'Do you want a lift?'
'No thanks, I'll walk.'
As I strode through the yard a patrol car was just leaving, driven by WPC Kim Limbert. The chance of a ride with Kim was more than I could resist, so I waved her down. Kim came to Britain from Guyana as a very small child. Her parents believed she was gifted and wanted to give her the chance to realise her potential. She didn't disappoint them, doing well at school and going on to pick up a degree in law. Then she ruined it by joining the Force, but now she was on the promotion ladder. She was also six feet tall, and could have graced the catwalk of any fashion house she chose, had that been her inclination. I asked her to take me to the garage, then said: 'Looking forward to leaving us, Kim?'
'No, not really, sir. I've enjoyed being at Heckley, it's a good crew.
But I'm in the job for promotion, so I'll have to move around.'
Sir. There it was again. It was even more hurtful when a beautiful young woman used it. Why couldn't she call me Charlie, or…
Snufflebum? I said: 'You'll be okay. There's some mean hombres in the city, but you'll deal with them.'
'No doubt my fellow officers will look after me.'
I smiled wistfully. 'It's your fellow officers I'm talking about. You know where your Uncle Charlie is if you have any problems. Just drop me off on the corner.'
The car was ready for collection so I found myself way ahead of schedule. Ah, well, a faint heart never fondled a fair maiden.
Besides, if I called on Mrs. Wilberforce it would give me something to tell Wilf and Betty over dinner. I pointed the bonnet up the hill towards the Top Road and the ancient buttresses of St. Bidulph's.
Mrs. Wilberforce was in the garden. She was going on for my age and almost as tall as me. Her hair was fair and a line of curls fell across her forehead, like you see on Roman statues. The word Junoesque seemed appropriate. I could imagine her in her youth, leading the Cheltenham Ladies' College hockey team on to the field, and being chaired off shoulder-high after scoring the winning goal in the final chukka. She might have been dressed to talk to the WI at the Albert Hall if it hadn't been for the gardening gloves. I showed her my card the way I'd seen Philip Marlow do it.
'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
