"Inspector Priest," I told her. "I believe you'd like some advice about the security of your home?"
"Annabelle Wilberforce." She pulled off a glove and held out her hand, looking straight into my face and smiling. Her nose wrinkled when she smiled. I was suddenly struck by an osmosis problem: my throat felt dry but my knees had turned to water.
"I didn't expect an inspector to call…" She paused and laughed.
I picked up the drift. "There's the makings of a play in there somewhere," I said. I went on: "Wilf Trumble asked me to come, and when Wilf says jump, we jump."
"Did you work with Wilf?" she asked.
"We overlapped careers for a while, but he's always been a friend of the family."
"He and Betty worship at St. Bidulph's. They are a lovely couple."
I asked her to take me round the exterior of the house. It was a fine building and had been extensively modernised. I bet the current vicar would have preferred it to the tacky little box they'd put him in.
"Do you do all the gardening yourself, Mrs. Wilberforce?" I asked.
"Please, call me Annabelle," she said. "An old gentleman from up the road does most of it. He says I undo all his work."
A few window locks and perhaps a burglar alarm were all that was required. I gave the speech about it being impossible to keep out a really determined thief but most were easily deterred by a few simple precautions. She didn't want to invest in a Rottweiler, thank God. I gave her a rough idea of what it would cost and recommended a couple of people who would do a good job.
"That's a relief," she said. "I'd heard some rather extravagant prices being quoted. Can I offer you a cup of tea, Inspector Priest? I assume you can drink tea when on duty. Or would you prefer coffee?"
"I'm probably off duty by now," I answered, 'in which case I would love a cup of tea. And it's Charles or Charlie, I answer to either."
The tea came in a delicate china service, with home-made fruit cake. I restrained myself and used just the tip of the spoon in the sugar, instead of my normal four big ones. When Annabelle noticed that I drank it black she asked if I would like lemon. Conversation was awkward and aimless for a while, then she referred back to our opening remarks.
"Do you go to the theatre at all, Charles?"
I did, although it was a year or three since my last visit. I told her why I hadn't been for a while. I noticed a Mahler CD on the player, so we talked about plays and music for a few minutes. I heard myself confessing to being addicted to art galleries no need to mention pubs with sawdust on the floor and transport cafes. After the second cup I reluctantly stood up to leave. Annabelle thanked me for coming and said she had enjoyed our chat.
At the door I turned to her and said: "Annabelle, I hope you don't mind me saying this, but I can sometimes obtain tickets for concerts at the town hall. Cancellations. Normally they are booked up a year in advance. Would you like me to give you a ring the next time any are available?"
She opened her mouth in mock horror and said: "Inspector Priest! I hope they don't fall off the back of a lorry!"
This woman could make me laugh. It was getting better all the time.
"Fraid not," I said. "I ring my opposite number at the town hall and he nips down the corridor to the booking office. Then I have to send him a fat cheque. Shall I see what he can do?"
She leaned on the edge of the door for a long while before she answered. Then she shook her head slowly. "I think you're very kind for asking, Charles, and I'm grateful. But I don't think I want to just yet. Do you mind if we leave it for a while?"
Ah well. Good old flat-footed Inspector Plod had cocked it up again. I gave her a tight-lipped smile and said: "That's okay. I believe that's what our American cousins call taking a raincheck."
"Yes," she said. "Let's just say we are taking a raincheck." She said it kindly, as if she meant it.
Wilf Trumble let me in and poured me a beer. Betty went into the kitchen to serve the casserole.
"What have you been up to?" Wilf asked. "You're grinning like a butcher's terrier."
I had a sip of beer and grinned some more. After a while I said: "I've just seen a friend of yours."
"Who might that be?"
"A certain Mrs. Wilberforce," I told him.
His eyes lit up: "What do you think of her?"
"I think she's a bit of all right."
"She is, isn't she? Are you seeing her again?"
"What do you mean?" I protested. "I saw her on a professional basis to give her some crime prevention advice. I don't chat up every woman I meet. I can be civilised when I try." Then I asked him how long her husband had been dead.
"Peter? About a year, no, maybe going on for two. He was a smashing bloke. It was a great loss to us all when he went. No edge to him at all. You'd never believe he was a bishop. Not like some of the day dreamers we get."
It was slow to register. It crept over me like a shadow creeping up an ivy-clad wall. "Did you say he was… a bishop?"
"Yes. Didn't I tell you? Annabelle's husband was Peter Wilberforce, Bishop of Leeds. You must have heard of him."
"Jesus Christ!" I exploded. "I just asked the Bishop's wife for a date!"
Wilf nearly choked on his beer. "I hope you didn't blaspheme," he spluttered.
Betty invited us to go through and eat. Her famous casserole was well up to standard. Wilf took great pleasure in telling his wife what he knew, so out of politeness I filled them in on more or less what had happened.
Betty said, "I know Wilf thinks I'm an old busybody, but I think you and Annabelle are made for each other. You liked her, didn't you? Help yourself to some more."
I helped myself. I tried to sound uninvolved but appreciative. "I think she's an extremely attractive lady, but I suspect she's just a teeny bit out of my league."
"Nonsense!" snapped Betty. "She's flesh and blood like everybody else. And she's been mourning for far too long. It's unhealthy."
"I agree," said Wilf. "A fortnight should be plenty long enough."
Betty glared at him. "If you go first, I'll be eyeing up all the widowers at the ham tea," she declared.
I changed my mind about the casserole. It wasn't just up to standard, it was exceptional.
Chapter Three
Gilbert Wood is my superintendent. Our careers can be compared to the early American rocket experiments. His kept going up, but mine just cleared the launch tower before toppling over and flying horizontally.
A few people thought I ought to be in his seat, but I wasn't one of them. We got on well together, worked as a team, with lots of mutual trust. It was more than that, though, we were good friends. I called into his office to tell him about the Chinaman and that I wanted Wednesday off.
"Another day off, Charlie? You had one two years ago. You realise you've only five months and twenty-nine days' holiday left now?"
"And a half. I only had half a day off two years ago. And if it turns out to be business on Wednesday I'll be putting in for expenses."
Gilbert looked interested. "Might it be business?" he asked.
I told him about the Rudi Truscott calls.
"Mmm," he said. "Sounds promising. Beamish is a super place. Doesn't half take you back. The kids couldn't believe we lived like that. God, there's a dentist's surgery just like the school dentist had. Scares you silly." He gave a shudder at the memory of it. "What does this Truscott do?" he asked.
"He was a lecturer at the art school. He taught me when I was there.
And Vanessa a few years later; but then he started making a reputation as a faker of old masters."
Gilbert was about to speak but I held up a hand to stop him.