An April Shroud

Evening was well advanced when they rose and the house was quiet.

'Perhaps they've all gone,' said Dalziel.

'They're more likely to be too drunk to speak,' said Bonnie. 'Or they're in the kitchen guzzling sausages.'

Dalziel felt guilty. After the welter of confused emotion which had immersed him during the past couple of hours, it was almost a relief to isolate and recognize a simple reaction. It was a conditioned reflex rather than an emotion; policemen were bred to put the investigation of crime before their personal pleasure and he had been false to his breeding.

'I doubt they'll have cooked those sausages,' he said.

'Why's that?' she asked, tugging a comb through her thick brown hair which, unfastened, had tumbled in surprising profusion over her shoulders.

'Come downstairs and I'll show you,' he said grimly.

Puzzled Bonnie finished her tidying up and let herself be led to the kitchens once more. They met no one en route and the basket of sausages remained untouched where they had left it.

'It's a bit like the Mary Celeste said Bonnie.

'No mystery,' grunted Dalziel. 'They'll all be stoned out of their minds.'

He took a coin from his pocket and rapidly unscrewed the control panel of one of the ovens.

'Take a look in here,' he invited. 'What do you see?'

Bonnie peered in cautiously.

'Nothing much,' she admitted.

'Right,' said Dalziel. 'Now what should you see is what makes these things work. Magnetrons, they're called. Don't ask me how I know.'

'Where are they?' wondered Bonnie making her way round the kitchen inspecting every oven. 'What a stupid thing! You'd think Bertie would have checked when they installed them.'

'He probably did,' said Dalziel. 'I think you've been robbed.'

'Robbed?' She laughed. 'Don't be silly. Why should anyone steal whatever you said?'

'Some people'd steal owt for a bob or two,' said Dalziel. 'Don't mistake. Everything's sellable. But I'm feared this is just an extra.'

'Extra?'

'Aye. Where's the drink store?'

'Oh Jesus!' she cried, catching his drift now. 'There's a cellar. .. we've got all our opening stock in there. Conrad got it in just before our credit gave up the ghost completely.'

They clattered down a narrow flight of stairs which led to an open door.

'Damn Charley!' snapped the woman. 'He had strict instructions to lock up behind him.'

'Don't blame the lad,' said Dalziel. 'I doubt if it's worth locking.'

At first glance all looked well. The crates of spirits, aperitifs, wine and liqueurs were all stacked in militarily neat array. But a few moments' investigation revealed the worst. Only the nearest bottles were full. Behind the front rank, all the liquor had been decanted, and in the nether crates there were no bottles at all.

'Charley got some of the empties in his mixed dozen,' said Dalziel. 'I thought it was just another bit of daftness then.'

Bonnie who after an explosion of blasphemous obscenity had got hold of herself very well demanded, 'What made you think differently. The ovens?'

'Aye. And one other thing.'

They went back up the stairs, Dalziel leading now. He strode belligerently to Mrs Greave's room and without knocking, kicked the door open so that it rattled against the wall and went inside. When Bonnie caught up, he had opened every cupboard door and drawer in the place. They were uniformly empty.

'You mean you think that Mrs Greave…' said Bonnie incredulously. 'But why? She's Pappy's daughter.'

Dalziel laughed, a short humourless bark very different from the deep guffaws he had emitted in the intimacy of the bedroom.

'If you believe that, you'll believe anything.'

'But how do you know? How can you be sure it's her?'

'I know a slag when I see one,' said Dalziel brutally. 'When her type and your property go missing at the same time, then don't waste your time praying for guidance.'

'If you worked this out before, you haven't exactly struck while the iron was hot,' said Bonnie reprovingly.

'No. Well, something got in the way,' muttered Dalziel. 'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be,' she said, smiling. 'Well, what now? I suppose I'd better phone the police.'

Dalziel scratched the back of his neck and looked at her assessingly. The thought had already occurred to him that she might know he was a policeman. If so, she was playing it very cool for reasons which were far from clear (and, his constabulary mind whispered to him, perhaps just as far from virtuous). Those same reasons, the brutal whisper continued, may have got him into her bed. He'd been a detective too long to be surprised by what some women would do in the cause of injustice. No, it wouldn't surprise him. But what was surprising him was the realization of just how much it would hurt him.

'That'd be best,' he said. 'Though I doubt you've had your booze. It's probably been long gone.'

And someone had thought it worthwhile postponing the moment of discovery by first of all ringing the builders and telling them that Fielding was near on bankrupt, then ringing Spinx and telling him not to pay out the insurance money. And, he recalled, the anonymous caller had known there was a policeman in the house. That put it even more firmly at Mrs Greave's door. This kind of sixth sense was two-way traffic.

By the time they re-entered the main entrance hall, he'd decided that it was worth trying to remain anonymous for as long as possible.

'I'll ring the cops,' he said. 'You go and see if you can find Papworth and see what light he can throw.'

But his ruse to get a quiet word with Sergeant Cross was unsuccessful. A door opened and Bertie appeared, flushed violet with drink. Surprisingly this seemed to have made him more affable.

'Dalziel!' he said. 'Come in and have a drink. On me. You mustn't take my words to heart, mustn't sulk. You're too big for sulking. Your hulk has too much bulk for you to sulk. How's that? Herrie'd get fifty dollars for that and you know how much the old sod would give us? Bugger all. That's all. What's your poison?'

'I shouldn't bother,' said Bonnie sharply. 'There's likely to be quite a drink shortage round here shortly.'

'What do you mean?' demanded her son, swaying.

'I mean we've been robbed. Mrs Greave, it appears, has been steadily removing all our drink stock and anything else she could lay her hands on. Including the working parts of your precious ovens. And now she's taken off.'

Bertie stood amazed. His colour remained the same, perhaps deepened slightly, but affability drained visibly from his face.

'Oh, the cow, the stupid cow! I'll kill the bitch!'

He smashed the fist of his right hand into his left palm. Dalziel caught Bonnie's eye and raised his eyebrows. She did not respond but looked away.

'All right, Dalziel,' said Bertie. 'What now?'

'There's only one thing to do,' interrupted his mother firmly. 'We must ring the police.'

'We must ring the police,' echoed Bertie mockingly. ‘What’s the matter, Mother dear? Have his hidden charms enthralled you? I'll ring the police, never fear.'

He approached close enough for Dalziel to smell the gin on his breath.

'Dring dring,' he said. 'Dring dring. Is anyone there? I'd like to speak to a big, fat, ugly Detective Superintendent, please. You recognize the description? Good. Well, what happens next, please sir, Mr Dalziel?'

Dalziel looked from the youth to his mother. She made no effort to look surprised but shrugged her shoulders minutely. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, carefully, like a man decanting a rare wine against the light of a candle.

'What happens next?' he repeated stepping forward so that Bertie had to move back quickly to avoid being knocked over. 'Well, first of all, sonny, you start talking polite to me or I might just level off your spotty ugly face so that it'd take emulsion. Then next after that, we'll start really digging into just what makes this place tick, shall we?'