Read The Price of Butcher's Meat Online
Authors: Reginald Hill
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General
The Price of Butcher's Meat
P
THE PRICE
F
BUTCHER’S
MEAT
REGINALD HILL
To Janeites everywhere
and in par tic u lar to those who ten years ago in San Francisco made me so very welcome at the Jane Austen Society of North America’s AGM, of which the theme was “Sanditon—A New Direction?” and during which the seeds of this present novel were sown.
I hope that my fellow Janeites will approve the direction in which I have moved her unfinished story; or, if they hesitate approval, that they will perhaps recall the advice printed on a sweatshirt presented to me (with what pertinence I never quite grasped) after my address to the AGM
—run mad as often as you chuse, but do not faint—
and at least agree that, though from time to time I may have run a little mad, so far I have not fainted!
Aye—that young Lady smiles I see—but she will come to care about such matters herself in time. Yes, Yes, my Dear, depend upon it, you will be thinking of the price of Butcher’s meat in time.
J A N E A U S T E N
S A N D I T O N
Contents
Epigraph
iii
1
Hi Cass!
3
Omigod Cass! I must be psychic! OK—you say hes not…
11
Ho’d on. How the fuck do I know this bloody…
19
Hi! 29
There! What do you think of that, Mildred?
40
Had a little sleep there. Bloody pills!
45
Hi Cass!
61
Hi! 67
Morning, Mildred!
75
Okay, Mildred, I should have listened to you and put…
77
Hi! 79
Hi! Still no word. Working on the Headbanger principle that…
89
How do, Mildred!
94
Hi! 99
Hi again!
110
Hi! 119
Well, Mildred, here I am, back from my first official…
132
Oh, Mildred, what have I done?
148
Cass—omigod I was so wrong—nobody kills anyone in Sandytown I…153
163
“And you’re sure this is our Franny Roote?” said Pascoe,…
165
Some thirty minutes before Pascoe arrived in Sandytown, Detective Constable…
172
Hat Bowler’s smile had not been the subtle attempt at…
182
Dennis Seymour drove slowly along Seaview Terrace.
191
Pascoe stood and looked down at the mortal remains of…
195
There was a uniformed constable standing guard at the front…
203
The room he entered was of a different order from…
213
As Shirley Novello left Kyoto House, she felt reasonably pleased…
227
“You have arrived,” said Posh Woman’s voice confidently.
235
As Peter Pascoe approached the Avalon Clinic, he had a…
248
I’m sorry to trouble you, Superintendent.
253
The Fat Man switched off the recorder.
260
After interviewing Sidney Parker, Hat Bowler had planned to drive… 265
275
Disaster!! 277
Could hardly keep me eyes open after Pascoe left last…
282
Hi! 297
I need to watch myself!
310
Andy! I didn’t hear you knock.
312
Well now, Mildred, that made interesting listening, didn’t it? So…
321
Pet! There you are, lass. All right if I come in?
325
So what do you make of that, Mildred? I could…
334
Hi! 336
343
“Peter! Salvere iubeo! Willkommen! Bienvenu! In any language, I am…
345
Sergeant Wield had had a trying morning.
357
Hat Bowler greeted him with a smile too bright to…
366
When Charley entered the lounge, Dalziel, occupying one of Tom… 374
After Peter Pascoe set off down the drive, Franny Roote…
390
Once again Pascoe arrived at Sandytown Hall to find Wield…
393
In the large drawing room, the late Sir Henry Denham…
408
Charley and George sat on the lawn and talked. Occasionally…
420
Dennis Seymour wasn’t good with hospitals. When his twin daughters…
432
Seymour was by nature and by nurture an honest, straightforward…
437
Pascoe had his strategy all carefully worked out as he…
444
As they approached the gate of Sandytown Hall, Sammy Ruddlesdin’s…
450
Sergeant Jug Whitby was not a revolutionary. No way was…
462
Andy Dalziel sat in the morning sunshine on the doorstep…
469
473
Hi Cass!
475
Right, Mildred. This is the last time you and me…
479
Cass, I lied! Next time Id be writing from home—I…
483
493
It was late afternoon when Andy Dalziel got back to…
495
Good day to you, Andy.
497
Andy Dalziel walked clockwise three times round the room then…
513
Every Neighbourhood should have a great Lady.
FROM:
TO:
SUBJECT: cracked jugs—daft buggers—& tank traps Hi Cass!
Hows things in darkest Africa? Wierd & wonderful—I bet—but not so w&w as what weve got here at Willingden Farm. Go on—guess! OK—give up?
House guests!
