Ruling Passion dap-3

by Reginald Hill

'At last we are alone,' said Davenant.

  'So we are, Mr Davenant, what were you doing in Birkham village yesterday morning?'

  'Passing through, dear boy.'

  'It's a little off the beaten track.'

  'That depends on where you are beating your track from and to.'

  'And where was that?'

  'Which?'

  'Which?'

  'From or to?'

  'Begin at the beginning, please,' said Pascoe, quite enjoying himself. Dalziel would have been clenching his fists and making sinister grunting sounds by now. The only thing which darkened his mood was the cloudy connection between this man and Brookside Cottage.

  'Well, let me see. From first? From Barnsley then.'

  'Barnsley!'

  'Why so amazed? Contrary to rumour Barnsley is not a volcanic cavity full of flames, fumes and the stench of sulphur. A trifle naive, yes; something of a frontier town, yes. But not without its attractions, one of which is a superb restaurant, the delights of which I check annually for the Gourmet's Guide. So I left Thornton Lacey on Tuesday, after the inquest, missing all the excitement and the tragedy too, of course, and headed for Barnsley.'

  'So. From Barnsley to-?'

  Davenant threw up his hands in exasperation. 'It's self-evident surely! To here! I arrived here yesterday evening, so I must have been heading for here, mustn't I?'

  'I don't know if you consult maps, Mr Davenant, but Birkham would take you many miles out of your way.'

  'Of course. I see your difficulty. I wanted to take a look at the Old Mill about five miles to the north. Do you know it? Fascinating. Do you know I spent a week in Birkham last year doing a feature article and I never found time to get to see the Old Mill! So when I was in Barnsley…!'

  He was doing a very good job, Pascoe had to admit. Fitting everything nicely into a reasonable pattern. So nicely that Pascoe had to keep on reminding himself of all the other little bits and pieces. All? Mainly Etherege's agreement that Davenant had been the middleman!

  He stared down at Culpepper's desk for inspiration. It was empty but for a tray which held one of the Sunday paper business supplements. Egotistically, it was opened at an account of Nordrill's annual general meeting held the previous Wednesday afternoon.

  At which time, the thought popped into his mind like a well-browned piece of toast, Culpepper was wandering around Sotheby's, wishing he could afford to bid.

  Which thought prompted one obvious question and a second not quite so obvious.

  But now was not the time to ask them.

  'Is this about poor old Jonathan Etherege?' asked Davenant.

  Pascoe looked up, pleasantly surprised. His musings on Culpepper had had an unforeseen spin-off, the breaching of a minute gap in Davenant's unperturbability.

  'Who?' he said.

  'Etherege. I read about him in the papers and it just struck me that this is why you people are suddenly finding anything to do with Birkham so fascinating. Mind you, there must be a mistake! Jonathan as a burglar is too much. As a killer, it's not on!'

  'Many people find it in them to be killers,' Pascoe said flatly.

  The doorbell rang and at the same time there was a tap on the study door. Pascoe opened it. Marianne Culpepper stood there with a coffee tray, but she was looking down the hallway to the front door.

  'Angus. How nice to see you. Come in, please,' said Culpepper.

  Pascoe peered out, rudely pushing his head almost up against Marianne's. Pelman was just stepping into the hall. He stopped short as he spotted Pascoe, then came forward quickly.

  'Pascoe. I heard you were here. I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to see you again on Tuesday. Let me say how sorry I am. It was a terrible thing. Terrible. I was more distressed than I can say.'

  He was referring to the discovery of Colin, Pascoe realized, not the shooting. The priorities were right, he had to admit.

  But Pelman hadn't finished.

  'And I'm sorry too about taking a pot-shot at you. Or rather over you. The superintendent was on me so quick that I didn't even know you'd been hit by a splinter till later. Is it OK?'

  'Smiling was painful for a while,' said Pascoe.

  Pelman laughed.

  'Good man. I thought you were a blasted poacher. Anyway, to make some amends, I put a brace of pheasants in the car when I heard you were about. If you've been shot for a poacher, you might as well go home like one. Hartley, give us a hand, will you?'

