the Good Shepherd there, leading his flock and carrying a lamb-real horned Swaledale sheep. The hill is Kisdon, that big one out there, and you can see the River Swale to the right and Muker Beck to the left.'
'You seem to know a bit about it,' Sandra said. 'Have you been here before?'
'Once or twice.'
Norman's footsteps echoed as he wandered around examining the font and chalice.
'It is a wonderful church, though,' Robin said. 'And the cemetery's interesting, too. It's the kind of place I wouldn't mind being buried in.'
'How morbid.'
'Not at all. They used to have to carry people in wicker coffins ten or fifteen miles away to Grinton church before this place was built. They took the old Corpse Way along Ivelet Side. People wanted to be buried on consecrated ground. I'd hope for a long and healthy life first, though, like poor Alice Matlock.'
'Alice Matlock?'
'Yes. The old lady they found dead in her cottage the other day. Surely your husband must have mentioned her?'
'Yes, of course,' Sandra said. 'I was just surprised to hear you talk about her, that's all.'
Robin looked up at the dim stained glass. 'I knew her, that's all. I was a bit shaken to hear that someone who'd lived through so much should have died so violently. Does your husband have any clues?'
'None that he's told me about. How did you come to know her?'
'I suppose I'm exaggerating a bit. I haven't seen her for a few years. You know how it is; we lose touch with the old so easily. She was a friend of my grandmother's, my father's mother. They were about the same age and both of them worked as nurses at Eastvale Infirmary for years. My gran used to take me over to visit Alice when I was a kid.'
'Haven't you thought that you might be able to help?' Sandra asked.
'Me?' said Robin, startled. 'How? I said I hadn't seen her for years.'
'Alan says it's frustrating not to know much about her background. Most of her friends are dead. Anything you could tell him might be a help.'
'I don't see how.'
'When you've lived with a policeman for as long as I have,' Sandra said, 'you don't ask how. Would you be willing to see him?'
'I don't know… I… I can't see how it could help.'
'Come on. Alan won't eat you. You said you were upset about her death. Surely it's not too much to ask?'
'No, no, I don't suppose it is. If you think it'll help, of course…'
'It might.'
'Very well.'
'Good. I'll tell him, then. If I see him. He's not home much these days. Still, we are supposed to be going out tonight, if he hasn't forgotten. When's a good time? I'm sure he won't want to inconvenience you.'
'I don't know. This weekend sometime? I should be home.'
'Fine.' Sandra took Robin's address and turned her attention back to the stained-glass window. 'Come on, come on,' she urged the sun. They stood there a full minute or more until, slowly, the glass brightened and the red of Christ's robe, the blue of the rivers at his feet and the purple, orange and green of the hills behind began to glow. Sandra selected a wide aperture and let the built-in exposure-meter set the shutter speed.
'It's strange,' Robin said, watching, 'but it sometimes seems to me as if we're looking outside through a clear window at some idealized image.'
'Yes, it does,' Harriet agreed. 'Like a vision. Ooh, look how the colors are shining on us!'
'Vision indeed,' Norman sneered, walking over from the northwest window. 'A right lot of romantics, you are.' And he joined them as they took it in turns to capture the stained glass on film.
II
Friday brought a lull in affairs at the Eastvale station. Nothing had come of the previous evening's pub surveillance, and Richmond said that he'd shown the artist's impression of their one suspect in the robberies to some of the lads on the beat, but nobody had recognized him. After sending the detective constable to the Town Hall to check on the statistics of young men living alone or with single parents, Banks found himself with little to do. No Dorothy Wycombe marched in to liven up the day; no Jenny Fuller; nothing.
He had plenty of time to think, though, and spent the rest of the morning puzzling over the three cases, whose outlines had become blurred in his mind. There was a Peeping Tom in Eastvale, that was clear enough. Also, two young thugs had robbed defenseless old women. But had any of them killed Alice Matlock?
On the evidence so far, it looked like it: she had been old and alone, her home had been left in a shambles, and money and silverware had been stolen. It was certainly possible that she had tried to struggle with them and had fallen or been pushed backwards, catching the back of her head on the sharp corner of the table.
There was still room for doubt, though, and Banks found himself wondering if it could have happened some other way for some other reason. He had ruled out the peeper after what Jenny had said, so the next step was to try and discover if anyone had a motive for getting rid of Alice Matlock, or at least for engaging in such a violent confrontation with her.
According to Sergeant Hatchley, Ethel Carstairs had said that Alice had kept herself to herself over the past few years, and that she had not been the type to take-in strays or befriend strangers. If the two young tearaways were not responsible for her death, then who was, and why?
Unfortunately, the slow afternoon allowed Banks more time than he would have liked to reflect on the events of the previous evening. Sandra had been asleep when he got home, so he was spared a telling off, but she had been very frosty in the morning, reminding him that they had arranged to go out that evening with Harriet Slade and her husband, who had already booked a sitter, and that he'd promised to take the kids up to Castle Hill on Saturday morning. It was her way of hinting that he wasn't spending enough time with his nearest and dearest, whatever else he might be up to.
Though he certainly felt pangs of guilt, he hadn't really been up to anything much at all.
His first move, after Jenny had led him into her front room, had been to remark on the expensive stereo system and the lack of a television.
'I used to have one,' she said, heading for the kitchen, 'but I gave it to a colleague. Without it I get much more done-reading, listening to music, going out, seeing films. When I had it I was terribly lazy; I always take the line of least resistance.'
'It doesn't look much like a professor's living room,' Banks shouted through. There were only a couple of recent psychology journals and a folder of notes on the table.
'The study's upstairs,' she yelled back. 'I do work hard, honestly, Inspector. Milk and sugar?'
'No, thanks.'
Banks squinted at the framed print on the wall. It showed an enormous dark mountain, more steep than broad, completely dominating a small village in the foreground.
'Who did this?' he asked Jenny when she came into the room carrying two mugs of coffee..
'That? It's an Emily Carr.'
'I've never heard of her,' said Banks, who had gained a basic knowledge of art through Sandra.
'That's not surprising; she's a Canadian. I spent three years doing postgraduate work in Vancouver. She's a West Coast artist, did a lot of totem poles and forest scenes. Oddly enough, I saw that painting in a gallery at Kleinburg, near Toronto. I fell in love with it right away. Everything looks alive, don't you think?'
'Yes, in a dark, creepy kind of way. But I'm not sure it would pass my simple test for paintings.'
'Don't tell me!' she said, imitating a Yorkshire accent.' 'Ah don't know much about art bu'rah knows whar'ah likes.' Not bad for a Leicester girl, eh?'
Banks laughed. 'Better than I could do. Anyway, that's not my test. I just ask myself if I could live with it on my living room wall.'
