'A desk job, you mean? They'd have to nail him to it!' laughed Pascoe.
'No. I mean God. Haven't you heard the rumour? They say he's to be God in these Mysteries!'
Broomfield spoke with the hopeful incredulity of a curate who's just heard his bishop's been nicked in a brothel.
'Where'd you hear that?' asked Pascoe in amazement. It was only the previous Sunday that he'd lured Dalziel within Lorelei distance of Chung.
'It's all over. I got it from this lass who works in Mr Trimble's office. I was sure you'd have heard, being so close.'
'Sorry, George. Can't help you. Excuse me, there's someone over there I want a word with.'
He walked away, annoyed at what he'd heard and annoyed also that his abruptness might have fuelled the rumour. There was no real reason why he should speak with the young woman who'd just come out of the road leading to the still unusable official car park, but he had to go through the motions in case Broomfield was watching.
'Hello, Mrs Appleyard,' he said. 'How did Jane Eyre end up?'
'Like a guide dog, fetching and carrying for master. I thought you said it had a happy ending!'
'It's been a long time since I read it,' evaded Pascoe. 'I saw you at the Kemble the other night.'
'You were there? That figures. What do they say? Where there's booze there's bobbies.'
This slur provoked Pascoe to an untypical discourtesy.
'I hadn't got you down as a Bible-puncher,' he said.
'No? You know a lot about me, do you?'
'Only what you've volunteered. And I understood you to hint that you weren't in sympathy with your father's fundamentalism.'
'Is that what I said?' She paused as if examining the justice of his claim, then nodded and went on, 'Well, likely I did, cos I'm not.'
'Then why . . . ?'
'Because I couldn't let Mam go along alone. She believes the same as him. Leastways, she's long since given up trying to think any other way. But she's not built to go shouting the odds in public, she'd much rather sit quiet at home and be a bother to no one. I can't stop her going when he gives the command, but I can go along with her to make sure he doesn't push her too far.'
'I see. And the banner?'
'Oh, that. Mam was right, I were always good at that sort of thing. Could have gone to art school if . . . well, anyroad, I knew if I didn't do something half decent, Dad would likely turn up with a raggedy bit of hardboard with STUFF THE POPE scrawled on it in whitewash!'
Pascoe laughed, then asked, 'Did your father accept Chung's invitation?'
'Yes, he did. I went too. He'd have dragged Mam along else.'
This time her claim to the protection motive didn't ring quite true.
'And what happened?'
'She were great,' said the girl with simple admiration. 'She sat him down and just talked about these Mysteries, how there was nothing papish about them, how in fact they were the way ordinary folk took religion away from the priests and put it in their own language. She talked really straight, she didn't try to make him look ignorant or owt like that, and when he spoke, she really listened like what he said was important. She were really great.'
Pascoe smiled inwardly. No need to tell him what tunes the enchantress played.
'And did she have anything to say to you?' he asked.
'A bit. Dad had to get back here, and we chatted on a while longer. She asked if I'd like to do a poster for the Mysteries. I said I might.'
'Would your father approve?' he asked provocatively.
'What's that got to do with it? Anyroad, he went off happy enough,' she said with the scorn one convert often feels for another. 'And I'd best be off now. I just came to deliver the lads' wages and I've got a lot of shopping to do while Dad dishes them out.'
Pascoe frowned. 'Do they get paid in cash?'
'When they're not being paid in promises. What's it to you anyway?' she added aggressively as if compensating for her indiscretion.
'Young women picking up wage money from a bank make easy targets,' said Pascoe. 'What did you mean, promise?'
'Nowt. There was a cash-flow problem, but it's been sorted.'
Pascoe decided it was time for a little blunt poking, Dalziel-fashion.
'Because of Mrs Swain's death, you mean? But it'll be a while yet before her will can be proved.'
'Mebbe so. But the bank must reckon it's going to be OK.'
'And what do you reckon, Mrs Appleyard?' he asked.
'Nowt to do with me,’ she said indifferently. 'But he's walking around loose, isn't he, so it doesn't seem like you're going to charge him with anything serious.'
