Ruling Passion (8 page)

'No,' said Ellie sheepishly.

'Peter had told me to get in touch with Colin  from the start,' she added to Backhouse. 'But I was  too proud. And I don't like putting my friends on  the spot. But when things didn't go too well with  the book...’

'You laid an ambush,' said Backhouse. 'Any  luck?'

'I didn't even mention it,' sighed Ellie. 'He'd just got everything organized for his own move  and was bubbling over. It didn't seem fair to take  advantage. And when I told him that Peter and  I had re-established contact, he was genuinely  delighted, took his address, said we'd be the first  to sample his rural hospitality. Here we are.'

'So he was a man who had everything going for  him at the moment?'

'Everything,' echoed Ellie.

There was a knock at the door which opened  almost simultaneously.

'Cup of tea,' said Mrs Crowther, coming into the  room with a tray and the expression of one with whom superintendents cut very little ice.

She put the tray down in front of Ellie and took a small bundle of typewritten sheets out of her  capacious apron pocket.

'Here. These are for you,' she said to Backhouse.  'I've been typing them for Crowther. If you take  them now, it'll save him a journey later. Not that  I'd pay them all that much attention. It's his job to hear things, but they were a nice young couple, the Hopkinses. That's what counts, not a lot of  malicious gossip.'

She left with the shadow of a wink at Ellie.

'Interesting woman,' commented Backhouse, riffling through the papers. 'We could do with  her on the strength.'

'I think you've got her,' said Pascoe drily.

Backhouse folded Crowther's report carefully and slipped it into his pocket.

'To get back to business,' he said. 'Can either of  you think of anything at all which might cause stress and strain in the relationships between these four?'

'Not really,' said Ellie. 'Rose and Colin always talked most affectionately of the other two. And  vice-versa as far as I know.'

She glanced across at Pascoe. Backhouse could not read her expression.

'You talked to Mrs Hopkins on the phone last  night,' he said. 'Did she say anything specific about  their plans for the evening?'

'Well, she may have done. We talked for about ten minutes. But nothing's stuck, nothing specific. I'm sorry.'

She looked bewildered. Backhouse patted her  hand where it rested on the arm of the sofa.

'Never mind. If anything comes to mind, you can let me know. Anything new from you, Sergeant?'

Pascoe shook his head.

'I'd better get back to work then,' said the superintendent, standing up. 'What are your plans for  tonight?'

'We've been asked to stay with the Culpeppers,'  said Pascoe, recalling his earlier decision to find  somewhere else. It didn't seem worth the bother  now. And if the Eagle was the only place in the village which let rooms, his chances of success were slim.

'Culpeppers? I remember. The committee secretary woman?'

'And the man who came to the cottage with  the coroner. I'm sure they'll be in Crowther's  dossiers.'

'No doubt. I'll know where to find you, then. Thank you, Miss Soper. You've been most helpful. Please believe me when I say you have my deepest  sympathy.'

He did it better than Dalziel. Not that Dalziel wasn't good when he wanted, but good in the  style of the old actor-managers. There was always a  sense of performance. Backhouse was more natural. There was even a chance that he was sincere.

'Just one thing more,' he said, pausing at the door. 'What was Mr Hopkins writing his book  about?'

'His book? Poverty! He laughed when he told  me. Coming to Thornton Lacey to write a book  about poverty in modern Britain was like hunting  polar bears in Africa, he said.'

'It doesn't sound a best-selling subject,' opined  Backhouse cautiously.

'I don't know. Full of case histories, hard-luck  stories, people driven to crime, the effect of inadequate diets on sexual performance, that kind of  thing. It's the kind of pop sociology that could sell.'

'You sound disapproving.'

'Not at all. Envious perhaps. Until this morning.'

'Yes. Not much cause for envy now. Goodbye.'

They sat in silence for a while after he had gone.  Ellie spoke first.

'I'm sorry,' she said.

'What for?'

'For before, what I said. Grief's a selfish emotion  really. I had forgotten they were your friends too.'

'Yes. And Colin still is.'

'Do you think he did it, Peter?'

Pascoe made a hopeless gesture.

'I don't know. I can't believe it, but I've got to admit the possibility. People kill those they love all  the time.'

