'Now, this fellow Butt?' he enquired.
'Due back from Brazil today, sir. The police over there were asked to keep an eye on him, just in case he showed any signs of slipping away. But it was felt best to leave him alone till we had him back on British soil.'
'A bit dangerous, isn't it? If it's not down to him, then the trail will be damned cold,' said Pascoe.
'Not really, sir,' said Cross politely. 'If Butt didn't do it, then the trail leads right back here. They went over his car with a fine-tooth comb. Annie Greave was in his boot all right, there's no doubt about it. And Butt has probably spent the last hour explaining how she got there. Mr Balderstone, Chief Inspector Balderstone, was going to contact Mr Dalziel as soon as he heard anything. I thought he might be here by now.'
So, thought Pascoe. Dalziel is hanging on here in the hope that this guy Butt will cough everything and life at Lake House can go on undisturbed.
How deep is he in? he wondered uneasily. He had not liked the way Cross now and then seemed to be lining the fat man up with the Lake House gang rather than with the forces of law and order.
Yet it was Dalziel who had stirred things up, he reassured himself. He couldn't believe that he would ever have anything to do with suppression of evidence. Though, of course, technically there was nothing illegal in the suppression of theory. But the Dalziel who had been his mentor these many years would not indulge in such hair- splitting.
'We'd better go back inside,' said Pascoe. 'Our wives will be getting worried.'
'I've been married fifteen years,' said Cross. 'After the first ten, policemen's wives stop getting worried. They start getting angry instead. Come on.'
But inside the building they encountered Dalziel once more. He looked anxious and uncertain, expressions which Pascoe had observed on his face as rarely as smiles on an undertaker's.
'Balderstone just rang,' he said without preliminaries. 'The plane arrived, but no Butt.'
'What?' exclaimed Cross.
'He was taken ill at the airport, it seems. Ambulance took him to hospital in Rio.'
'Very convenient,' observed Cross. 'That seems to wrap it up, I'd say. It looks as if we'll have to do it the hard way from now on in. I don't suppose they'll be asking for volunteers to spend a couple of days in Rio chatting him up, will they, sir?'
Dalziel didn't answer but turned away and disappeared towards the kitchens. Cross shrugged at Pascoe and the two men re-entered the Banqueting Hall.
'Thought you'd got lost,' observed Ellie's father.
'There was a queue for the loo,' lied Pascoe as he attempted to squeeze back on to the bench beside the townswoman whose thighs seemed to have settled and spread like wedges of ripe Brie.
'You missed the Sir Toby's Syllabub,' observed Ellie.
'I don't think I did, really,' said Pascoe.
They had now reached the stage in the evening when the historical was at war with the nostalgic – a war it could not hope to win. The bearded photographer had reappeared armed with a guitar and though the mead-sodden audience were happy enough to listen to one verse of 'Drink to Me Only', further than that they would not go. The guitarist read their mood and gauged their taste perfectly, and soon the composition rafters were ringing with such fine medieval songs as 'Bless 'em All', 'She'll Be Coming Round The Mountain', and 'The Rose of Tralee'.
After some thirty minutes of this, during which time the tables were cleared completely (a pre-empting of the souvenir hunters in which Pascoe thought he detected Dalziel's hand), the guitarist announced that coffee was available and the bar would be open until ten-thirty. Clearly authenticity stopped at the licensing authorities.
Ellie and Pascoe sat fast while all around them their fellow diners scrambled for the exit.
'They'll be able to charge a quid a drink from now till closing time,' observed Pascoe. 'That should please Dalziel.'
'Why?'
'He's a shareholder.'
Quickly he passed on all he had learned that night. Ellie whistled speculatively when he finished.
'What's she like?' she asked.
'Who?'
'This woman, Bonnie Fielding is it?'
'I don't know, do I? I've only seen her distantly. Your dad thinks she overcharges.'
'Let's hope she doesn't overcharge big Andy,' said Ellie. 'Come on, let's take a look.'
'He can look after himself, you know,' said Pascoe, rising to follow her.
'Huh!' she snorted.
'What's that mean?' he asked as they squeezed through the crowd towards the bar.
'It means that the way he was babbling on at our wedding reception, he was ripe for plucking. He no longer deems his soul immortal. I've seen the symptoms developing. You getting married was the last straw.'
'Bollocks!'
'Well, one of them,' emended Ellie in the face of this forceful argument. 'I don't mean he fancies you. And I don't think he objects to me like he used to. But he's unsettled. I mean, wasn't it a bit odd that he should take his first holiday in God knows how long at the same time as your honeymoon?'
'No wonder you can't flog your novel!' said Pascoe.
They had finally reached the bar at which all hands seemed to be manning the pumps, or rather taps, optics and bottle openers. Dalziel was among them. Pascoe watched his technique for a while with interest. He poured the drinks with swift efficiency then charged eighty pence for a round of two, one pound forty for three, one ninety for four and three pounds for anything over. It seemed to be generally acceptable. Pascoe studied the list of prices, took from his pocket the exact amount required for two scotches, ordered them from an old man in a black doublet and passed over the money.
'That's Hereward Fielding,' whispered Ellie.
'Who?'
'The poet. I knew he lived locally, but I didn't link him with this lot.'
Somewhere behind the bar, a phone rang. The big woman who Pascoe supposed was Bonnie Fielding retreated to answer it.
'It's for you, Andy,' she called a moment later.
Dalziel was a long time on the phone and though the bar service went on as efficiently as ever, Pascoe sensed an awareness among the servers of what was going on in the background. Finally Dalziel reappeared and beckoned to Bonnie and the two disappeared from sight.
'Let's try to find somewhere less crowded,' suggested Ellie.
Again Pascoe followed her, but he protested when she opened a door marked ' Staff and led him through.
'Friends of the proprietor,' she grinned.
'Can't you read?' demanded a most unfriendly voice. A stout youth had appeared at the other end of the corridor they were in and was glowering at them.
'We're friends of Mr Dalziel,' said Ellie firmly.
'Are you? Well, I'm sorry, but we don't let our staff socialize during business hours,' said the youth pompously.
'You're Bertie Fielding?' asked Pascoe.
'Yes. Why do you ask?'
'No reason. Someone described you to me, that's all.'
Fat and nasty had been Cross's words. To another auditor he might have used the same words of Dalziel, thought Pascoe.
'You might tell Mr Dalziel I'd like to see him,' continued Pascoe, resolved not to retreat before this creature. 'Inspector Pascoe.'
'Not another!' groaned Bertie. 'What do you do? Breed from mud?'
But he went all the same and a moment later Dalziel emerged from the bar. He shook Ellie's hand formally.
'Nice to see you,' he said.
'Hi,' she answered.
