'It's confusing sir,' answered Pascoe, returning the plastic encapsulated paper to Backhouse.
'It's certainly that. Our pet psychiatrist took several hours to come to the same conclusion. Or rather that whoever wrote it was in a state of confusion. Which would fit the suspected circumstances. He also talked a lot about quotation. The use of other people's words in a situation where a man's own mind refused to confront directly what had happened.'
'You think he's in the quarry pool then?'
Backhouse looked thoughtful. He also looked very tired and drawn. Pascoe thought of Dalziel. Was this kind of strain the price of promotion?
'It seems possible. We found a shoe.'
'Colin's?' asked Pascoe.
'It's being checked as best we can. But it's not that. If you were going to write a suicide note and not commit suicide, what kind of note would you write?'
Pascoe thought for a moment, then nodded.
'I take your point, sir.'
'That's right. Something traditional, clear, unambiguous. I have done wrong and I cannot go on living. That's what you'd write. Unless you were very clever, of course.'
Pascoe stared out of the window of Constable Crowther's office. The sun was continuing to pour its late blessings on Thornton Lacey's mellow stone.
'Colin was clever,' he said.
'Yes. I gathered so much,' said Backhouse. 'This clever?'
He waved a sheet of paper in the air.
'Not in those circumstances. I can't see it.'
'You know, Sergeant, you're beginning to talk as if you're ready to think Hopkins might after all have done the killings,' said Backhouse with a note of compassion in his voice.
'I suppose I am,' replied Pascoe, making the admission for the first time even to himself. 'That's the trouble with our job, isn't it sir? After a while you begin to believe anybody could do anything.'
'Given the right pressure in the right places,' agreed Backhouse.
'Though if you don't mind me saying so, sir, you seem to have moved a little bit the other way.'
'Away from a firm conviction of Hopkins's guilt, you mean? No. It was a theory. It still is. Information accrues and the theory might have to shift or take a different shape, but it remains. Tell me, Sergeant, given a choice between drowning and blowing your head off with a shotgun, how would you dispatch yourself?'
'I wouldn't fancy either much,' said Pascoe. 'The gun, I suppose, but it's not like using a revolver, is it? I mean, a single bullet's one thing, but a headful of shot…!'
'A point,' mused Backhouse. 'Well, I should like to find the gun all the same. Would you jump over a quarry edge with a shotgun in your hands?'
'No. But if I was a local peasant and came across a car with a shotgun lying around on the back seat, I might very well lift it.'
'My men are out talking to all likely candidates,' said Backhouse in a tone of mild reproof. 'Well, I must be off. I shall see you at the inquest tomorrow, Sergeant.'
'Why is the inquest being reopened now?' asked Pascoe.
'It's well within the coroner's powers at present,' said Backhouse. 'Though, as you are clearly aware, it is unusual in a case like this. I am not privy to the working of Mr French's mind, but I surmise that some kind of local pressure is bearing on him. People want to sleep untroubled in their beds. A verdict of murder against Hopkins would do this nicely.'
'But it's almost unheard of nowadays!' protested Pascoe.
'You may hear it tomorrow,' warned Backhouse as he left. 'Behave yourself, Sergeant.'
Whether he meant during the proceedings or during the intervening period, Pascoe didn't know. It was not altogether unflattering, he discovered, to be regarded as potentially dangerous. Like the Western gunman enjoying the noise-hiatus as he entered a bar.
The thought made him glance at his watch. Far too early for a drink, alas. He stared glumly out of the window once more. He could not imagine what had prompted him to sacrifice a precious rest day in travelling down here. The adjourned inquest was not due to restart until ten o'clock the following morning. Ellie had absolutely refused to come near the place till then. She was probably wise. One thing he wanted to do was take another look at the cottage. Backhouse had not raised any objection and no one else was likely to. Crowther was looking after the key in case anyone with a legitimate claim to it turned up. It now rested in Pascoe's pocket but he felt reluctant to set off to use it.
Mrs Crowther poked her head through the door.
'Cup of tea, Sergeant?' she asked. 'And a piece of my shortcake?'
It was a tempting offer but, like a bare bosom shaken alluringly at a devout puritan, its effect was opposite to that intended.
'No, thanks,' said Pascoe. 'I must be off.'
'Please yourself,' grunted Mrs Crowther. 'We'll see you for supper?'
'Yes, please.'
Pascoe was staying with the Crowthers. The only alternative had been to thrust himself upon the Culpeppers once more, and his memory of his last stay there did not encourage this. Of course, he could have stopped at a hotel, but this would have meant being some distance from the village and this did not suit his albeit unformulated purpose in coming down that day.
He left his car by the kerb and set off on foot, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. Soon he reached the edge of the village and the houses began to thin out. A small scattering of 'executive residences' had erupted on the right of the road. He thought he saw Sandra Bell by the garage of one of them but she made no sign of recognition. Then came a small block of old cottages, untouched though probably not undesired by the renovators. Culpepper's modern stately home lay somewhere along the ridge to the left. It would probably be visible from the road when autumn finally got among the trees and started shaking the branches bare, but the foliage still had all the fullness of summer, edged now with gold but not yet weighed down by it. On the right now he passed the narrow ill-kept track which must lead up to Pelman's house; Pelman's woods looked denser, more sombre, perhaps because the sun was throwing the shadows of these trees across his path as he walked.
Pelman. There was an interesting figure. He would not have thought him a man to take lightly his wife's affairs with a farmhand. Tenant farmer, he mentally corrected himself, recalling what he had learned from Crowther. It would not do to over-Lady-Chatterley-ize the situation. Yet they had both ended up in the quarry pool, which out-Lawrenced Lawrence.
A Land-Rover approached him, slowed down and pulled into the side.
'Pascoe, isn't it?' said the driver, leaning out and peering into the side.
It was Pelman. Pascoe felt as though he had conjured him up.
'Hello,' he said.
'Down for the inquest? I don't understand the workings of the Law, though I suppose it makes sense to you.'
Pelman was in his shirt-sleeves. He looked as if he'd done a hard day's work.
'Can I give you a lift anywhere or are you just taking the air?' he went on.
'I'm on my way to Brookside,' answered Pascoe. 'Thanks for the offer, but it's only round the bend.'
A Citroen GS sped by them towards the village. It slowed momentarily as if the driver thought of stopping, then picked up speed again. Davenant, thought Pascoe. He had told Backhouse his thoughts about the man, but received nothing in exchange. Except courteous thanks.
'What are you doing tonight?' asked Pelman. 'Come round for a drink if you can. There'll be one or two others there, most of 'em you've met. We're having an Amenities Committee meeting – can't use the village hall, of course. But we should be done by eight-thirty.'
'Thanks,' said Pascoe. 'I'll try to make it.'