'Etherege. I read about him in the papers and it just struck me that this is why you people are suddenly finding anything to do with Birkham so fascinating. Mind you, there must be a mistake! Jonathan as a burglar is too much. As a killer, it's not on!'
'Many people find it in them to be killers,' Pascoe said flatly.
The doorbell rang and at the same time there was a tap on the study door. Pascoe opened it. Marianne Culpepper stood there with a coffee tray, but she was looking down the hallway to the front door.
'Angus. How nice to see you. Come in, please,' said Culpepper.
Pascoe peered out, rudely pushing his head almost up against Marianne's. Pelman was just stepping into the hall. He stopped short as he spotted Pascoe, then came forward quickly.
'Pascoe. I heard you were here. I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to see you again on Tuesday. Let me say how sorry I am. It was a terrible thing. Terrible. I was more distressed than I can say.'
He was referring to the discovery of Colin, Pascoe realized, not the shooting. The priorities were right, he had to admit.
But Pelman hadn't finished.
'And I'm sorry too about taking a pot-shot at you. Or rather over you. The superintendent was on me so quick that I didn't even know you'd been hit by a splinter till later. Is it OK?'
'Smiling was painful for a while,' said Pascoe.
Pelman laughed.
'Good man. I thought you were a blasted poacher. Anyway, to make some amends, I put a brace of pheasants in the car when I heard you were about. If you've been shot for a poacher, you might as well go home like one. Hartley, give us a hand, will you?'
The two men went out of the front door once again and Pascoe retreated into the study. There was something about Pelman he could admire. The man had said nothing at all about his own ordeal as a suspect for several hours.
He turned back to Davenant who was pouring out the coffee.
'Black?' asked Davenant.
'Thanks,' said Pascoe. He was getting nowhere. Backhouse wanted him to play it cool, but if Backhouse insisted on keeping his own hand so well concealed, then he could get on with his own bloody game!
'Etherege says it was your idea for him to organize the burglaries,' he said conversationally.
Davenant hardly flinched.
'Which burglaries? You don't mean…? Good Lord, how clever! he must be trying for a plea of insanity!'
'I thought you said it was impossible for him to be guilty?'
'So I did. But that's not the same as it being impossible for your lot to prove him guilty!'
'My word,' said Pascoe. 'I thought you loved us bobbies?'
'A simple country boy's got to be careful who he loves, Inspector.'
'Like you loved Timmy?' There, that did it. He was well off the rails laid down by Backhouse now.
'Perhaps,' said Davenant. 'But he's dead, isn't he? Pity you couldn't have got there on Friday night. It might have helped.'
'Why?' asked Pascoe, keeping a tighter rein on his temper than was yet necessary. 'You managed it and that didn't help at all.'
Davenant put his coffee cup down and his gaze flickered momentarily around the room, finally coming to rest steadfastly on Pascoe.
Escape? or a weapon? wondered Pascoe. This hygienic, functional study offered little chance of either.
'No,' said Davenant sadly. 'It didn't, did it?'
For a moment Pascoe was unable to grasp the significance of the words.
'You were there?' he said finally. 'You admit it?'
'Yes,' said Davenant. 'I was there.'
Outside in the hallway there was a crash and the sound of upraised voices. Pascoe was glad of the diversion and opened the study door to peer out yet again.
Just inside the front door stood Sam Dixon holding a cardboard container in his arms. Another lay on the floor at his feet and a damp stain was spreading quickly from it. There was a strong smell of whisky. Old Mrs Culpepper stood alongside Dixon, glaring at him angrily, while her son and daughter-in-law came out of the lounge to investigate the noise. Pelman and Palfrey were close behind.
'What's happened?' asked Culpepper.
'Sorry,' said Dixon. 'Bit of an accident. My fault.'
The old woman muttered something inaudible and stamped off into the garden.
'Your birds are on the back seat of your car,' said Pelman to Pascoe. 'Don't forget 'em! I really must be on my way now, Marianne, Hartley. Work to be done!'
He set off up the hall but his passage was impeded by yet another arrival. This time it was Backhouse with Crowther close behind.
'May I come in?' asked the superintendent, sniffing. 'This smells interesting. You're not trying to corrupt Inspector Pascoe, I hope?'
He came down the hallway, nodding at Pelman as he passed. Even now the way out was now clear, Pelman's impetus seemed to have been completely spent and he made no attempt to leave.
'Sorry to intrude, Mr Culpepper, but I wanted a word with Inspector Pascoe.'
'By all means,' said Culpepper.
Pascoe backed into the study where Davenant still stood. He had lit a cigarette and looked perfectly at ease.
'Well?' said Backhouse.
'He admits he was there.'
'Where?'
'At Brookside Cottage on the night of the murders.'
Backhouse rolled his eyes heavenwards in mock-appeal.
'How right I was to come so quickly,' he murmured. 'You seem incapable of following instructions, Inspector. I suppose I should think myself lucky he hasn't been beaten unconscious! Wait outside now, will you? Crowther, step in here, will you?'
'Sir,' said Pascoe and went out, passing Crowther in the doorway. He was beginning to feel once again the simmering fury which seemed to be his normal emotional state in Thornton Lacey.
The hall was empty now; everyone had retired to the lounge, doubtless to discuss the constabulary goings- on. Pascoe, in no mood for small talk, made for the front door. On the steps he took a couple of deep breaths of fresh, cool air. It was perceptibly colder now. The old woman had been right. This was the bouquet of winter.
The drive in front of the house was like a car-park. Pelman's Land-Rover was still there, Palfrey's car, Dixon's van, and of course Backhouse's official limousine.
'Excuse me, sir,' said Ferguson behind him.
'Yes?'
'I don't know if it's important, but when the big fellow came out to get those birds from the Land-Rover, he gave something else to Mr Culpepper.'
'What?'
'A packet of some kind. About so big. White paper wrapping.'
'Did they know you were watching?'
'No. It wasn't surreptitious or anything like that. Just quick, if you know what I mean. Not much said. That's what made me take notice.'
'What did Culpepper do with this packet?'
'Stuck it in his pocket. But after that, I don't know what. It was quite bulky and he's got rid of it somewhere, I noticed just now.'
'Well done, Hawkeye,' said Pascoe.
He turned and re-entered the house. Everything was quiet. A man of Culpepper's money and taste didn't build doors which let ordinary conversation trickle through. He wondered again about Culpepper and Davenant. How guilty was the collector? Just suspicious of the source of the sale items? or with definite knowledge they had been
