'I had no idea you were here, my dear fellow. And I was just setting off for a little circumambulation in search of Nature, red in tooth and claw, when I ran into your boy.'
Boy came out beautifully round and succulent. Pascoe held back a smile. It must have been a good test for Ferguson's temper under stress.
'I'd like a word with you if I may, Mr Davenant,' said Pascoe.
'By all means. Here?'
'Would you care to use my study?' intervened Culpepper before Pascoe could suggest retiring to the station. It seemed a good idea to start here at least. Things were on the boil, though he was far from sure what the dish was going to be.
'Thanks,' he said. 'That's kind.'
Culpepper led the way across the hall to a room next to his porcelain room.
'I'll ring Sam Dixon now,' said Marianne suddenly. 'About that drink.'
'Do, darling,' said Culpepper. 'In here, gentlemen.'
Pascoe paused as he passed Ferguson.
'Nicely fielded,' he murmured. 'Get on to Backhouse and tell him I'm opening up the batting here.'
The study was more like a businessman's office than the gentleman's retreat Pascoe had for some reason expected. Modern desk with typewriter, a book-shelf filled mainly with reference and technical volumes, a filing cabinet; nothing here which showed any desire to emulate the landed gentry.
'At last we are alone,' said Davenant.
'So we are, Mr Davenant, what were you doing in Birkham village yesterday morning?'
'Passing through, dear boy.'
'It's a little off the beaten track.'
'That depends on where you are beating your track from and to.'
'And where was that?'
'Which?'
'Which?'
'From or to?'
'Begin at the beginning, please,' said Pascoe, quite enjoying himself. Dalziel would have been clenching his fists and making sinister grunting sounds by now. The only thing which darkened his mood was the cloudy connection between this man and Brookside Cottage.
'Well, let me see. From first? From Barnsley then.'
'Barnsley!'
'Why so amazed? Contrary to rumour Barnsley is not a volcanic cavity full of flames, fumes and the stench of sulphur. A trifle naive, yes; something of a frontier town, yes. But not without its attractions, one of which is a superb restaurant, the delights of which I check annually for the Gourmet's Guide. So I left Thornton Lacey on Tuesday, after the inquest, missing all the excitement and the tragedy too, of course, and headed for Barnsley.'
'So. From Barnsley to-?'
Davenant threw up his hands in exasperation. 'It's self-evident surely! To here! I arrived here yesterday evening, so I must have been heading for here, mustn't I?'
'I don't know if you consult maps, Mr Davenant, but Birkham would take you many miles out of your way.'
'Of course. I see your difficulty. I wanted to take a look at the Old Mill about five miles to the north. Do you know it? Fascinating. Do you know I spent a week in Birkham last year doing a feature article and I never found time to get to see the Old Mill! So when I was in Barnsley…!'
He was doing a very good job, Pascoe had to admit. Fitting everything nicely into a reasonable pattern. So nicely that Pascoe had to keep on reminding himself of all the other little bits and pieces. All? Mainly Etherege's agreement that Davenant had been the middleman!
He stared down at Culpepper's desk for inspiration. It was empty but for a tray which held one of the Sunday paper business supplements. Egotistically, it was opened at an account of Nordrill's annual general meeting held the previous Wednesday afternoon.
At which time, the thought popped into his mind like a well-browned piece of toast, Culpepper was wandering around Sotheby's, wishing he could afford to bid.
Which thought prompted one obvious question and a second not quite so obvious.
But now was not the time to ask them.
'Is this about poor old Jonathan Etherege?' asked Davenant.
Pascoe looked up, pleasantly surprised. His musings on Culpepper had had an unforeseen spin-off, the breaching of a minute gap in Davenant's unperturbability.
'Who?' he said.
'Etherege. I read about him in the papers and it just struck me that this is why you people are suddenly finding anything to do with Birkham so fascinating. Mind you, there must be a mistake! Jonathan as a burglar is too much. As a killer, it's not on!'
'Many people find it in them to be killers,' Pascoe said flatly.
The doorbell rang and at the same time there was a tap on the study door. Pascoe opened it. Marianne Culpepper stood there with a coffee tray, but she was looking down the hallway to the front door.
'Angus. How nice to see you. Come in, please,' said Culpepper.
Pascoe peered out, rudely pushing his head almost up against Marianne's. Pelman was just stepping into the hall. He stopped short as he spotted Pascoe, then came forward quickly.
'Pascoe. I heard you were here. I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to see you again on Tuesday. Let me say how sorry I am. It was a terrible thing. Terrible. I was more distressed than I can say.'
He was referring to the discovery of Colin, Pascoe realized, not the shooting. The priorities were right, he had to admit.
But Pelman hadn't finished.
'And I'm sorry too about taking a pot-shot at you. Or rather over you. The superintendent was on me so quick that I didn't even know you'd been hit by a splinter till later. Is it OK?'
'Smiling was painful for a while,' said Pascoe.
Pelman laughed.
'Good man. I thought you were a blasted poacher. Anyway, to make some amends, I put a brace of pheasants in the car when I heard you were about. If you've been shot for a poacher, you might as well go home like one. Hartley, give us a hand, will you?'
The two men went out of the front door once again and Pascoe retreated into the study. There was something about Pelman he could admire. The man had said nothing at all about his own ordeal as a suspect for several hours.
He turned back to Davenant who was pouring out the coffee.
'Black?' asked Davenant.
'Thanks,' said Pascoe. He was getting nowhere. Backhouse wanted him to play it cool, but if Backhouse insisted on keeping his own hand so well concealed, then he could get on with his own bloody game!
'Etherege says it was your idea for him to organize the burglaries,' he said conversationally.
Davenant hardly flinched.
'Which burglaries? You don't mean…? Good Lord, how clever! he must be trying for a plea of insanity!'
'I thought you said it was impossible for him to be guilty?'
'So I did. But that's not the same as it being impossible for your lot to prove him guilty!'
'My word,' said Pascoe. 'I thought you loved us bobbies?'
'A simple country boy's got to be careful who he loves, Inspector.'
'Like you loved Timmy?' There, that did it. He was well off the rails laid down by Backhouse now.
'Perhaps,' said Davenant. 'But he's dead, isn't he? Pity you couldn't have got there on Friday night. It might have helped.'
'Why?' asked Pascoe, keeping a tighter rein on his temper than was yet necessary. 'You managed it and that didn't help at all.'
Davenant put his coffee cup down and his gaze flickered momentarily around the room, finally coming to rest steadfastly on Pascoe.
Escape? or a weapon? wondered Pascoe. This hygienic, functional study offered little chance of either.
'No,' said Davenant sadly. 'It didn't, did it?'
For a moment Pascoe was unable to grasp the significance of the words.
'You were there?' he said finally. 'You admit it?'
'Yes,' said Davenant. 'I was there.'
Outside in the hallway there was a crash and the sound of upraised voices. Pascoe was glad of the diversion and opened the study door to peer out yet again.