But Dalziel seemed unoffended.
'Who knows?' he said. 'Mebbe she's right. Mebbe we stopped along the road a ways and changed over. Or mebbe she's mistaken. It was a nasty night, rain and sleet, lousy visibility. Easy to get things wrong.'
'Excuse me,' said Pascoe, rising. He was so angry that he didn't trust himself to say anything further at this point. He left the bar, went into the toilet and relieved himself. What the hell was Dalziel playing at? Keeping his options open till he'd checked with the other witnesses? It was time he got back to town.
When he came out of the toilet he almost bumped into Stella Abbiss coming out of the bar with a tray on which were two glasses of brandy.
'Hello,' he said. 'Could I have a word?'
'About last night? You'd better talk to my husband. He's in the kitchen.'
'I'd rather talk to you,' said Pascoe, smiling.
'I'm serving in the dining-room,' she said curtly.
'Surely one of your minions could manage that?'
'We have no minions,' she said wearily.
'No one?' said Pascoe, amazed, and also indignant at such labour being imposed on such frailty. 'You can't run a hotel single-handed.'
'The hotel closes down in October,' she explained. 'We don't get enough off-season custom to make it worthwhile. So there's just the restaurant. There's a girl comes in from the village, but only at nights. And we had another girl living in, but she's just walked out on us. Fortunately we're having a quiet lunch-time today. Neverthless, I'll have to go.'
She moved swiftly away through a door which led into the dining-room, a long and airy chamber looking out on to a falling garden whose shrubs and trees, ragged and depressed in the aftermath of last night's winter storm, must have presented a colourful prospect in spring and summer. The faded silk wall-hangings, wishy-washy watercolours, threadbare rugs and a heterogeneous collection of knick-knacks concentrated on the broad mantel above the large open fire, all contributed to the feel of the place as a room in a private house which must, Pascoe thought, be an economic ambience to opt for. There were tables for eighteen to twenty-four diners, depending on their groupings. At present there were only six people having lunch, a group of four middle-aged men and an elderly, almost mummified couple before whom Stella Abbiss set the brandy balloons. One of the men called to her 'See how it's coming along, love!' as she passed on her way to a door at the far end of the room which obviously led into the kitchen.
Pascoe walked swiftly after her and met her as she re-emerged bearing a coffee-pot. She did not look at him and he went on into the kitchen where he found a slender man of about thirty wearing stretch cords in lichen green, a lavender see-through silk shirt and an expression of great anger, standing over a stove beating something in a pan.
'Yes?' he said aggressively.
'Mr Abbiss?'
'Yes!’
'Detective-Inspector Pascoe. I wonder if…'
'In a minute!' said Abbiss. 'Can't you see I'm busy?'
The door opened and his wife came back in. She didn't speak but stood patiently by the entrance, watching her husband who Pascoe now saw was preparing zabaglione. He tried vainly to catch the woman's eye. Were she wearing a see-through shirt, he felt as if he might be able to see right through to the other side. She really did need care and attention, a loving man to pick her frail form up and carry it away to a cool, soft sick-bed and lay her down, and somehow at this juncture the administration of nourishing broths merged and melded into more primitive forms of healing involving the laying on of hands and of everything else the ingenious physician could possibly bring to bear on that thin white body with its…
He pulled himself up with a start. Abbiss had completed his own nourishing broth and was spooning it into four dishes which his wife had placed on a tray. Finished, she picked up the tray and left. They had not exchanged a word.
'Some pricks!' said Abbiss savagely. 'Some pricks!'
