Asking For The Moon

'But what did you imagine we were talking about?' asked Pascoe.

'You're trying to find out who's been suggesting these dreadful things about John.'

'Oh no,' said Pascoe, shaking his head. 'That would be useful, of course. But what we're really trying to discover is whether or not these dreadful things are true!'

Rawlinson looked angry when he came into the room and Pascoe prepared to deal with a bout of uxorious chivalry.

'What have you been saying to Peter?' demanded the limping man. 'He's in a hell of a state.'

'Nothing,' said Pascoe, taken by surprise. 'Why should anything I say disturb him?'

The question seemed to give the man more cause for rumination than seemed proportionate as he subsided into an armchair and Pascoe moved swiftly to the attack.

'Tell me about falling off the church tower,' he invited.

Rawlinson gripped his right knee with both hands as though the words had triggered off more than the memory of pain.

'Have you ever fallen off anything, Inspector?' he asked in reply.

'Yes, I suppose so. But not so dramatically. A kitchen chair, I recall, when replacing a light bulb.'

'Chair or church, it's all the same,' said Rawlinson. 'One second you're on it, the next you're off. I must have overreached.'

'What precisely were you doing?' asked Pascoe.

'Watching a pair of owls,' said Rawlinson. 'I'm a draughtsman by training, a bird illustrator by inclination. I watch, note, photograph sometimes, and then do a picture. It had never struck me as a dangerous hobby.'

'It's enthusiasm that makes things dangerous,' observed Pascoe sententiously. 'The Reverend Davenport found you, I believe.'

Rawlinson frowned at the name.

'Yes. It was a good job he came when he did. There was a sharp frost and if I'd lain there till morning, I'd probably have died of exposure.'

'And immediately before falling, you remember nothing?'

'I remember arriving at the church, unlocking the door to the tower. Nothing more.'

'How did you get to the church that night?'

'I walked along the old drive, I suppose. I usually did. My bungalow's right alongside.'

'Mr Kingsley didn't mind?'

'Boris?' said Rawlinson in surprise. 'Why should he? I don't think I ever asked him.'

'Technically a trespass then,' smiled Pascoe. 'Do you recall seeing or hearing anything unusual along the drive or in the churchyard that night?'

'Well now,' said Rawlinson slowly. 'I'm not quite certain it was the same night – it's a long time ago – but once I rather thought I heard a crossbill in one of the cypress trees over the lych-gate. Probably I was mistaken.'

He spoke perfectly seriously, but Pascoe did not doubt he was being mocked.

'Your father built the bungalow, you say,' he said abruptly. 'So there's money in the family.'

'A little. He was a jobbing gardener by trade. I earn my own living, if that's what you mean.'

'I'm pleased to hear it,' said Pascoe, faintly sneering. 'Mr Kingsley now, does he also have to find ways to eke out the family fortune?'

If they start being funny, hit 'em hard, was a favourite maxim of Dalziel's.

'I don't see what this has got to do with anonymous letters, Inspector,' said Rawlinson.

'Don't you? Well, I'll explain. I want to get a clear picture of the missing woman. One thing that's starting to emerge is that she came from a very different background from most of the people she called her friends in Wearton. Just how different isn't quite clear to me yet.'

Rawlinson looked unconvinced but replied, 'All right, there's no secrets. Me you know about. Boris has some inherited money, but not much. I believe it came as something of a shock to find out just how little when his father died earlier this year. But in addition he's a "company director", whatever that means. You'd better ask him. John you'll know about, too…'

'Not his family. What did his father do?'

'He was a solicitor, rather older than Mrs Swithenbank, I believe. He died ten years ago. The Davenports – well, Ursula's my sister, of course…'

'And therefore shared in the family fortune?'

'We split what little there was,' said Rawlinson acidly. 'When I married, I bought out her share of the bungalow. Shortly afterwards she married Peter, who is also one of the family. A cousin. His family live in Leeds. He had delicate health as a child and used to come down here for the good country air nearly every holiday. No real money in the family, and a damn sight less in his job! Now, let me see. Anyone I've missed out?'

'Yes,' said Pascoe. 'Your wife.'

'I thought you'd have quizzed her yourself,' said Rawlinson. 'Stella's from farming stock, one of the biggest farms in the area.'

'Well off?'

'Oh yes. Though show me a farmer who'll admit it!'

Pascoe laughed, though the attempt at lightness came awkwardly from Rawlinson's lips.

'So I'm right to say that Kate Lightfoot was the odd one out? Everyone else had some kind of well-established financial and social background.'

'Village life is surprisingly democratic,' protested Rawlinson. 'We all went to the same schools, no one bought their way out.'

'Democracy works best where there's a deep-implanted pecking order,' observed Pascoe cynically. 'Everybody can be equal as long as we all know our places. What was the Lightfoots' place, do you think? Her father was an agricultural labourer, I believe.'

'That's right. He used to work for Stella's father, in fact. Not that he was much of a worker at the end. He boozed himself to death. The mother took off soon after and there was some talk of putting Kate in care, but she made it clear she wasn't going to leave her brother easily. He was about twenty at the time, working on the farm like his father. Then suddenly he gave up his job and the tied cottage that went with it and bought up a smallholding just on the edge of the village, opposite the war memorial, you might have noticed it as you drove in?'

'No,' said Pascoe. 'The way you said "suddenly" sounded as if you meant "surprisingly".'

'Did it? This was a long time ago. I was only a lad, but in a village you learn early that all business is conducted in public. There was some talk of insurance money from his father's death. But knowing the old man, it didn't seem likely.'

'And what were the other speculations?' asked Pascoe.

Rawlinson looked at Pascoe as if for permission, then poured himself a glass of sherry.

'If you were a farm labourer in those days, you didn't save. The only handy source of a bit of extra income was fiddling your employer. Bags of spuds, petrol for the tractor, that sort of thing. Not that it could come to much, and with a Yorkshire farmer like my father-in-law watching over you, I hardly believe it could come to anything! But Stella, my wife, believes wholeheartedly that Lightfoot's fortunes such as they are were based on robbing her father rotten!'

'So he brought his sister up,' said Pascoe. 'Were they close?'

'You might say so,' said Rawlinson cautiously.

'What would you say?'

He shrugged and rubbed his knee again.

'Kate was – is – very much her own person, Mr Pascoe. I was – am – very fond of her. We went out together for a while – nothing serious, all our gang tried various combinations till we settled as we are. I think I got to know her as well as anyone, but there were points beyond which you were not permitted to go.'

'Physically, you mean?' said Pascoe, acting stupid.

'Physically you went precisely as far as Kate was in the mood for,' replied Rawlinson drily. 'But I mean mentally, emotionally even. She shut you out. It was difficult to guess what she felt about Arthur, even when they were together.'

'And about the rest of you?'

'Friendly tolerance.'

'Even John Swithenbank?'

'No. No,' said Rawlinson, a spasm crossing his face as he rose suddenly to stretch his leg. 'John was different. I'd have said she disliked and despised him with all her heart.'