panoramic view of the dale which Mrs. Shimmings had shown him, he could remember nothing of it. In any case, what would any previous examination have meant to him? But now he had looked down at the dale as it had become, and he had seen several of its old inhabitants as they had become, and these pictures brought the past to life in a way that, unaided, his imagination could never have managed.
Here were all the buildings he knew only as heaps of rubble scarcely distinguishable from the stony fellside on which they lay.
Here was Heck, a solid, rather stern house even in the bright sunlight which filled all the photos. No one in sight, but a child's swing on an oak tree in the garden had a twist to its ropes as if some small form had just stepped off and slipped quietly away.
Here was Hobholme, one of those old farms which had grown in linear progression, with barn tagged on to house, cattle shed to barn, lambing shed to shippen, and so on as each need arose. A woman was caught walking purposefully along the line of buildings with a pail in either hand. In the delicate young profile Pascoe had no difficulty in identifying the features of Molly Hardcastle. Here she was going about her business with the dutiful stoicism of a hill farmer's wife, not happy exactly, her mind perhaps preoccupied with contrasting the hard expectations of her husband with the softer approaches of Constable Clark. were these just the idle dreams of a hardworked wife? Was her love for her three young children and perhaps the memory that Hardcastle, too, had once been tender, enough to have kept her anchored here at Hobholme? Or was she seriously contemplating braving her husband's anger and her neighbors' gossip and making a break for happiness? Idle dreams or positive planning, how she must have felt she had paid for either so soon after, when little Jenny walked away alone from the bathing pool…
A few pages on was The Stang, with the carpenter's shed bigger than the whitewashed cottage, smoke pouring out of its chimney to remind the onlooker that fire was a necessary workmate even when the sun was hot enough to bake apples on the tree. Outside the shed stood two men, stripped to the waist, with runnels of sweat down their forearms and pectorals, one clutching a saw and the other a plank, both smiling at the camera, clearly relieved at this excuse to pause and take a well-earned breather. There was a strong family resemblance. One was doubtless Joe Telford, the other his brother George, but an unfamiliar eye couldn't tell the difference between them. Doubtless anybody could now.
The church was here, too, St. Luke's, with a newlywed couple emerging, all smiles and happiness; the Holly Bush Inn with folk sitting outside, enjoying a drink in the evening sun, looking as used to these al fresco pleasures as any Provencal peasant; Low Beulah, where the Allgoods lived, with a slim, dark-haired man emerging, his leathery face creased into a Heathcliffian frown as though about to give the photographer a piece of his mind.
And here was the village school.
Pascoe's heart contracted, and he felt Shirley Novello stiffen beside him. All the valley's children were here, about two dozen of them, posed in three rows, front sitting on the ground, middle kneeling, back standing with their teachers, Mrs. Winter and Miss Lavery, at either side. His eyes ran along the rows. There had been photos of the missing girls in the file, and he picked out their little blond heads and smiling faces one by one. The dark, solemn features of Betsy Allgood were easily spottable too. And another face which looked familiar among the bigger girls on the back row… now he made the connection… this must be Elsie Coe, age ten or eleven, unmistakable to anyone who'd studied the police handout photo of her daughter, Lorraine Dacre.
The school photo had the caption Smiling on a bright future, but not in Dendale!
No. Not in Dendale.
There were other landscape pictures-of the mere with someone swimming in it; of Beulah Height with the old sheepfold built from stones of the even older hill-fort; of White Mare's Tail in full spate, which meant it was probably taken earlier than the others, before the drought took hold. Then he reached the second section, 'The Drowning,' with the epigraph:
Oh, unexpected stroke, worse than of
Death! Must I thus leave thee, Paradise?
Now followed photos of the building of the dam and the clearing of the valley. Here were people loading possessions into vans or onto trailers pulled by tractors. Here were sheep being brought down the fellside by the Heathcliffian character, who was probably Mr. Allgood; here was the churchyard with graves gaping wide and an anxious-looking vicar watching the disinterment of a coffin. Here was the Holly Bush with the landlord removing the sign. Here was the schoolroom, empty of children and desks, with only a few remnants of artwork stuck to the windows to show what this place had once been. And here was the village hall, a man coming out, his arms weighed down with box files, back-heeling the door shut behind him.
The face was unmistakable. Sergeant Wield. The police, too, had had to pack up, though the text made no reference to the other tragedy being played out in Dendale that long, hot summer. Probably right for this kind of book. Those involved in the investigation would need no souvenir.
Pascoe flicked on, wondering what the hell, maps apart, Benny Lightfoot-if it were he-could have been interested in?
In the first section there had been only one glimpse of Neb Cottage seen distantly but here there was another, much closer. Yet not the kind of shot the returning native would want to pore over. It showed the cottage at the very moment of its destruction. It was a dramatic picture, with evening sunlight setting everything in bold definition. A bulldozer with the name TIPLAKE clearly legible down the arm of its shovel was climbing up the side of the building like a rapacious dinosaur, the walls were collapsing like a shot beast, and the chimney stack had cracked above the gable and was leaning back like a mouth gaping to let out an agonized death cry.
He went on to the end. The second last picture showed the release of the Black Moss waters from Highcross Moor over the col between the Neb and Beulah Height. It was a dark and dismal picture, with the skies heavy with cloud and the air dense with the downpour which had broken the drought.
And the last picture of all showed the new dale, in sunshine again, with the reservoir brimful, a scene as quiet and as peaceful and as lifeless as a crematorium Garden of Remembrance.
He looked up at Novello. She met his gaze hopefully, but not, he was glad to gauge, expectantly.
He said, 'He goes to see his gran, he visits the Central Library and studies old newspapers and this book, he takes photocopies of the maps and camps out in Dendale till yesterday morning, when he packs up and comes back to town and the library. This we know. What more do you want to know?'
Her expression changed from vague hope to bafflement.
'Well, I want to know what he's up to, I want to know why he-'
'Yes,' he interrupted. 'But why do you want to know why?'
'Because… because…' Then suddenly she was with him.
'Because knowing might help us catch him soon as possible so we can question him about his possible involvement in the killing of Lorraine Dacre,' she said.
'That's right. Might help us catch him. Frankly, it's much more likely we'll pick him up through the camping van, or because he calls in again at Wark House. You've got that covered, I take it?'
'Yes, sir.'
'So don't beat your brains out on this clever detective stuff,' he said wearily. 'Curiosity's fine, but there comes a time when you've got to rejoin the team, even if it means pouring the tea, okay?'
'I just thought-'
'No harm in thinking. Here. Take a look yourself before you go. Just slam the door behind you. But not too loud, eh?'
He rose and left the room. She heard him going up the stairs again.
She sat down, opened the book at random, and found herself looking at the picture of the bulldozer destroying Neb Cottage.
Significant or not, this is one picture Benny Lightfoot would spend time over, she was sure. She tried to imagine herself looking at a similar photo of the destruction of the suburban semi where she'd been brought up. Even though it had none of the individuality of Neb Cottage, it would rend her heart to see the rooms where she had felt uniquely secure ripped open to the sky.
But Pascoe was right, she thought, closing the book. You shouldn't confuse idle curiosity with good CID work. Time to head out to Danby, see what new assignments were being dished out following the discovery of the body, play in the team even if you ended up pouring the tea.
…
