

  Dalziel examined him carefully for signs of amusement, but the sergeant's face remained expressionless. He took the top off the can and pressed the button. A thin liquid haze filled the air for a moment then disappeared leaving behind a faint lemony scent. Dalziel sniffed.

  'That's what the world's coming to,' he said, tossing the can into Cross's waste-paper basket.

  It was his third good exit line of the morning but he felt strangely hypocritical as he left the police station. He had withheld nothing which had any direct bearing on the case as it stood at present, he assured himself. Should the scope of Cross's investigations widen, then of course he would reveal everything he had surmised.

  But his mind though not much given to symbolism told him that his reassurances smelt of lemon.

  14

  When We Dead Awake

  Lunch at the Lady Hamilton was an expensive and alcoholic occasion. Only the best would do for Hereward Fielding and though the Lady Hamilton's best had won it no stars in the posher eating guides, the food was hot and plentiful and swam around very pleasantly in the three bottles of criminally costly claret that the old man insisted they drank with it. All this he regarded merely as a base for the brandy which followed and by two-thirty he was ready to tell the story of his life.

  Dalziel whose caution and capacity had both proved larger was willing enough to listen to this personal history as long as it came fairly swiftly to the past twenty-four hours.

  'My life has been tragic. Tragic,' Hereward assured him.

  'It's been very sad lately,' agreed Dalziel.

  'Sad is no fit word for it,' reproved Fielding. 'Sad is… sad. What I feel is despair. A despair all the stronger because I half believe in futurity. We may survive, Dalziel.'

  'That's hopeful,' said Dalziel. Surprisingly, he realized he meant it. That bloody wine must have got to him after all.

  'No. Oh no. Think of it. When we dead awake it will be to each as if but a second ago he had felt the pangs of dying, the explosion in the head, the drowning of the lungs, the fingers tightening round the throat. What a noise of screaming and wailing there will be at that moment! Followed by what a moment of silence and amazement as we realize the pain is no more.'