good taste.
None of this stuff had been knocked together from Blengdale's do-it-yourself furniture kits, thought Pascoe.
Blengdale's wife, who seemed somehow familiar though he had not met her before, also had much of the same patina of value and breeding. Pascoe knew nothing of her provenance but he would have classified her as genuine English county, probably with a good seat but not erring on the side of tweediness, equally able to be unobtrusively elegant (as now) in simple twinset and sensible shoes, or discreetly radiant at a Hunt Ball. If she was a trifle more faded than high – or indeed low – society expects its womenfolk to be in their late thirties, then this merely confirmed that she was 'right'. The English Rose fades early, but she fades exceeding slow.
'I'm sorry my husband's not here, Inspector,' said Gwen Blengdale. 'He had a meeting at one-thirty and did not anticipate it would go on very long.'
'That's all right,' said Pascoe peering enviously out of the window. 'What a lovely setting this is. We're looking towards the golf course, aren't we?'
'That's right. And to the right we abut on the grounds of the college. Your wife works there, I believe.'
'Yes. Have you met her?'
'We spoke on the phone once. Some committee of Godfrey's..’
She was interrupted by the violent passage before the window of a little fat man on a big black horse. Pascoe wondered how far he was ahead of the posse.
'Excuse me,' said Mrs Blengdale.
She left the room. Pascoe heard voices distantly, or rather one voice which came rapidly closer till the door burst open and the speaker appeared.
He was an ugly little man, round and red, with a foxy stubble of hair broadening out below the jug-handle ears into luxuriant sideboards. He wore a hacking jacket and jodhpurs, clearly specially tailored to accommodate such shortness of leg with such breadth of buttock. It was also clear that his naturally rubicund complexion was enhanced by deep emotion.
'What a fucking day!' he said. 'What a fucking day. You wouldn't believe it. My time's not my own. You're Pascoe, are you? Well you ought to try keeping your sodding wife in order, that's all I can say.'
He sat heavily on a chair which, being a non-Blengdale product, merely groaned slightly.
'Mr Blengdale, I presume,' said Pascoe.
'Presume, is it? I've had enough presumption from Pascoes for one day. Is she like that at home? You deserve police protection. Is that why you joined?'
Pascoe felt a protest was called for, though, knowing his Yorkshiremen, he suspected it would be useless.
'Mr Blengdale, what my wife does in her own professional capacity is her business. But I don't feel you're entitled to be abusive…'
'Me abusive? A fascist pig she called me! Feathering my own sty! That's abusive, that's what I call abusive!'
'It's certainly an abuse of the language,' said Pascoe. 'But I dare say Mrs Pascoe was carried away in the heat of argument and in truth meant to offend you as little as you mean to offend me.'
The reproof took a little time to sink in but finally it penetrated the carapace of indignation Blengdale was carrying around and while he wasn't equipped to look shamefaced, he lumbered into an explanation which might or might not have been second cousin to an apology.
'Bad day. Looked so nice too. There was a meeting at the college. Liaison committee. Liaison! There was better liaison with the SS in 1939. Anyway, the weather was so good, I saddled up Trigger and rode over to the college after lunch.'
'You went to the college on your horse?' asked Pascoe,
'Yes. Why not?'
'No reason. Not the slightest in the world,' said Pascoe, picturing this rotund cavalier crashing into the Senior Common Room during the post-luncheon period which Ellie had once described as bedpan time in the geriatric ward.
'That's where I've been ever since. It's ring-a-bloody-roses, ring-a-bloody-roses! Round and round. Reason? Argument? Some of them wouldn't recognize an argument if it had a British Standard label. I neglect my business, I neglect my recreation, I get no thanks, all I get's a lot of fucking abuse. Do you wonder I'm a bit short?'
'I'm amazed at your good humour,' said Pascoe. 'What I wanted to talk about was Friday night at the Calliope Kinema Club. You've heard what happened, of course.'
'Aye. Roughly. I was bowled over when I learned old Gil was dead. Bloody yobbos! Why don't you lot sort the buggers out?'
'Yes,' said Pascoe. 'Why don't we? Now, I believe you're not actually a member of the Club, Mr Blengdale?'
'No, but I've been along a few times as a guest.'
'I see. Whose?'
'Eh?'
'Whose guest?'
'Gil's of course. Gilbert Haggard. I was lunching in the Con Club on Friday and he was there too. Said if I fancied a good laugh to come round to the Calli that night.'
'You find these films amusing?'
'Some of them. You sound a bit disapproving, Inspector. I'm not ashamed of me appetites, you know. It's natural for a man to like to look at female flesh, wouldn't you say?'
'It depends what's happening to it,' said Pascoe. 'When it's being beaten and maltreated…'
'I notice you've seen the picture then,' said Blengdale with heavy irony. 'Didn't corrupt you, did it? Then why're you so worried about me? It's a laugh, that's all. You can't take that kind of thing seriously!'
'Of course not. What happened afterwards, Mr Blengdale?' said Pascoe.
'After the film, you mean? Well, I had a beer in the bar, then Gil said it was a bit crowded there, did I fancy a drop of the real stuff upstairs? I never say no to Gil's cognac. He knows – knew – what he was about in that line. So we sat and had a couple of glasses and a yarn.'
'Where?'
'Where? In his study, it was.'
'And what did you talk about?'
'This and that,' said Blengdale. 'Cricket prospects for the summer. He was quite an enthusiast, Gilbert. The state of the nation. Just general stuff like that.'
'You didn't talk about the show you had just seen?'
'It might have been mentioned, but I think we'd said most of what there was to say about that downstairs.'
'And what time did you leave?'
'About eleven-thirty, I'd say. In fact, I'm pretty sure. I got back here just before midnight, which would be about right for the roads at that time of night. Gwen can confirm that, if you like.'
'I see,' said Pascoe. 'Did he say or do anything to give the impression of expecting company after your departure?'
'No, there was nothing of that,' said Blengdale. 'It was pretty late and I'd have noticed if he'd said anything like that. He looked like I felt, ready for bed. Is there anything to show he was expecting another visitor?'
'I can't say,' said Pascoe, thinking of the six weals on Haggard's buttocks.
'Well, there's nowt more I can tell you,' said Blengdale, rising. 'I'm a busy man and I'm right behind now. What a bloody day this has been! I'll see you to the door. Sorry I can't be more help. I'd offer you a drink, but I've heard that you're a bugger for duty.'
I'm getting the push, thought Pascoe as he found himself swiftly transferred to the front door, But he could think of no way of – or reason for – resisting the process.
But Blengdale wasn't quite finished with him. He seized his elbow tight and brought his face close to Pascoe's shoulder.
'What's going to happen to that dentist?' he asked.
