Fortified by this triumph, Lady Denham felt just anger coursing through her veins to replace those weakling emotions of hurt and distress. These Hollises would find out who they were dealing with!
Back she went to the hog roast hut. Silence fell as she stood in the entrance. Behind her the sky grew lurid as the storm approached, a sheet of distant lightning etched her against its fleeting brightness.
"Ollie Hollis," she cried, "you can start looking for a new job to- morrow morning. Hen Hollis, you are trespassing on my land. If you are not gone in five minutes, I will set the dogs on you. And as for you, Alan Hollis, I am giving you notice to quit the Hope and Anchor. And when you go, take a long look back, for by then I shall have removed your name from my will and the Hope and Anchor will be as far out of your reach as loyalty and decency clearly are from your soul! "
As she finished, thunder rolled through the air. She turned and walked away, triumphant, confident that nothing Hollis could say could be anything more than a gnat's bite to the reputation of Lady Daphne Denham.
Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned. It was Alan Hollis. His once longed-for touch was now anathema to her. She slapped his face. To her shock and horror he struck her back. She fell, cracking her head against a stone. But worse was to come. For the second time that day she felt the weight of his body upon her. Once more she was squealing like a stuck pig, but this time the resemblance went further than mere sound. For his hands were round her throat, and she was truly dying.
I think that probably gets as near the truth as any fiction does, Andy. I reckon Ollie would panic and take off; Hen, after his initial delight that his old enemy is dead, would probably begin to consider the conse- quences as they might affect him, but cool-headed Alan would get him to drag Daphne into the long grass, then tell him to make himself scarce, there was no reason anyone should ever know he'd been there.
Now Alan himself heads back to the hall. The storm is getting nearer and people are getting agitated. He sees Clara and tells her what's happened. Why would he do that? you ask. Because, my dear
Watson, another little bit of local knowledge I have acquired through keeping my sharp blue eyes skinned is that dear calm and collected Clara has been following aunties example and sampling Alan's wares herself! She it was, I suspect, who came up with the clever idea of put- ting Ted in the frame. I mean, he was the most obvious suspect, and she happened to know where he'd left his clothes and his watch when he changed to go swimming. So while Alan takes charge of relocating the booze into the house, she slips off, breaks the clasp of the watch, and snags it on Daph's dress. Then she returns, and she and Alan give each other an alibi for all the significant period.
Later that evening, Ollie fetches up at the pub, still in a state. His asthma is so bad he heads off to Miss Lee's for relief. It is clear to Alan that Ollie cannot be relied on. Sooner or later he's going to come clean about what happened. When Hen shows up a little later, Alan first of all makes it clear that in the eyes of the law they will be equally guilty. Okay, Hen may get a lighter sentence because he didn't actually strangle Daphne, but hell still be going to jail. And, here's the clincher, Alan probably assures him that he will not be able to inherit Millstone Farm. (Interesting legal point that, as it was by Hog's will, not Daphnes, that it reverted to Hen, but I don't suppose he was in a state of mind to debate such niceties!)
He then tells him where hell find Ollie. To be fair, perhaps all he meant was for Hen to try and talk some sense into him, but when it turned out that Hen had gone over the top and stuck a needle right through the poor sod's spine, that must have seemed like a sign from whatever God Alan worships that everything was going his way!
Now the only weak link remaining is Hen. Easily dealt with. Alan knows where hell be, and that night he heads out to Millstone with a bottle of scotch.
Could be Hen had already done the deed, but I doubt it. Whatever, by the time Alan leaves, Hen is dangling from a rope in the stairwell, there's a suicide note on the kitchen table, and at a single stroke Alan has got rid of the one remaining witness and provided the police with a self-confessed murderer.
As it turns out, this has another benefit. With Ted no longer a sus- pect, there is nothing to prevent him coming into his rightful estate. Clara had already tried one trick to get at Ted's huge inheritance - by threatening to publish the second will. Of course that's been no use since everyone got to know it was a fake. But she has another card up her sleeve now. Did she fall or was she pushed? Well, I've no idea. Ei- ther's possible, knowing Ted. Whichever it was, the threat that Clara might suddenly get her memory back is going to be very useful.
But not to worry, Andy. I'll make sure that Ted pays nothing till she publicly recalls that it was an accident. I think that will be worth a few thou, don't you? And really, Clara deserves a supplement to her meagre inheritance, I think. To Daph in most things she was a very good and faithful servant.
Of course, the big question to such a devotee of justice as yourself is what to do about cunning old, ruthless old Alan Hollis.
Rest easy, Andy. There are some forms of justice best left in the hands of God. Why not leave it to Him to summon Alan to the great central court in the sky where, I do not doubt that, as He dispenses his justice, attending on his right side will be dear old Daphne Denham and on his left revolting old Hen Hollis. How apt it would be if the Lord arranged things so that Alan's comeuppance could be traced, however indirectly, to Daphne herself?
Well, nothing is impossible, Andy. Who should know that better than I?
So there we are. Of course its going to be hard to prove any of this, and what would be the point? What I say is mostly speculation, Peter's got his result, and all you'll do if you try to stir things up is make either him or yourself look an awful ass.
