The Price of Butcher's Meat (33 page)

The barn door was open, and as Wield dismounted, a figure in a wheelchair appeared on the threshold.

“Sergeant Wield! How nice to see you. I wondered who would come. Still riding the Thunderbird, I see. I thought I recognized that throaty growl as you came up the lane.”

The greeting was perfect in its form, but Roote’s voice was a little breathless and his face a little fl ushed.

“I wonder you could hear anything above the noise made by yon Lightning. Was that Edward Denham? I thought he were going to ride right through me.”

“Oh dear,” said Roote. “I’m sorry about that. Yes. It was Teddy.

Well spotted, and you’ve only been here two minutes! Your reputation for thoroughness is well deserved. I’ll read Ted the riot act, or perhaps the Road Safety Act would be more appropriate. Happily, you survived and it’s so good to see you, Sergeant Wield. How are you? You look so well, hardly changed at all.”

“I’m fine, Mr. Roote,” said Wield, wondering what had brought Ted Denham round to Lyke Farm Barn on this particular night.

“Come in, do,” said Roote, spinning the chair around and leading the way into a living room simply furnished with a low table and a wood- framed three-piece suite standing on a granite-fl agged fl oor.

The walls were whitewashed and there was no ceiling, just the sharp vee of the cruck-beamed roof, giving the room a slightly churchy feel.

The twenty-first century was represented by a small fl at- screen TV

hung on one of the end walls and a wheelchair-height computer workstation.

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Observing his visitor take all this in, Roote said, “There were rugs on the floor to make it all seem a bit more homely, but I asked Maisie if she’d mind taking them away. That way I get a smoother run and she gets more wear out of her rugs.”

“That would be Mrs. Sedgwick?”

“Sorry, I should have said. But what need when talking to Sergeant Wield? Anyone dear Peter rates so high is always going to be one step ahead of the game. How is he, by the way? And his lovely wife? And of course, their delightful daughter?”

Wield felt a frisson of pleasure at the praise at the same time as he consigned it to the recycle bin. His personal acquaintance with Roote was much slighter than Pascoe’s or Dalziel’s, but from listening to them and studying the records, he knew he was dealing with a master of misdirection who made most political spin doctors look like
Blue Peter
presenters.

“They’re grand, all of them,” he said.

“Great! Now, can I offer you some refreshment, Mr. Wield?” said Roote. “No alcohol, of course. You’re on duty. But I know how duty can devour time unawares for you chaps, leaving precious little space to devour anything else. So a cup of tea and a slice of cake? Maisie bakes an incredible Madeira loaf.”

“Thanks, no,” said Wield. “Just a few questions, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“No problem there then,” grinned Roote, running a hand over his shaven skull. “Sorry. Nervous frivolity. This is a truly terrible business with ramifications beyond the immediate ghastly tragedy. But I do not doubt your sensors have already begun to trace those out.”

“Always glad to use local knowledge to point us on the right track,”

said Wield invitingly. When witnesses tried to control the direction of an interview, he often found it helpful to give them their head and see where they led.

“Lady Denham is . . . sorry . . . was a very important fi gure in Sandytown. I don’t just mean socially, but economically. The times 2 4 0

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they are a-changing, Mr. Wield, and a-changing faster than ever before. To stand still is to decline. Development is all, and here in Sandytown the main thrust of development has been in the safe hands of our two charismatic figures, Lady D herself and Tom Parker. Have you met Tom yet?”

“No, but he’s being interviewed,” said Wield. “Got on all right, did they?”

Roote frowned and said, “Impossible not to get on with Tom, though it’s true he and Lady D are two very different characters. In the hands of either alone, the good ship Sandytown would probably have quickly foundered—on the reefs of quick profits and personal gain under the captaincy of Lady D, or the shoals of vague idealism and personal obsession under the helmsmanship of Tom Parker. In other words, together they formed a team greater than the sum of its parts.

Alas, with dear Daphne gone . . .”

He shook his head and looked tragic. He did it very well, Wield had to admit. Out of the mouths of many people those fancy words would have sounded merely overblown, but Roote gave them real force and life.

