'No,' said Backhouse, after thinking judiciously for a moment. 'No. But the Continent is the most obvious market for the more easily identifiable stuff. And Timothy Mansfield worked in Brussels for some time, travelling frequently from Britain to Belgium, as well as touring extensively in Europe. Davenant did meet him there, as he told Miss Soper. But it wasn't their first meeting.'
'You can't have unearthed all this since you spoke to Dalziel,' said Pascoe accusingly.
'No,' said Backhouse. 'I try to keep many steps ahead of blind chance. But sometimes it comes along and bumps you in the back, as when out of the blue, you tied Davenant in with your investigation. Till then it had been just so much background information. Your friend, Mansfield, had to resign his job in Brussels, did you know that? There was some currency fiddle being worked. He kept out of serious trouble, but only just.'
'Knowing Timmy, it would be in a good cause,' protested Pascoe weakly.
'What the hell have you or I got to do with causes!' exploded Backhouse. 'For a policeman, understanding motives is just a means to an end. That end's catching crooks. I dare say whoever it was that shot your friends will come up with a good motive. It might even impress a judge, or a jury, or a psychiatrist, or just his grey-haired old mother who knows he's basically a good lad. Now, you want Davenant. I might want him too. I had a little plan, but I'm not sure how far I can rely on you. I was going to suggest that you go up to the Culpeppers' and get him, giving the impression that police interest in him is restricted entirely to his connection with your antique-dealer, Etherege. Be a bit diffident, uncertain, if you like, as though you've got less on him than you have.'
'Which is only Etherege's word,' said Pascoe.
'Is it? I'm sure Mr Dalziel won't be standing still. Anyway, come the old-pals act, take a trip down memory lane with him, reminisce a bit about your late mutual friends. In other words, see if you can catch him napping in Thornton Lacey while he's too busy keeping fully alert in Yorkshire. That's what I was going to suggest. Can I trust you, Inspector? That's what I've got to know.'
'I think so, sir,' said Pascoe. Appearances deceived. Compared with this man, Dalziel was Mother Hubbard.
'Then I would suggest you go and bring him in. Give the impression you're just dropping back here to sign a form or something before taking him north. It might work.'
Pascoe rose and made for the door.
'Just one thing, sir,' he said. 'The Culpeppers. Why is Davenant there? What's the connection?'
Backhouse groaned loudly.
'Stay in Yorkshire, my boy,' he advised gently. 'You'll never make the grade down here. It's obvious, surely? Aesthetic Mr Culpepper, your connoisseur of fine porcelain, is probably one of friend Davenant's regular customers!'
Chapter 9
'Stop here,’ said Pascoe. Ferguson obeyed him as literally as possible and despite their low speed managed to skid noisily on the gravel drive.
I was right to drive all the way down, thought Pascoe with a shudder as he climbed out.
'I don't anticipate any trouble,' he said through the open door. 'But keep your eyes skinned. Poke around the garage and see if you can spot the Citroen.'
He slammed the door and a hand gripped his shoulder. Dalziel's philosophy included the dictum if anyone grabs you from behind, don't think, give 'em the heel and the elbow.
Pascoe turned slowly and smiled at Culpepper's mother. He was glad he had ignored Dalziel's advice, not just out of chivalry but also because he doubted whether his judo could cope with the vicious-looking secateurs she carried.
'That could ruin a machine!' snapped the old woman, pointing at the scattering of gravel the car-wheels had sprayed on to the lawn. 'Have you no consideration?'
'Sorry,’ said Pascoe. 'Ferguson, see that all these bits of stone are returned to the drive, will you?'
'What are you after anyway? You're that policeman, aren't you?'
'Yes. I'm that policeman. I'd just like a word with your son,' said Pascoe, walking across the lawn towards the front door. The old woman accompanied him, matching him stride for stride.
'I knew there'd be trouble,' she said suddenly.
'Sorry?'
'When I was young, police coming to the house always meant trouble.'
'We only trouble those who trouble us,' said Pascoe with a smile.
They had come to a halt outside the front door. He had not spotted any movement through the windows.
'I liked your friends,' she said as she pushed open the door. 'Some things beat explanation. Step inside.'
'Thank you,' said Pascoe. He glanced back down the garden. Ferguson was on his knees in search of gravel, a light breeze spilling his longer-than- regulation hair over his face.
'You can say goodbye to the good weather,' said the old woman ominously, and as though in confirmation a rout of beech leaves came scuttering round the side of the house and preceded them into the hallway.
The Culpeppers were seated in the lounge and Hartley rose and held out his hand in greeting when he saw his visitor. He looked perfectly at ease, not without cause Pascoe was sure. If there had been anything of doubtful provenance in Culpepper's collection, it was probably long gone now.
'You're fully recovered, I hope, Pascoe? I was talking to Pelman last night. He was in a terrible state, terrible. Poor fellow, to come so close to injuring you was bad enough, but then to realize he was under suspicion for the murders!'
'Yes, I'm recovered, thank you.'
No one seemed very keen to ask what he wanted, Pascoe noted. He hoped Davenant wasn't slipping quietly out of the kitchen door. Or if he was, that Ferguson had abandoned his gravel hunt and was fully alert.
'It's difficult to know what to say,' Culpepper went on. 'No one who knew him ever really believed it was possible that Colin did the killings, but we didn't want him proved innocent in this way.'
'Some believed it,' objected Pascoe. 'The coroner's jury and the coroner for a start. But it's none of my business, officially anyway. Mr Culpepper, I believe Anton Davenant is staying with you at the moment.'
The doorbell rang. Only old Mrs Culpepper showed no desire to answer it. Her son and daughter-in-law both seemed keen to get out of the room, but Marianne won by a short head.
'So it's Davenant you're after? Well, well. Would you care for a drink or is it too early?'
As though in answer to his query, the door opened and Major Palfrey came in clutching two brown-paper-wrapped bottles.
'Morning, Hartley, morning, Mrs Culpepper.' He noticed Pascoe and gave him a neutral nod.
'Sorry to butt in, but as I was just saying to Marianne, you've caught us on the hop, old boy. Pity I hadn't been around when you rang. That potman of mine's a bit dim! The thing is, we're very low on spirits at the moment. Can manage a couple of bottles, but boxes are out of the question. Sorry.'
It was a more than usually gruesomely hearty performance, Pascoe felt. But why? Because I'm here? Do I always bring out the worst in people?
'Don't fret about it, JP,' said Culpepper equably. 'Sam Dixon will probably be able to cope. Give him a ring, will you, Marianne? They do quite a large off-licence trade at the Anne, I believe.'
'I suppose they do,' said Palfrey as if he suspected a slur. 'You must give us warning if you're going to start spreading business locally. So you're with us once more, Sergeant Pascoe? What brings you back?'
'I really wanted a word with Mr Davenant. Is he here, Mr Culpepper?'
Culpepper exchanged glances with his wife, but before either could speak, his mother burst out. 'Well, if he is, they've kept very quiet about him. I've not seen hide nor hair of him.'
'Thank you, Mrs Culpepper. Well, sir. Is he here?'
'Of course he is, darlings. Though he almost wasn't.'
Standing at the door, one hand on his hip, the other behind his head, was Anton Davenant. Behind him in the hall, Pascoe caught a glimpse of Ferguson.