  The two men went out of the front door once again and Pascoe retreated into the study. There was something about Pelman he could admire. The man had said nothing at all about his own ordeal as a suspect for several hours.

  He turned back to Davenant who was pouring out the coffee.

  'Black?' asked Davenant.

  'Thanks,' said Pascoe. He was getting nowhere. Backhouse wanted him to play it cool, but if Backhouse insisted on keeping his own hand so well concealed, then he could get on with his own bloody game!

  'Etherege says it was your idea for him to organize the burglaries,' he said conversationally.

  Davenant hardly flinched.

  'Which burglaries? You don't mean…? Good Lord, how clever! he must be trying for a plea of insanity!'

  'I thought you said it was impossible for him to be guilty?'

  'So I did. But that's not the same as it being impossible for your lot to prove him guilty!'

  'My word,' said Pascoe. 'I thought you loved us bobbies?'

  'A simple country boy's got to be careful who he loves, Inspector.'

  'Like you loved Timmy?' There, that did it. He was well off the rails laid down by Backhouse now.

  'Perhaps,' said Davenant. 'But he's dead, isn't he? Pity you couldn't have got there on Friday night. It might have helped.'

  'Why?' asked Pascoe, keeping a tighter rein on his temper than was yet necessary. 'You managed it and that didn't help at all.'

  Davenant put his coffee cup down and his gaze flickered momentarily around the room, finally coming to rest steadfastly on Pascoe.

  Escape? or a weapon? wondered Pascoe. This hygienic, functional study offered little chance of either.

  'No,' said Davenant sadly. 'It didn't, did it?'

  For a moment Pascoe was unable to grasp the significance of the words.

  'You were there?' he said finally. 'You admit it?'

  'Yes,' said Davenant. 'I was there.'

  Outside in the hallway there was a crash and the sound of upraised voices. Pascoe was glad of the diversion and opened the study door to peer out yet again.

  Just inside the front door stood Sam Dixon holding a cardboard container in his arms. Another lay on the floor at his feet and a damp stain was spreading quickly from it. There was a strong smell of whisky. Old Mrs Culpepper stood alongside Dixon, glaring at him angrily, while her son and daughter-in-law came out of the lounge to investigate the noise. Pelman and Palfrey were close behind.

  'What's happened?' asked Culpepper.

  'Sorry,' said Dixon. 'Bit of an accident. My fault.'

  The old woman muttered something inaudible and stamped off into the garden.

  'Your birds are on the back seat of your car,' said Pelman to Pascoe. 'Don't forget 'em! I really must be on my way now, Marianne, Hartley. Work to be done!'

  He set off up the hall but his passage was impeded by yet another arrival. This time it was Backhouse with Crowther close behind.

  'May I come in?' asked the superintendent, sniffing. 'This smells interesting. You're not trying to corrupt Inspector Pascoe, I hope?'

  He came down the hallway, nodding at Pelman as he passed. Even now the way out was now clear, Pelman's impetus seemed to have been completely spent and he made no attempt to leave.

  'Sorry to intrude, Mr Culpepper, but I wanted a word with Inspector Pascoe.'

  'By all means,' said Culpepper.

  Pascoe backed into the study where Davenant still stood. He had lit a cigarette and looked perfectly at ease.

  'Well?' said Backhouse.


  'He admits he was there.'

  'Where?'

  'At Brookside Cottage on the night of the murders.'

  Backhouse rolled his eyes heavenwards in mock-appeal.

  'How right I was to come so quickly,' he murmured. 'You seem incapable of following instructions, Inspector. I suppose I should think myself lucky he hasn't been beaten unconscious! Wait outside now, will you? Crowther, step in here, will you?'

  'Sir,' said Pascoe and went out, passing Crowther in the doorway. He was beginning to feel once again the simmering fury which seemed to be his normal emotional state in Thornton Lacey.

  The hall was empty now; everyone had retired to the lounge, doubtless to discuss the constabulary goings-on. Pascoe, in no mood for small talk, made for the front door. On the steps he took a couple of deep breaths of fresh, cool air. It was perceptibly colder now. The old woman had been right. This was the bouquet of winter.

  The drive in front of the house was like a car-park. Pelman's Land-Rover was still there, Palfrey's car, Dixon's van, and of course Backhouse's official limousine.

