like this called the Partridge Arms, so he suggested the Pear Tree.' 'And the landlord agreed?' The scarecrow sneezed again. 'Ted? He'd have called it the Bare Behind if his lordship had told him to. You'll get nothing about the big house out of Ted, nor any of the others round here. These locals know who butters their parsnips!' Pascoe picked up his drink and nuts and went across to the man's table. On closer examination, the scarecrow proved to be a man of about sixty whose unkempt appearance was due to sartorial eclecticism rather than simple scruffiness. Taken separately, his dress shirt, tartan muffler, brocaded waistcoat, striped blazer, moleskin trousers and military forage hat were all of the highest quality, and, though antique, scrupulously clean. 'You're not local, then?' said Pascoe. 'Don't be silly!' 'How long have you been in these parts?' 'Oh, thirty years and a bit more.' Pascoe laughed. 'How long do you have to stay before you become local?'
'There's people born here who aren't local,' said the man earnestly, ‘it's a burden inflicted on only the select few, thank God.' 'If you rate them so low, how come you decided to stay around?' 'Man with one eye travels the world till he finds a spot where most of the people are blind.' 'So what do you do?' 'This and that. Anything the locals can't manage, which is quite a lot.' 'And you don't think I'll manage to find one who can give me any information about the Partridges and their nanny?' 'No way. Bribes are no use either. They don't understand them, see? Offer them a pint and they'd take it and lie to you. Offer them a pony and you'd scare them off.' 'Whereas you…?' 'I'll lie for nothing. But for a pony you'll get gospel.' Pascoe looked at him dubiously. 'Twenty-five quid's a lot for a pig in a poke,' he said.
'Bargain basement,' retorted the scarecrow. 'I'm only offering you that price because you're British. It cost the Yank fifty.' 'The Yank?' ‘Him who got the other nanny out. I saw him on telly.' 'Waggs, you mean? You spoke with Waggs? When was that?' 'Couple of years back,' said the man vaguely. 'Taking inflation into account, you'll see I'm offering a real bargain.' 'So what are you selling?' asked Pascoe. 'What are you paying?' replied the man. He produced his wallet and counted out twenty-five pounds. He meant to wave it seductively in front of the man but somehow the notes were pulled from his fingers without him feeling the friction. 'Nanny Marsh left the Partridge house about twenty years ago.' 'Yes, I know. Under a cloud.' The scarecrow laughed. 'Oh, she'd been under something right enough, but it was a bit more substantial than a cloud.' He patted his stomach significantly. 'Good lord,' said Pascoe. 'But who…?' 'Well, I wasn't actually present at the coupling, but if you put a heifer in a field with a randy old bull, you don't need to look far when she drops a calf, do you?' 'Partridge, you mean?' said Pascoe, who liked to have things clear, especially when dealing with a Celt. 'Who said that? Not me. You may be a libel lawyer for all I know. But take a stroll round the village and after a while you get used to seeing the same little round faces peering at you.' 'So what happened to Miss Marsh?' 'Off to a clinic somewhere, was the word. Quick clear-out, large severance payment so to speak, impeccable references, carries on her career elsewhere.' It made a good old- fashioned bodice-ripping yarn. Except it was hard to imagine Mavis Marsh letting anyone rip her bodice without administering a sharp slap round the ear and a decree of banishment to bed without any supper. ‘Is that it, then?' he asked.
'Not much for twenty-five quid.' 'Depends what you do with it, I'd say. Mr Waggs seems to have done all right. When they make the film, I wonder if I'll be in it?' 'Which film?' 'Bound to be a film, isn't there, boy? Haven't you noticed? There's nothing the Yanks do, from making love to making war, that doesn't end in a film. Must be written into their constitution. Pity Burton's gone, he'd have done me nicely, I reckon. Now we've got the bribing out of the way, I can let you buy me a pint with a clear conscience.' Pascoe looked at his watch.
'Sorry,' he said rising. 'No time. I've got to dash.' 'Another time,' said the scarecrow. 'Perhaps. One thing you could help me with before I go. Just idle curiosity, but how come you're dressed with such… variety?' 'Souvenirs,' said the man smiling. 'Also advertising.'
'Advertising what?' 'One of my little lines of business. I am as it were a living memento mori. I do most of the undertaking round here.
