'That's right. Like everyone else, I had to move out. Part of the price of progress.'
'But in the end, some people were probably glad to go, even to see the valley underwater?' he probed.
'You think Lorraine's disappearance may have something to do with what happened back then?'
'You tell me, Mrs. Shimmings,' said Pascoe. 'I wasn't around then. You've heard about these painted signs? BENNY'S BACK!?'
She nodded.
'So, could he be back? And if so, where's he been? I heard he was a bit simple.'
'He could have been living with people who don't ask questions or make judgments,' she offered. 'Like these New Age travelers. Anyway, Benny wasn't simple. In fact he was very bright.'
'I'm sorry. I was told he'd had an accident… something about a plate in his head…'
'Oh, that,' she said dismissively. 'I taught Benny both before and after that accident, Mr. Pascoe. And he was just as sharp after it as before. But he was always different, and folk in Yorkshire confuse different with daft just as readily as anywhere else. No, he wasn't simple, but he was… fey, I think that's the word. I taught him till he was old enough to go to the secondary. That meant taking the bus out of the dale, and he wasn't keen. But his father told him to go and do his best, and Benny paid a lot of heed to Saul, his dad. Then when Benny was twelve, Saul Lightfoot died.'
'How?' asked Pascoe. The policeman's question.
'He drowned. He was a fine athletic man,' said Mrs. Shimmings with what a romantic observer might have called a faraway look in her eyes. 'He used to go swimming in the mere. He was a good strong swimmer but they think he got tangled up with a submerged tree branch. It devastated poor Benny. The family all lived with old Mrs. Lightfoot, Benny's gran, in Neb Cottage. It must have been a tight squeeze; there were three kids, Benny and his younger brother and sister, Barnabas and Deborah. But it worked all right as long as Saul was around. He was that sort of man. Charismatic, I suppose they'd say nowadays. Or what the young girls would call a hunk.'
Pascoe smiled and glanced surreptitiously at his watch. Local history was fine, but he had responsibilities in the here and now which wouldn't wait.
'I'm sorry, I'm holding you back,' said Mrs. Shimmings.
He'd forgotten she was a head teacher with an eye long trained for the telltale minutiae of behavior.
'Nothing I can do till my men arrive,' he assured her. 'Please, carry on.'
'Well, Marion, that's Benny's mother, and old Mrs. Lightfoot never really got on. She wasn't a country lass, Saul had met her at a dance in town, and now with him gone, there was nothing to keep her in Dendale. It was no surprise when she got a job in town and took the children off. Benny came back from time to time to see his gran. I gathered he wasn't happy. Not that he spoke much to anyone, he was becoming more and more withdrawn. Then it seems his mother met up with a new man. He moved in. I think that ultimately they got married, but only because they'd decided to emigrate, Australia, I think it was, and being married made things easier. Benny didn't want to go. The night before they were due to leave, he took off and came to his gran's. Marion came looking for him. He refused point blank to go back with her and old Mrs. Lightfoot said he could stay with her. So that's what happened. I daresay there were a great number of other things said that shouldn't have been said. Net result was the family left and Benny settled in at Neb Cottage. As far as I can make out, he dropped right out of school. The truancy officer came round several times, and the Social Services, but at the first sight of anyone vaguely official, indeed anyone he didn't recognize, Benny would take off up the Neb, and in the end they more or less gave up, though I'm sure they found some face-saving formula to regularize the situation.'
'How do you regularize truancy?' wondered Pascoe.
'You don't. Time does that,' said Mrs. Shimmings. 'I think they must have heaved a mighty sigh of relief in the Education Office when Benny passed his sixteenth birthday. But the psychological damage was done. Benny was wary, elusive, introverted, solitary, devoid of social skills-in other words, in the eyes of most people, plain simple.'
'And could he have been responsible for the disappearances?' he asked.
'Sex is a strong mover in young men,' she said. 'But before the attack on Betsy Allgood, I had serious reservations. After that, however…'
She shook her head. 'You were quite right what you said before. In the end I think a lot of folk were glad to get out of Dendale, glad to see it go underwater. The more biblically inclined saw it as a repeat of the Genesis flood, aimed at drowning out wickedness.'
'Nice thought,' said Pascoe. 'But wickedness is a strong swimmer. And how did you feel, Mrs. Shimmings?'
It seemed an innocent enough question, but to his distress he saw her eyes fill with tears, even though she turned away quickly to hide them and went to the teacher's desk.
'Funny,' she said, 'while I was waiting for you I went into our little library, and this was the book I picked out.'
She took a book from the desktop and held it up so he could see the title.
It was The Drowning of Dendale.
'I know it,' said Pascoe. 'My wife has a copy.'
It was, as he recalled, a coffee-table book, square shaped and consisting mainly of photos with very little text. It was in two parts, the first entitled 'The Dale,' the second 'The Drowning.' The first photograph was a panorama of the whole dale, bathed in evening light. And the epigraph under the subtitle was A happy rural seat of various view.
'Paradise Lost,' said Mrs. Shimmings. 'That's how I felt, Mr. Pascoe. It may have been spoiled, but it was still like leaving Paradise.'
A horn blew outside. Glad of a diversion from this highly charged and, he hoped, totally irrelevant display of emotion, Pascoe went to the window.
They were arriving, all kinds of vehicles bearing everything necessary for the center. Furniture, telephones, radios, computers, catering equipment, and of course, personnel. Must be like this in a war, he thought. Before a Big Push. Like Passchendaele. So much hustle and bustle, so many men and machines, failure must have seemed inconceivable. But they had failed, many many thousands of them needlessly killed, one of them his namesake, his great-grandfather, not drowning in mud or shattered by shell fire, but tied to a post and shot by British bullets…
He said, 'We'll talk again later, Mrs. Shimmings,' and went out to take control.
'I often think they've only gone out walking, And soon they'll come homewards all laughing and talking. The weather's bright! Don't look so pale. They've only gone for a hike updale.'
'So what's this? Narcissism, or the artist's response to just criticism?'
Elizabeth Wulfstan pressed the pause button on her zapper and turned her head to look at the man who'd just come in.
The years had been good to Arne Krog. Into his forties now, his unlined open face, framed in a shock of golden hair and a fringe of matching beard, kept him looking more like Hollywood's idea of a sexy young ski instructor than anyone's idea of a middle-aged baritone. And if, in terms of reputation and reward, the years had not been quite so generous, he made sure it didn't show.
She said, 'Most of what you said was right. Makes you happy, does it?'
She spoke with a strong Yorkshire inflection which came as surprise to those who knew her by her singing voice alone.
'It makes me happy that you have seen your error. Never mind. It will be a collector's disc when you are old and famous. Perhaps then, to be contrary, you will make your last recording of songs best suited to a young, fresh voice. But preferably in the language in which they were written.'
'I wanted folk to understand them,' she said.
'Then give them a translation to read, not yourself one to sing. Language is important. I should have thought someone so devoted to her own native woodnotes wild would have understood that.'
'Don't see why I should have to speak like you just to please some posh wankers,' she said.
She smiled briefly as she spoke. Her face, with its regular features, dark unblinking eyes, and heavy patina of pale makeup, all framed in shoulder-length ash-blond hair, had a slightly menacing masklike quality till she smiled, when it lit to a remote beauty, like an Arctic landscape touched by a fitful sun. She was five nine or ten, and looked even taller in the black top and Lycra slacks which clung to her slim figure.