& I dont mean awful Uncle Ernie on one of his famous surprise visits.
These are strangers!
What
happened—at last after our awful wet summer Augusts turned hot—not African hot but pretty steamy by Yorkshire standards. Dad & George were working up in Mill Meadow. Mum asked if Id take them a jug of lemon barley—said it would please dad if I showed willing. Weve been in armed truce since I made it clear my plans hadnt changed—ie do a postgrad thesis instead of getting a paid job—or better still—a wellpaid husband—& settling down! But no reason not to show willing—plus it gave me an excuse to drive the quad—so off I went.
Forgot the mugs—but dad didnt say anything—just drank straight out of the jug like he preferred it—so maybe mum was right & he was pleased. In fact we were having a pleasant chat when suddenly old Fang let out a growl.
Lost half his teeth & cant keep up with the sheep anymore—but still manages a grand growl. Dad looked round to see what had woken him—& his face went into Headbanger configuration.
—whats yon daft bugger playing at?—he demanded.
Youll recall that in dads demography anyone living outside Willingden 4
R E G I N A L D H I L L
parish is a daft bugger till proved innocent. In this case I half- agreed with him.
The DB in question was driving his car fast up the lane alongside Mill Meadow. How he got through the gate I dont know. The HB had to take his chain & lock off after the Ramblers took him to court last year—but hes fixed a catch like one of them old metal puzzles we used to play with as kids.
Maybe the DB just got lucky—he thought!
He was driving one of these new hybrid 4 × 4s—you know—conscience without
inconvenience!—& when he saw how good the surface was—
(tractor tyres dont grow on
trees!—remember?)—he mustve thought—
great!—now for a bit of safe off-roading.
What he didnt reckon on was what George calls dads tank trap—the drainage ditch where the lane bends beyond the top gate & steepens up to the mill ruin.
New tourist map came out last year—with water mill marked—no mention of ruin. Result—a lot of DBs decided this meant Heritage Centre—guided tours & cream teas! After losing out to the Ramblers—dad was forced to accept “bearded wierdies” trekking across his empire—but the sight of cars crawling up his lane drove him crazy. So one day he got to work with the digger—& when hed
finished—the drainage ditch extended across the lane—a muddy hollow a hippo could wallow in—the tank trap!
Most drivers flee at the sight of it—but this DB obviously thought his hybrid could ford rivers & climb Alps—& just kept going.
Bad decision.
For 30 secs the wheels sent out glutinous brown jets—like a cow with colic—then the car slipped slowly sideways—finishing at 45 degrees—driver side down.
—now hell expect us to pull him out—said the HB with some satisfaction.
Moment later the passenger door was flung back. First thing out was a floppy brimmed sunhat—sort posh lady gardeners wear in the old Miss Marple movies. Beneath it was a woman who started to drag herself out—followed by a scream from below—suggesting shed stood on some bit of the driver not meant to be stood on.
T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 5
She looked round in search of
help—& there we were—me—dad—
George—& Fang—staring back at her from 50 yds.
—help!—she called—please—can you help me?—
George & me looked at the HB—G because he knows his place—me because I was curious what hed do.
If it had been a man I doubt hed have moved—not without serious negotiation. But this was a woman doing what women ought to do—calling for male assistance.
—reckon wed best take a look—he said—we meaning him & George—of course.
He drained the lemon barley—thrust the jug into my hands like I was a docile milkmaid—& set off toward the accident—G close behind—even old Fang got to go.
I dropped the jug onto the grass. Sods Law—hit a stone & cracked.—O
shit!—I said. It was that old earthenware one thats been around forever. I knew the HB would reckon bringing out the lemon barley in anything else would be like serving communion wine from a jam jar. O well—from now on hell have to make do with a plastic bottle!
I set off after them. This was the first mildly interesting thing to happen since I came home—& I wasnt going to miss it.
Woman was thin & wispy—bonnet askew—big straw shoulder bag round her neck like a horses feed sack. She looked so worried I thought the driver must be seriously injured—but now I know its just a couple of notches up from her normal expression of unfocused anxiety. Another thing I noticed—words sprayed on the car door—pro job—elegant cursive script—Sandytown—Home of the Healthy Holiday.
She was saying—please can you get my husband out? I think hes hurt himself—
—no—Im fine—came a mans voice—really—just a sprain—nothing in the world to worry about dear—aargh!—
As he spoke his head had appeared at his wifes waist level. Gingery hair—soft brown eyes in a narrow mobile face—not bad looking even with a bloodied nose—mid to late 30s. He was trying a social smile—till presumably he put more weight on his ankle than it could take.
