'No need to apologize,' said Pascoe. 'I was stupid.'
'Perhaps. Our emotions deserve an outing from time to time. Things had started going wrong fairly early in his acquaintance with the Hopkinses. According to his highly coloured version, very attractive, alas, to some of my fellows of the Press, Colin was an unbalanced, exhibitionistic Marxist.
Marxist, by the way, is something pretty ultimate in the Palfrey insult book. He would rather put his handsome teenage son into the tender care of someone like myself than entrust him to a Marxist.'
'Specifically, what did he tell you?' inquired Pascoe.
'Little enough, though I've gleaned a much more detailed version of the story from other sources. It seems that he tried the public-school- and-Sandhurst condescension bit first of all with the parvenus. When this didn't wash and he saw that Rose and Colin were accepted by those he, Palfrey, liked to be accepted by, he tried the all- chums-in-the-jolly-old-mess line. They didn't take all that kindly to that either, but being nice they tolerated it until one night he turned out a couple of rather noisy kids who'd strayed in by accident. He made the mistake of appealing to Rose for moral support. She stood up, declared that she'd always thought the beer was off but now she knew the full reason why he was called Jim Piss, and marched out. Palfrey said something about an ill-bred bitch; Colin – on his way after Rose – stopped long enough to pour the remnants of his drink over Palfrey's head. They never came back. After such a splendid exit, who could?'
'But that wasn't an end to it,' surmised Pascoe.
'By no means. Absence made the heart grow harder. Palfrey pursued them with calumny and slander and tried to spread rumours about their immorality, political extremism and, worst of all to the middle-class ear, economic unsoundness. Colin and Rose had plenty of friends, but there are always ears willing to listen in a place like this.'
'And…?' inquired Pascoe after they had walked another fifty yards in silence.
'And nothing. There's an end. Though I am told that Colin was seen coming out of the Eagle just before opening time on Friday morning and that Palfrey was rather quieter than usual with his lunch-time regulars.'
And Colin wrote a letter to Palfrey that afternoon. What the hell could have been in it? Backhouse would know. But would he know the background? Of course he would! Just as he, Pascoe, would have done if he'd managed to read all Crowther's notes!
They reached the village without saying much more. Outside the Eagle and Child they paused.
'Drink?' said Davenant.
'I don't think so,' said Pascoe. 'Not in there anyway.'
'No, of course not. Let's try the other place then.'
They made it just in time for 'last orders'. The place was crowded and Molly Dixon was under heavy pressure. Her quality as an inn-keeper was clearly demonstrated by the way she was coping, and she acknowledged Pascoe's arrival with a welcoming smile and a quick but genuinely concerned, 'OK?'
'Fine,' he answered.
'Mr Dixon not here?' he asked when she'd drawn his drinks.
'No,' she replied. 'It's the annual dinner of his bowls club. A stag do, very conveniently! Last orders, gentlemen, please! Come along now. Quickly as you can. Is there anyone without?'
She made it sound as if she were genuinely distressed at having to stop the flow. An admirable quality, thought Pascoe. Particularly when managing alone.
Looking round, he became aware that several eyes were focused in his direction. Reporters rather than locals, he surmised quickly. They had an air of alertness at variance with the closing-time conviviality of the rest.
He sipped his beer pensively and looked at his companion, wondering whether he'd act as a buffer against his colleagues. More likely his company would egg them on for fear they were missing something.
'How long have you been in journalism?' he asked.
'Centuries, sweetie,' answered Davenant. 'Don't let my aristocratic profile deceive you. I come of a poor when honest family who thrust me out to earn a living at the earliest opportunity. But tell me, how does it feel for a policeman suddenly to have a murder investigation come so close to him? A bit like Torquemada getting accidentally trapped in the Iron Maiden, I dare say.'
'You ought to know.'
'Feeling and knowing are not the same.'
Pascoe was saved from further cryptic conversation by the distant clanging of a fire-engine bell. Conversation died as it rapidly came near, so rapidly that by the time those sufficiently curious had got to the door, the tintinnabulation had soared to its climax and the fast-receding tail-lights were all there was to be seen.
'A sad time for a fire,' said Davenant.
'Sorry?'
'Autumn. Haystacks high and granaries full. I wonder if the nice lady behind the bar is open to suggestion. For more drink, I mean.'
'She's called last orders.'
'Which is what I mean to make.'
Davenant emptied his glass and made for the bar. The moment he moved, a tall, greying man presented himself before Pascoe.
'Mr Pascoe? I'm from the Echo. Could I have a quick word?'
'No,' said Pascoe.
'Just very quickly. Please.'
Others were drifting in his direction, Pascoe noted with irritation.
'Shove off,' he said.
'Oh, come on, Sergeant!'
His rank was used like a threat. Pascoe quietly put down his glass on a nearby table. He felt in perfect control but did not discount the possibility of pushing in this man's leering, insinuating face.
But he didn't want to be holding a fistful of glass when he did it. Not that he was going to do it. Of course not.
'This must have been a terrible shock to you, Sergeant,' said the reporter.
Pascoe changed his mind, made a fist, changed his mind again and thrust it deep into his pocket.
'Go away,' he said.
The door of the bar was pushed open. An excited-looking rustic entered and spoke to some near acquaintance. Other people looked up, listened. The words danced through the assembled drinkers like dryads in a moonlit forest. Tantalizing. Hard to grasp.
'Brookside… Fire… Cottage… Fire… Brookside Cottage is on fire!'
The reporter went away.
By the time Pascoe reached Brookside, the fire was out. There seemed to have been some kind of explosion in the kitchen and the blast, though causing a great deal of damage, had probably almost extinguished the flame that caused it.
A uniformed constable, left on duty to watch the property overnight, had decided it was foolish to patrol outside all the time and had entered the living-room just as the explosion occurred. He was badly cut about the face, but had managed to phone for assistance.
Backhouse was on the scene but seemed disinclined to allow Pascoe any special privileges. Pascoe felt he could not really blame him, and hung around the fringe of the little knot of newspaper-men whom Backhouse addressed in a friendly, conciliatory manner. Certainly he was a different breed from Dalziel!
'It seems there was an escape of gas in the kitchen probably ignited by a pilot-light in the cooker. The kitchen itself has been extensively damaged, but only superficial damage has been done to the other rooms.'
'An accident you would say, Superintendent?'
'What else?' asked Backhouse blandly.
What indeed? wondered Pascoe. He did not trust coincidences.
The firemen began to pack up their gear. A Gas Board van arrived and a couple of men went into the cottage to deal with the fractured pipes.
The group of onlookers broke up and began to drift away. Pascoe watched them go. When most of them had got into their cars, he noticed a vaguely familiar figure step out of the shadows on the other side of the road and