I suppose you could educe this little statement of mine in evidence of something. Would it be admissible? I don't know, but, if so, then that would mean that everything you yourself have committed to Mildred (love the name, by the way) would be equally admissible, if anyone had a copy and a reason for publishing it. Our private thoughts can be so embarrassing, not to mention the revelation of all those little corners we've cut, those little pleasures we've enjoyed. I must say I'm surprised at you, Andy, choosing to hide Mildred in the cistern! The indignity to her person apart, nowadays we have all been so educated in criminality by television that it's the first place anyone would look!
But no need to worry about her. She is quite safe. No worries about me either. Restored to rude health by a miracle (and it was a miracle, Andy, with only the timing a little displaced) I shall not readily forget that I owe God a life. I have my literary work, I have my Third Thought mission, I have the woman I love by my side - what possible threat can I pose to the world in general or yourself in particular? Like Scrooge I am a converted sinner. My name will probably descend to future generations as a synonym for benevolence and magnanimity!
So there we are, Andy. Tell Peter I shall drop in on him soon, to let dear Rosie see for herself that I am still the same upright young man I always was!
Will our paths cross again?
Of course they will, in this life or the next.
So let me end not with a definitive good-bye, but with a hopeful auf Wiedersehen!
By the way, to delete, you just press the small D symbol on the bot- tom left of the control pad. Then if you want to delete everything, press it again.
Be clever, dear Andy, and let who will be good!
Slainte!
3
Andy Dalziel walked clockwise three times round the room then three times widdershins.
This had no superstitious significance, it was simply a reflection of the maelstrom of warring emotions raging around his mind.
Rage indeed was there, rage that the sly serpent Roote had man- aged to wriggle into his head and leave his slimy trail across the in- nermost recesses. Fear was there too, fear of what might be the outcome of this invasion. Mildred had been a mi
stake. From the be- ginning of time, man had been taught the lesson that confiding your most intimate thoughts to a woman was a recipe for disaster, but still he never learnt!
Yet also there was a sense of self-congratulatory pleasure at having his vague suspicions confirmed. About Roote, about Alan Hollis, about the whole damned business!
Allied with this, however, was guilt. Guilt that he hadn't spoken out. But how could he have done? he defended himself. With Peter Pascoe in charge, everything Dalziel said had rung in his own ears like the smart-ass commentary of a know-it-all spectator on the touchline. But there was more to it than that, he had to admit. He had repressed his suspicions because he liked Alan Hollis, liked him for his excellent beer and his welcoming manner. What had he called him? The prince of landlords!
Put not your trust in princes!
And there was resentment. Resentment at having this moment of decision thrust upon him just when it felt like he was going to be able to walk away from Sandytown, close that book, put it on the shelf and never open it again. He'd even managed to get his head round the al- leged miracle of Roote's cure. It had entertained him to think that now the manipulative bastard was going to be able to shack up openly with Esther Denham. She was very bright and very mixed up, a com- bination which, with luck, might prove enough to give the doting Roote a taste of his own medicine! Also - a much bigger plus - the "miracle cure" had acted as the spark to ignite the sexual atmosphere he'd felt surrounding Charley and the healer from the start. Every story should end with at least one couple walking off into the sunset, and it had warmed his cockles to see that ill-matched pair finally getting together.
How the revelation of the truth about everything would affect them, he wasn't sure. Probably not at all. They were young, they were resilient. But there were others who would suffer. He guessed that Cap would forgive his one-off with Pet, but it would mark the end of the unspoken absolute trust he felt existed between them. What would old Fester make of the news that Pet loved him so much she was willing to open her legs to another man on his behalf? Maybe he would remember his own sessions with the Indian maid. Or maybe he would exercise the ancient right of men to require better behaviour of their women than they could manage themselves.
He was assuming of course that, if he did ignore Roote's advice and stir things up, the scrote would somehow put Mildred on public display.
Of course he would! Why wouldn't he?
What was certain was that a reopening of the case so soon after its apparently satisfactory conclusion was going to make Peter Pascoe look a bit silly, to say the least. Roote, with his own Pascoe brother/ father fixation, clearly thought this was the clinching argument for doing nothing.
But why the hell had the toe-rag left his stupid message at all?
What was all that crap about some kinds of justice should be left to God? Was he really beginning to believe that Third Thought rubbish he spouted? The old Roote would surely have known that an Andy Dalziel with vague suspicions might just decide to hold his peace, but giving him certainties could have only one outcome.
He stopped walking. His mind was clear. Only one thing mat- tered. Daph Denham, that splendid monster of a woman, with more life in her as she approached seventy than most people had at seventeen, was lying dead. And the bastard who killed her was home and free.
No matter what the consequences, Detective Superintendent An- drew Dalziel, head of Mid-Yorkshire CID, couldn't leave that one to God.
He looked at his watch. Just coming up to six. Hollis would be preparing to open the Hope and Anchor.
The wise thing would be to ring Pete Pascoe and lay it all before him. But Dalziel was finally acknowledging that he didn't have the build or the technique for tiptoeing around his deputy's supposed sensitivities. Any road, to do so was bloody patronizing! Pete was a big boy now, he could look after himself.
