grow languid and mortals feel godlike.
Now she straightened up with the box in her arms and headed into the elegant brick-built village hall which stood next to the church.
“Right, lads,” said Pascoe. “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do. By the way, Joker. Any progress in tracking down that Dolores tart?”
“Eh?” said Jennison, who seemed completely rapt.
“Come on, lad. Snap out of it. Dolores, the woman you say chatted you up outside Moscow House.”
“Sorry, sir.” With a visible effort Jennison brought himself back from whatever land of sweet content his febrile imagination had conveyed him to. “No, no sign. Your lass Shirley got on to me earlier. I told her I’d checked the phone boxes and such. She’s left no cards anywhere, none of the other girls know owt about her, or else they’re keeping stumm.”
“All right,” said Pascoe, pleased to hear that Novello was on the ball. “Keep trying. Now off you go.”
Dolly Upshott came out of the hall, returned to the car and stooped to pick up another box. Jennison looked as if he wanted to stay and see the view again but Maycock drew him away by main force. Pascoe set out across the green towards the hatchback.
“Hi, there. Need a hand?” he said.
“Hello, it’s Mr Pascoe, isn’t it? Yes, that would be awfully kind. It’s stuff for our bring-and-buy sale. Trouble is, most people just bring it to the vicarage and leave it for me to sort out then ferry it down here.”
“All by yourself? I always thought our village churches were brimming over with helping hands.”
“Most of ours are pretty good at dipping into their pockets but not so hot when it comes to flexing their muscles. Anyway it’s my own fault. I’ve been neglecting parish stuff a bit lately, particularly these past couple of days, since…”
“In the circumstances, very understandable,” said Pascoe, picking up a box which turned out to be a lot heavier than it looked and trying with a machismo Ellie would have mocked not to stagger as he followed her up the path to the hall. “You said that the Macivers were rather more generous with their money than their time, I recall.”
“Yes, that’s right. Just put it down here, will you? David, that’s my brother, he says he’d rather have bums on pews than cheques in the post, but he doesn’t pay much attention to the accounts, that’s my job. I don’t know where we’d be, the parish I mean, without people like Pal to turn to when we need them. Even with something like this sale. It was only last weekend he turned up with a whole carload of stuff. I thought some of it looked good enough to put in the shop but he said no, he wanted it to go on our stalls, picking up bargains was part of the joy of being in the antique business and he’d be delighted to think some of his fellow villagers were getting a chance to share his pleasure. Only last weekend…”
Her voice broke slightly.
Pascoe said briskly, “And how about the Kafkas at Cothersley Hall? Mrs Kafka is, or was, Mr Maciver’s stepmother, I believe. But I daresay you knew that. How do they rate as churchgoers?”
“Mrs Kafka attends services sometimes, and I’ve often seen her in the church at other times, just sitting there peacefully. Mr Kafka hardly appears in the village at all. But, like Pal, he’s very generous when it comes to appeals.”
They were walking back to the hatchback now. To his irritation he saw the police car was still parked outside the pub with Jennison’s broad face at the open passenger window, as if hungry for another helping of curvaceous corduroy. He glowered towards him and a moment later Maycock started the engine and the vehicle drew away.
“Something happening at the pub?” enquired Dolly.
Pascoe told her and she laughed so joyously it was impossible not to join in.
“Pal would have loved that,” she said. “He hated Captain Inglestone. Always called him corporal.”
“Why didn’t they get on?”
“Mutual antipathy, I think. Also the Captain let Sue-Lynn run up a pretty hefty slate then had the cheek to present it to Pal for payment when he was in there with some friends one night. I gather the air was pretty blue by the time they finished.”
“Like his beer,” said Pascoe, and was rewarded with another infectious laugh.
“Did Pal and the Kafkas socialize much, do you know?” he asked as they made their way back into the hall with two more boxes.
“Oh no,” she said, then qualified, “Not to my knowledge, I mean.”
“No? Bit odd, given the relationship,” he probed, curious to know how current rumours of bad blood between stepmother and stepson were. In his experience there was no such thing as private business outside city limits.
“What people do in their personal lives is no affair of anyone else’s,” she said rather brusquely.
“Really? I think your brother might give you an argument there,” he said pleasantly.
He set his box down. It contained books. One of them slipped off the top of the pile and fell to the floor. He stooped to pick it up. It was a tiny volume in a marbled binding. He opened it at the title page and read Death’s Jest-Book or The Fool’s Tragedy, London: William Pickering, 1850. There was no author’s name but he didn’t need one.
“Are you all right, Mr Pascoe?” asked Dolly anxiously.
“Yes, fine. It’s just this book, the man who wrote it, I’ve a… friend who’s very interested in him and he’s rather ill at the moment …”
“I’m sorry about that,” she said. “Look, if you’d like to buy it for him, it’s only a pound…”
“A pound?”
“Yes. All hardbacks are a pound, paperbacks twenty pee. It makes things so much simpler. That’s one of the ones Pal donated, probably worth a bit more but he was so insistent. A pound each, he said. So, give me a pound and it’s yours.”
Pascoe produced the coin and slipped the book into his pocket.
“Thank you,” he said. “Now, let’s get on. Can’t be much more.”
“No, there’s not and I can manage,” said Dolly smiling. “I’m sure you haven’t come out to Cothersley just to act as a beast of burden.”
He noted the implied question and saw no reason not to answer it.
“That’s true. In fact, I’d be grateful if you could help me with some directions. I’m on my way to see
Mrs Maciver at Casa Alba. How’s she bearing up, by the way?”
Dolly made a wry face and said, “Not very well, I gather. I haven’t seen her myself. She’s not very keen to have company. Almost chucked David out of the house.”
“Let’s hope I have better luck,” said Pascoe. “Now if you could point me in the right direction…”
She led him outside and gave him his directions with an admirable succinctness, then, as he thanked her and made to leave, she said, “Yesterday you sounded pretty certain Pal shot himself. Is there some doubt now? I mean, with you coming here and asking questions… I only ask because, naturally, there’s all kinds of rumours flying round the village and I know my brother would be grateful if he could scotch the wilder ones with a bit of authority.”
“Yes, I can see that. But my job’s just to get information to pass on to the coroner and to do that I’ve got to ask questions,” Pascoe prevaricated. “Best way to deal with rumours is to ignore them and wait for the inquest.”
“But what do you think, Mr Pascoe? I mean, do locked-room mysteries really happen outside detective novels?”
“Believe me, real life is infinitely more incredible and unpredictable,” said Pascoe. “Good day, Miss Upshott.”
As he drove away, he could see her in his mirror still standing by the church gate, looking after him.
Nice woman, he thought.
And she gave good directions too, he acknowledged as after a pleasant two-mile drive through rolling English countryside, liberally wooded with oak and elm and lightly dotted with properties, some old, some new, all substantial, he spotted what had to be Casa Alba.
The name had conjured up a picture of some version of Costa del Holiday villa, but its style, though distinctly
