Asking For The Moon

Now Pascoe gave him his full attention. The problem of why the anonymous phone-caller's geographic references should be a century out of date would have to wait. Perhaps (could it be as easy as this?) it wouldn't be a problem in a few minutes. Whatever it was that was devouring this man would soon be revealed. All he had to do was wait. But he wasn't sure if he would have time. He glanced at his watch. Already he'd heard a couple of cars pulling away from the house. Pretty soon he was likely to be interrupted. So, although his judgement told him to sit quietly opposite this man and wait till he spoke of his own accord, instead he took an aggressive feet-apart stance before the fireplace and said sharply, 'All right. If you don't want to talk about trees, suppose you tell me exactly what did happen in the churchyard last October?'

The man looked at him, a curious mixture of relief and wariness in his eyes.

'Happen? What does happen mean to the dead?'

'The dead? Which dead?' asked Pascoe urgently.

'The churchyard's full of the dead, Inspector. In a way since last October I have been one of them.'

'You can drop that rubbish!' said Pascoe scornfully. 'You're here and now and as alive as me. But who's dead, Davenport? Who is dead?'

The vicar held out his glass. Obediently Pascoe slopped it full of gin. The man opened his mouth, was seized by a fit of coughing, drank as though to relieve it, coughed the more, recovered, drank again and made ready to speak.

The door burst open.

'Thank God that's over!' said Boris Kingsley. 'Once one goes, the others soon follow. It's the sheep principle. Mr -Inspector – Pascoe, how would you like us – one by one or all at once?'

CHAPTER VII

There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the Past.

Some women cross their legs provocatively. Stella Rawlinson crossed hers like a no-entry sign and regarded Pascoe with all the distaste of an assault victim scanning an identity parade.

'It's kind of you to talk to me,' he said with as much conviction as he could manage. His mind was still on the kind of admission or confession Davenport had been about to make before Kingsley's ill-timed entrance. After that the vicar had risen and withdrawn without another word and Pascoe, deciding it would be poor policy at this time to invite the man along to the station to 'help with enquiries', had exercised his only other choice and pretended nothing had happened. He'd get back to Davenport after he had chatted to the others, by which time another half-bottle of booze might have put him in the talkative mood once more.

He had picked Stella Rawlinson first on Kingsley's advice. Evidently when the last of the drinks-only guests had gone, Swithenbank had told the others precisely why it was that

Pascoe was here. Pascoe would have liked to have done this himself to observe reactions, but he made no complaint and accepted Kingsley's diagnosis that the only likely non-co-operator was Mrs Rawlinson and it might be well to get her in before her indignation had time to come to a head.

'Can we start by going right back to this time last year?' he said. 'Most people would have a hard time remembering anything after twelve months, but in your case it shouldn't be difficult.'

'What do you mean?' she demanded as if he had accused her of immorality.

'Just that it was the time of your husband's unfortunate accident arid I know how an unpleasant experience like that sticks in the mind,' said Pascoe soothingly. 'It must have been a terrible shock to you.'

'I thought you wanted to talk about Kate Swithenbank,' she said.

'You knew her well?' said Pascoe, abandoning charm.

'We grew up together.'

'Close friends?'

'I suppose so.'

'What was she like?'

She looked genuinely puzzled.

'I don't know what you mean.'

'What words describe her?' said Pascoe. 'Plain, simple, open. Devious, reserved. Emotional, hysterical, erratic. Logical, rational, cool. Et cetera.'

'She kept herself to herself. I don't mean she wouldn't go out or was shy, anything like that. But she didn't give much away.'

The woman spoke slowly, feeling for the words. She was either very concerned to be fair or very fearful of being honest.

'I believe she was sexually very attractive as a young girl,' he probed.

'Who said that?' she asked. 'John, was it?'

'You sound as if that would surprise you.'

'No. Why should it? It would be natural, wouldn't it? He married her.'

'In fact it was his mother,' said Pascoe. 'It's interesting when a woman says it. That's why I wondered what your opinion was.'

'Yes,' she said, not bothering to conceal her reluctance. 'She was very attractive. In that way. When she wanted to be. And sometimes when she didn't want to be.'

Pascoe scratched his head in a parody of puzzlement.

'Now you're bewildering me,' he said.

'A bitch on heat's got no control over who comes sniffing around,' she said viciously, then relenting (or at least regretting) almost immediately, she added, 'I'm sorry, I don't mean to be unkind. She was a nice quiet ordinary girl in many ways. We were truly friends. I should be very distressed to think anything had happened to her.'

'Of course. How terrible it must be for all her friends,' said Pascoe fulsomely. 'But if what you say is true, there might be no cause for worry.'

'If what I say…?'

'About her sexuality. Another man, perhaps; a passionate affair. She takes off with him on a sudden impulse. It's possible. If what you say…'

'Oh, it's true all right,' she said. 'Right from the start. Ten or eleven. I've seen her. In this room.'

She tailed off. Funny, thought Pascoe. Everybody wants to talk, but they all want to feel it's my subtle interrogative techniques that made them talk!

'This room?' He glanced at the Prospect of Wear End. 'You used to play in here as children?'

'Oh no. When we visited Boris, this was one room we were never allowed in,' she answered. 'But I was looking for Kate. We'd lost her. I just opened the door and peered in. She was…'

'Yes?'

'She was sitting on his knee. Her pants were round her knees.'

Pascoe gave his man-of-the-world chuckle.

'So? Childhood inquisitiveness. A little game of doctors with Boris. It's not unusual.'

'It wasn't Boris. It was his father.'

Pascoe tried to look unimpressed.

'Who is dead, I believe?' he said. 'Just as well. It's a serious offence you're alleging, Mrs Rawlinson. Very serious.'

'I felt sorry for him,' she said vehemently.

'For him?'

'And for Kate, too.' It was relenting time again. 'She couldn't help what she was. Her parents died while she was young. Her brother brought her up. That can't have helped. He's an animal. Worse!'

Dear God! thought Pascoe. Incest is it now?

'I've met Mr Lightfoot. He seems an interesting sort of man. He's very sure his sister's dead.'

She shrugged uninterestedly.

'He says he's seen her ghost continued Pascoe.

'He's a stupid ignorant animal,' she said indifferently.

'Perhaps so. But he may be right about his sister. She could very well be dead.'

She laughed scornfully.

'Because some yokel sees ghosts? You must be hard up for clues these days!'

'No,' he said seriously. 'Because what you've been insinuating about the missing woman's morals makes it seem very probable she could provide her husband with a good motive for killing her.'

Her mouth twisted in dismay and for a moment this break in the symmetry of that too well balanced face gave it real beauty.

'No! I've said nothing! I never meant… that's quite outrageous!'

She stood up, flushed with what appeared to be genuine anger.