'You don't happen to have a note of the secretary's name, do you?'
'Yes. I've got a statement from her here. I'm sorry, Pete, we could have sent you photo-copies of all this stuff but knowing how much your boss hates paper, I thought the brief digest would do. Jean Starkey. Miss Jean Starkey. There we are. Now tell me what this is all about.'
'With pleasure,' said Pascoe. 'I've just been on to our library where they have useful things like a Writers' Who's Who. Jake Starr is a pseudonym. And no prizes for guessing that the real name is Jean Starkey. But there's more. Miss Starkey's a very personable blonde who at this very moment is in Wearton visiting Swithenbank. And it didn't look like business to me!'
Dove whistled.
'That leaves us with a bit of egg on our face, doesn't it?' he said cheerfully. 'Does it get us much further forward, though?'
Try this,' said Pascoe. 'If somehow Swithenbank did contrive to have his missus in the boot when he drove north that afternoon, with Starkey alibi-ing him, he had all the time in the world to dispose of the body somewhere a long, long way from Enfield. Naturally he'd want somewhere as safe as possible. What if his childhood memories put him in mind of the perfect hiding-place up here?'
'Hidden cave, secret passage, that sort of thing?' said Dove, making it sound like something out of Enid Blyton, much to Pascoe's irritation.
'OK then. Where do you think she is?' he asked. 'Stuffed up the chimney in his flat?'
'First place we looked,' laughed Dove. 'Thanks for ringing, Pete. It could be helpful and at least it gives you something better to do than chasing cows out of cornfields. Keep up the good work and let's know when he's planning to come back, then I'll see what a bit of real pressure can do. Anything else I can do for you?'
He can do for me! thought Pascoe indignantly. As he flicked through the pages of his notebook, his eye fell on his question-marked words. Never mind what Dalziel said, everyone had one good intuitive guess coming and even Dalziel would reckon this was in a good cause.
He made a mental choice, crossed out one of the words and said in a studiously casual voice, 'Just one thing. Kate Swithenbank's last reported sighting was at the hairdresser's. Did anyone ask what she had done there?'
There was a pause and a rustling of papers.
'It's not here if they did,' said Dove. 'Any particular reason?'
'Just part of the steady plod us yokels go at,' said Pascoe. 'I don't really imagine that you lot have overlooked anything. Else.'
'Get stuffed,' said Dove. Til see if I can find out. Cheers now.'
'Cheers.'
Pascoe sat back in his chair and felt pleased with himself. His social science degree enabled him to regard such phenomena as inter-regional rivalries with academic objectivity. On the other hand you couldn't get away from it, there was something very pleasant about getting one up on those smart-alec sods in London. Dalziel would, in his own phrase, be chuffed to buggery.
There was still the problem of tactics. There was no question now of sending Sergeant Wield to Wearton. This was his affair, right to the bitter end. The question was when? And how?
The answer came from the most unexpected source.
His telephone rang and the constable on the exchange said a Mr Swithenbank would like to speak to him.
'Put him on,' commanded Pascoe.
'Inspector, glad to have caught you.'
His voice sounded higher, lighter on the telephone.
'I was just thinking about you, Mr Swithenbank.'
'I'm flattered. And I about you. A thought struck me -you hinted a desire, or rather an intention, of talking about this business with my old acquaintance in the village. Are you still keen?'
'It's on my schedule,' said Pascoe cautiously.
'The thing is, Boris -Kingsley is having a little get-together at the Big House tomorrow evening. I was just going to ring him to make it OK to take Miss Starkey along with me. All my old chums will be there. So it occurred to me, if you'd like to take them all in one fell swoop, I'm sure Boris wouldn't mind. He's always had a taste for cheap fiction and a real life detective questioning his guests in the library would be right up his street.'
Pascoe thought about it, felt the silence growing long enough to be significant and decided he didn't mind. After all, Swithenbank mustn't be allowed to think the law was so easily organizable.
'Deep thoughts, Inspector,' said Swithenbank. 'Penny for them.'
'Something about Greeks bearing gifts,' replied Pascoe. 'Yes, I think that might prove very useful, Mr Swithenbank. Thank you.'
'Oh good. Why don't you call here about seven and then you can have a drink and a chat with Mother before we set out.'
'Fine,' said Pascoe. "Bye. ^1
'Cheeky bugger,' he said to the replaced telephone. You had to admire the man's nerve, he thought with a smile. Setting him up like Hercule Poirot.
Then his eyes fell on the still open volume of Poe and he pulled it towards him and read:
And I cried – 'It was surely October On this very night of last year That I journeyed – I journeyed down here -That I brought a dread burden down here -
He glanced at his desk calendar. Tomorrow was Saturday, 14 October.
'Cheeky bugger,' he said again. But there was no humour in his voice this time.
CHAPTER IV
From childhood's hour I have not been As others were.
'And she caught him by his garment saying, Lie with me.'
Peter Davenport was so engrossed in what he was writing that he had not heard his wife come into the study and he started violently as she grabbed his cardigan.
Ursula laughed.
'Wrong text, dear?' she said. 'It might produce a livelier sermon than some of your recent efforts.'
'It might,' he agreed, smiling with an effort. 'I'm sorry, my dear, I'm just a bit busy and there might not be time later…'
'For what? I should have listened when they told me a counter-tenor was a kind of eunuch.'
She shivered violently and drew her thin silken robe more closely around her.
'You'll catch your death. Here, take my cardigan.'
'And he left his garment in her hand, and fled, and got him out. No, you keep it. You must be frozen to the marrow sitting here. God, when are they going to do something about the heating in this place? Or flog it and put us in a nice cosy semi?'
In the summer the big Victorian rectory was a source of delight to Ursula most of the time. Then she could enjoy the role of vicar's wife, enjoy supervising the annual garden party on the huge bumpy lawn, enjoy entertaining various ladies' committees in the cool, airy drawing-room, enjoy discussing with them the recipe for her famous seed cake (purchased at Fortnum and Mason's whenever she went to London), enjoy their resentment of her, their memory of her wild young days, their suspicion that their husbands still lusted after her. And on long warm summer evenings as hostess to more secular groups of friends, she enjoyed throwing open the french windows and leading them into the garden after dinner, walking barefoot across the lawn, laughing and talking and sometimes turning from vicar's wife to essential Eve and back again within the compass of a cloud's passage across the moon or the circumvention of a rhododendron bush.
But when summer's date was done, the draughty old rectory quickly grew chill beyond the reach of its antiquated radiators or the economic flame at the back of its huge open fireplace. She was not altogether joking when she told Boris Kingsley she slept with him for warmth whenever Peter was away at one of his choir concerts, though in truth she had no more real idea of the reason than she had of her reason for marrying her cousin eight years earlier. Perhaps she had needed to show Kate Lightfoot and John Swithenbank that their alliance meant nothing to her. But she lacked the temperament for self-analysis, managing to find even in the worst day something that made the next day seem worth waiting for. She knew there was something wrong between her and her husband, even had a notion of what that something was, but had no solution to offer for the problem other than to wait and see and enjoy herself as best she could along the way.