'Sorry, sir. It's a matter of priorities, I'd say. You were right not to let things go any further with yon widow if what you felt was, when things went wrong, you'd be fingering her collar.'
'What would be the alternative?' demanded Dalziel.
'Helping her pack her suitcase and buying two tickets to Rio?' suggested Wield. 'And, no, I won't have another drink, sir. It's time I got off home.'
Knowing how expert the other was at delaying tactics, he rose even as he spoke and headed for the door. But before he reached it, a hand grasped his sleeve and he glanced aside to find himself looking at Detective Constable Novello.
'Buy you a drink, sarge?' she said.
'Some other time, thanks,' he said. 'I'm a bit late.'
She released his sleeve but remained at his side, looking at him.
Something she wants to talk about, he thought, but not important enough to spit it right out. Therefore not important enough to drop me even deeper in it with Edwin.
He jerked his head towards the table where Dalziel was sitting apparently deep in contemplation of the shirt button straining over his navel.
'Super's in a drinking mood but,' he said.
Her gaze moved to the monumental figure, then back.
'I've not drunk enough myself,' she said. 'Goodnight then, sarge.'
Feeling both a heel and a hero that at last he'd put the job second, Wield went out into the night.
Away to the west in Leeds, Peter Pascoe too was being offered a drink.
He shook his head but Ellie said, 'Yes, please. As it comes,' and Hilary Studholme smiled at her almost gratefully as he poured a measure large enough to please a detective superintendent.
He'd expressed no surprise when he'd opened the door and seen the Pascoes. It was late-night opening at the supermarket and through the automatic doors, almost continuously open under the steady stream of shoppers, drifted a thin line of disco music, broken now and then by a plummy voice urging customers not to miss the unmissable bargains to be found at the delicatessen counter. Lights blazed above, around, and from within the building, and through the unearthly glow cast by the sodium lamps which ringed the car park drifted a no-man's-land brume of November mist and deadly exhaust gases.
'Amazing,’ Ellie breathed as she took in the contrast between the world represented by that garish bustle and the narrow, high, Victorian museum. And when she stepped inside and the heavy door blanked out the 1990s like a candle-snuffer, 'Amazing,' she said again.
She would have liked to linger in the museum, but this was Peter's show and she had accompanied the two men silently up the steep staircases to the major's tiny flat. At least there was to be no forensic fencing, Studholme coming straight to the point with military directness.
'You found out about my father,' he said as he poured himself a Scotch. 'I didn't know whether to tell you or not. I almost did, then I thought, if he's really set on digging up the past, he'll find out himself and come back to me.'
'Everyone seems set on giving me little tests,' said Pascoe. 'Pass them, and I'm allowed to move on a little further. I presume you got your own knowledge from your father's war journal?'
'Yes. That's why Pascoe rang a bell. Then you said it wouldn't have been Pascoe. Then I found that old photo and it looked so like you, I just had to check.'
'But there's more, isn't there? Not just the name. That wouldn't be enough to leave you so agitated. There has to be something else.'
The major glanced at Ellie and smiled again.
'Living with someone who's always putting two and two together must present its problems,' he said.
'His arithmetic's not always that hot,' said Ellie.
'What else is there?' said Pascoe, refusing to be lured into these mood-lightening exchanges.
The major regarded him with his one bright eye, sighed, rose and went to an old bureau not a million miles in style from Ada's secretaire.
From a drawer he took a book stylishly bound in tooled leather.
'My father's diary,’ he said. 'I had it bound to stop it falling apart. When I die, it will have its place in the museum, but till then. . well, it was his personal record, and if it was meant for anyone else's eyes, I like to think it was mine.'
Expertly he opened it with his one hand at a place marked by a pipe spill.
'This is what he wrote about Sergeant Pascoe's trial. You can look at it yourself if you like, but I warn you, his hand is almost illegible to the untutored eye.'
'Why don't you read it to us?' said Ellie.
'Very well. Could you pass me my glasses?'
Ellie picked up a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles lying on the table next to the whisky decanter, approached the major and without any hesitation placed them on his nose.
'Thank you, my dear,' he said with another flash of that charming smile.
'My pleasure,' said Ellie.
Jesus, thought Pascoe. Thank God the old sod isn't ten years younger!
'I'll do a little bit of editing as I go,' said Studholme. 'But nothing relevant, I assure you.'
He coughed twice to clear his throat and began reading. He adopted an old-fashioned public speaking style, much heavier than his normal mode, like a man called upon to read a lesson at a carol service.
'October 1917. Date fixed for Pascoe's court martial at last. Delay caused by Grindal's absence. Minor physical injuries, so everyone thought he'd be back in matter of weeks. CO got report saying neurasthenia diagnosed with no prospect of rapid return, so it has been decided to admit written account as evidence. Evenlode sneered at mention of neurasthenia which he calls
shirkers' cramp. Says that temporary gents are particularly susceptible, by which he means Grindal because his family are trade.'
'This Evenlode,' interrupted Ellie. 'Any relation to the Pitt-Evenlodes?'
'Oh yes. Name got modified when his cousin, the baron, married the only child of Sir Chesney Pitt who was keen to preserve his own family name. The Evenlodes felt that the distaff side, being inferior, should come second, but the story is that Sir Chesney said that if they called themselves Evenlode-Pitt, it would be like having a coal mine in the family. Their grandson, Piers, is serving in the regiment currently, just gazetted lieutenant colonel. Do you know them?'
'A nodding acquaintance,' said Ellie who could sound regally condescending when she wanted.
'Evenlode was the adjutant, right?' said Pascoe determined to cut through the cosiness.
'Right. And from what my father wrote, he had a distaste for Sergeant Pascoe which outweighed even his dislike of Lieutenant Grindal. Where was I? Oh yes, here we are. Evenlode raised no objection to using written evidence however. Never liked the way Pascoe stuck up for his men. Recall him telling poor old Hurley that an infantry platoon needed good NCOs not trouble-stirring shop stewards. And since that business of Pascoe being helped by Fritz to rescue his cousin, he's really had him marked down as one of these Bolshevik agitators everyone's been talking about since the spring. From my knowledge of both Pascoe and Grindal, I'd have bet on the sergeant being much the steadier of the two. But no one's asking me.'
He paused to turn the page.
Pascoe said, 'This Evenlode, he was the prosecuting officer, yes?'
'That's right. It was usually the adjutant from the prisoner's unit who took that role. Kept it in the family, so to speak, and also meant that he would have a personal knowledge of the individuals involved. It was generally thought to work to the prisoner's advantage.'
'Generally. Meaning, like a general? Very apt,' sneered Pascoe.
Ellie quickly said, 'The cousin, what was his name, Steve Pascoe, right? What became of him?'
'I told you what those women at Kirkton said,' began Pascoe irritated at the interruption.
'Yes, I know. Ran off with his cousin's widow. What I mean is, if he deserted too, how come he never got caught? And how come, if Peter reported you right, major, the only mention of him in the regimental records is that he got wounded in the Salient?'