The Price of Butcher's Meat (59 page)

I then made my way back to the Hall, entering unob-served by a rear door, and went to the room I knew my
brother used for changing in when he went swimming. I
found him there, toweling himself down. It soon became
clear to me as I told him what I had done that he had no
idea what I was talking about. He in fact had spent the last
hour or so in the company of Sidney Parker, his homosexual
lover. He was completely bowled over when I told him about
Lady Denham. I was convinced of his innocence, and I realized the presence of his watch on the scene meant that someone was trying to point the finger of suspicion his way. Not
knowing what other false clues might have been deposited, it
seemed best to say nothing but to try to outthink the perpetrator. To this end, we agreed that Edward must be among
the first on the spot when the body was discovered so that any
other physical evidence of his involvement that might have
been planted could be explained by contact made in removing it from the basket. Edward, though not the clearest of
thinkers, has always had a great deal of self-possession in try-T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 4 7

ing circumstances, so, though naturally deeply distressed, he
was able to carry this off with relative ease.

I had hoped that the police investigation might have led
rapidly to discovery of the real culprit and that my role in this
affair would never need to surface, but clearly this has not
happened. In fact, I am glad of this opportunity to get this
burden of concealment off my chest. I regret that any action
of mine should have muddied the waters, and hope that by
volunteering this statement, I might leave the way clear for
the police to get on the trail of the real perpetrator.

Pascoe sighed deeply as he finished reading and said, “Miss Denham, you realize that, however we take this statement, in it you are admitting to a very serious offense?”

“Yes.”

“And if in fact your assertion that you were mistakenly trying to cover up for your brother turns out itself to be an attempt to cover up for your brother, you are committing an even more serious offense?”

“I had worked that out. But my statement is true.”

“Really? Work out a lot, do you, Miss Denham?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Visit the gym two or three times a week? Weight training, that sort of thing?”

“Certainly not.”

“I didn’t think so. I don’t observe any of that definition of the bi-ceps, triceps, or deltoid muscles that usually accompanies such exercise.”

“How about my pecs, Chief Inspector? Are they defi ned enough for you?”

“Excellently defined, if God did all,” said Pascoe. “But my point is, young, healthy, and fit though you appear to be, I find it hard to believe that you could have done all you claim to have done without assistance. Your aunt was no spring chicken. The winch and the pulley 4 4 8

R E G I N A L D H I L L

systems, even though well oiled, still require a fair amount of strength to work them.”

“Your point being?”

“My point being that it seems to me far more likely that this was the work of you and your brother working in concert.”

“You think we conspired to murder Lady Denham?” She smiled.

“I assure you, if my mind had ever turned that way, I would have come up with something a lot less muddled than this!”

“I believe you,” said Pascoe, smiling in his turn. “This smacks of masculine anger and impulsiveness. I think you probably chanced upon the event as it reached its climax. Too late to prevent the murder, you immediately set about setting up the diversions. That much of what you write is true, except of course that Edward was with you, following your instructions.”

“No,” she insisted serenely. “I was alone. Teddy was never there.

I’m sure that Sid Parker will be able to provide him with an alibi.”

“So am I,” said Pascoe. “If the love of a sister can do as much, then surely the love of a lover will not fall short. Mr. Parker’s story will, I fear, carry as much or as little weight as yours.”

“You don’t seem to regard love very highly, Mr. Pascoe.”

“Oh, but I do. It comes second only to truth in my pantheon,” said Pascoe. “I’m going to talk with your brother now. Knowing him as you do, how do you think he’s going to stand up to interrogation?”

“Very well. All he’s got to do is tell you what little he knows. As such a devout worshipper of truth, eventually you’ll have to acknowledge the presence of your deity.”

He felt he was beginning to see what Andy Dalziel had clearly seen from the beginning, the real woman beneath the polished shell.

From the Fat Man she won sympathy. From himself she won merely admiration.

Her one point of weakness was Ted. He did not doubt for a moment that she was trying to cover up for him.

