Harkness shrugged. “Carl found it when he was digging the garden one day and he brought it to me. It looks old. I keep meaning to get it cleaned up and valued. He thought it might be worth something. I suppose,” he went on, “you could take that as another example of his honesty. He could have kept it.”
Banks examined the goblet. It had some kind of design engraved on it, but he couldn’t make out what it was through the grime. It looked like a coat of arms. He put it back down on the table. It was something Tracy would be interested in, he thought. Would have been, he corrected himself.
Harkness noticed him looking around. “It’s a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. But as I said, the house is too big and I don’t use all of it anyway.”
“Don’t you have a cleaning lady?”
“Can’t abide maids. Ever since I was a child in South Africa we had them, and I never could stand them. Always fussing around you. And I suppose as much as anything I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone having to clean up after anyone else. It seemed so undignified, somehow.”
Banks, whose mother had charred at a Peterborough office block to bring in a bit of extra money, said, “Yet you employed a gardener?”
Harkness led the way to the front door. “That’s different, don’t you think? A gardener is a kind of artist in a way, and I’ve no objection to being a patron of the arts. I always thought of the grounds as very much Carl’s creation.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Banks said at the door. “Just one more question: Did he ever mention the old lead mine near Relton?”
“No. Why?”
“I just wondered if it was special to him for some reason. Can you think of any reason he might have been there?”
Harkness shook his head. “None at all. Digging for hidden treasure, perhaps?” His eyes twinkled.
“Perhaps,” Banks said. “Thank you for your time.”
“My pleasure.”
Harkness closed the door slowly but firmly and Banks got into his car. As he drove back to Eastvale in the blue-grey twilight with the haunting piano music playing, he wondered about Harkness. Many business dealings don’t bear close scrutiny, of course, and you don’t get as rich as Harkness without skirting the law and stepping on a few toes here and there. Is that what Harkness was getting at with his remark about curiosity killing the cat? If that was so, where did Johnson fit in? It might be useful having a criminal for a gardener if you wanted other kinds of dirty business done. On the other hand, it might also, after a while, turn out to be very inconvenient, too. At least, Banks concluded, it might be worthwhile asking a few questions about Mr Adam Harkness.
II
“This must be it, sir,” said DS Richmond as he pulled in behind Patricia Cummings outside the last cottage in a terrace of four, right on the north-western edge of Eastvale, where the road curved by the side of River Swain into the dale. It was a pleasant spot, handy for both the town life, with its cinemas, shops and pubs, and for getting out into the more rural reaches of the dale itself. The holiday cottages were small — just right for a couple — and the view of the entry into the dale proper was magnificent. Of course, the slopes there were not as dramatic as they became beyond Fortford and Helmthorpe, but looking down the valley even in the fading light one could make out the grey, looming shapes of the higher fells and peaks massed in the distance, and the nearer, gentler slopes with their dry-stone walls and grazing sheep showed a promise of what was to come.
Patricia Cummings opened the door, and Richmond entered the living-room with Gristhorpe, who had returned to the station just a few minutes after Richmond had been to see Patricia. She turned on the light, and they looked around the small room that the estate agent would probably describe as cosy, with its two little armchairs arranged by the fireplace. Gristhorpe felt he had to stoop under the low ceiling, even though a few inches remained. He felt like Alice must have done before she took the shrinking potion.
What struck Gristhorpe immediately was the absolute cleanliness of the place. It reminded him of his grandmother’s cottage, a similarly tiny place in Lyndgarth, in which he had never seen a speck of dust nor a thing out of place. The dominant smell was pine-scented furniture polish, and the gleaming dark surfaces of wood stood testament to its thorough application. They glanced in the kitchen. There, too, everything shone: the sink, the small fridge, the mini-washer and dryer unit under the counter.
“Did the cleaner do the place?” Gristhorpe asked.
Patricia Cummings shook her head. “No. It was like this when she found it. Spotless. She phoned me because she was sure they were supposed to be staying another two weeks.”
“And were they?”
“Yes.”
“They’d already paid the rent?”
“For a month, altogether. Cash in advance.”
“I see.”
Mrs Cummings shifted from one foot to the other. She was a middle-aged woman, neatly dressed in a grey suit with a pearl blouse and ruff. She had a small lipsticked mouth and pouchy rouged cheeks that wobbled as she spoke. Gristhorpe noticed a gold band with a big diamond cluster biting into the flesh of her plump ring finger.
“They said they were responding to an advertisement we placed in The Dalesman,” she said.
“What names did they give?”
“Manley. Mr and Mrs Manley.”
“Did you see any identification?”
“Well, no… I mean, they paid cash.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Not really. Not normal, but it happens.”
“I see.” Gristhorpe looked over towards Richmond, who seemed similarly constrained by the tininess of the place. “Let’s have a look around, shall we, Phil?”
Richmond nodded.
“I’ll show you,” Patricia Cummings said.
“If you don’t mind,” Gristhorpe told her, “it would be best if you waited here. It would give forensics one less person to eliminate, if it comes to that.”
“Very well. Is it all right if I sit down?”
“By all means.”
The stone staircase was narrow and its whitewashed ceiling low.
Both men had to stoop as they went up. Upstairs were two small bedrooms and a bathroom-toilet. Everywhere was just as spotless as the living-room, ceramic surfaces gleaming.
“Someone’s really done a job on this, sir,” Richmond said as they entered the first bedroom. “Look, they’ve even washed the sheets and folded them.” It was true; a small pile of neatly folded sheets lay on the mattress, and the oak chest of drawers shone with recent polish. The same pine scent hung in the air. The second bedroom was a little shabbier, but it was easy to see why. From the neatly made bed and the thin patina of dust that covered the wardrobe, it was clear the room hadn’t been used by the cottage’s most recent occupants.
“I can’t imagine why there’d even be two bedrooms,” Richmond said. “I mean, it’d feel crowded enough in this place with two people, let alone children as well.”
“Aye,” said Gristhorpe. “It’s old-world rustic charm all right.”
Both the sink and the bathtub had been thoroughly cleaned out, and shelves and medicine cabinet emptied.
“Come on,” said Gristhorpe. “There’s nothing for us here.”
They went back downstairs and found Patricia Cummings painting her nails. The sickly smell of the polish pervaded the small room. She raised her eyebrows when they entered.
“Are all the cottages rented out?” Gristhorpe asked.
“All four,” she said.
They went outside. The row reminded Gristhorpe of Gallows View, a similar terrace not too far away, where he and Banks had investigated a case some years ago. The light of the cottage next door was on, and Gristhorpe thought he saw the curtains twitch as they walked towards it. Gristhorpe knocked, and a few moments later a skinny young man with long, greasy hair answered.