caught by the police having a fierce argument about the size of the fare, when a little man called Grundy appeared with a terrible cold which his colleagues told him in plain unadorned terms to keep to himself.
But Grundy when questioned about 'Tap' Parrinder replied instantly, if throatily, 'Yeah, I remember him. Old boy, full of the joys of spring, he were. Told me to drive him to Castleton Court.'
'That's the one,' said Seymour, now very puzzled. 'You didn't see what he did when he got to Castleton Court, did you?'
'No, I didn't,' snuffled Grundy. 'Mainly because I wasn't there.'
'You weren't there?'
'We never got to Castleton Court, see?' proclaimed the catarrhal cabbie. 'I was driving steadily along through the rain when suddenly he yells out, 'All right! Stop here! This'll do!' so I stops, and out he gets, there was eighty- five p. on the clock and he gives me a quid and that's the last I see of him.'
'You don't know why he changed his mind?'
'I don't know. I thought maybe he just realized how much it was costing him. Could be it was his last quid, poor old sod. If he'd said something, like, I'd have run him home all the same. It wasn't a night for putting a cat out.'
He sneezed violently. Seymour averted his face in a hopeless attempt at evasion.
'And where was this?' he asked.
'Where he got out, you mean? Right outside the Alderman Woodhouse Recreation Ground.'
Seymour knew he was putting his health at grave risk by getting into a cab driven by a man with a cold like Grundy's, but when a bout of sneezing almost had them on to the pavement, he realized that germs might be the least of his worries.
It was with great relief that he got out at the spot which Grundy assured him was as near the point of Parrinder's departure as made no difference.
As an exercise in reconstruction in the event it didn't seem to have very much point. Grundy repeated his story without alteration. He also pointed out that, as stated, there was eighty-five pence on the clock, and looked significantly at his passenger.
Assuring him that he would later want a full statement, Seymour paid up. The cab drew away, leaving him in the gathering dusk looking into the uninviting gloom of the recreation ground. But it was not as uninviting as it must have been two hours later in last Friday's weather. What had possessed the man? he wondered.
He entered the ground, determined to see his reconstruction through to the end. Pascoe and Wield would not be able to claim he had left any stone unturned! The cliche reminded him of Hector and his famous sack. A joke it had seemed at the time of collecting, and a waste of time too. But now, with the certainty of assault and robbery of an old man looming large in his mind, there seemed little to laugh at. And indeed, as he walked slowly across the recreation ground and the few figures still visible seemed very distant, and the lights beginning to glow along the roads at the park's edge were like camp-fires in some vague valley seen from a perilous hill, he found himself wishing for the company even of a twit like Hector.
A few minutes later he had made the crossing without the experience of either assault or inspiration and his remembered fears made him feel ashamed.
Castleton Court lay not far ahead. It seemed a good opportunity to pay another visit to Mrs Escott, though later reflection had brought him to much the same conclusion as Pascoe: i.e., that it was not likely to prove of any profit.
Still, he told himself with the good-natured perception of a favourite grandchild, a visit would most likely be welcome, be rewarded with a hot drink against the chill November air and Grundy's germs. Also it occurred to him that the old lady might well need cheering up if she herself had realized her error of recall.
He let his big, cheerful, reassuring smile slide across his face as he pressed the doorbell, but when no reply came to a second and prolonged pressing, the smile faded.
Oh well, he thought, she was probably out shopping. Try again later.
He turned away, then on impulse turned back and went to Mrs Campbell's door. Here again he thought he was out of luck, but just as he was giving up the door opened cautiously on the chain and Lucy Campbell's bold, handsome face appeared.
She recognized him instantly, which was surprisingly flattering.
'It's Mr Seymour, isn't it? How are you?'
'Well,' he said. 'Look, I'm sorry to disturb you, but it's Mrs Escott I was looking for. She's not at home and I just thought she might have popped in here.'
'No, no,' said Mrs Campbell. 'I saw her a little earlier this afternoon coming in. She looked a little distrait, I recall, hardly even looked at me when I said hello. But she's been like that, off and on, recently, poor dear.'
'And she went into her flat?'
'Oh yes. And shut the door rather emphatically.'
There was a pause while they both reflected.
'I think I'd better get the warden,' said Seymour finally.
'Please, wait a moment,' said Mrs Campbell.
She closed the door to undo the chain, then opened it wide.
'Come in,' she said. 'Mr Tempest is in fact visiting me. He's been repairing a window-catch and I asked him to have a cup of tea.'
Mr Tempest was in fact standing in front of the fireplace, an expression of some uneasiness on his round, open face. There was no tea in sight.
Seymour wondered why Mrs Campbell had felt it necessary to put the chain on the door before she opened, then blushed furiously as the outrageous explanation presented itself.
Not at their age! his suddenly puritanical young mind protested.
But Mr Tempest's unease was quickly redirected when he heard Seymour's story.
'She's likely just gone out again, or mebbe having a nap, but we'd best just check,' he said, producing his master key.
The living-room was empty. Seymour looked into the kitchen while Tempest opened the bedroom door.
'Oh Christ!' he heard the warden choke out.
He pushed past him into the room.
Across the bed surrounded by a scatter of pill bottles lay Jane Escott. Her eyes were wide open and staring, but it was not possible to tell if she were alive or dead.
Chapter 23
'There is treachery, O Ahaziah.'
Approached at night through an avenue of skeletal trees which Walt Disney might have designed, The Towers was a sinister sight, more suited to the incisive antics of venereal vampirism than to the careful cradling of reposing age. Their crenellated teeth snatching at a wild November moon, the ungainly asymmetric structures which gave the house its name impressed Pascoe with that sense of foreboding frequently enjoyed by heroines of Gothic romance as they approached some three-volume test of their nerve and their virtue.
All it needed, thought Pascoe, was for the old brass-studded oaken front door to creak open at his approach and a corpse-like figure to glide forward and beckon him in.
He set his foot on the doorstep. The door swung slowly open with a small but indisputable creak and there indeed was a figure, if not corpse-like, at least at an advanced stage of rehearsal of that condition.
It glided forward and spoke.
'Are you the undertaker's man?' it asked in a querulous tone. 'Cos if so, you're not wanted. She's got better.'
'Thank you, Mr Wilson,' said Miss Day's patient and kindly voice. 'I'll look after this. Oh hello. It's Mr Pascoe, isn't it?'
'That's right,' said Pascoe, shaking the matron's hand and looking after the retreating Mr Wilson who in the light of the hallway now appeared as simply a white-haired old gent with a glissading style of ambulation caused by