But he didn’t doubt either that her serene confidence in her brother’s T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 4 9

ability to be able to withstand close interrogation was misplaced. That was the trouble with love. It made you do silly things. But worse, it made you blind to weakness.

He said, “I’ll let you know how I get on then, shall I?”

Then he stood up and left the room.

12

As they approached the gate of Sandytown Hall, Sammy Ruddlesdin’s battered old Fiesta leading the way, George’s Land Rover behind, Dalziel saw that he’d been right about the growing media interest.

Their way was barred by a pack of journalists and photographers.

Sammy began to brake, but the Fat Man’s hand fastened like a clamp about his thigh.

“Accelerator, Sammy, not brake,” said Dalziel. “If the buggers don’t get out of the way, run ’em down. Then turn left up the hill.”

At the top of North Cliff, he directed the Fiesta along a skein of country lanes till thirty minutes later he was satisfied they’d shaken off any journalist attempting pursuit. Then he navigated the car back to the coast road and reentered the town by way of South Cliff with the Land Rover close behind.

They parked behind the Hope and Anchor and went into the pub by the rear door. A clever journalist who knew him might have been waiting in the snug, but only Ruddlesdin fitted that bill, and when they entered the room, they found it empty.

“That was fun,” said George Heywood with a grin. “I expect you’ve worked up a thirst, Mr. Dalziel. What are you having?”

Dalziel nodded approvingly. This was as it should be, young man eager to buy drinks for his elders. But not in this case.

He said, “You can buy me one later, lad. This round’s Mr. Ruddlesdin’s.”

Sammy said, “Name your poison,” with the complacency of one who knew that any expense docket marked Drinks for DS Dalziel would be passed on the nod.

T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 5 1

He took the order to the bar and rang a bell for attention. After a pause, Jenny the barmaid appeared.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “Bit shorthanded. Alan’s popped up to the Avalon.”

“Oh aye?” said Dalziel. “Not badly, is he?”

“No, have you not heard? That cousin of Lady Denham’s, Clara, she’s up there. She had a fall. We got word she recovered consciousness and we had a whip round for some flowers and Alan said he’d run them up there.”

“Friend of his then?”

“We all liked her and we felt a bit sorry for her too, specially Alan, knowing what Lady Denham could be like. He used to say she went over his accounts like a spy satellite, she could spot an error from fifty miles up. I hope the old cow—sorry, shouldn’t speak ill of the dead—I hope the old lady’s left Clara comfortable in her will.

Worth millions, they say?”

She ended on a question mark, looking hopefully at Dalziel.

Bet everyone in Sandytown knows exactly who he is by now, thought Charley. And they assume that, if anyone knows anything, it will be him.

Curiously she found herself assuming much the same.

But all he said was, “Aye, wills are funny things. But isn’t Mr.

Beard staying here? You’d best ask him.”

“More chance of getting my granda to speak, and he said nowt but Bugger Blair! for ten years,” said Jenny. “Now he says nowt but Bugger Brown!”

She took the order and began pouring drinks. The door opened and Franny Roote rolled through it. His jaw dropped in a show of stagey surprise that felt to Charley as if it concealed the real thing.

“All my favorite people under one roof,” he said. “Mr. Dalziel.

Charley. And George. This has to be George, I assume? I see a family resemblance, and Charley’s told me so much about you, I feel as if I know you already.”

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He reached out and the two young men shook hands. Ruddlesdin came back from the bar, bearing drinks. Roote grinned up at him.

“And it’s Mr. Ruddlesdin, star reporter of the
News
, if I’m not mistaken. Long time no see, Mr. Ruddlesdin.”

Sammy said, “Eh?” looked more closely, then glanced from the man in the wheelchair to Dalziel and back again.

“It’s Roote, isn’t it?” he said cautiously. “Franny Roote?”

“Yes. You interviewed me once, or was it twice? Good piece, lousy photo.”

“I recall. What are you doing here then?” He tried to sound casual, but his eyes were bright with speculation.

“Oh, a bit of this, bit of that,” said Roote, smiling. “So how’re things going up at the Hall, Andy? I hear they’ve taken the bart and his sister in for questioning. Serious stuff, is it? I mean, can we expect a statement soon?”

