'He sorted out Pocklington's suspicions about his wife having a lover first of all. He pushed his shoulders through the window till they got stuck to show how small it was. Then he asked me if anyone could have come out of that passageway without me spotting them. Out of the question, I told him.
'Next he chatted to the wife and got her to admit she'd been feeling a bit under the weather that day, like the 'flu was coming on, and she'd taken a cup of tea heavily spiked with gin as a nightcap. Ten minutes later we left them more or less happy. But as we stood on the pavement outside, the sergeant asked me the question I'd hoped he wouldn't. Why had I stepped into that alley in the first place? I suppose I could have told him I wanted a pee or a smoke, something like that. But he was a hard man to lie to, that sergeant. Not like the wet-nurses we get nowadays. So after a bit of humming and hawing, I told him I'd seen something, just out of the corner of my eye, as I was walking past. "What sort of thing?" he asked. Like something falling, I said. Something fluttering and falling through the air between the mill wall and the house end.
'He gave me a queer look, that sergeant did. "I tell you what, Dalziel," he said. "When you make out your report, I shouldn't say anything of that. No, I should keep quiet about that. Leave ghosts to them that understands them. You stick to crime." And that's advice I've followed ever since, till this very night, that is!'
He yawned and stretched. There was a distant rather cracked chime. It was, Pascoe realized, the clock in Eliot's study striking midnight.
But it wasn't the only sound.
'There! Listen,' urged Pascoe, rising slowly to his feet. 'I can hear it. A scratching. Do you hear it, sir?'
Dalziel cupped one cauliflower ear in his hand.
'By Christ, I think you're right, lad!' he said as if this were the most remote possibility in the world. 'Come on! Let's take a look.'
Pascoe led the way. Once out of the living-room they could hear the noise quite clearly and it took only a moment to locate it in the kitchen.
'Rats?' wondered Pascoe.
Dalziel shook his head.
'Rats gnaw,' he whispered. 'That sounds like something bigger. It's at the back door. It sounds a bit keen to get in."
Indeed it did, thought Pascoe. There was a desperate insistency about the sound. Sometimes it rose to a crescendo, then tailed away as though from exhaustion, only to renew itself with greater fury.
It was as though someone or something was caught in a trap too fast for hope, too horrible for resignation. Pascoe had renewed his acquaintance with Poe after the strange business at Wear End and now he recalled the story in which the coffin was opened to reveal a contorted skeleton and the lid scarred on the inside by the desperate scraping of fingernails.
'Shall I open it?' he whispered to Dalziel.
'No,' said the fat man. 'Best one of us goes out the front door and comes round behind. I'll open when you shout. OK?'
'OK,' said Pascoe with less enthusiasm than he had ever OK'd even Dalziel before.
Picking up one of the heavy rubber-encased torches they had brought with them, he retreated to the front door and slipped out into the dark night.
The frost had come down fiercely since their arrival and the cold caught at his throat like an invisible predator. He thought of returning for his coat, but decided this would be just an excuse for postponing whatever confrontation awaited him. Instead, making a mental note that when he was a superintendent he, too, would make sure he got the inside jobs, he set off round the house.
When he reached the second corner, he could hear the scratching quite clearly. It cut through the still and freezing air like the sound of a steel blade against a grinding-stone.
Pascoe paused, took a deep breath, let out a yell of warning and leapt out from the angle of the house with his torch flashing.
The scratching ceased instantly, there was nothing to be seen by the rear door of the house, but a terrible shriek died away across the lawn as though an exorcized spirit was wailing its way to Hades.
At the same time the kitchen door was flung open and Dalziel strode majestically forward; then his foot skidded on the frosty ground and, swearing horribly, he crashed down on his huge behind.
'Are you all right, sir?' asked Pascoe breathlessly.
'There's only one part of my body that feels any sensitivity still,' said ^1 Dalziel. 'Give us a hand up.'
He dusted himself down, saying, 'Well, that's ghost number one laid.'
'Sir?'
'Look.'
His stubby finger pointed to a line of paw prints across the powder frost of the lawn.
'Cat,' he said. 'This was a farmhouse, remember? Every farm has its cats. They live in the barn, keep the rats down. Where's the barn?'
'Gone,' said Pascoe. 'George had it pulled down and used some of the stones for an extension to the house.'
'There you are then,' said Dalziel. 'Poor bloody animal wakes up one morning with no roof, no rats. It's all right living rough in the summer, but comes the cold weather and it starts fancying getting inside again. Perhaps the fanner's wife used to give it scraps at the kitchen door.'
'It'll get precious little encouragement from Giselle,' said Pascoe.
'It's better than Count Dracula anyway,' said Dalziel.
Pascoe, who was now very cold indeed, began to move towards the kitchen, but to his surprise Dalziel stopped him.
'It's a hell of a night even for a cat,' he said. 'Just have a look, Peter, see if you can spot the poor beast. In case it's hurt.'
Rather surprised by his boss's manifestation of kindness to animals (though not in the least at his display of cruelty to junior officers), Pascoe shivered along the line of paw prints across the grass. They disappeared into a small orchard, whose trees seemed to crowd together to repel intruders, or perhaps just for warmth. Pascoe peered between the italic trunks and made cat-attracting noises but nothing stirred.
'All right,' he said. 'I know you're in there. We've got the place surrounded. Better come quietly. I'll leave the door open, so just come in and give a yell when you want to give yourself up.'
Back in the kitchen, he left the door ajar and put a bowl of milk on the floor. His teeth were chattering and he headed to the living-room, keen to do full justice to both the log fire and the whisky decanter. The telephone rang as he entered. For once Dalziel picked it up and Pascoe poured himself a stiff drink.
From the half conversation he could hear, he gathered it was the duty sergeant at the station who was ringing. Suddenly, irrationally, he felt very worried in case Dalziel was going to announce he had to go out on a case, leaving Pascoe alone.
The reality turned out almost as bad.
'Go easy on that stuff,' said Dalziel. 'You don't want to be done for driving under the influence.'
'What?'
Dalziel passed him the phone.
The sergeant told him someone had just rung the station asking urgently for Pascoe and refusing to speak to anyone else. He'd claimed what he had to say was important. 'It's big and it's tonight' were his words. And he'd rung off saying he'd ring back in an hour's time. After that it'd be too late.
'Oh shit,' said Pascoe. 'It sounds like Benny.'
Benny was one of his snouts, erratic and melodramatic, but often bringing really hot information.
'I suppose I'll have to go in,' said Pascoe reluctantly. 'Or I could get the Sarge to pass this number on.'
'If it's urgent, you'll need to be on the spot,' said Dalziel. 'Let me know what's happening, won't you? Best get your skates on.'
'Skates is right,' muttered Pascoe. 'It's like the Arctic out there.'
He downed his whisky defiantly, then went to put his overcoat on.
'You'll be all right by yourself, will you, sir?' he said maliciously. 'Able to cope with ghosts, ghouls, werewolves and falling mill-girls?'