Ruling Passion

Crowther nodded.

'A bit. There's a beer in the cupboard behind you if you fancy it.'

'Thanks,' said Pascoe. 'This'll be a quiet patch normally?'

'Quiet enough. Popular for break-ins.'

'Is that so?'

Crowther nodded and chewed his gammon systematically. About thirty chews to the mouthful, Pascoe thought.

'It's mostly business people now, you see,' resumed Crowther. 'Working in the town. There's been a lot of building.'

Another mouthful. Another thirty chews.

'And renovation.'

'Like Brookside Cottage?'

'That's right,' said Crowther, nodding vigorously.

'Was it empty when Mr Pelman decided to sell it?'

That's right.' Another mouthful. This time Pascoe counted. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine. 'Mr Pelman didn't like that. It was a handy way into his woods from the road for anyone wanting to pot a few birds. And the cottages themselves was always getting broken into. Not that there wasanything to take, you understand. Practising for bigger stuff, I reckoned. But they did a lot of damage.'

So. Vandals and poachers all swanning round Brookside Cottage. Homicidal? It was surprising how many people were under the right conditions.

Even people you knew quite well.

'Pelman put it on the market then?' mused Pascoe. 'That was quite clever. He'd make a bit of money and have someone there to man his frontier post.'

'Hardly that,' objected Crowther. 'You can get into Pelman's woods at a dozen places. And there's not all that much in there anyhow.'

'No red deer and grizzly bear?'

'No,' answered Crowther, adding, as though in reproach of Pascoe's mild levity, 'just a lot of coppers at the moment.'

Pascoe sipped his beer. Crowther's tastes ran to lukewarm brown ale, it appeared. The thought put him in mind of the two village pubs, in one of which Rose Hopkins had last been seen by anyone alive to tell the tale. Except one person.

'What's the difference between the Eagle and Child and the Queen Anne?' he asked. It sounded like a child's conundrum, but Crowther didn't seem puzzled.

'The Eagle's a free house. Owned by Major Palfrey. The Anne's tied to the brewery. Mr and Mrs Dixon just manage it. Not just. They manage it very well, I mean. Nice couple.'

'Who uses which? Or is it just the nearest that people go to?'

Crowther looked at him closely.

'Couldn't say,’ he said. 'I use the Anne myself.'

'Just because it's the nearest?' insisted Pascoe. 'I should have thought the local law would have had to preserve a fine show of impartiality towards licensed premises.'

'I do,’ said Crowther. 'When I'm on duty. But off, I like to be comfortable where I drink.'

He seemed to make his mind up that Pascoe had a sympathetic ear and leaned over the table confidentially.

'Difference is, and this is just me, mind you,' he went on, 'the Dixons make you feel welcome, the Major always makes me feel he's doing me a favour by pulling me a pint.'

He nodded emphatically and started rolling an absurdly thin cigarette in an ancient machine. Pascoe laughed knowingly.

'Major Palfrey thinks he's the squire rather than the landlord, does he?'

'That's the trouble with this place now,' averred the constable, lighting his cigarette which burnt like a fuse. 'It's full of bloody squires. Trouble is, there aren't enough peasants to go round.'

Constable Crowther, it appeared, invariably took a ten-minute nap after his lunch and could see no reason to interrupt his routine today. Pascoe was sorry about this. The man's conversation interested him and he was still desperately in need of things to interest him. He decided to take a walk, down to the village perhaps, find out what was going on. As he stood up, he realized he hadn't mentioned the arrangements that had been made for the evening.

Mrs Crowther came into the kitchen and bustled around her snoozing husband, clearing the table with no effort at noise-evasion.

'Miss Soper and I are going to spend the night at Mr Culpepper's house,' said Pascoe. 'I'd like to let Miss Soper sleep, though, as long as possible. Is that OK?'

'We could have kept you here,' answered the woman. 'Our lad could have used the camp-bed.'

'Thank you very much. But I didn't want to trouble you. And Mr Culpepper was most insistent.'

Crowther opened his eyes and looked straight at Pascoe.

'Culpepper,' he said. He made it sound like an accusation. Then he went back to sleep.

In Crowther's book, Culpepper was probably one of the self-appointed squires, thought Pascoe as he stood outside the station in the bright sunlight and took his bearings. He wasn't certain if he altogether liked what he saw. Not that it wasn't pretty. In the rememberable past Thornton Lacey must have been a roadside hamlet of a couple of dozen houses plus a church, a shop and a pub which served the numerous farms in the rich surrounding countryside. But things had changed.

Over the hill one day, perhaps only a couple of decades ago, had come the first – the first what? He remembered the phrase in Colin's letter. Pallid cits. The first pallid cit. Soon there must have been droves of them. And they were still coming. He recalled as he had driven in that morning an arrowed notice on the outskirts of the village had directed their attention to a High Class Development of Executive Residences. It had made them laugh to think of Colin and Rose in such company. Many things had made them laugh on the journey.

With an effort of will he returned his attention to the village. Pallid cits had to be catered for. There was a ladies' hairdressing salon very tastefully slotted beneath an awryly-timbered top storey. At least two Gothic-scripted antique shops were visible. Passing pallid cits had to be tempted to stop and invest in the past. But not to stop permanently, he suspected. No one defends the countryside and its traditions more fiercely than he who has just got planning permission for his own half-acre. The Village Amenities Committee didn't sound like a farmworkers' trade union, somehow.

It's that bloody woman again, thought Pascoe gloomily. Why have I taken against her so much so rapidly? And I'm spending the night under her roof.

But why the hell should I? I didn't want to.

That anger which had been bubbling under the surface all morning suddenly broke through again. He had progressed about a quarter of a mile down the long, winding village street and now realized he was opposite the Queen Anne. On an impulse he crossed over and went in.

It wasn't long till closing time and the bar was empty.

'Lager, please,' he said to the attractively solid-fleshed woman who came to take his order.

'Thirsty weather,' she said with a smile.

'Do you put people up?' he asked, sipping his drink.

'Sorry. You might try the Eagle and Child. They have a couple of rooms there they sometimes let.'

'Thanks. Is it Mrs Dixon, by the way?' Pascoe asked.

That's right,' the woman answered, looking at him with sudden wariness. 'Why?'

'You served Mrs Hopkins, Mrs Rose Hopkins of Brookside Cottage, last night I believe.'

'Yes. Yes, I did.' She glanced through into the other bar.

'Sam. Sam, love. Got a moment?'

A red, jolly-faced man, solid as his wife, stepped through, a smile on his lips. Pascoe could understand how Crowther felt made welcome.

'Lovely day, sir. Yes, my dear?'

This gentleman's asking about Mrs Hopkins.'

Sam Dixon composed his features to a solemnity they clearly weren't made for.

'A dreadful business. Are you from the Press, sir?'

'No,' said Pascoe. The man looked nonplussed for a moment.

'The thing is,’ he said finally, 'it's an upsetting business. Molly – my wife – has spoken to the police already. Now, we don't like talking about our customers at the best of times, but in circumstances like this, especially with friends of the poor woman

'I'm a friend,' said Pascoe suddenly. He appreciated the man's diplomacy but he couldn't keep the abruptness out of his voice. 'I was a friend. I'm not just after a bit of sensational titillation.'