And when they put on their garments of immortality, I get first choice of their garments of mortality, see? Drowning man sees his whole life pass in front of him, they say. We're a long way from the sea here, so they have to make do with me instead!' On his way back to town, Pascoe thought of many things, of randy lords and pregnant nannies, of the way in which Welshmen were somehow normal in their eccentricities and Yorkshiremen extraordinary in their normalities, of his empty stomach, his fragile marriage, and whether Dalziel would reimburse him the twenty-five pounds he'd paid the scarecrow plus the twelve ninety-five he'd paid for the book. He found himself whistling We're off to see the Wizard. But when he finally entered the Emerald City, he found the Wiz was still not back. Sergeant Wield was waiting for him. There was no art to read emotion in the Sergeant's moraine of a face, but his body language was eloquent of reproach. 'I'm sorry, Wieldy. Has anything been happening?' 'Nowt I haven't been able to keep on top of with threats, promises and a few downright lies,' said Wield. 'Only good thing that's happened is Jack at the Black Bull gave me extra chips when I told him you and Mr Dalziel wouldn't be in.' 'You got some lunch, then? Lucky you,' said Pascoe. 'It were business. Your business,' said Wield producing his notebook. 'What? Oh, the Harrogate business. Did you get anything?' The Sergeant consulted his notebook.
'I got three pints, a steak and kidney pie, and two helpings of Black Forest. Who do I claim off?' 'Don't be so mercenary,' reproved Pascoe hypocritically. 'Who was the glutton anyway?' 'Friend of mine from the town hall. He's got a friend in Harrogate.' Wield's eyes had fallen on the copy of In A Pear Tree which Pascoe had laid on his desk. He flicked it open delicately and read the inscription. 'Mate of yours, is he? Didn't know you kept such rich company.' There was a note of irritation in his voice and Pascoe heard himself responding in kind.
'You've got some objection?' 'It's your business.' 'But you reckon because he's a Tory lord, he's someone to be steered clear of? I'd have thought you'd be suspicious of knee-jerk prejudices like that, Wieldy.' It was a low blow, but Wield shrugged it off with a show of indifference. 'What do I know? It's another world.' 'Come on, it's our world too, he's a public figure,' said Pascoe, finding himself forced into a defence of Partridge by his guilt at his own irritability. 'He does a lot of good.' 'Charity, you mean. Aye, I heard him making a radio appeal for them handicapped kids' homes, the Carlake Trust, is it? I even sent something. But it's not exactly Mother Teresa stuff, taping a five- minute chat, is it?' 'He does rather more than that,' said Pascoe with dust jacket expertise. 'He's co-director. And the royalties from his book go to the Trust.' 'Likely he can afford it,' said Wield. 'I mean, a man who can hand out leases on two-fifty quid a week flats can't be short of a bob or two.' Suddenly Pascoe was diverted from seeking the cause of his own irritation to understanding Wield's. 'What's that you say?' 'That flat you asked about. There's a management company runs the house, and behind them there's a property company called Millgarth Estates. And you know who the principal shareholder is? That's right. Your favourite author. Lord Partridge.'
'You said, hand out leases…?' 'Aye. This woman lives there, free and clear of all rent, ground rent, management charges, the lot. Who is she, anyway? His bit of stuff?' It dawned on Pascoe that they had a common source of irritation. Wield's was at being kept in the dark, his was at having to work in the dark. He said, 'No, she is his old family nanny.' Wield whistled and said, 'Nice work if you can get it.
What's it got to do with us?' It was a good question. Better perhaps was, what's it got to do with Ralph Mickledore? With Pam Westropp?
With Cissy Kohler? He said wearily, 'God knows, Wieldy. And He's not in today.' Sometimes the dark was the safest place to be.
SIX
'For gracious sake, don't talk about Liberty; we have quite enough of that!' It wasn't till she stepped aboard the Boeing 747 at Heathrow that Cissy Kohler realized she had missed the space age.
Television, books, newspapers, they all fed you information fricasseed with fiction, so that Apollo 11 became indistinguishable from Star Wars. Prison was a time capsule. The events in the brief period since her release had passed in a kind of decelerating blur. It was as if she'd stepped straight out of Mickledore Hall into this huge machine with stairs to an upper deck and more seats than a cinema. They were in first class. She relaxed in her broad and comfortable seat and peered out of the window. A memory stirred of the first time she had seen this airport thirty years ago. Then a voice said, 'Mr Waggs.' And she looked up to see Osbert Sempernel's distinguished grey head stooping over Jay. He wore the same or an identical Savile Row suit, the same or an identical discoloured tie, and definitely the same expression of superior unconcern. Jay Waggs said, 'Hi.' 'I wonder if I could have a word.' 'As many as you like. If you've got a ticket, you can have a whole bookful.' ‘It would be better back in the terminal,' murmured Sempernel. 'More private.' 'Hell, we couldn't hold up all the other good people on this plane.' 'There are
