Pascoe changed his mind, made a fist, changed his mind again and thrust it deep into his pocket.
'Go away,' he said.
The door of the bar was pushed open. An excited-looking rustic entered and spoke to some near acquaintance. Other people looked up, listened. The words danced through the assembled drinkers like dryads in a moonlit forest. Tantalizing. Hard to grasp.
'Brookside… Fire… Cottage… Fire… Brookside Cottage is on fire!'
The reporter went away.
By the time Pascoe reached Brookside, the fire was out. There seemed to have been some kind of explosion in the kitchen and the blast, though causing a great deal of damage, had probably almost extinguished the flame that caused it.
A uniformed constable, left on duty to watch the property overnight, had decided it was foolish to patrol outside all the time and had entered the living-room just as the explosion occurred. He was badly cut about the face, but had managed to phone for assistance.
Backhouse was on the scene but seemed disinclined to allow Pascoe any special privileges. Pascoe felt he could not really blame him, and hung around the fringe of the little knot of newspaper-men whom Backhouse addressed in a friendly, conciliatory manner. Certainly he was a different breed from Dalziel!
'It seems there was an escape of gas in the kitchen probably ignited by a pilot-light in the cooker. The kitchen itself has been extensively damaged, but only superficial damage has been done to the other rooms.'
'An accident you would say, Superintendent?'
'What else?' asked Backhouse blandly.
What indeed? wondered Pascoe. He did not trust coincidences.
The firemen began to pack up their gear. A Gas Board van arrived and a couple of men went into the cottage to deal with the fractured pipes.
The group of onlookers broke up and began to drift away. Pascoe watched them go. When most of them had got into their cars, he noticed a vaguely familiar figure step out of the shadows on the other side of the road and make his way briskly along the road away from the village. Pascoe had to puzzle at his memory to work out who it was.
Sam Dixon, he realized suddenly. He must be on his way back from the bowls club dinner.
It wasn't till he was making his way up the lane towards Culpepper's house that another thought struck him. Dixon had been out of the pub the previous night too.
But it did not seem a very important thought, not as important at this moment as his concern about who was following him through the trees which stretched out on either side of the lane.
'Nerves,’ suggested Ellie. 'Or that thing that Davenant claimed to have seen, Anus mirabilis.'
'Asio otus. No, this was no owl. More like a Hammer Films sound effect. Cracking twigs and rustling undergrowth. I was glad to get back.'
The party had broken up when he returned. Culpepper let him in, explained that the guests had gone and offered him a nightcap.
'Marianne has gone to bed,' he added. 'I hope you will forgive her, but we had no idea how long you would be in returning and she's had a tiring day.'
'I hope I haven't kept you up,' apologized Pascoe.
'Not at all. I need very little sleep. It will be three or four hours before I go up. Sometimes I don't bother at all, just take a cat-nap in my chair.'
He did not press when Pascoe turned down a second drink, and they said good night. Pascoe heard the grille-door of the porcelain room opening as he went up the stairs.
He thought of looking into Ellie's room, decided not to risk disturbing her, and found her sitting by the window in his own room when he put the light on.
'Christ,' he said. 'This is doing my nerves no good.'
'What's new?' she said.
Briefly he filled her in on events since he had left the house.
'I heard the fire-engine,’ said Ellie. 'I wondered what was going on.'
'Of course you would hear it up here,’ said Pascoe. 'Curious. Culpepper never mentioned it.'
'He's probably got other things to worry about. Maid Marianne, for instance.'
'Meaning?'
Ellie pointed at the window.
'I haven't been sitting here like stout Cortez for nothing. If he thinks Marianne's in bed, he's sadly mistaken. Fifteen minutes after the last guest went, she tripped smartly across the drive and disappeared into the trees.'
Pascoe whistled.
'Risky.'
'Not as much as you'd think. They don't share a bedroom.'
'Nosey old you! Who was the last guest?'
'You've guessed.'
'Pelman. That figures.'
'If you put out the light, we could watch for her coming back.'
Pascoe switched off and joined Ellie at the window.
'Perhaps it was Marianne I heard as I came up the drive,' he mused.
Ellie leaned back against him, soft and warm in her nightdress.
'Not the last of the Zombies?' she said sleepily. 'A pity.'
They watched in silence for a few moments.
'I've had it,' said Ellie. I'm off; to bed. All this watching.'
She turned away from him and climbed into bed.
'Hey,' he said. 'That's my bed.'
'You don't think I'm going back to mine with things rustling through the undergrowth, do you?'
She spoke lightly, but Pascoe knew better than to take her lightly. The day's events were waiting patiently for darkness and loneliness to let them take shape and substance in their minds. He realized that to be alone tonight would have been unbearable.
Quickly he undressed and joined Ellie in the narrow bed.
'Peter,' she said.
'Yes.'
'Let's go home in the morning. Straightaway. As early as we can.'
'Yes,' he answered. 'Sleep now. We'll go home in the morning.'
PART TWO
Chapter 1
'You look as if you've been shagging a sheep,' said Dalziel with distaste.
Thus spoke the last of the dandies, thought Pascoe, glancing at his superior's shapeless trousers and the military-issue braces, strained dangerously taut over a parabolic waist. But he had to admit that he had brought back with him a lot of white hairs.
'Funny how some dogs lose them but never go bald,' he said brushing ineffectually at his trouser legs.
Dalziel grinned humourlessly and scratched one of the shining deltas on his grey, stubbly pate.
'Not much of a guard-dog,' he said.
'It's a pom,' Pascoe said patiently. 'And they don't leave it in the house when they're on holiday. Not for a fortnight. The RSPCA object.'
'Silly twats,' said Dalziel. 'He'd be two thousand quid better off if there'd been a hungry dog in the house.'The insurance will pay,' said Pascoe indifferently.
'You're not suggesting anything?'
'What? No. Christ, why would he want to try a fiddle like this? Twenty thousand, yes. But this is pin money. You've seen the house?'
'No. But you can't always tell. Still, you're right. It's almost certainly our lad, your lad. I can't see Mr Stan Cottingley piddling in his own kettle.'
The thought amused him and he laughed himself into a fit of coughing into his outsize khaki handkerchief.
He's not well, thought Pascoe suddenly.
I'm not well, thought Dalziel for the tenth time that morning. There was a pain across his chest. It was a broad chest, so it was a broad pain. If there had been anyone to mop his fevered brow and ladle out the nourishing broth, he might have stayed in bed that Monday morning. More probably he would have dismissed such solicitude with his customary brusqueness and come in to work anyway.
He looked at Pascoe gloomily and wondered if he should tell him that his promotion was as good as confirmed. Once again he decided against it. Promotion should mean something, be marked by a drink and a bit of jollity. In present circumstances he doubted if Pascoe would react at all. It would be a pity to waste what was a minor triumph. Pascoe could have achieved inspector status at least twelve months earlier if he had stayed in, or been willing to return to, uniformed duties. But the lad had been adamant. The career of administrator and ideas-man his background seemed to equip him for had not appealed. He wanted to be a detective.