'You two seem very pleased with yourselves,' said Pascoe.
'We've been watching their faces after you'd finished with them,' said Swithenbank, 'and they've all looked so wrought up, I've been certain you've got something out of them.'
'And that's what you've come to tell me?'
'No,' said the woman. 'Boris says supper will soon be ready. A trifling foolish banquet which some ancient crone is slowly hauling up from the kitchen. I think he's hoping that between the hors-d'oeuvre and the cheese you will reveal all and send the guilty party screaming out of the window into the police net you've doubtless cast around the house.'
'It's no joking matter, Jean,' said Swithenbank, frowning.
She made a mock penitential face but slipped her hand into his and gave it an affectionate squeeze as though to express real apology.
Pascoe sighed and wondered what to do. It was like being a blacksmith surrounded by hot irons. Which should he strike first?
'I think I'd like another word with Mr Davenport before supper,' he said finally.
With a bit of luck the alcoholic reverend would once more be ripe for the confessional. Pascoe was ready to make a fair guess at what he would say, but like all good detectives he basically distrusted deduction. Evidence without admission was of as doubtful efficacy as works without faith. To hypoth esize from clues was fine so long as you remembered the basic paradox that the realities of human behaviour went far beyond the limits of human imagination. Intuition was something else, but you kept it well in check if you worked for Dalziel!
Swithenbank said, Til fetch him, shall I? You will be fairly quick, though, else Boris's goodies will get cold.'
Pascoe said, 'As quick as I can, but do start without me.'
Swithenbank left but Jean Starkey hesitated at the door.
'Yes?' said Pascoe, shuffling his notes.
Suddenly he knew what was coming and would have preferred not to receive it at this juncture. But there's no evading a woman determined to make a clean breast of things.
'You know that I'm Jake Starr, don't you?' she said.
He looked up now. 'Clean breast' had been the right image. She was leaning back against the jamb, one knee slightly raised and the foot planted against the woodwork behind her in the traditional street walkers' pose. The red dress seemed to cling more tightly than ever and her nipples, tumescent from the room's coldness or (could it be?) some more personal sensation, were blatant beneath the taut material.
He wondered if she was about to make him an offer he would have to refuse and he wondered why the certainty of his refusal didn't prevent his mouth from going dry and his leg muscles from trembling.
'Yes, I know it,' he managed to reply.
She laughed and came and sat down on the chesterfield, but her approach diminished rather than intensified the sexuality of the moment.
'I told John you'd found out,' she said triumphantly. 'He wouldn't believe me, but I could tell. You were puzzled by me yesterday, but not tonight.'
He realized now, not without disappointment, that he'd been mistaken and no offer for his silence was going to be made. She was grinning at him slyly as if she could read his thoughts and he said coldly, 'You didn't imagine you could get away with it for ever, did you?'
'I didn't imagine I could get away with it at all!' she replied. 'It's no secret. I mean, you get lists of pseudonyms in half a dozen reference books. I even got mentioned in a colour supplement article last May – don't policemen read the Sunday papers?'
'Not in Enfield it seems. OK, so you fooled us. Why?'
She looked at him closely and shook her head in reproach.
'Nothing sinister,' she said. 'It's just that ever since I started using a male pseudonym, I've found it very useful to pretend to be my own secretary. When people ring who don't know me, it's useful to be able to say Mr Starr's not available, can I take a message? That way I get time to think about offers, check up on things generally; as myself I'm a lousy negotiator, always say yes too quickly, never dream of trying to up the price of a story or an article. As Mr Starr's secretary, I pass on the most devastating messages without turning a hair. So when the police contacted me I automatically responded in the same way. Even when I realized it wasn't about not paying a parking fine, I didn't let on. I was due in New York the following day and I'd no intention of letting a bumbling bobby delay me. So I made a statement as Jake Starr's secretary, rang John to find out what the hell was going on, told him what I'd done, and sent another statement as Jake Starr from America. It all seemed a bit of a laugh, really.'
'A woman goes missing and you're amused?' said Pascoe.
'Hold on! I thought she'd merely taken off with some boyfriend. And I was glad. John had seemed to be hedging his bets a bit, I thought. Always on about his marriage being on the rocks but never getting close to doing anything about it. So if she'd made the break, what do you expect from me but a big whoopee!'
'And later? When she didn't show up?'
She shrugged expressively.
'We got worried, naturally. I couldn't understand why the police weren't on to the Jake Starr thing, you really have been pretty inefficient, Inspector. But I could see no profit in doing your work for you. John was being given a rough enough time. So I lay low and hoped that Kate would turn up again. Funny that, isn't it? I was delighted to learn she'd gone. Now here I was desperate to have her come back.'
Pascoe nodded approvingly. It was a good story. He had no idea whether he believed it or not, but in the circumstances it was a very good story. He must try some of her books.
'One more thing,' he said. 'Why have you come to Wearton?'
She warmed herself at the fire, reminding him of Ursula. Two women; similar problems? Then she smiled widely and the problems whatever they were seemed defeated.
'I changed my mind about doing the police's job for them,' she said. 'Come with me.'
She rose and took him by the hand like a small child, or a lover, and led him out of the library, across the hall, up the stairs and into a bedroom.
'Am I to go to bed without any supper?' he asked.
She laughed and taking up a nail file from a huge mahogany dressing-table, she approached a small oak wardrobe which didn't match anything else in the room. Sliding the file into the crack between the door and the jamb, she forced it upwards till it met the lug of the lock and made half a dozen sideways twisting movements.
'Viola! she said triumphantly and opened the door.
'Why did you bother to lock it after you last time?' enquired Pascoe, regarding the scarred woodwork which advertised forced entry like a neon sign.
She looked hurt.
'I didn't want Boris to know I'd been in here,' she said. 'But look inside.'
With a sigh, Pascoe obeyed.
And the sigh turned into a whistle of appreciation as he spotted the white muslin dress with blue ribbons and the floppy white hat trimmed with cotton roses. In his mind's eye he saw again the half-photograph he had examined in Arthur Lightfoot's cottage just a few hours ago.
'You've broken the law, you realize,' he said casually to Jean Starkey, who was standing beside him with the repressed smugness of one who anticipates congratulation.
'I've broken the law?' she began indignantly, but stopped as she heard rapid footsteps on the stairs and a man's voice calling, 'Pascoe! Pascoe!'
A moment later Swithenbank appeared at the door, his customary calm surface considerably ruffled.
'Pascoe, you'd better come,' he said urgently. 'It's Peter Davenport. I don't know what the hell's going on but he's been having the most tremendous scene with Ursula and now he's taken off back towards the church. He seems quite hysterical.
'Ursula thinks he's going to kill himself!'
CHAPTER VIII