'I liked your friends,' she said as she pushed open the door. 'Some things beat explanation. Step inside.'
'Thank you,' said Pascoe. He glanced back down the garden. Ferguson was on his knees in search of gravel, a light breeze spilling his longer-than- regulation hair over his face.
'You can say goodbye to the good weather,' said the old woman ominously, and as though in confirmation a rout of beech leaves came scuttering round the side of the house and preceded them into the hallway.
The Culpeppers were seated in the lounge and Hartley rose and held out his hand in greeting when he saw his visitor. He looked perfectly at ease, not without cause Pascoe was sure. If there had been anything of doubtful provenance in Culpepper's collection, it was probably long gone now.
'You're fully recovered, I hope, Pascoe? I was talking to Pelman last night. He was in a terrible state, terrible. Poor fellow, to come so close to injuring you was bad enough, but then to realize he was under suspicion for the murders!'
'Yes, I'm recovered, thank you.'
No one seemed very keen to ask what he wanted, Pascoe noted. He hoped Davenant wasn't slipping quietly out of the kitchen door. Or if he was, that Ferguson had abandoned his gravel hunt and was fully alert.
'It's difficult to know what to say,' Culpepper went on. 'No one who knew him ever really believed it was possible that Colin did the killings, but we didn't want him proved innocent in this way.'
'Some believed it,' objected Pascoe. 'The coroner's jury and the coroner for a start. But it's none of my business, officially anyway. Mr Culpepper, I believe Anton Davenant is staying with you at the moment.'
The doorbell rang. Only old Mrs Culpepper showed no desire to answer it. Her son and daughter-in-law both seemed keen to get out of the room, but Marianne won by a short head.
'So it's Davenant you're after? Well, well. Would you care for a drink or is it too early?'
As though in answer to his query, the door opened and Major Palfrey came in clutching two brown-paper- wrapped bottles.
'Morning, Hartley, morning, Mrs Culpepper.' He noticed Pascoe and gave him a neutral nod.
'Sorry to butt in, but as I was just saying to Marianne, you've caught us on the hop, old boy. Pity I hadn't been around when you rang. That potman of mine's a bit dim! The thing is, we're very low on spirits at the moment. Can manage a couple of bottles, but boxes are out of the question. Sorry.'
It was a more than usually gruesomely hearty performance, Pascoe felt. But why? Because I'm here? Do I always bring out the worst in people?
'Don't fret about it, JP,' said Culpepper equably. 'Sam Dixon will probably be able to cope. Give him a ring, will you, Marianne? They do quite a large off-licence trade at the Anne, I believe.'
'I suppose they do,' said Palfrey as if he suspected a slur. 'You must give us warning if you're going to start spreading business locally. So you're with us once more, Sergeant Pascoe? What brings you back?'
'I really wanted a word with Mr Davenant. Is he here, Mr Culpepper?'
Culpepper exchanged glances with his wife, but before either could speak, his mother burst out. 'Well, if he is, they've kept very quiet about him. I've not seen hide nor hair of him.'
'Thank you, Mrs Culpepper. Well, sir. Is he here?'
'Of course he is, darlings. Though he almost wasn't.'
Standing at the door, one hand on his hip, the other behind his head, was Anton Davenant. Behind him in the hall, Pascoe caught a glimpse of Ferguson.
'I had no idea you were here, my dear fellow. And I was just setting off for a little circumambulation in search of Nature, red in tooth and claw, when I ran into your boy.'
Boy came out beautifully round and succulent. Pascoe held back a smile. It must have been a good test for Ferguson's temper under stress.
'I'd like a word with you if I may, Mr Davenant,' said Pascoe.
'By all means. Here?'
'Would you care to use my study?' intervened Culpepper before Pascoe could suggest retiring to the station. It seemed a good idea to start here at least. Things were on the boil, though he was far from sure what the dish was going to be.
'Thanks,' he said. 'That's kind.'
Culpepper led the way across the hall to a room next to his porcelain room.
'I'll ring Sam Dixon now,' said Marianne suddenly. 'About that drink.'
'Do, darling,' said Culpepper. 'In here, gentlemen.'
Pascoe paused as he passed Ferguson.
'Nicely fielded,' he murmured. 'Get on to Backhouse and tell him I'm opening up the batting here.'
The study was more like a businessman's office than the gentleman's retreat Pascoe had for some reason expected. Modern desk with typewriter, a book-shelf filled mainly with reference and technical volumes, a filing cabinet; nothing here which showed any desire to emulate the landed gentry.
'At last we are alone,' said Davenant.
'So we are, Mr Davenant, what were you doing in Birkham village yesterday morning?'
'Passing through, dear boy.'
'It's a little off the beaten track.'
'That depends on where you are beating your track from and to.'
'And where was that?'
'Which?'
'Which?'
'From or to?'
'Begin at the beginning, please,' said Pascoe, quite enjoying himself. Dalziel would have been clenching his fists and making sinister grunting sounds by now. The only thing which darkened his mood was the cloudy connection between this man and Brookside Cottage.
'Well, let me see. From first? From Barnsley then.'
'Barnsley!'
'Why so amazed? Contrary to rumour Barnsley is not a volcanic cavity full of flames, fumes and the stench of sulphur. A trifle naive, yes; something of a frontier town, yes. But not without its attractions, one of which is a superb restaurant, the delights of which I check annually for the Gourmet's Guide. So I left Thornton Lacey on Tuesday, after the inquest, missing all the excitement and the tragedy too, of course, and headed for Barnsley.'
'So. From Barnsley to-?'
Davenant threw up his hands in exasperation. 'It's self-evident surely! To here! I arrived here yesterday evening, so I must have been heading for here, mustn't I?'
'I don't know if you consult maps, Mr Davenant, but Birkham would take you many miles out of your way.'
'Of course. I see your difficulty. I wanted to take a look at the Old Mill about five miles to the north. Do you know it? Fascinating. Do you know I spent a week in Birkham last year doing a feature article and I never found time to get to see the Old Mill! So when I was in Barnsley…!'
He was doing a very good job, Pascoe had to admit. Fitting everything nicely into a reasonable pattern. So nicely that Pascoe had to keep on reminding himself of all the other little bits and pieces. All? Mainly Etherege's agreement that Davenant had been the middleman!
He stared down at Culpepper's desk for inspiration. It was empty but for a tray which held one of the Sunday paper business supplements. Egotistically, it was opened at an account of Nordrill's annual general meeting held the previous Wednesday afternoon.
At which time, the thought popped into his mind like a well-browned piece of toast, Culpepper was wandering around Sotheby's, wishing he could afford to bid.
Which thought prompted one obvious question and a second not quite so obvious.
But now was not the time to ask them.
'Is this about poor old Jonathan Etherege?' asked Davenant.
Pascoe looked up, pleasantly surprised. His musings on Culpepper had had an unforeseen spin-off, the breaching of a minute gap in Davenant's unperturbability.
'Who?' he said.
