A pinch of snuff

'We're working very hard at it,' said Pascoe. 'Do you mind if we talk about Mr Haggard?'

'I'll stop you if I do.'

Pascoe stood up and wandered over to the window.

'Did you consider yourself a friend of Mr Haggard's?' he asked.

'I think so,' said Miss Andover.

'You'd known him… how long?'

'Since he came here. Since he started his school.'

'Let me see. Twelve years? Thirteen? What did you think when the school closed and the Calliope Club opened, Miss Andover?'

'No business of mine.'

'Most people would consider such a major change next door their business. Sergeant Wield seemed to think a few tit-bits for your cats kept you sweet. You know; two dotty old women. I can't see it myself.'

Miss Andover now rose also.

'Young man,’ she said in ringing tones. 'I am not accustomed to being insulted in my own home. The Lord Lieutenant of the county has been entertained in this house and his Chief Constable with him. We are not yet without influence and authority.'

Pascoe grinned widely at her.

'That sounds like something you picked up from Miss Alice,' he said.

For a moment she tried to stare him down, then the old lady grinned too and picked up a packet of Park Drive from the mantelshelf.

'Smoke?' she said. 'No? Very wise. They can't harm me, though. Not at my age. I'm seventy-six, Mr Pascoe, and Alice is seventy-three. We bruise and break more easily than of old, but that apart, what can possibly harm people of our age? When Gilbert came and told us the school was closing down for financial reasons, we were distressed. Put me out of work for one thing! I had a few hundred to spare in the Funds and I went as far as offering to invest these with him, but he refused. I should have realized no one goes bust for want of a few hundred, but he spoke to me as if I had offered a fortune. Well, that's the sort of man he is. Was.

'For a while it looked as if he might have to sell the house. That did cause us some concern, not because of what it might become, for, as I say, how could offices or even bed-sitters bring any harm to us? No, we were concerned at the thought of losing a kind and considerate neighbour.

'So when Gilbert told us he was thinking of starting a Club, what could we be but overjoyed?'

'You knew about the Club before it was given the go-ahead?' interrupted Pascoe.

'Of course.'

'And you didn't pass this information on to your neighbours in the Square?'

'Certainly not!' she said indignantly. 'I do not break confidences so easily.'

'Did Mr Haggard tell you what kind of Club it would be? I mean, the kind of entertainment that would be shown?'

She puffed out a jet of smoke and laughed.

'I was brought up in a world deficient in many ways, Mr Pascoe, but in this at least it got things right. It recognized that men must have their pleasures and, as long as scandal was avoided, it let them get on with them. Alas, it did not accord the same tolerance to women.'

'I should have thought Mr Haggard's Club scandalized many people, Miss Andover.'

'You do not know the meaning of the word!' she said scornfully. 'How can you have scandal in an age which has abolished responsibility?'

'So, you had no objection to Mr Haggard's proposals?'

'None. Men have always had their whores and these were only on celluloid. Indeed, as I have said, what harm could the real thing have caused to me and my sister? To tell you the truth, Mr Pascoe, in some ways I preferred it to the school! During the day, I could sit out in my garden and listen to such birds as have survived this polluted air, and never find them in competition with a gang of little brats singing hymns or chanting tables.'

Pascoe finished his coffee and replaced the cup on the glass-topped table.

'Thank you, Miss Andover,' he said. 'I won't keep you any longer. Thank you for speaking so frankly to me. I hope Miss Alice soon recovers.'

'She will. I'm feeding her on raw eggs beaten up in a little sherry. That always gets her back on her feet.'

'I should imagine it does,' said Pascoe, smiling. 'Oh, one thing more. I didn't tell you where I'd found Acrasia, did I? She was next door in Wilkinson House and she seemed to imagine she'd come through the communicating door which leads into Mr Haggard's kitchen. Now that wouldn't be possible, would it?'

'Hardly. Damn thing's been locked up for years. But Acrasia is a bit of a mental defective, poor love. She was born on a Cumberland farm and reckons she's a trail hound.'

'I see. Well, take care of her in case she strays again. Goodbye, Miss Andover.'

It wasn't till Pascoe was walking back to the station that he remembered the cat had eaten Arany's gherkins. Not only the cat. He felt a momentary pang of guilt. Perhaps he should replace them. He slowed down as he crossed the road and a horn blared as a car swerved to avoid him. Pascoe turned, raised both hands and gave the angry driver the double figs, recalling that this had been the thief Fucci's gesture to God from the Eighth Circle.

It fitted. Fortitude was the only virtue, and submission the only sin. It was a reasonable thought to take into a conference with Dalziel.

Chapter 8

In fact it wasn't until the following day that Pascoe saw Dalziel. On Saturday afternoon the fat man had been summoned by the Assistant Chief Constable to a top-level conference on matters too high for the likes of detective-inspectors. Whatever they had discussed, it hadn't put Dalziel in a good mood, and he listened with unconcealed scorn to the reports of those concerned in the Haggard case.

'That's a day's work, is it?' he demanded. 'No wonder this country's in a mess!'

No one replied. There was nothing to say. Nothing that Forensic had produced was any help, no one in the Square had heard or seen anything suspicious. Pascoe had rung Blengdale's house again and this time spoken to his wife, who told him Blengdale was not expected home till late that night, that he had a very heavily scheduled morning, but that he should be available for a while on Monday afternoon.

'Big of him,' was Dalziel's laconic comment.

Fair enough, thought Pascoe. If he doesn't want to lean, why the hell should I, a mere seven-stone weakling, apply my weight?

'So no one's got any ideas?' said Dalziel. 'Inspector Pascoe, we usually rely on you for the intellectual academic angle.'

'Well, there's some interesting relationships,' said Pascoe. 'This man, Arany…'

'The refugee? What's interesting about him? Did you ever hear him tell a joke? He didn't escape from Hungary, they paid him to leave!'

'Ha ha,' said Pascoe. 'You know the clubs then?'

'I know every bloody thing. But I don't know why I waste my time on you lot!'

The conference had broken up soon after. Pascoe had been left with a curious feeling that Dalziel, beneath his bluster, was more uncertain than any of them about how best to proceed with the enquiry.

He returned to his office and sat for a while wondering if he should ring Ellie again. It should have been his Sunday off, and he'd half planned to join Ellie in Orburn at her parents' house, but Haggard's death had put paid to that. In the end he decided against telephoning. It would be a sign of weakness and a man had at least to look strong if he were to survive.

Instead he picked up the file on Arany, carefully removed the sheets of newspaper and began to read.

The writer of the 'Club and Pub' page in the Mid-Yorkshire Courier was called Johnny Hope. Sub-title of his articles was 'Where There's Hope, There's Life.' Pascoe smiled and began to read.

The man had a bright and breezy style in keeping with his job which seemed to involve visiting at least six clubs and/or pubs most nights of the week. Perhaps he drank lemonade. Or perhaps he got down on his knees every morning and thanked God he'd survived to enjoy another splendid day.