'But you were willing to attack some poor  bloody stranger because
he
accepted the possibility? Odd behaviour for a policeman,' she mocked  affectionately.

'I'm an odd policeman,' he said, kissing her  gently.

'Thanks,’ she said. 'Now I'm going to pull myself  together and face the world. Whatever the truth,  Colin will need friends when they catch up with  him.'

She stood up and stretched her arms as though  newly roused from sleep.

'Do I gather you've got us invited somewhere for the night?'

Pascoe explained briefly about the Culpeppers, concealing his own irrational dislike of Marianne.

'I see,' said Ellie. 'Sounds all sweet sherry and  sympathy. I'll go and freshen up, then I wouldn't  mind sampling the country air for half an hour or  so before we present ourselves to our hosts.'

'A good idea. There's plenty of time,' said Pascoe.

The door opened and Mrs Crowther reappeared.

'He's gone then,' she grunted. Her gaze fell on the tea-tray.

'And no one wants my tea?'

'Oh, I'm sorry,' exclaimed Ellie. 'It's my fault. I  just forgot.'

'Look,' said Pascoe. 'Why don't you two sit down and have a cup? It should still be hot. I just want  to pop out and check the car. It seems to be eating  oil lately.'

Ellie shot him a curious look, but he left quickly before she could say anything. As he had expected, the office section of the house was empty. Crowther  would be very busy about the village this afternoon. He made straight for the table which carried  the solid old Imperial typewriter, and saw what he was looking for straightaway. In the wooden tray by the machine were Crowther's notes on local colour plus the carbon of the typewritten version given to Backhouse. He ignored the original in the  constable's crabbed hand and picked up the copy.

He had just started on the first of the five quarto sheets when a voice spoke behind him.

'Excuse me.'

Pascoe started so violently that his leg twitched  and cracked painfully against the rim of the desk.  Christ! he thought, your nerve ends really have  been exposed today, my boy.

Instinctively he let the sheets of paper slide out of his hands into the tray before he turned.

Standing behind the small counter across which the public could seek audience with their local  guardian of the law was a rather frail old lady  who seemed to be wearing a military uniform of  sorts. WVS? wondered Pascoe.

'Yes?' he said.

'I was hoping to find Mr Crowther.' She had a slow, gentle voice. Definitely good works, he decided. Moral samplers and nourishing broth  round the farmworkers' hovels.

'I'm afraid he's not here at the moment. I don't  know when he'll be back. Is it urgent?'

'I'm not sure.'

She stared hard at him and asked dubiously, 'Are 
you
a policeman?'

'Well, yes. Yes, I am,' said Pascoe. 'Sergeant  Pascoe.'

'Sergeant? That ought to be all right then. I am  Alicia Langdale.' She paused. For effect? thought  Pascoe. Is she the lady of the manor? Should I be  impressed?

'Yes?' he prompted.

'And it's connected with my job, you see. That's what makes it so delicate.'

'What
is
your job, Mrs Langdale?'

'Miss. Can't you see? I'm a postman.'

Oh my God! thought Pascoe. That's what the  gear is! He could see he had lost what little ground  the revelation of his rank had gained him.

'Of course,' he said with a smile.

'My sister, Anthea, and I keep the post office. She takes care of the internal business and I look  after deliveries. Normally what happens, of course,  is that people post their letters, they are collected in a van and taken to the main post office in town  where they are sorted.'

'I see,' said Pascoe.

'But sometimes, if it's a matter of
local
mail  - things that I'm going to have to deliver anyway, you understand - some people just leave  them on the counter or push them through our  letter-box.'

She raised her chin and looked defiantly at  Pascoe, who suddenly knew what this was all  about. He took the letter Miss Langdale produced  from her large pocket and stared down at Colin's  distinctive handwriting. J. K. Palfrey, Esq., The  Eagle and Child, Thornton Lacey.

A flock of thoughts rose and fluttered around  Pascoe's mind. The proper course of action was  clear. Take the letter to Backhouse who would  then take it to Palfrey and require it to be opened  in his presence. If it was not relevant to the inquiry that would be an end to it. But if it was . . . ! Pascoe did not feel somehow that Backhouse would be  keen to let him read it.

He realized with a start that Miss Langdale was  still speaking.