  'Excuse me, sir,' said Ferguson behind him.

  'Yes?'

  'I don't know if it's important, but when the big fellow came out to get those birds from the Land-Rover, he gave something else to Mr Culpepper.'

  'What?'

  'A packet of some kind. About so big. White paper wrapping.'

  'Did they know you were watching?'

  'No. It wasn't surreptitious or anything like that. Just quick, if you know what I mean. Not much said. That's what made me take notice.'

  'What did Culpepper do with this packet?'

  'Stuck it in his pocket. But after that, I don't know what. It was quite bulky and he's got rid of it somewhere, I noticed just now.'

  'Well done, Hawkeye,' said Pascoe.

  He turned and re-entered the house. Everything was quiet. A man of Culpepper's money and taste didn't build doors which let ordinary conversation trickle through. He wondered again about Culpepper and Davenant. How guilty was the collector? Just suspicious of the source of the sale items? or with definite knowledge they had been stolen? The law made little distinction between the two states, but the individual conscience was a much more refined beast, able to pick and crop at definition and qualification.

  These thoughts ran through his mind as he made his way silently and swiftly upstairs. Davenant was using the room which Ellie had occupied. There was surprisingly little evidence of his presence – pyjamas, toilet articles, all with his initials monogrammed on them; but nothing really personal.

  He left the room and stood a moment on the landing. Still silence below.

  Now he moved on to what his memory of the geography of the house told him was Culpepper's room. While it was clearly a man's room there was sufficient evidence of occasional female occupation to indicate Marianne's departure from the marriage bed was by no means a permanent move.

  What am I doing here? wondered Pascoe as he gazed at the Chinese watercolours which decorated the walls. Backhouse would not be pleased if Culpepper found me and started making a fuss.

  Stuff Backhouse.

  He began searching. It didn't take long.

  No attempt had been made to hide it. It lay beside the pastel-green telephone on the bed-side table.

  The Sellotape binding was still intact. Whatever the packet contained, Culpepper hadn't felt the need, or perhaps had the time, to check.

  Unpicking the Sellotape as neatly as possible, Pascoe pulled the white wrapping paper open.

  It didn't look very much at first glance, but a quick check gave him the exact figure.

  It was surprising how little space was taken up by a thousand pounds in fivers.

  Chapter 10

  It took Pascoe a moment's thought and a five-minute telephone call to decide what to do. The time had come for drama.

  He pushed open the lounge door, stepped in, and threw the money on the coffee-table. They all looked at him in amazement. A slow-motion camera and a trained psychiatrist might have made much of the kinds of amazement displayed, but Pascoe had to make do with snap judgements. Honest bewilderment from Palfrey and Dixon, but something else from the other three. A reasonable division.

  'There's a thousand pounds there,' he said. 'What's it for?'

  Culpepper was white with indignation.

  'What right have you to search my house? This is an outrage!'

  'Yes. Why did you bring it here, Mr Pelman?'

  Pelman and Marianne exchanged glances, not easily readable.

  'I think that's my business, don't you?' said Pelman.

  'Perhaps. Blackmail is a crime, of course. And that's my business.'

  Pelman looked flabbergasted, then began laughing. It sounded genuine.

  'I'm glad you can be amused, Angus,' said Culpepper. 'I'm sorry, but I can't be. Excuse me.'

  He strode from the room.

  'What the hell's going on?' asked Dixon, his open face creased in puzzlement, while Palfrey reached for the coffee-pot, eyeing the money greedily.

  Culpepper returned. With him was Backhouse, with Crowther and Davenant bringing up the rear.

  'Superintendent,' said Culpepper, 'I should like you to explain by what authority a police officer, uninvited and without warrant, can search a private house.'

  'The end sometimes justifies the means,' said Backhouse. 'What did you find, Inspector Pascoe?'

  Wordlessly Pascoe showed him the money.

  'Interesting, but not incriminating. I presume you've got a theory.'

  He's not going to blow his top, thought Pascoe. Not yet. He's going to let me do his dirty work for him.

  'This is not the point,' said Culpepper angrily.

  'Yes, sir. I've got a theory. Mr Pelman brought this money with him. Let's call it a loan for the moment.'