And more weighty than any other argument was the burning de- sire he felt in himself to see Hollis's face when he realized the game was up.
Alan Hollis was his to bring down, no matter what else he brought to ruin with him.
He left his room and went down to Pet Sheldon's office.
She was sitting behind her desk.
"Like to borrow your car again, luv," he said. "Last time, eh?"
She sighed and tossed him the keys. She was a grand lass, too good for old Fester, he reckoned. He would miss her.
"Thanks," he said.
As he turned away she said, "Oh, Andy, someone left this for you. Going-away present, maybe."
She tossed him a jiffy bag with his name on it.
"More likely a letter bomb," he said.
He put it on the passenger seat unopened as he drove down the hill into Sandytown.
It was still a minute or two off six as he approached the pub. He saw the front door was still unopened as he turned into the car park. But the rear entrance he'd used on his last visit was ajar.
He was making his way toward it when he heard a woman scream.
He broke into a run. He was out of breath after the first couple of strides, reminding him that the famous curative powers of Sandytown still had a lot of work to do, but he had enough momentum to take him through the doorway and across the kitchen, till he came to a harsh-breathing halt at the head of the cellar steps.
He looked down and saw that God had got there before him.
The single bare bulb cast sharp-edged black shadows over a scene Caravaggio could have painted.
Jenny the barmaid was kneeling among a chaos of beer kegs and splintered wood. Buried beneath it, staring up at her with unseeing eyes, lay Alan Hollis.
Hearing Dalziel's feet on the stairs, Jenny looked round. Her face showed natural shock but she was a strong-nerved Yorkshire lass. One scream, then she'd descended to check out the state of her employer when lots of women would have run outside for help.
"He's gone," she said, tears welling up in her eyes. "That old cow did for him in the end. He'd been going on at her for months about getting the cellar sorted, but she were too mean to cough up. And now it's done for him."
That was no doubt how many in Sandytown would see it, thought Dalziel as he studied the collapsed keg rack. What had gone first wasn't immediately clear, one of the old shelves or one of the supporting props. But once movement started, it would have been as unstoppable as an avalanche.
Others, perhaps, would not blame Daphne, or at least only name her as an instrument of fate. The Hollises were a doomed race, every- one knew that. Even when destiny seemed to give them a break, it never lasted long.
"Nay, lass," he said as he helped Jenny back up the stairs. "Let's not rush to blame anyone. It were an act of God."
Or of his agent Roote, he thought.
As he summoned Sergeant Whitby and the emergency services, his mind ran and reran the implications of what had happened. The case was certainly altered. In every sense.
Could Roote really be responsible for what had happened in the cellar?
Of course he bloody could!
And that would put his recorded message in quite a different light. Now it made sense as a warning not to act precipitately, to sit back and give God a chance. More than a warning. An instruction backed by a threat.
Dalziel didn't like threats. If he'd been the kind of man to concern himself over such things, he might have felt complacent that he'd decided to ignore it in the name of justice. Instead he was asking himself whether that same justice required that he off-loaded on to Pascoe everything he knew or suspected. It wasn't a pleasant pros- pect, in fact, it would be unkind, disruptive, and almost certainly ul- timately nonproductive.
In fact, would he be contemplating it at all if he didn't resent so much the threat that Roote was holding over his head in the shape of Mildred? To ignore a threat for the sake of justice was one thing, to ignore it simply because it really pissed you off was just plain daft!
The debate was still raging in his mind an hour later when he finally left the Hope and Anc
hor to the emergency services and climbed into Pet's car to return to the Avalon. The weather was on the turn. The bright warm day that had blessed the opening of the Festival of Health was now a fading memory, a rising wind was hurrying shreds of cloud along the darkening sky and spattering the windscreen with the first drops of rain.
It was, after all, a Bank Holiday weekend.
As he put the key in the ignition, he noticed the jiffy bag on the passenger seat.
He thought, If it really is a letter bomb, mebbe I can go back to being a poor old convalescent cop again, only this time, I'll definitely check in at the Cedars!
He picked it up and tore it open.
Out of it slid Mildred.
There was an unsigned note.
Andy, as I told you, I removed Mildred for safekeeping. Do try
to take better care of her in future, and all your womenfolk.
Safe journey home!
Dalziel sank back in his seat. A strange feeling was welling up inside him. He resisted it for a moment, then gave in. It was admiration for Franny Roote! You had to give it to the bastard, using the threat of a threat to give pause, but knowing that the reality of the threat might ultimately be counterproductive. Young Charley Heywood could do a lot worse than go to Roote for tutorials!
He started the car, drove out of the car park, and turned up the hill to North Cliff.
Suddenly the problem of whether Roote had anything to do with the death of Alan Hollis had ceased to be a problem.
If I'd got to the pub and found him working down in that cellar, I might have pulled the whole bloody issue down on top of him myself! thought Dalziel.
So let it go! The buck stops with the man at the top, and that's me!
As for Franny Roote, let the clever bugger win this battle. There was a whole lifetime ahead to sort out the war!
A Cure for All Diseases Page 48