For a second Pascoe thought he was being attacked for letting his recent fantasy show too clearly, but Abbiss went on, 'He comes in here, only the third time he's been, the other twice with a grotesque creature with tits like turnips and taste to match (darling, I drink Barsac with everything!), and here he is, entertaining his business chums and acting as if he's bought the place! Lunch, you eat your puddings off the trolley. There's only the two of us, what do they expect? And have you seen our sweet trolley? Trolley? the gourmets cry. No! it's a cornucopia on wheels! But does the prick hesitate between the Clafouti a la Liqueur and the Peches Cardinal? Does he draw his ghastly guests' attention to the Riz a I'lmperatrice? No! The tiresome turd says, 'Hey, Jeremy (twice before, and it's Jeremy already!) what we really fancy is some of that Eyetie yellow stuff you do so well.' 'Zabaglione?' I say. 'Aye, and up yours too,' says this Wilde of Wharfedale, this Coward of Cleckheaton. 'You can whip us up a bit of that, can't you, Jeremy?' I demur. I am camp, but firm. This liver fluke in ill-cut shoddy tipsily rears himself out of his cow-plat and gets nasty. 'At these prices, you can surely do us that, Jeremy,' he says. 'At these prices up here in Yorkshire, folk expect a hot meal. These aren't cold meal prices, Jeremy.' I am torn. There is a Mousseline au Chocolat on top of the trolley which would mould itself perfectly to his mean little face. But what a waste! I think. What a waste! So I capitulate. I bow, I scrape. I come in here, and I create!'
'That is certainly what you're doing,' said Pascoe. 'Creating. In every sense.'
Suddenly Abbiss smiled and relaxed.
'Well, I have to get rid of it. Thanks for listening. Does me good.'
Yes, thought Pascoe. I think it does. He had observed with interest how the genuine naked indignation which had marked the beginning of the outburst had rapidly had its energies diverted to a shaping of the narrative itself. A Wilde of Wharfedale, A Coward of Cleckheaton! Not bad.
'Now, what can I do for you?'
Pascoe explained. Obviously his wife had already warned him of this constabulary invasion and its probable purpose, for the man expressed no surprise, but answered swiftly and with the appearance of frankness.
'Yes, your man Dalziel was a bit pissed. No wonder! He drinks like a man with a hollow leg, doesn't he? But he didn't get too obnoxious, at least not by the standards we've got to live down to round here. Even sober, most of our customers talk at ten decibels. Two kinds of noise we get here. Either it's the defiant bellow of self-made brass, like that little gang hopefully choking on the yellow Eyetie stuff, or the arrogant bray of inherited wealth. No, you've got to make a lot of noise before you get reprimanded at Paradise Hall.'
'Especially, I suppose, if you're a policeman and you're with Arnie Charlesworth,' said Pascoe slyly.
'Mr Charlesworth is a valued, and valuable customer,' admitted Abbiss. 'As is Major Kassell who made up the party. As I hope will be Superintendent Dalziel now he has discovered us. But, in answer to your unsubtle insinuation, I had no idea I was feeding the fuzz last night until that jerk-off journalist greased his way in here this morning.'
'What about your other customers? We might want to talk to some of them, especially any who left at the same time as Mr Charlesworth.'
'I can't say I noticed who left just then,' said Abbiss. 'We were, happily, very busy last night.'
'Not even Mrs Warsop?'
'Mrs Warsop?' he said in a puzzled voice.
'Mrs Doreen Warsop, bursar down at The Towers. She was dining here last night and left at the same time as Mr Charlesworth.'
'Really? Well, I can't be expected to remember everyone's name and all their comings and goings,' he said. 'As I say, we were very busy. Our girl who comes in was in a state of pre-menstrual tension or some such thing which borders on idiocy, and our girl who lived in until a couple of hours ago was clearly determined on farewell sabotage. So last night in particular I hardly had time to notice a face. The diners were just human wallpaper, Inspector. Just human wallpaper!'
'Bollocks,' said Pascoe kindly. 'You've got regulars. You've got people actually signing their bills! You're telling me you don't know where to send their accounts? And any casuals who ring up to book, you mean to say you don't ask for a telephone number just so we can get in touch to let you know of any significant changes in our menu, sir. Or do you go so far as asking new boys to send a deposit? Keeping a table for non-showers must be damned
