It wasn't too difficult. Penn's mother (original name Penck) lived in a grace-and-favour cottage on Lord Partridge's estate at Haysgarth. She felt her son had betrayed his Teutonic heritage, he resented the way she bowed and scraped to the Partridges.
Dalziel went on, 'You had a good old traditional Wein-acht with your good old traditional Mutti out at Haysgarth, but the only way you could block out the sight of her kowtowing to Budgie Partridge and the sound of her going on about your dad spinning in his grave to see how completely his son has gone native was to get pissed out of your skull on schnapps or some such muck. Then you headed back here to pass on a bit of your misery to some other bugger. We won't go into how you got here, though if I hear of any corpses, human or animal, on the road between here and Haysgarth, I'll be jumping up and down on your belly till you bring up your ribs. How am I doing, Charley?'
'Nice story, pity about the style. Andy, if I'm not under arrest, I'll be on my way afore I freeze to death.'
'Long as you understand there's no one would give a toss, Charley, except mebbe your publishers, and they'd just be thinking of their profits. Even your old Mutti would likely just set about transforming you into one of them dead Kraut heroes, my son the Teutonic bard who's up there in Valhalla, serenading the gods. That's what you sentimental Krauts do with dead folk, isn't it? Turn them into summat they're not when they're too dead to answer back. Get it into that thick noddle of thine, Charley. Your mate Dick Dee was a sick, evil bastard and if you can't get your head round that, you'd best stand out here till you catch pneumonia, then go and ask him yourself.'
Penn shivered and pulled his jacket closer around him.
'You done?' he said.
'For now.'
'Thank Christ for that. What's happened to you, Andy? Always thought of you as vulgar and violent. But never verbose. Tell you what I think. You're too wise an old porker to believe you're going to get anywhere grunting at me. So just who are you trying to convince with all those words? Yourself mebbe? Worried about how it's going to look if the truth comes dropping through your letter box one fine morning? Or rather not if. When! Watch this space, Andy. Watch this space. I'm off. Merry fucking Christmas.'
He turned and walked away across the road rather unsteadily. When he reached the small back gate which led into the churchyard opposite, he pushed it open, raised his right hand in derisive farewell without looking round, and vanished among the gravestones.
Dalziel stood in thought for a moment, then shook his head like a man dislodging a bee, glanced at his watch, stooped to the car, reached in and leaned on the horn.
Upstairs, Hat heard the noise and guessed its source.
So did Rye. She said, 'Better run.'
'No hurry,' said Hat bravely. 'He can wait till I'm sure you're OK.'
She looked better but was still very pale. She said, 'I'm fine, really.'
'You don't look fine. Have you had anything to eat?'
'What had you in mind? Roast turkey and the trimmings? No thanks!'
'I could rustle you up…'
He paused while his mind scanned his limited culinary range.
The horn sounded once more.
Rye said, 'I don't know if I'm ready for the Bowler book of boy nosh. Go, go.'
Still he hesitated. There was a tap at the door. He looked round and saw Myra Rogers. He'd met her a couple of times in the last few days. Rye seemed to have taken a shine to her and Hat had been delighted to know she had a neighbour she felt she could turn to. Inviting Mrs Gilpin into your life would be like volunteering to go on Big Brother.
Mrs Rogers said uncertainly, 'I'm sorry, I just wanted to see if you were all right… I've been out and when I came back and saw that terrifying man on the stairs
'It's all right, he's too drunk to do any harm,' said Hat.
'Yes, well actually, I meant the policeman. I'm sorry, I just wanted to say, if there was anything I could do, but I don't want to intrude
She looked as if a blink of the eye would send her running.
The horn again, this blast long enough to summon Charlemagne back to Roncesvalles.
Rye said, 'Myra, don't be silly. Hat's got to go, and I'll be glad of the company. Hat, give me a ring later, will you? I think we both need to rearrange Christmas!'
Relieved, even though he suspected Rye may have invited the woman in to make it easier for him to go, Hat ran down the stairs.
Outside he found the Fat Man sitting on the bonnet of the car, which gave it a very lopsided look, and regarding him grimly.
'I hope you've not been shagging,' he said. 'Bad manners to shag and shog off.'
'She's got someone with her, Mrs Rogers from next door… Where's Penn?'
He'd just registered that the writer wasn't in the car.
'Gone.'
'You let him go?'
'Aye. Here's a tip, lad. Always keep in with your custody sergeant. You never know when you'll need a favour. And one certain way to make a custody sergeant your enemy for life is to turn up on Christmas Day with a drunk who's not got blood on his hands.'
Hat was regarding him with a lack of gratitude bordering on insubordination.
'What if he comes back? At the very least shouldn't we put a watch on Rye's flat?'
'Taken care of, lad’ said Dalziel.
He waved up at a second-floor window where a red and yellow party hat was visible.
'Now let's get into the car and back to the station afore my bollocks drop off and crack the pavement’ said Dalziel.
Letter 6. Received Dec 27 th P. P
Tues Dec 18th
Dear Mr Pascoe,
I must have been exhausted by yesterday's adventures as the sun was shining brightly when I was woken by the sound of activity somewhere in the chalet. I emerged from my bedroom to find a young woman with bright red cheeks and wearing what I presume is some version of traditional costume, a combination giving her the look of an animated doll, making my breakfast. None of your muesli either but a substantial British fry-up!
My Coppelia chatted incessantly, and incomprehensibly, till, as she was leaving, she pointed at the letter I wrote last night and said, 'Post?' I quickly scribbled your address (excellent quality stationery, don't you think?) and off she went with it.
After breakfast, I decided to get my bearings and, wrapping myself up well, I went for a stroll around the policies.
The grounds of the castle are extensive and lovely, and made even more so by last evening's snowfall and this morning's frost. But my appreciation that I was in a wilderness of groaning glaciers and towering Alps has proved quite false! True, looking to the south. or west I can see the white swell of the Jura, but in the other direction the land is much flatter and predominantly pastoral. Nonetheless to one whose boundaries were for so long prison walls and security fences, this sense of space and distance was exhilarating. I strolled without plan, drinking in the beauty of the frost-laced landscape where every tree seemed festooned with glittering diamonds which seemed to my suddenly poetic mind to harbinge the arrival of that still fairer jewel, the lovely Emerald!
What pickleheads love, or lust, makes of us rational thinkers!
Eventually, shame at finding myself behaving more like an adolescent boy than a rational adult made me force my mind back to the real purpose of my presence here. I recalled my feelings of the previous night when I found myself confronted by those weird paintings which reminded me so much of Beddoes' play. The circumstances and my state of mind had been peculiarly Gothic, of course, and probably in daylight there would be very little correspondence.
I decided to test this out and, more by luck than judgment, found my way back to the ruined chapel.