Again all attention was on the Fat Man.

He took a long draft of his beer, then said, “I daresay.”

“Make a note of that, Mr. Ruddlesdin. Quote of the week. Detective Superintendent Dalziel says, ‘I daresay.’ ”

It struck Charley that Roote was in a slightly manic mood. There was a sense of barely repressed energy about him, in contrast with his usual aura of cool control.

Dalziel didn’t react. His attention was concentrated on the door, which Roote had left open. Suddenly he put his glass down, said, “I need a leak. And I’ve spat in that beer,” stood up, and went out.

Charley saw him step into the path of a young woman who’d just come down the stairs into the passage between the snug and the main bar. He paused as if to apologize, then the door swung shut behind him.

“So, George,” said Roote, “have you come to rescue your sister?

Must be worrying for your family when suddenly the Home of the Healthy Holiday turns into the Costa de Muerte!”

“Rescue Charley? You must be joking,” laughed George. “As far as I’m concerned, she’s always been the one who did the rescuing.”

T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 4 5 3

“I can believe it,” said Roote. “Ever since she came here, we’ve all felt ourselves very much the object of her attention. We shall miss her when she fi nally goes.”

Charley felt herself disproportionately complimented by what was, after all, a mere polite token of regret.

She said, “So what was this interview about, Mr. Ruddlesdin? I didn’t realize Franny was famous.”

Roote looked quizzically at the journalist who, perhaps for the fi rst time in his adult life, felt embarrassed.

But he was saved from replying by the door opening again, this time to admit Alan Hollis.

“Sorry, Jenny,” he said. “Been rushed off your feet?”

“No, it’s been fine. How’s Clara?”

“Broke an arm and a leg and some ribs, still pretty shocked, but they say they’re pleased with her,” replied Hollis. “They just let me in long enough to pass on everyone’s good wishes, and the fl owers, of course. She said to tell everyone thank you, and that was about as much as the poor love could manage.”

“Anyone got any idea what happened yet?” asked Ruddlesdin.

“Not yet. Seems she can’t recall a thing.”

“Folk are saying that the Hall was never a lucky place for them as lived there,” said Jenny. “That’s why it stood empty so long afore Hog Hollis bought it. And look what happened to him. Then Lady Denham. Now poor Clara.”

“You saying she’s inherited the Hall?” said Ruddlesdin sharply.

“I’ve no idea,” said Jenny. “If anyone deserves it, she does.”

“Don’t worry, lass. Everyone will get what they deserve,” said Dalziel, who had somehow reentered the room without attracting attention. Nimble on his pins for a big man, thought Charley.

The barmaid looked unimpressed by the Fat Man’s assertion and Hollis said, “Right, Jenny, I’ll take over here. You get back to the bar.”

“How do, Mr. Hollis,” said Dalziel. “Everything all right up at the Avalon?”

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The landlord repeated what he’d told the others, adding, “All the nurses were talking about that healer fellow, Godley, him as is one of Tom Parker’s circus. Seems they were all dead worried she’d never wake up, or not be right when she did, then after he’d been with her a couple of minutes, she opened her eyes and was fine. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

“Godley? This the same guy they thought they’d caught in the act at the acupuncturist’s last night?” asked Ruddlesdin, his nose twitch-ing at the scent of a good human interest story.

“The guy
you
thought they’d caught in the act,” said Dalziel heavily. “If he decides to sue the
News
for that piece you wrote about him, likely you’ll need his healing touch once your editor’s done with you.”

He sat down, drained the rest of his beer, looked at George, and said, “Now you can buy me that pint, lad.”

As George went to the bar, the Fat Man said to Charley with a ponderous archness, “Does make you think, but. Handy chap to have around, yon Godley, if he’s really got the gift.”

Charley yawned to indicate her indifference to this geriatric matchmaking.

Roote said, “Might come in handy for your thesis, Charley. Or have the last couple of days redirected your interest away from alternative medicine to offender profi ling?”