Bones and Silence

about Swain. Such strong antipathies bred bias and clouded the judgement. Wield knew all about bias, hoped he would speak out against it if necessary. But for the moment all that he was required to do was deliver Waterson safe into Dalziel's eager hands.

He went back to the small side ward.

It was empty.

Suddenly his heart felt in need of intensive care. He went out to the nurse's station. The plump sister gave him her smile.

'Where's Mr Waterson, sister?' he asked.

'Is he not in his bed?'

'No. ‘He might be in the lavvy. Or perhaps he's gone to have a shower.'

'You didn't see him? Have you been here all the time, since we talked, I mean?'

He must have sounded accusatory.

'Of course I haven't. I went off to fetch Dr Marwood to see you, didn't I?' she retorted.

'Where's the lavatory? And the shower?'

The lavatory was the nearer. It was empty. But in the shower Wield found a pair of pyjamas draped over a cubicle.

Either Waterson was wandering around naked, or . . .

He returned to the sister.

'What would happen to his clothes when he was admitted?'

'They'd be folded and put in his bedside locker,' she said.

The locker was empty.

'Shit,' said Wield. Only a few months earlier during the case on which Pascoe had hurt his leg, a suspect had made his escape from a hospital bed and Dalziel had rated the officer responsible a couple of points lower than PC Hector. But no reasonable person could have anticipated that a mere witness who'd volunteered a statement would do a bunk!

Then Dalziel's features flashed upon Wield's inward eye and reason slept.

'Oh shit,' he said again. Something made him glance down at his lapel. The tiny snowdrop had already wilted and died. He took it out and crushed it in his hand. Then with wandering steps and slow he made his way back to the telephone.

CHAPTER THREE

The Reverend Eustace Horncastle was a precise man. It was through exactitude rather than excellence that he had risen to the minor eminence of minor canon, so when he said to his wife, 'The woman is pagan,' she knew the word was not lightly chosen.

Nevertheless she dared a show of opposition.

'Surely she is merely exuberant, dramatic, full of life,' she said with the wistful envy of one who knew that whatever she herself had once been full of had seeped away years since.

'Pagan,' repeated the Canon with an emphasis which in a lesser man might almost have been relish.

Looking at the object of their discussion who was striding vigorously across the Market Square ahead of them, Dorothy Horncastle could not muster a second wave of disagreement. Eileen Chung's silver lurex snood was a nod in the direction of religiosity, and there was perhaps something cope-like in the purple striped poncho draped round her shoulders. But devil-detection begins at the feet, and those zodiac-printed moccasins with leather thongs biting into golden calves each separately sufficient to seduce a Chosen People, were a dead giveaway. Here was essence of pagan. If you could have bottled it, the Canon's wife might have bought some.

The clerical couple were almost at a canter to keep up with those endless legs, so when Chung stopped suddenly there was a small collision.

'Whoa, Canon,' said Chung amiably.

'A canon indeed, but little woe,' said Horncastle to his wife's amazement. He rarely aimed at wit and when he did was more likely to try a Ciceronian trope than plunge into a Shakespearean pun. A suspicion formed in Dorothy's mind, to be brushed away like a naughty thought at Communion, that her husband might have invited her presence this morning not simply to represent the views of the laity (his phrase), but because he felt the need of a chaperone!

There had been one full meeting of the Mysteries committee which had been as long as an uncut Hamlet and not nearly as jolly. The combined verbosity of a city councillor, a union leader, a member of the Chamber of Commerce, a mediaeval historian, a journalist and Canon Horncastle, had defeated even Chung's directorial expertise and she had resolved thereafter to pick them off singly as she had picked them on singly in the first place. The diocese contained many worldlier, merrier clerics who would have given half their tithes to be religious advisers on such a project, but Chung's homework had told her Horncastle was the man. Heir apparent to the senescent Dean, he was the key figure in the Cathedral Chapter on matters relating to sacred sites and buildings, and the Bishop was said to respect his views highly, which her interpreter assured her was Anglican for being shit-scared of him.

'I thought this might be a good site for one of the pageants,' said Chung. 'The sun will be coming round behind the Corn Market at that time of day and it'll light up the wagon like a spot.'

'If the weather is clement,' said the Canon.

'I'll rely on your good offices for that,' laughed Chung.

Dorothy Horncastle waited for her husband's expected rebuke at this meteorological blasphemy but it didn't come. Instead something horribly like a simper touched his narrow lips. The unbelievable notion rose again that perhaps he really did need protection! Not sexually, for the frost in those loins was surely proof against the most torrid touch, but there were other temptations in this pagan's armoury. She'd been mildly puzzled when at breakfast this morning Eustace had started reminiscing about his seminary triumph in the chorus line of Samson