microwave ovens had been a step forward out of the nineteenth century, what was going on here was just as determined a step back.
The building had been a stables he reckoned with an upper floor used perhaps as a hay-loft. This floor had now been removed with the exception of a small section at the far end which had been transformed into a kind of minstrel's gallery. The joists supporting the arched roof had clearly lacked something in antiquity and they were being supplemented by a new fishbone pattern of age-blackened beams, standing out starkly against the whitewashed interstices. Dalziel rapped his knuckles against one of these beams which was leaning against the wall, prior to elevation. It rang hollowly and felt smooth and cold to the touch. Dalziel was not repelled. He had nothing against plastic. He would as lief eat off colourful Formica as polished mahogany. Nor did it seem distasteful to him that the panes of stained 'glass' which were being fitted into the windows were plastic also. His reaction was one of simple puzzlement.
To what end would the Fieldings be transforming an old stables into something that looked like a set for a remake of Robin Hood?
Old Fielding, having peered into various recesses and through various doors, now abandoned his search for Papworth and returned to enjoy Dalziel's bewilderment.
'What do you think of this?' he asked, gesturing with a flamboyance more in keeping with his surroundings than his person. 'Is it not a fit monument for our times? What would Pope have had to say?'
'Monument?' said Dalziel, wondering momentarily if the old man was being literal and this place was indeed intended to be some sort of mausoleum, a kind of bourgeois Taj Mahal. But what about the ovens?
The answer was obvious.
‘It's a cafe,' said Dalziel.
This solution sent the old man into paroxysms of laughter which modulated into a coughing bout from which it seemed unlikely he would recover. Dalziel watched for a moment coldly, then administered a slap between his shoulder-blades which brought the dust up out of the old man's jacket and sent him staggering against a section of stone reproduction wall which gave visibly.
'Thank you,' said Fielding. 'Though I fear the cure was more dangerous than the disease. Well now. A cafe. Yes, that's the word. Not the word that will be used, of course, should this sad enterprise ever come to fruition. No. Then this place will be called a Banqueting Hall. My daughter-in-law is too careful, I think, to risk the penalties prescribed under the Trades Descriptions Act by calling it a Medieval Banqueting Hall, but the word 'medieval' will certainly appear somewhere on the prospectus.'
'People will eat here,' said Dalziel.
The prospect did not displease him. Eating was one of the Four Deadly Pleasures. Though he could not see the necessity for all these trappings. A meal was a meal.
'That's right. A dagger and a wooden platter. At a given signal, chicken legs will be thrown over the right shoulder. It's a pastime very popular I believe in the North-East where the past is still close and tribal memories are long. My foolish family believe the inhabitants of Orburn and district will be equally gullible. The dreadful thing is, they may be right.'
'There's still a bit of work to be done,' observed Dalziel. 'Where are the builders today?'
'They would not come today,' said the old man significantly.
'No? Oh, of course. Sorry. The funeral.'
Fielding laughed again, but this time, with a wary eye on Dalziel's hand, he kept it to a controlled barking.
'Builders are not noted for their delicacy, Mr Dalziel, not here, anyway.'
Dalziel ran his mind's eye down a list of building contractors working in his area and had to agree.
'What then? The weather?'
'Money, Mr Dalziel. When the head goose has been killed, you make damn sure someone else is going to start dropping the golden eggs.'
'Ah,' said Dalziel. 'Then this business conference…?'
But his cross-examination was interrupted.
'You are looking for me, Mr Fielding?' said a voice from above.
They looked up. Leaning over the rail of the minstrels' gallery was Papworth.
'There you are,' said Fielding. 'About time too. Have you seen anything of my grandson yet? Young Nigel?'
'No,' said Papworth. 'Should I have done?'
'Don't you know he's missing? Hasn't anyone told you?' demanded Fielding.
'No,' said Papworth. 'I've been busy. What's the fuss?'
'The boy's run off again. It seems he's taken the rowing-boat and naturally we are all very worried.'
'The rowing-boat,' said Papworth thoughtfully.
'That's right, man. Aren't you going to do anything? You can take the punt out and scout around, if you are not too busy, that is.'
You didn't have to be a detective to spot the dislike the old man felt for Papworth, thought Dalziel. If only all relationships were so clear!
'No. That's just what I was going to do when I heard you wanted me,' said Papworth.
'But you said you didn't know the boy was missing,' interjected Dalziel.
'No. But the boat is. Or was.'
'Was?'
'Yes. I can see it drifting out beyond the island. But one thing's certain. There's no one in it.'
5
For the second time that day, the three men got soaking wet, Papworth seemed impervious to the rain as he propelled the gun-punt over the water with strong economical strokes, but Dalziel was concerned about the old man who had rejected all attempts to make him stay ashore. His clothes were clinging to his body, accentuating its frailty, and the skin of his face seemed to have shrunk in the downpour and be clinging almost transparently to his patrician skull.
Dalziel himself drew comfort from the thought that this time at least it was not his own clothes that were getting wet. There was a philosophy in there somewhere if he had the time or energy to winkle it out. Or a rule of life at least. He was dimly aware that his blacker moments were often survived only because he had certain usually unspecified and often arbitrary rules of life to cling on to, though whether these added up to the weight and dignity of something called a philosophy he did not know. Duty was one of them, or at least the notion that a man got out of bed and went to his work no matter what he felt like, and saw the job through if he could manage it without collapsing. It had proved a useful and necessary rule in recent weeks. The rowing-boat was drifting with one oar missing and the other trailing from the rowlock. The island referred to by Papworth was, Dalziel realized, a real island in the real lake, with water lapping shallowly at the roots of the trees growing there. It would be possible to land here still at the expense only of getting your feet wet, and he scanned the trees closely. They were willows mainly, packed tight together as though drawing back from the threatening waters, but the total area of the island couldn't have been more than a quarter-acre and he felt pretty certain that Nigel was not lurking there, watching them pass.
Nor was the boy in the boat. Papworth had asserted it was empty from the start, but Dalziel had not been so positive. You could lie in the bottom of a boat and not be seen from the shore, he suspected. But the boy was not in it and suddenly the dimensions of the problem had changed.
Papworth jumped lightly into the boat and pulled the trailing oar inboard. From the punt Dalziel examined the rowing-bench closely, looking for he did not know what.
'Where's it come from?' he demanded.
'God knows,' said Papworth with a shrug.