He said, “You’re saying mebbe this could be a motive for killing Lady Denham? Wanting to wreck what she were doing in this consortium?”

“On Tom’s part? Impossible. But others might see things differently, so it’s a possibility. You might want to add it to your list of the usual motives.”

“Them being?”

“Money—who inherits? Sex—who has been scorned or impeded?

Mental disturbance—who’s off their chump?” replied Roote promptly.

“You’ve obviously thought a bit about this.”

“I had several years to contemplate the field of murder investigation, Sergeant Wield, with especial attention to the errors that an early false premise can lead even an honest and conscientious investigator into.”

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He looked Wield straight in the eyes as he said this.

If he’d been selling me a used car, I’d be reaching for my wallet, thought the sergeant, who found he was almost enjoying himself.

Nowt one expert likes more than seeing another at the top of his game.

But enough was enough. He’d seen where Roote wanted to take him, now it was time to rein him in.

“Right,” he said. “Thanks for that. Now about the party at Sandytown Hall. What time did you arrive, Mr. Roote?”

He took out his notebook, opened it, clicked his ballpoint, and held it poised to write. But the young man was not ready so easily to concede control.

“No need for that, Mr. Wield,” he said, smiling. “I knew you’d want a statement, so the first thing I did when I got back here with everything still fresh in my mind was . . .”

He picked up a plastic folder from the floor and handed it over.

“. . . write this.”

Wield opened the folder.

Statement of Francis Xavier Roote

of Lyke Farm Barn, nr Sandytown, Yorkshire

“Why don’t I make us that cup of tea while you cast your eye over it, then you can ask any supplementary questions and I’ll sign it in your presence?” said Roote.

“I’m impressed, Mr. Roote,” said Wield. “Bet if I’d come to arrest you, I’d have found you in handcuffs.”

Roote exploded a laugh.

“I can see you and I are going to get along famously, Sergeant,” he said.

He went toward a door that opened at his approach, giving Wield a glimpse into a kitchen. Everything was at wheelchair height: work surfaces, sink, electric oven. Presumably Roote had paid for the 2 4 2

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alteration and would have to pay for the restoration when he vacated the property. The rumors of the high level of compensation, obtained in part at least through Pascoe’s efforts, must be true. A setup like this, plus automatic doors, wouldn’t come cheap. Wield found that the low-level oven in particular brought home the change in the young man’s life even more than the sight of him in a wheelchair. He concentrated his attention on the statement.

It was clear in language, precise in description, concise in expression. Every sighting of Lady Denham was highlighted. None sounded significant. The only bit that caught Wield’s interest came toward the end. When the storm started, Roote had taken shelter in the conservatory, where he sat in a quiet corner watching the play of lightning in the eastern sky.

As the storm receded, feeling the need for some air, I left the
conservatory and went out onto the paved area. I saw someone move in the shrubbery at the end of the lawn. I only got
a glimpse and this in poor light at a distance of say twenty-fi ve
to thirty meters, but I’m sure he had a beard. The only person
I saw at the party with a beard was Gordon Godley, the
healer, but I could not say definitely it was him. If anything,
the man more closely resembled Harold, known as Hen, Hollis, brother of Lady Denham’s first husband. Against this,
Hen’s reaction to his brother’s will had led to an estrange-ment from Lady D and I knew that he was unlikely to have
been invited to the hog roast.

Curious as to why anyone would have stayed out there in
the rain, I rolled my chair onto the grass and went to investi-gate. Unfortunately the lower end of the lawn was so soggy
after the downpour that the wheels of my chair sank and I
found myself stuck. To make matters worse, the rain, which
had slackened off to a few negligible drops, suddenly returned for what proved to be a fi nal flurry, provoking me to
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make such an effort to move that I tipped the whole thing
over and ended up sprawled on the lawn. There I remained
till others came out of the house and Petula Sheldon, head
nurse at the Avalon Clinic, rescued me and wheeled me back
to dry land.