  'He thinks I'm being blackmailed,' interjected Pelman. 'What I'm supposed to have done this time, God knows! Oh, and Hartley, too, as I presume he's doing the blackmailing.'

  'This gets worse!' said Culpepper.

  'I trust not,' said Backhouse seriously. 'Inspector!'

  'Let's call it a loan,' repeated Pascoe. 'The more important question at the moment is why did Mr Culpepper want it so quickly and in cash? My suggestion is simple. You wanted it for Mr Davenant.'

  'But why should I wish to give Davenant a thousand pounds?' asked Culpepper.

  'Why? Because he has been supplying you with pieces for your collection which you may have known or suspected to be stolen. Now he's in a hurry to get on his way. He realizes we're on to him. He heads straight down here, and is just hanging around for the money to arrive when unfortunately I turn up.'

  Culpepper smiled. His anger seemed to have left him now, which was a pity. He looked cool and alert.

  'You tell a good story, Inspector. But it's a fairy story, of course. You're very welcome to inspect my collection for stolen articles.'

  'I don't doubt they've been removed since Mr Davenant's arrival,' replied Pascoe. Pelman, he noted, was looking more worried now than at any time hereto, which was interesting. It was time Backhouse made a move. He had been very insistent that the Brookside Cottage case was his. Pascoe had delivered into his hands Davenant, who admitted he was there on the night of the murders, and now also Pelman, who had just delivered a thousand pounds in used notes to the house of the woman whose story supported his alibi. Let the superintendent pick the bones out of that.

  But Backhouse showed no sign of being ready to make a move. Palfrey glanced at his watch and stood up.

  'I think this is outrageous, Hartley,' he said, shooting a malicious glance at Pascoe. 'If you want any witnesses to this gross misuse of police authority, just let me know. But I've got to push off now and see to my pub.'

  'Thanks, JP,' said Culpepper. 'Your story falls down elsewhere, Pascoe. For example, if I wanted money in that much of a hurry, why should I go through the complicated business of contacting Angus? Why not just get it myself?'

  He sm
iled round as if he had produced a rabbit out of a hat.

  You poor bastard, thought Pascoe.

  He felt reluctant to go on. A man had a right to his areas of privacy. Why should Culpepper's small secret be revealed here?

  Because, he told himself looking round at the ring of expectant faces, because it had or might have or could have something to do with a crime.

  And perhaps also because of something in those faces – wariness, expectancy, warning, or in the case of Marianne Culpepper, supercilious disinterest. That especially.

  'Because, Mr Culpepper,' he said, 'you no longer work for the Nordrill Mining Company. In fact I believe you no longer work for anyone. You are unemployed, have been unemployed for six months and are practically destitute.'

  If he had expected this to be an explosive revelation, he was disappointed.

  True, Culpepper stood very still, his expression freezing as though a film had stopped on a single frame. But the others were manifestly unsurprised.

  'I don't see what Hartley's financial affairs have to do with you,' said Pelman scornfully.

  'So what?' said Dixon with a surprising amount of aggression.

  Even Palfrey risked a contemptuous sniff, and Marianne merely turned away.

  Only Davenant looked surprised.

  'You all knew?' he said. 'Well, well. Isn't that an interesting thing? They all knew, Hartley, old son.'

  'So much for your bombshell,' murmured Backhouse, taking Pascoe into the window bay. 'Even I knew. It was in Crowther's first batch of background notes. How did you find out?'

  'I rang up Nordrill, put on a bit of an act,' admitted Pascoe, feeling suddenly rather shame-faced as well as very foolish. 'There were some discrepancies, the date of the AGM and Sotheby’s sale clashed, for instance; other things. I thought I was being pretty clever.'

  'It's cleverer than getting into fights, anyway. But I fear you've bowled over our genial host.'

  Culpepper certainly looked unwell now. The little colour in his cheeks had ebbed away and he seemed able to pay little attention to the attempts at polite chat which the others were directing at him. Only Marianne was not joining in the general rally-round-Hartley movement. Presumably she had known – or had he imagined he had kept his insolvency a secret from her also? Impossible. Pelman knew and Pelman would surely have told her.