Also, as soon as Pascoe rang in from the hospital, a hunt for Anton Davenant was instigated. At Pascoe's suggestion, they contacted Thornton Lacey, and by the time he returned to the station, it had been established that he had booked out of the Eagle and Child the previous afternoon, destination unknown.
But there was some other more disturbing news for Pascoe.
'They've let Pelman loose!' he told Ellie that evening.
'My God! Why?'
'No evidence'
'No evidence! But he tried to blow your head off with a shotgun!'
'He claims he'd no idea it was me. He heard a noise, saw a trespasser, probably a poacher, scrambling out of the stream bed, shouted at him to stop, and then blasted off over his head to give him a scare. It appears that he is most distressed that I got hit by a splinter!'
'Backhouse must be mad. I never thought I'd prefer fat Dalziel's kind of copper-ing, but Christ! I'm sure he wouldn't have let Pelman walk out of it like this.'
'There's a bit more to it,' protested Pascoe. 'He's got a reasonable alibi, it seems. The Amenities Committee meeting finished at eight-thirty that night. Now we know that Rose left the Queen Anne at eight-fifty, and all the evidence, circumstantial and medical, indicated the murder took place about then. Now, according to Marianne Culpepper, she stayed behind in the village hall after the meeting to sort out some clerical work with Pelman and he didn't go off until nearly nine. That would make it impossible for him to have done it.'
Ellie snorted vigorously, a most effective sound. Pascoe suddenly had a picture of her snorting disbelievingly across their dinner table at something the chief constable had said. She will be the missing Dalziel part of me, he thought, and was somehow cheered by the thought.
'Surely Backhouse isn't going to take much notice of anything Maid Marianne says to defend Pelman, is he? If she'd said he'd spent the next few hours rolling around the vestry with her, then it might have made sense!'
'Perhaps in her own modest way that was what she was saying,’ suggested Pascoe. 'Anyway it seems to have satisfied Backhouse.'
'And that means it's even further from being over than I thought, Peter. What the hell? It's over for me, I swear it. I'm going to pile great heaps of joy between me and that Saturday morning. Great, insurmountable mountains of joy. For both of us. Right?'
'Yes,' said Pascoe.
They were drinking in the Jockey at Birkham once more. Pascoe recalled that Etherege had refused to admit any knowledge of the attack on Ellie. Pascoe was certain he was lying, just as he was equally certain it had been Jones-the-cat-meat who had committed the assault. Probably it had been the sight of Ellie in Dalziel's company which had convinced the man that it was dangerous to leave even the faint clue of the pendant in her possession. The handbag had been a mere cover. But Jones was admitting nothing, probably wisely. Assault on a woman could get him a couple of extra years.
'Having doubts?' asked Ellie, breaking in on his thoughts.
'About what?'
'About accepting my proposal. Not that it matters. I had a tape-recorder strapped to my thigh.'
'I didn't notice,' he smiled. 'No. No doubts. In fact I think I'm getting more certain by the minute. I was just a bit distracted, that was all. I don't know why, I just thought of Mrs Lewis. Mountains of joy made me think of her. I don't know where she's going to get them from. Husband gets murdered. There's no money left in the kitty. Two young kids. Now she's going to have to find out that her late dearly beloved was having a bit, or rather, a lot, on the side with his secretary. From what she says, the next step would have been the big move-out, leaving Mrs Lewis and family high and dry.'
'It sounds as if she may be better off with him dead.'
'Never say that,' said Pascoe seriously. 'The next step then is the gun, or the knife, or the poison.'
'Constabulary philosophy! There's a thing. What you're trying to say is that relatively we're lucky?'
'Relatively,' said Pascoe, 'I hope we will be. Thornton Lacey is a non-place from now on. Let's start shovelling up those mountains!'
But Thornton Lacey had not yet finished with Pascoe. As he prepared to leave his flat the next morning, the phone rang. It was Dalziel.
'I've just had Backhouse on the line. It seems that Constable Crowther's inquiries about Davenant were not altogether unproductive. He got an anonymous phone call last night to say that Davenant was back in Thornton Lacey staying guess where?'
'The Culpeppers'?'
'You used to be fun to play with! Naturally he let Backhouse know. And Backhouse for some peculiar reason seems to think it would be a good idea for you to get down there and pick him up. He's expecting you by twelve noon so get your skates on. Ferguson'll go along to hold Davenant's hand on the way back. I'll have him and a warrant waiting for you at the desk.'
'Thanks,' said Pascoe.
He went back into the bedroom where Ellie, who had a morning free from teaching, was lying half-awake.
'I'd have made your breakfast,' she admonished, 'if you'd given me a push. Are you off?'
'Yes,' he said. He hesitated a moment, then bent down and kissed her. 'See you tonight.'
At his front door he turned back and re-entered the flat.
'That was Dalziel on the phone,' he said. 'I'm going to Thornton Lacey to pick up Davenant. He's at the Culpepper's. Goodbye, love.'
He left feeling happier. The future might hold plenty of things not to talk about and plenty of times when there would be no time to talk. But not now. Not yet.
Chapter 8
The journey to Thornton Lacey was swift and uneventful in objective terms. Detective-Constable Ferguson pleased to be out of the office routine for a while, chattered away with the brightness of one who feels no career height to be unscalable, and the radio filled in the few gaps left by his near-monologue.
Pascoe drove. (He was a bad passenger. Fortunately Ellie was a good one.) Ferguson's voice did not bother him. He hardly heard it. It was a glorious morning and a light mist rose to the sun from the roadside fields. The car seemed to be moving more and more slowly through a world where sound was deadened as though by winter snow. He drove by instinct; in fact the car seemed to drive itself, drifting round bends, floating over the crests of hills, as though in some relationship quite other than mere movement with the countryside around it.
His mind, not usually given to the wilder flights of imagination, was strangely supine, ready to accept that this journey should somehow go on for ever in a region of non-time. Or that time should have been tricked and that once more they were on the road that Saturday morning twelve days earlier with nothing to fear at the end of their journey.
'Thornton Lacey,' said Ferguson approvingly. 'You've made good time, Sergeant. Sorry, sir.'
'Yes,' said Pascoe.
He drove directly to the police station. Crowther was behind the desk.
'Morning,' he said.
'Morning,' said Pascoe. 'I believe you've got someone for us.'
'Mr Backhouse is having a cup of coffee in the sitting-room sir. Shall I have Mrs Crowther bring one through for you?'
'That would be kind,' said Pascoe without enthusiasm. He had hoped he might be lucky enough just to pick up Davenant and get away.
'Hello, Peter. It is Peter, isn't it?' Backhouse rose, smiling, like a gentleman farmer welcoming a luncheon guest.
Suddenly it's Christian names all round, thought Pascoe. Perhaps the word's out that I'm earmarked for Commissioner.
'Yes, sir,' he answered. 'This is Detective-Constable Ferguson. Do you have Davenant here for us?'
'No. No, in fact we don't,' said Backhouse. 'Sit down, will you? Ferguson, perhaps you'd like to see how a small country station like this functions, would you? Constable Crowther would be delighted to show you round, I've no doubt.'