Shortly afterward the body of poor Lady Denham was
discovered. For a while all was confusion. In a wheelchair,
soaking wet, and extremely distressed by the news, I could see
no way that I could assist. So, confident that details of all the
guests would be made available to the authorities, I followed
the example of many others and went home where, after
changing my clothes, I prepared this statement.

Signed in the presence of … … … … … … … …

by … … … … … … … … … … …

Roote was still clattering crockery in the kitchen, a little more loudly than necessary?

Mebbe he wants to give me time to poke around, thought Wield.

Happy to oblige!

He rose and went to the workstation. It was a top-of- the-range setup. A clued- up operator could probably go almost anywhere he wanted on this. Tempting for a man in a wheelchair . . . no, Wield corrected, tempting for any clued- up operator, as he knew!

“Questions?” said Roote, appearing out of the kitchen with a tea tray bearing mugs, teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl, and a cake set across the arms of his wheelchair.

“Aye. Did you see this bearded man again when you were out on the lawn?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Roote. “I thought I heard some movement in the shrubbery, as though someone were pushing through it, but I actually saw nothing more.”

“Pity,” said Wield, returning to his chair. “And it’s a pity you didn’t hang around to give this bit of information to us a lot sooner, 2 4 4

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Mr. Roote. You’re not the only person who had time to get home, change his clothes, and dry himself off.”

“I’ve no idea what time you arrived at the hall, Mr. Wield, but I suspect the person I saw would have had ample time to do all that anyway.”

“Mebbe so, but you could have told Sergeant Whitby, who got there a lot sooner.”

“Ah yes. Sergeant Whitby.”

Had he put into words what his tone implied, Wield might have felt impelled by his sergeants-union loyalty to offer a defense. As it was he answered silence with silence and accepted the mug of tea that Roote poured for him.

So much for taking control of the interview, he reflected as he sank his teeth into a slice of Madeira cake. At least in his assessment of this, Roote had been completely accurate. It was delicious.

“So, may I sign it?” said the young man.

“Aye, it’ll do. For now.”

Roote took the statement and signed it with a fl ourish, then handed it back and watched as Wield countersigned.

Then he said, “Now tell me about dear Peter Pascoe. Does he know I’m here? When may I hope to see him?”

“Aye, he knows. Sir Edward tell you he was here?”

“Yes, I believe he did. Though I would have guessed. With poor Mr. Dalziel hors de combat at the Avalon, who else would be en-trusted with a case of such moment?”

“You’ve met Mr. Dalziel then?”

“Oh yes. Fate threw us together, though it can’t have been too ar-duous a task for Fate in a place the size of Sandytown. Not altogether himself, I felt, but majestic though in ruin. The second occasion we met, I was glad to see him getting closer to his old self. In fact, the improvement was so marked I felt able to ask his assistance with my appeal.”

“Your appeal?”

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“For a review of my conviction, which I hope may result in a par-don.”

Wield drank some tea, then said in a voice as flat as Norfolk, “You asked the superintendent to help you appeal against your conviction?”

“That’s right.”

Wield drank some more tea.

“And he said . . . ?”

“He undertook to give it serious consideration. I always found him a man open to reason and compassion: His outward semblance doth belie his soul’s immensity.”

Wield finished his tea.

There must be something in it, he thought. Magic mushrooms maybe.

He folded the statement, put it in his notebook, stood up, and said, “I’d best be off. Thanks for the tea. And the cake. By the way, what brought you here to Sandytown?”

It was meant to be casual, but Roote grinned broadly and said,

“Of course. You’ll need to be debriefed by Peter. The answer is, familiarity and coincidence, Mr. Wield. When I finally gave up my quest for a cure and resolved to return to En gland, where else would I come but Yorkshire, which has played such a signifi cant part in my life?”

“Like getting you jailed, getting you shot, and getting you crip-pled?” said Wield, thinking, If the bugger wants straight talk, let him have it!

“Indeed, though I try not to dwell on those things. Fate may have decreed I live my life like a gnome, but I try to record it like a gno-mon, telling only the sunlit hours.”