'I was almost at the Eagle and Child this morning when I met Mrs Anderson who told me the news.  She picks up everything very quickly, I'm afraid. Normally I pay no heed, but this was different. This  was dreadful, dreadful. So I finished my round but  kept this letter. Anthea and I have been discussing  all day what we ought to do. It's our duty to deliver  the Queen's mail, you see. But if, as seemed possible in the circumstances, it might cause distress . . .  and in a sense, it had not in fact been
posted,
had it?  So here I am. Will you give me a receipt, please?'

Her voice was suddenly brisk, businesslike.  Pascoe looked round for a piece of paper and a pen. He had made up his mind to open the letter  and damn the consequences. Every instinct in his  body warned him against it, but told him at the  same time how important the letter was. He had  to see. This might be his only chance.

'Receipt book's in the top drawer, Sergeant.'

It was Crowther, standing quietly in the doorway. His chance had gone.

'Interesting, this,' said the constable, holding the  letter before him after he had efficiently disposed of Miss Langdale. 'I'd better let the super have it  right away. Thanks for taking care of things.'

He put the letter in his tunic pocket, tidied up  the papers on his desk, stared a long moment at  the disturbed carbon copy of his notes but did not  remove them, and left.

'Damn! damn! damn!' said Pascoe. But he shuddered to think of the dangerous course he had been  about to steer on. The sooner he got back to Dalziel  and other people's losses, the better.

He went back into the living-room to collect Ellie  and take her to the Culpeppers'.

Chapter 7

The Culpeppers' house was an impressive structure. Built in traditional Cotswold stone, its lines and proportions were unequivocally though unobtrusively modern.

The gardens consisted principally of herbaceous borders and lawns running down to an encirclement of trees. Whether the Culpepper estate  extended into the woods was not clear. The lawns themselves were beautifully kept. Only one of  them, hooped for croquet, showed any signs of  wear. Coming up the drive, Pascoe had glimpsed a  bent figure in a bright orange coat slowly brushing away the leaves which the autumn wind had laid  on one of the side lawns. A fluorescent gardener,  he thought, and prepared himself for anything  from a parlourmaid to a full-dress butler when  he rang the bell. But it had been Culpepper himself, features etched with well-bred solicitude, who  opened the door.

Pascoe could see that Ellie disliked him at once.

He recalled his own reaction to Marianne Culpepper  and groaned inwardly at the thought of the evening  ahead. Not that much social intercourse would  be expected of them, surely. Or sexual either,  he added to himself as they were shown into  separate bedrooms. The bed at Brookside Cottage  with its ornamental pillow came into his mind.  Half the local police-force would have seen it. It was a good job he hadn't been having a bit on the  side with the chief constable's wife.

The frivolity of the thought touched him with  guilt. This was the way grief worked. It could only  achieve complete victory for a comparatively short  time. But it filled the mind with snares of guilt and self-disgust to catch at all thoughts and emotions  fighting against it.

Ellie felt the same. She had raised her eyebrows  humorously at his as Culpepper opened her bedroom door. But it was a brief flicker of light in  dark sky.

The evening's prospects did not improve when  Marianne Culpepper returned. Pascoe heard a car  arrive as he was unpacking his over-night case  and when he left his room a minute later to collect Ellie, he found her standing at the head of the stairs, unashamedly eavesdropping on a  conversation below.

Culpepper's neutral tones were audible only as  an indecipherable murmur, but his wife's elegantly vowelled voice carried perfectly. Pascoe was reminded of teenage visits to the local repertory theatre (now declined to bingo) where hopeful  young actresses projected their lines to the most  distant 'gods'.

Even half a conversation was enough to reveal  that Marianne Culpepper had no knowledge whatsoever of her husband's invitation to Pascoe and  Ellie. They exchanged rueful glances on the landing. Pascoe moved to the nearest door, opened it  and slammed it shut. It might have been more  politic to retreat for a while, but Pascoe found  himself looking forward to putting all that good  breeding below to the test.

'Let's go down, shall we?' he said in an exaggeratedly loud voice.

The Culpeppers presented a fairly united front as introductions took place.

'Didn't I see you in the village hall this morning?'  asked Marianne of Pascoe. 'I didn't realize then. I  thought you were just one of the policemen.'