Asking For The Moon

He shot an interrogative glance at Swithenbank, who said sardonically, 'Surely you can tell which is which.'

Kingsley laughed. He really was doing the jovial host bit, thought Pascoe. A trifle hysterically perhaps?

'Miss Starkey! Jean. Any dear friend of dear John's is wel r r come here. And Detective-Inspector Pascoe! Or should I call you mister?'

'As you will,' said Pascoe, who was wondering whether the look of shock on Ursula Davenport's face was caused by the revelation of his job or Starkey's status. Her husband seemed indifferent to both bits of information and Pascoe, seeing him now under the more revealing lights of the hall, began to suspect that he was held very lightly together by drink.

'Ursula, you know your way around, show Jean where to put her things while we go forward and prepare some drinks for you.'

As they went along the hall towards an open door out of which came a hubbub of voices raised to combat James Last on the stereo, Kingsley seized Pascoe by the elbow and slowing him down a little murmured, 'I don't know how you'd like to work, Inspector, but most of these people will be going within the hour. Only those you want to see, or so I believe, that is the Rawlinsons, the Davenports and, of course, myself, will be staying on for a bite of supper. Perhaps you'd like to start by having a couple of drinks and getting a general impression of our local community, leaving the close grilling to later? Less embarrassing, too. I'll just say you're an old chum!'

Pascoe nodded agreement, wondering what it was that made a man he could imagine getting wrathfully indignant if the police tried to breathalyze him so eagerly cooperative.

There were about twenty people in the room, mostly dressed with the relative informality of the age, though none was quite so fashionably casual as Swithenbank. Pascoe observed him as he said his hellos to people before settling quietly against the mantelpiece with a drink, his eyes on the door. A couple approached him, a man with a curious limping gait and a woman wearing the kind of drab black dress in which nineteenth-century governesses hoped to avoid arousing either the envy of their mistress or the lust of their master. Swithenbank greeted her with a non-contact kiss, him with a pre-fifteen-rounds handshake and spoke animatedly, saying in a voice suddenly audible right through the room, 'No, glad to be back would hardly be accurate.'

The reason for this sudden clarity was that the end of a James Last track had coincided with an almost total cessation of social chit-chat. Even as Pascoe turned, the hubbub resumed, but cause of the hiatus was there for all to see. Jean and Ursula had made their entrance together. It was neck and neck which was the more eye-catching – Ursula voluptuous in virginal white or Jean outrageous in clinging scarlet. Either alone was worth a man's regard. Together the effect was a golden-days-of-Hollywood dream.

Swithenbank abandoned the limping man and the governess and advanced smiling on Jean.

'Darling,' he said, 'come and meet a few people.'

Ursula came and stood by Pascoe.

'If you don't want people to know you're a policeman,' she said, 'you shouldn't hang around so close to the drink. But pour me a gin as you're here.'

Pascoe obeyed. When he turned from the sideboard, the lame man was talking to Ursula.

'Who is that woman?' he demanded, sounding very angry. 'What the hell is John playing at?'

'Everyone's entitled to friends, dear brother,' she answered.

'You know what I mean, Ursula. It's not decent, not here in Wearton.'

'Because of Kate, you mean? A man's got to make up his own mind what's decent, Geoff. Wouldn't you agree, Mr Pascoe?'

'He might consult the feelings of those close to him,' said Pascoe provocatively, though what exactly he was provoking he did not know. 'It's Mr Rawlinson, isn't it?'

The man turned away without reply and limped back to the woman in black, who hadn't moved from the fireplace.

'His wife?' asked Pascoe.

That's right. Stella. Not that she twinkles much.'

'What happened to his leg?'

'An accident. He fell out of our belfry.'

'What?

'You heard right. Geoff's a great one for watching birds. He draws them, too, he's got a beautiful touch. Wouldn't you say Geoff's got a beautiful touch, dear?'

Her husband, who was refilling his glass from the gin bottle, shot her a glance of bewilderment, not at her remark, Pascoe judged, but at something much more general. It bothered Pascoe; vicars were paid to be certain, not bewildered.

'Well,' continued Ursula as her husband wandered away, 'Peter, my husband, he's the vicar, gave Geoff permission to go up the tower and make observations, take pictures, whatever these bird-men do. And one dark autumn night about a year ago, he fell!'

'Good God! What happened?'

She shrugged, a movement worth watching.

'He couldn't remember a thing. It was a frosty night and I reckon knowing my brother that he'd be balancing on a gargoyle or something to get a better view. And then he slipped, I suppose. Fortunately Peter went out at midnight just to check whether Geoff wanted coffee or a drink before we went to bed. He found Geoff unconscious. Luckily he'd missed the tombstones and landed on grass but he was pretty badly smashed up.'

'As a matter of interest, when precisely was this, Mrs Davenport?'

'I told you. A year ago. In fact I'd say, precisely a year ago. It was a Friday night and it was the weekend Kate Swithenbank went missing. Not that we knew about that till later. Is that why you're here, Inspector?'

'Sh! Sh!'

It was Kingsley who had stolen up behind them.

'We can't have everyone knowing the police are in our midst. Most of these people are respectable law-abiding tax-evaders and as such deserve to have their sensibilities protected.'

'Then what shall I call you?' said Ursula.

'Try his name,' urged Kingsley. 'I'm Boris. This, as you've probably gathered, or if you've been bold, grasped, is Ursula.'

'Peter,' said Pascoe.

'Peter. It's my fate to meet Peters. The rocks on which I foundered,' said Ursula lightly. 'Where is my revered husband, by the way?'

'Being all parochial in the corner. Circulate, circulate; you'll have plenty of time, too much perhaps, for close confabulation later.'

From the far side of the room there came a little scream.

'Oh lor,' said Kingsley. 'It'll be the colonel up to his Wimbledon tricks.'

But when he got across there with Pascoe not far behind, it turned out to be the colonel's lady, who claimed to have seen a face at the window.

'It peered at me through the hydrangea bush,' she claimed.

'No need to worry, dear lady,' Kingsley assured her. 'It was probably one of the local peasants, drawn by rumours of wild festivity and your great beauty.'

'There was a man. I think he was carrying a gun,' insisted the woman.

'I shall organize a p^sse,' promised Kingsley and moved away.

'Silly ass,' said her grey-haired companion, presumably the colonel. 'Soft at the centre. He'll end up like his father. Time we were off, old girl.'

He glowered suddenly at Pascoe to show he resented his eavesdropping. Pascoe smiled embarrassedly and turned away to find himself confronting Peter Davenport, who had obtained a larger glass for his gin.

'What are you after?' he demanded, his light tenor voice scraping falsetto. 'How can the law help? Your law, I mean?'

'What other law is there?' responded Pascoe, thinking to steer the exchange into areas which might sound conventionally theological to those around.

But instead of the hoped-for sermon, Davenport's reply was to laugh shrilly, drawing the attention of everyone in the room and, shaking his head, to say, 'What indeed? What indeed?' before turning abruptly away and making for the bottle-laden sideboard. Geoffrey Rawlinson, his face full of concern, tried to interrupt his progress but was shouldered aside.