'Christ, no!' said Bell with his likeable grin. 'The odd bottle when you're stuck, perhaps. But who's going to pay his prices when you can get the same stuff for 15p less in town? Don't let our outward affluence deceive you, Mr Pascoe. Hartley may have an antique superior wine-merchant tucked away in the City, but the rest of us still push trolleys round the supermarkets.'
'Big of you to refuse to take advantage of your wealth,' said Pascoe, softening the comment with his own likeable grin. He had no desire to antagonize Bell. And he did want to talk about Palfrey. Why, he wasn't sure. Personal antipathy? Well, he had no official standing in this case, so the presence of personal prejudice could for once be ignored.
'How does Palfrey fit into the local scheme of things?' he went on. But his policeman's voice must have sounded through.
'You're very interested in old JP,' commented Bell curiously. 'Is it because of the row? If so, I really don't think I should comment. Not during a casual chat in a friend's house.'
Being without official standing clearly cut both ways. Pascoe tried another smile. It didn't feel quite as likeable as the last.
'Why JP?' he asked. 'Just his initials?'
Or is there some bloody masonic oath which prevents you from answering that?
Bell laughed.
'Yes, they are his initials.' He glanced around and dropped his voice. 'But they do service for other things besides. He's got ambitions to get on to the bench. God help all petty offenders if that happens! But they really stem from our vicar. He's a nice little Welshman, just one step out of the coalmine. He recalls in the old days in his village, a local copper-smelting firm hired a man to go around the streets every morning with two great buckets on a yoke. Everyone would empty their jerries into them!'
He laughed so heartily that the others stopped talking and turned to look. Like a disturbance at a funeral, thought Pascoe, surprised to find himself feeling embarrassed.
They used the stuff in some process at the copper-works,' explained Bell. 'Anyway, this man was known familiarly as Jim Piss! And the vicar, after his first taste of the bitter at the Eagle when Palfrey took over, told the story. The name stuck, but for politeness's sake, it became JP.'
Very droll, thought Pascoe. But it took him no further forward. He wasn't even very sure in which direction forward lay.
The Culpeppers were in the room again, he observed. But there had been no noticeable addition to the company. Which might or might not be odd.
Ellie was talking to the Hardistys and looking desperate. Pascoe could see why. Medical solicitude emanated from them almost visibly. He appproached to effect a rescue, but it proved unnecessary.
'Please excuse me,' she said to the medical twosome. 'I think I'll have an early night.'
Simple as that, thought Pascoe, smiling ruefully at his loss of role. In times of stress, the weakness of others is a useful source of strength. Ellie's self-possession was throwing him more and more into a confrontation with his own emotions, making him more and more of a policeman in order to retain his equilibrium.
But what the hell was there to investigate here? He looked hopefully around the room.
Ellie was at the door, reassuring Marianne that all her needs were catered for. She caught his eye and smiled briefly, then was gone. He felt a sense of relief, edged with guilt. With Ellie out of the way, there might be a chance to provoke some reactions. Pelman seemed the best bet. He had seemed much in favour of plain speaking on his arrival, though now he seemed content to turn the treadmill of social trivia with the rest. At the moment he was complaining about the cost of estate management.
'You're a working member of the community then?' asked Pascoe brightly. 'You don't just sleep here.'
The Bells and Hardistys exchanged a glance which told Pascoe he had been inept in his choice of words. John Bell seemed very amused, the others less so.
'Yes, Mr Pascoe. I have a dairy herd and one of the biggest hen batteries in this part of the world. I work for my living.'
A hint of sneering stress on 'work'? Pascoe wasn't sure.
'So do we all,' smiled Dr Hardisty, perhaps having felt it also. Pelman grunted and sipped his drink.
'If you like what you're doing, it's not work,' said Bell with mock sanctimoniousness.
'Do you like your job?' asked Sandra Bell suddenly. 'What is it you do, Mr Pascoe?'
Doesn't she know? Or is she just trying out her claws? She seemed a nice woman, but Pascoe felt far from competent to judge.
'I'm a policeman, Mrs Bell,' he said.
'Oh.' Collapse of thin woman.
'CID, aren't you?' said Pelman. 'Tell me, what's your professional prognosis in this case?'
'Angus!' protested Marianne.
'He needn't answer if he'd rather not,' said Pelman, staring hard at Pascoe.
'Another drink, anyone?' said Hartley Culpepper.
'Police procedure is quite simple in such matters,' said Pascoe. 'Three things mainly. The weapon is looked for. Absent persons who may be able to help are looked for. And a great number of people are interviewed, statements taken, information amassed. That's about it. Nothing very dramatic. In the majority of murder cases, the police know who did it within twenty-four hours of being called in. Often sooner.'
He scanned the group, poker-faced.
'And in this case?' asked Pelman, softly.
'Who knows? I'm not on the investigating team,' said Pascoe. 'I'm just a witness. Like the rest of you perhaps.'
'How important will finding the weapon be?' asked Mrs Hardisty to fill the ensuing silence.
'It's finding who it belongs to that's important in the case of a gun,' explained Pascoe.
Pelman laughed explosively, unhumorously.
'That's no problem. It belongs to me.'
No one rushed to fill the silence this produced. But Pascoe had no doubts about the thoughts swimming goldfish-like behind the surprised eyes. A joke in bad taste? Some kind of confession? A simple misunderstanding?
'Didn't Backhouse tell you?' asked Pelman.
'I said I'm not one of the investigating team,' said Pascoe.
'No. Of course not. But it's not a secret, is it? The thing is, when the superintendent spoke to me, one of the things he was interested in was my guns. Naturally. It had gone from my mind till I looked.'
'What had?' asked Marianne impatiently. 'For God's sake, this is serious, Angus. Don't make a golf-club anecdote out of it.'
Pelman took his scolding meekly and went on.
'One of my guns was missing. I had lent it to Colin Hopkins a week or so ago and he hadn't let me have it back. Not that there was any hurry. It wasn't up to much and I have plenty of others.'
'No doubt,' said Culpepper.
'So you think it was your gun that was used…?' Mrs Hardisty saw no need to finish her sentence.
'It seems probable.'
'Why did Colin want the gun?' asked Pascoe, listening carefully to the timbre of his own voice.
It was light, steady. He was doing remarkably well. The control was there. Fat Dalziel would be proud of him.
The lounge door burst open and he whirled like a startled cat, slopping his whisky over the rim of his glass.
In the door stood a tall, angular woman of some considerable age. Her skin was brown and creased like a tortoise's neck, but her eyes were bright and alert. The nylonoverall she wore was the luminous orange of a road-worker's safety jacket, clashing horridly with her dark violet slacks and fluffy red slippers. This, thought Pascoe with surprise, must be the gardener.
There's a man upstairs,' she said in a flat south Lancashire accent.
'It's all right, Mother,' said Culpepper in a reassuring tone. 'We have guests.'
'I'm not blind,' said the old woman scornfully.
'To stay, I mean. Mr Pascoe here. Pascoe, I'd like you to meet my mother, who does us the honour of living with us.'