Just inside the front door stood Sam Dixon holding a cardboard container in his arms. Another lay on the floor at his feet and a damp stain was spreading quickly from it. There was a strong smell of whisky. Old Mrs Culpepper stood alongside Dixon, glaring at him angrily, while her son and daughter-in-law came out of the lounge to investigate the noise. Pelman and Palfrey were close behind.
'What's happened?' asked Culpepper.
'Sorry,' said Dixon. 'Bit of an accident. My fault.'
The old woman muttered something inaudible and stamped off into the garden.
'Your birds are on the back seat of your car,' said Pelman to Pascoe. 'Don't forget 'em! I really must be on my way now, Marianne, Hartley. Work to be done!'
He set off up the hall but his passage was impeded by yet another arrival. This time it was Backhouse with Crowther close behind.
'May I come in?' asked the superintendent, sniffing. 'This smells interesting. You're not trying to corrupt Inspector Pascoe, I hope?'
He came down the hallway, nodding at Pelman as he passed. Even now the way out was now clear, Pelman's impetus seemed to have been completely spent and he made no attempt to leave.
'Sorry to intrude, Mr Culpepper, but I wanted a word with Inspector Pascoe.'
'By all means,' said Culpepper.
Pascoe backed into the study where Davenant still stood. He had lit a cigarette and looked perfectly at ease.
'Well?' said Backhouse.
'He admits he was there.'
'Where?'
'At Brookside Cottage on the night of the murders.'
Backhouse rolled his eyes heavenwards in mock-appeal.
'How right I was to come so quickly,' he murmured. 'You seem incapable of following instructions, Inspector. I suppose I should think myself lucky he hasn't been beaten unconscious! Wait outside now, will you? Crowther, step in here, will you?'
'Sir,' said Pascoe and went out, passing Crowther in the doorway. He was beginning to feel once again the simmering fury which seemed to be his normal emotional state in Thornton Lacey.
The hall was empty now; everyone had retired to the lounge, doubtless to discuss the constabulary goings-on. Pascoe, in no mood for small talk, made for the front door. On the steps he took a couple of deep breaths of fresh, cool air. It was perceptibly colder now. The old woman had been right. This was the bouquet of winter.
The drive in front of the house was like a car-park. Pelman's Land-Rover was still there, Palfrey's car, Dixon's van, and of course Backhouse's official limousine.
'Excuse me, sir,' said Ferguson behind him.
'Yes?'
'I don't know if it's important, but when the big fellow came out to get those birds from the Land-Rover, he gave something else to Mr Culpepper.'
'What?'
'A packet of some kind. About so big. White paper wrapping.'
'Did they know you were watching?'
'No. It wasn't surreptitious or anything like that. Just quick, if you know what I mean. Not much said. That's what made me take notice.'
'What did Culpepper do with this packet?'
'Stuck it in his pocket. But after that, I don't know what. It was quite bulky and he's got rid of it somewhere, I noticed just now.'
'Well done, Hawkeye,' said Pascoe.
He turned and re-entered the house. Everything was quiet. A man of Culpepper's money and taste didn't build doors which let ordinary conversation trickle through. He wondered again about Culpepper and Davenant. How guilty was the collector? Just suspicious of the source of the sale items? or with definite knowledge they had been stolen? The law made little distinction between the two states, but the individual conscience was a much more refined beast, able to pick and crop at definition and qualification.
These thoughts ran through his mind as he made his way silently and swiftly upstairs. Davenant was using the room which Ellie had occupied. There was surprisingly little evidence of his presence – pyjamas, toilet articles, all with his initials monogrammed on them; but nothing really personal.
He left the room and stood a moment on the landing. Still silence below.
Now he moved on to what his memory of the geography of the house told him was Culpepper's room. While it was clearly a man's room there was sufficient evidence of occasional female occupation to indicate Marianne's departure from the marriage bed was by no means a permanent move.
What am I doing here? wondered Pascoe as he gazed at the Chinese watercolours which decorated the walls. Backhouse would not be pleased if Culpepper found me and started making a fuss.
Stuff Backhouse.
He began searching. It didn't take long.
No attempt had been made to hide it. It lay beside the pastel-green telephone on the bed-side table.
The Sellotape binding was still intact. Whatever the packet contained, Culpepper hadn't felt the need, or perhaps had the time, to check.
Unpicking the Sellotape as neatly as possible, Pascoe pulled the white wrapping paper open.
It didn't look very much at first glance, but a quick check gave him the exact figure.
It was surprising how little space was taken up by a thousand pounds in fivers.
Chapter 10
It took Pascoe a moment's thought and a five-minute telephone call to decide what to do. The time had come for drama.
He pushed open the lounge door, stepped in, and threw the money on the coffee-table. They all looked at him in amazement. A slow-motion camera and a trained psychiatrist might have made much of the kinds of amazement displayed, but Pascoe had to make do with snap judgements. Honest bewilderment from Palfrey and Dixon, but something else from the other three. A reasonable division.
'There's a thousand pounds there,' he said. 'What's it for?'
Culpepper was white with indignation.
'What right have you to search my house? This is an outrage!'
'Yes. Why did you bring it here, Mr Pelman?'
Pelman and Marianne exchanged glances, not easily readable.
'I think that's my business, don't you?' said Pelman.
'Perhaps. Blackmail is a crime, of course. And that's my business.'
Pelman looked flabbergasted, then began laughing. It sounded genuine.
'I'm glad you can be amused, Angus,' said Culpepper. 'I'm sorry, but I can't be. Excuse me.'
He strode from the room.
'What the hell's going on?' asked Dixon, his open face creased in puzzlement, while Palfrey reached for the coffee-pot, eyeing the money greedily.
Culpepper returned. With him was Backhouse, with Crowther and Davenant bringing up the rear.
'Superintendent,' said Culpepper, 'I should like you to explain by what authority a police officer, uninvited and without warrant, can search a private house.'
'The end sometimes justifies the means,' said Backhouse. 'What did you find, Inspector Pascoe?'
Wordlessly Pascoe showed him the money.
'Interesting, but not incriminating. I presume you've got a theory.'
He's not going to blow his top, thought Pascoe. Not yet. He's going to let me do his dirty work for him.
'This is not the point,' said Culpepper angrily.
'Yes, sir. I've got a theory. Mr Pelman brought this money with him. Let's call it a loan for the moment.'
'He thinks I'm being blackmailed,' interjected Pelman. 'What I'm supposed to have done this time, God knows! Oh, and Hartley, too, as I presume he's doing the blackmailing.'
'This gets worse!' said Culpepper.
'I trust not,' said Backhouse seriously. 'Inspector!'
'Let's call it a loan,' repeated Pascoe. 'The more important question at the moment is why did Mr Culpepper want it so quickly and in cash? My suggestion is simple. You wanted it for Mr Davenant.'
'But why should I wish to give Davenant a thousand pounds?' asked Culpepper.