chance that he was sincere.
'Just one thing more,' he said, pausing at the door. 'What was Mr Hopkins writing his book about?'
'His book? Poverty! He laughed when he told me. Coming to Thornton Lacey to write a book about poverty in modern Britain was like hunting polar bears in Africa, he said.'
'It doesn't sound a best-selling subject,' opined Backhouse cautiously.
'I don't know. Full of case histories, hard-luck stories, people driven to crime, the effect of inadequate diets on sexual performance, that kind of thing. It's the kind of pop sociology that could sell.'
'You sound disapproving.'
'Not at all. Envious perhaps. Until this morning.'
'Yes. Not much cause for envy now. Goodbye.'
They sat in silence for a while after he had gone. Ellie spoke first.
'I'm sorry,' she said.
'What for?'
'For before, what I said. Grief's a selfish emotion really. I had forgotten they were your friends too.'
'Yes. And Colin still is.'
'Do you think he did it, Peter?'
Pascoe made a hopeless gesture.
'I don't know. I can't believe it, but I've got to admit the possibility. People kill those they love all the time.'
'But you were willing to attack some poor bloody stranger because he accepted the possibility? Odd behaviour for a policeman,' she mocked affectionately.
'I'm an odd policeman,' he said, kissing her gently.
'Thanks,’ she said. 'Now I'm going to pull myself together and face the world. Whatever the truth, Colin will need friends when they catch up with him.'
She stood up and stretched her arms as though newly roused from sleep.
'Do I gather you've got us invited somewhere for the night?'
Pascoe explained briefly about the Culpeppers, concealing his own irrational dislike of Marianne.
'I see,' said Ellie. 'Sounds all sweet sherry and sympathy. I'll go and freshen up, then I wouldn't mind sampling the country air for half an hour or so before we present ourselves to our hosts.'
'A good idea. There's plenty of time,' said Pascoe.
The door opened and Mrs Crowther reappeared.
'He's gone then,' she grunted. Her gaze fell on the tea-tray.
'And no one wants my tea?'
'Oh, I'm sorry,' exclaimed Ellie. 'It's my fault. I just forgot.'
'Look,' said Pascoe. 'Why don't you two sit down and have a cup? It should still be hot. I just want to pop out and check the car. It seems to be eating oil lately.'
Ellie shot him a curious look, but he left quickly before she could say anything. As he had expected, the office section of the house was empty. Crowther would be very busy about the village this afternoon. He made straight for the table which carried the solid old Imperial typewriter, and saw what he was looking for straightaway. In the wooden tray by the machine were Crowther's notes on local colour plus the carbon of the typewritten version given to Backhouse. He ignored the original in the constable's crabbed hand and picked up the copy.
He had just started on the first of the five quarto sheets when a voice spoke behind him.
'Excuse me.'
Pascoe started so violently that his leg twitched and cracked painfully against the rim of the desk. Christ! he thought, your nerve ends really have been exposed today, my boy.
Instinctively he let the sheets of paper slide out of his hands into the tray before he turned.
Standing behind the small counter across which the public could seek audience with their local guardian of the law was a rather frail old lady who seemed to be wearing a military uniform of sorts. WVS? wondered Pascoe.
'Yes?' he said.
'I was hoping to find Mr Crowther.' She had a slow, gentle voice. Definitely good works, he decided. Moral samplers and nourishing broth round the farmworkers' hovels.
'I'm afraid he's not here at the moment. I don't know when he'll be back. Is it urgent?'
'I'm not sure.'
She stared hard at him and asked dubiously, 'Are you a policeman?'
'Well, yes. Yes, I am,' said Pascoe. 'Sergeant Pascoe.'
'Sergeant? That ought to be all right then. I am Alicia Langdale.' She paused. For effect? thought Pascoe. Is she the lady of the manor? Should I be impressed?
'Yes?' he prompted.
'And it's connected with my job, you see. That's what makes it so delicate.'
'What is your job, Mrs Langdale?'
'Miss. Can't you see? I'm a postman.'
Oh my God! thought Pascoe. That's what the gear is! He could see he had lost what little ground the revelation of his rank had gained him.
'Of course,' he said with a smile.
'My sister, Anthea, and I keep the post office. She takes care of the internal business and I look after deliveries. Normally what happens, of course, is that people post their letters, they are collected in a van and taken to the main post office in town where they are sorted.'
'I see,' said Pascoe.
'But sometimes, if it's a matter of local mail – things that I'm going to have to deliver anyway, you understand – some people just leave them on the counter or push them through our letter-box.'
She raised her chin and looked defiantly at Pascoe, who suddenly knew what this was all about. He took the letter Miss Langdale produced from her large pocket and stared down at Colin's distinctive handwriting. J. K. Palfrey, Esq., The Eagle and Child, Thornton Lacey.
A flock of thoughts rose and fluttered around Pascoe's mind. The proper course of action was clear. Take the letter to Backhouse who would then take it to Palfrey and require it to be opened in his presence. If it was not relevant to the inquiry that would be an end to it. But if it was…! Pascoe did not feel somehow that Backhouse would be keen to let him read it.
He realized with a start that Miss Langdale was still speaking.
'I was almost at the Eagle and Child this morning when I met Mrs Anderson who told me the news. She picks up everything very quickly, I'm afraid. Normally I pay no heed, but this was different. This was dreadful, dreadful. So I finished my round but kept this letter. Anthea and I have been discussing all day what we ought to do. It's our duty to deliver the Queen's mail, you see. But if, as seemed possible in the circumstances, it might cause distress… and in a sense, it had not in fact been posted, had it? So here I am. Will you give me a receipt, please?'
Her voice was suddenly brisk, businesslike. Pascoe looked round for a piece of paper and a pen. He had made up his mind to open the letter and damn the consequences. Every instinct in his body warned him against it, but told him at the same time how important the letter was. He had to see. This might be his only chance.
'Receipt book's in the top drawer, Sergeant.'
It was Crowther, standing quietly in the doorway. His chance had gone.
'Interesting, this,' said the constable, holding the letter before him after he had efficiently disposed of Miss Langdale. 'I'd better let the super have it right away. Thanks for taking care of things.'
He put the letter in his tunic pocket, tidied up the papers on his desk, stared a long moment at the disturbed carbon copy of his notes but did not remove them, and left.
'Damn! damn! damn!' said Pascoe. But he shuddered to think of the dangerous course he had been about to steer on. The sooner he got back to Dalziel and other people's losses, the better.
He went back into the living-room to collect Ellie and take her to the Culpeppers'.
