'You could put it like that,' said the woman, staring at Pascoe with a marked lack of enthusiasm. 'It wasn't him.'
'Wasn't…?'
'Upstairs.'
'Then it was probably Miss Soper, our other guest,' said Culpepper triumphantly.
'It was a man,' she insisted.
Marianne Culpepper slid open a panel in an elegant walnut cabinet to reveal the contents of an expensive-looking hi-fi system.
The new Drew Spade album came this morning,’ she said brightly. 'Shall we listen? I haven't heard it myself yet, so I can't say what it's like.'
Another diversionary tactic. What a snarled-up lot of people they were! And the sound which began to thump out of the speakers was hardly music-for-the-bereaved, either. But it wasn't quite loud enough to prevent Pascoe from hearing the rest of the exchange between Culpepper and his mother.
'No, it must have been Miss Soper,’ said Hartley.
'Please your bloody self,' answered the old woman, shrugging her still broad shoulders. 'I'm off to my bed. I only hope I'm not murdered in it.'
The remark acted on Pascoe like an electrical impulse. He handed his glass to Culpepper, pushed between the man and his mother without apology and ran lightly up the stairs.
It was absurd. Probably the old woman had indeed just caught a glimpse of Ellie. But she seemed sensible enough. Something of a burden, perhaps, to Culpepper and his wife, but that was none of his business. To an investigating officer, everything is his business. One of Dalziel's dicta.
He pushed open Ellie's door quietly. She was sitting up in bed with the lights on, smoking a cigarette.
'Hi,' she said, unsurprised.
'Hi,' he said. 'Back in a sec.'
His own door was slightly ajar. The room was in darkness. The door moved easily at his touch and he stepped swiftly inside, trying to recall where the light-switch was.
His groping hand could not make contact with it, but he knew someone was there in the room with him. The image of a shotgun rose suddenly in his mind and he abandoned his search for the switch, moving noiselessly away from the line of light spilling in from the landing. As he dropped on one knee beside the wardrobe, he heard a noise. The curtains moved and the clear autumn sky leaned its pinholes of light against the glass till a figure blotted them out. Everything went still again.
Pascoe spoke.
'Colin?' he said uncertainly.
He stood up.
'Colin? It's Peter, Peter Pascoe. Is that you, Colin?'
He was by the small bedside table now. His hands plunged down on the lamp which stood there. The ball of his thumb caught the switch and the soft light blossomed into the room.
The figure by the window spoke.
'No, I'm sorry, Mr Pascoe,’ he said compassionately. 'It's not Colin.'
'So I see,' said Pascoe, looking steadily at the man before him. 'What are you doing in my room, Mr Davenant?'
Chapter 8
'Oh, there you are, Anton,' said Marianne Culpepper from the doorway. 'What on earth are you doing in here?'
'Forgive me, darlings,' said Davenant moving away from the window. 'I am quite, quite lost. That little room you put me in downstairs was super, Marianne, except that it didn't seem to contain a loo. And while I'm sure a house of such distinction has loos all over the place, I could find none downstairs, though I did peer through a kind of grid thing at a room full of po-shaped objects.'
'You mistook my room for a bathroom?' said Pascoe with carefully measured incredulity.
'Not in the least. I tried the door in my search, though, peered in, realized my mistake of course and then forgot all else as across the window, outlined against the evening sky, swooped Asio otus.'
'What?' said Marianne.
'The long-eared owl, my dear. I may have been mistaken, but I think not. Those ears! I forgot everything. One call of nature gave way to a greater, and I darted across the room to watch his flight. Glorious! Then someone approached. I froze into quietness, but alas! I was discovered. Forgive us our trespasses, I pray you.'
He smiled sweetly at Pascoe, who put on the all-is-explained face he often used when faced with a blatant liar.
'You've got him then,' said Mrs Culpepper, senior, in a triumphant tone. She peered curiously over her daughter-in-law's shoulder. 'He's a funny-looking devil.'
'Hush!' said Marianne. 'This is Mr Davenant, Mother. An old friend of mine.'
The plot thickens, thought Pascoe. And with the dramatic metaphor came a sense of staging, of something being not quite real.
'From London, is it?' said the old woman, as if wanting the worst to be confirmed.
'That's right,' said Marianne.
'I thought so.' She left, nodding triumphantly.
'Darling,' cried Culpepper up the stairs. 'John and Sandra are going.'
'Sorry to rush, but Eric's got a chill and we don't like to leave the sitter too long,' came Sandra Bell's voice.
Marianne looked uncertainly at Pascoe and Davenant, then turned and went down. Davenant made to follow her.
‘I didn't realize you had friends in the neighbourhood,' said Pascoe, sitting on the bed.
'Why should you? I didn't realize you had either. What I mean is, I didn't understand your odd behaviour in the pub till I found out later who you were.'
'Oh. Have you known the Culpeppers long?' asked Pascoe.
'Not long. In fact, hardly at all. Dear Marianne was putting it on a bit, for the old dragon's sake, I fancy, when she called me an old friend! No. In fact…' he hesitated and peered assessingly at Pascoe.
'In fact,' he went on, 'If I'm an old friend of anyone, it's of your old friends.'
'I'm sorry?' said Pascoe. Then, amazed, 'You mean of Colin and Rose's?'
'Yes. Well, more of Timmy and Carlo's really,' answered Davenant. 'Though I knew Rose and Colin well also.'
Pascoe stood up and closed the bedroom door.
'You'd better tell me exactly what you're doing here, Mr Davenant,' he said. Despite all his efforts he could not keep a threat out of his voice.
Davenant's story was simple. In Oxford, collecting material for an article on English provincial cooking, he had heard the news of the murders at mid-morning. As soon as he recognized the names, he had set out for Thornton Lacey.
'I was all of a tremble, I promise you. I could hardly point the car straight. But I had to come, you understand. By the time I got here, I'd settled down a trifle. It struck me that I would be foolish to appear as a friend of those murdered.'
'What made you think that?' demanded Pascoe.
'You're involved in the grief then. People don't talk to you as they would otherwise. You must have found that too.'
'I suppose so,' admitted Pascoe grudgingly.
'I wanted to be able to ask questions. Poke my nose in. Be a journalist. Just as you must be dying to be a policeman. I wanted to find out everything I could about this awful business. So I invented that silly story about my editor putting me on the job.'
'You did it very well,' murmured Pascoe.
'Thank you kindly. I decided I'd like to talk with you when I found out who you were. They told me you were staying up here. As soon as they mentioned the name Culpepper, I thought, Good Lord! Hartley! I've met him several times in town at mutual acquaintances', and I knew he lived in the country out here somewhere, but I'd quite forgotten it was Thornton Lacey. In other circumstances, a delicious coincidence.'
'Delicious. So they shut you away downstairs?'
'Until the other guests had gone, yes. It seemed easier. These villages are full of eagle eyes and tattle-tales.'
'And long-eared owls.'
'What? Oh yes. I wonder where the chappie's gone.'
He turned to the window once more and stared out into the star-filled night.
'Autumn,’ he said. 'Always a sad time. I'm sorry now that I came and disturbed you. Perhaps I should go.'