course. And since the events of Tuesday I've been having a closer look at everybody. One or two interesting things emerge. Mr Davenant is, you would say, a homosexual?'
'Why, yes,' answered Pascoe.
'It sticks out a mile, you feel? Perhaps too far. Discreet inquiries made by some of my London colleagues seem to indicate that in fact his sexual interests are enthusiastically hetero. This might of course just mean that he is – what is the word? – not ambidextrous, you know what I mean. Certainly informed opinion seems to be that a grand passion for either of your friends was unlikely.'
Pascoe's mind was racing, but he felt that Backhouse still had some cards left unplayed, so he held his peace though the superintendent's quizzical gaze invited him to speak.
'Very well,' said Backhouse finally. 'So it wasn't love that brought him rushing to Thornton Lacey from Oxford. He was in Oxford, I checked that, of course. And he booked out of his hotel on the Saturday morning. What is more interesting, however, is that no one recollects seeing him on the Friday night. The hotel garage attendant is fairly sure that Davenant's car, a Citroen GS, still rather a distinctive car in this insular realm, was not in its place at eleven p.m. when he went off duty. Early enough, you say? I agree. However, in our efforts to check sightings of the Mini-Cooper around the village on Friday night, we asked a lot of questions about cars. A couple of people mentioned a strange Citroen. One of my brighter constables made a note. And I read every report anybody makes.'
Pascoe stood up and made for the door.
'Whither away?' asked Backhouse.
'I came to collect Davenant, sir. I think it's time I did just that,' said Pascoe. 'He's got questions to answer.'
'What is there about this place with turns you into such a sudden man?' demanded Backhouse helplessly. 'All these qualities Mr Dalziel finds in you, why do you leave them behind in the north?'
'I'm sorry, sir. What you've said seems to me to urge immediate interrogation of Davenant.'
'Sit down and listen!’ bellowed Backhouse.
Stony-faced, Pascoe obeyed.
'That's what's missing, is it? Andy Dalziel's fog-horn voice! I'll remember. Look, I haven't brought you all this way just to let you try to shake something or other out of Davenant. There are problems here, and many possible solutions. You're peculiarly well-equipped to help. Look at the facts. Davenant's in the area at the time of the murder. Davenant's alleged sexual connection with your friends seems likely to be a lie. Davenant is suspected of being a kind of travelling fence, a middleman between the thief and the purchaser of stolen objets d'art. As a policeman, what's your hypothesis?'
Now at last Pascoe saw it. He had been uncharacteristically obtuse. He remembered saying with pity of Mrs Lewis that death brought some strange surprises and here was Backhouse starting a few in his face.
'You think that Colin and Rose might have been involved in the Etherege-Davenant racket?' he said steadily.
'Or the other two. Or any one of the four. Or all of them. What do you think?'
'Was anything found?'
'No. But you wouldn't expect it to be, would you? Not if Davenant had anything to do with the killings.'
'Is there any piece of hard evidence I don't know about?'
'No,' said Backhouse, after thinking judiciously for a moment. 'No. But the Continent is the most obvious market for the more easily identifiable stuff. And Timothy Mansfield worked in Brussels for some time, travelling frequently from Britain to Belgium, as well as touring extensively in Europe. Davenant did meet him there, as he told Miss Soper. But it wasn't their first meeting.'
'You can't have unearthed all this since you spoke to Dalziel,' said Pascoe accusingly.
'No,' said Backhouse. 'I try to keep many steps ahead of blind chance. But sometimes it comes along and bumps you in the back, as when out of the blue, you tied Davenant in with your investigation. Till then it had been just so much background information. Your friend, Mansfield, had to resign his job in Brussels, did you know that? There was some currency fiddle being worked. He kept out of serious trouble, but only just.'
'Knowing Timmy, it would be in a good cause,' protested Pascoe weakly.
'What the hell have you or I got to do with causes!' exploded Backhouse. 'For a policeman, understanding motives is just a means to an end. That end's catching crooks. I dare say whoever it was that shot your friends will come up with a good motive. It might even impress a judge, or a jury, or a psychiatrist, or just his grey-haired old mother who knows he's basically a good lad. Now, you want Davenant. I might want him too. I had a little plan, but I'm not sure how far I can rely on you. I was going to suggest that you go up to the Culpeppers' and get him, giving the impression that police interest in him is restricted entirely to his connection with your antique-dealer, Etherege. Be a bit diffident, uncertain, if you like, as though you've got less on him than you have.'
'Which is only Etherege's word,' said Pascoe.
'Is it? I'm sure Mr Dalziel won't be standing still. Anyway, come the old-pals act, take a trip down memory lane with him, reminisce a bit about your late mutual friends. In other words, see if you can catch him napping in Thornton Lacey while he's too busy keeping fully alert in Yorkshire. That's what I was going to suggest. Can I trust you, Inspector? That's what I've got to know.'
'I think so, sir,' said Pascoe. Appearances deceived. Compared with this man, Dalziel was Mother Hubbard.
'Then I would suggest you go and bring him in. Give the impression you're just dropping back here to sign a form or something before taking him north. It might work.'
Pascoe rose and made for the door.
'Just one thing, sir,' he said. 'The Culpeppers. Why is Davenant there? What's the connection?'
Backhouse groaned loudly.
'Stay in Yorkshire, my boy,' he advised gently. 'You'll never make the grade down here. It's obvious, surely? Aesthetic Mr Culpepper, your connoisseur of fine porcelain, is probably one of friend Davenant's regular customers!'
Chapter 9
'Stop here,’ said Pascoe. Ferguson obeyed him as literally as possible and despite their low speed managed to skid noisily on the gravel drive.
I was right to drive all the way down, thought Pascoe with a shudder as he climbed out.
'I don't anticipate any trouble,' he said through the open door. 'But keep your eyes skinned. Poke around the garage and see if you can spot the Citroen.'
He slammed the door and a hand gripped his shoulder. Dalziel's philosophy included the dictum if anyone grabs you from behind, don't think, give 'em the heel and the elbow.
Pascoe turned slowly and smiled at Culpepper's mother. He was glad he had ignored Dalziel's advice, not just out of chivalry but also because he doubted whether his judo could cope with the vicious-looking secateurs she carried.
'That could ruin a machine!' snapped the old woman, pointing at the scattering of gravel the car-wheels had sprayed on to the lawn. 'Have you no consideration?'
'Sorry,’ said Pascoe. 'Ferguson, see that all these bits of stone are returned to the drive, will you?'
'What are you after anyway? You're that policeman, aren't you?'
'Yes. I'm that policeman. I'd just like a word with your son,' said Pascoe, walking across the lawn towards the front door. The old woman accompanied him, matching him stride for stride.
'I knew there'd be trouble,' she said suddenly.
'Sorry?'
'When I was young, police coming to the house always meant trouble.'
'We only trouble those who trouble us,' said Pascoe with a smile.
They had come to a halt outside the front door. He had not spotted any movement through the windows.
