'You're a small improvement on the last one,' said Lady Jessica, running a cold eye over him. 'But I hope this isn't going to become a habit.' Pascoe had long grown used to discourtesy but this took him by surprise. Partridge with the ready oil of an old politician said, 'Mr Pascoe's come in person rather than phoning just so that he can get my autograph on his book, wasn't that good of him? I'm most flattered.
What's your first name, Mr Pascoe?' He took the book and opened it at the title-page, pen poised. 'Peter.' Pascoe thought that Dalziel would probably have gone on asking questions about Partridge's night with Elsbeth Lowrie despite or perhaps because of Lady Jessica's presence, but every man has his own weapon. He said, 'You were out of the country during the trial, I believe, Lady Partridge. But presumably you followed it via the media?' ‘I don't think we had media in those days, did we, dear?' joked Partridge but his wife replied grimly, 'Why do you presume that?' 'Because of your personal involvement,' said Pascoe. 'A friend was murdered. Another friend accused. It would be natural for you to follow it in the papers. Or if not, surely you and your husband would refer to the trial when you corresponded?' 'He was no friend of mine. Nor was she,' said the woman. 'Is there a point to this catechism?' 'I was merely wondering if you, or you, Lord Partridge, felt any doubts about the verdict or had any reservations about the conduct of the investigation at the time?' Partridge's mouth opened, but his wife was quicker off the mark. 'No. I thought the police behaved with great propriety if not to say delicacy. Policemen still knew their place in those days. As for the verdicts, I saw no reason to question them then any more than I do now. Mickledore was a wastrel, the girl was clearly unstable.' 'Come, come, my dear, de mortuis…' 'The Kohler creature is not dead, Thomas, but roaming free, because of gutlessness in high places!' Pascoe was fascinated enough to risk a provocation. He said, 'You mean you disapprove of the Home Office decision?' She glowered at him and said, 'I presume you are unsubtly referring to my son's recent promotion. Don't worry, his time will come. But meanwhile this gang of grocer's assistants and board school boys have to be allowed to overreach themselves so that decent people can see them for the third-raters they are. Then perhaps we'll see our flag raised high again, instead of wrapped round the balls of cretinous untermensch rioting outside football grounds!'
Pascoe pressed on, 'But the new evidence offered by Miss Marsh…'
'Marsh? What has she to do with anything?' 'It was her evidence about the blood which helped persuade the Home Secretary to release Kohler,' said Pascoe. 'When I talked to her earlier, she implied that if she'd been aware of the importance of this at the time of the trial she would have spoken up then. Now it's understandable that, immersed in her duties and a thousand miles away, she did not keep abreast of events. But you, ma'am, and you, sir…' There was a crack like a gunshot. It turned out to be Jessica Partridge slapping her boot with a riding crop, a gesture Pascoe had never encountered outside of a bodice- ripping movie. 'I've got better things to do than stand here and be quizzed about the oddities of domestics, particularly that Marsh woman,' she cried. 'She remembers your family with great affection,' said Pascoe. ‘Indeed? I find that surprising as the last time I spoke to her was to dismiss her for inefficiency and insubordination,' said Lady Partridge. 'Thomas, I shall shower before lunch. Mr Pascoe, goodbye. I don't expect I shall see you again.' She walked out, splay-footed in her riding boots, her jodhpured haunches swaying centaurishly. Pascoe regarded Partridge blankly, waiting to see if he intended to follow his wife down this patrician road or whether the politician would still hold sway. 'Some more cocoa, Mr Pascoe? No? I think I will.' The rum bottle gurgled. He drank deep, sighed with pleasure. 'Good stuff. My family has old West Indian connections. I spent a long period out there in my youth. This was one of the better habits I picked up.' 'You took your family out to Antigua after the Mickledore affair, didn't you, sir?' 'You have been doing your homework. Good. I approve. That's right. I had come to accept the kind of assault on privacy that government service opens one up to, but I saw no reason why my family should have to put up with it.' It was nobly spoken but with a sufficient hint of self-mockery to make Pascoe risk a familiarity. 'And it must have been easier to speak with one voice when there was only one voice speaking?' 'What? Oh yes. I get you. My wife is an understanding woman, Mr Pascoe. But a private understanding is not the same as a public complacency. No way I could trot Jessica out as the loyal little wife like so many of them did. No, those were dangerous days, desperate days. The Press had been after us all, of course, ever since Jack Profumo talked himself into a corner. There was a new rumour a day; headless men, men in masks, congas of copulating ministers stretching from Whitehall to Westminster! I came in for my fair share of attention, being young and sociable. But once the word got out about me and Elsbeth, I was everyone's favourite fucker. God, the indignities I had to undergo to prove that at least I didn't figure in anyone's snapshots. Looking back, I sometimes think it was all a mistake. Did you ever see the photo of the Headless Man? He was hung like a Hereford bull. If, instead of driving myself to distraction proving I was basically a good family man who occasionally erred, I'd said, yes, that's me all right, and pleaded guilty to every excess laid at my door, I would probably have swept the country before me and been Prime Minister for the last twenty years!' He laughed and Pascoe joined in, partly from policy and partly because of the disarming charm of the man's racy self-mockery, whose very openness invited his own. 'So tell me, young man,' continued Partridge, more serious now.