An April Shroud (3 page)

Dalziel halted and once more settled down to watch. Finally all was finished, the punt party reached shore safely, dividing themselves among the two cars, in the first of which the woman and the old man had presumably been seated all along, and the sad procession drove slowly away leaving only the oarsman seated on the bows of his boat rolling a well-earned cigarette.

When the cortege was out of sight, Dalziel started his car once more and rolled gently down to the trough below, humming 'One More River To Cross'. There was nothing like the sight of someone else's funeral for making life look a little brighter.

Half-way through the trough, he suddenly realized this was much deeper than he had anticipated. At the same moment the engine coughed once and died. Dalziel tried one turn of the starter, then switched off.

Opening the window he addressed the uninterested oarsman with all the charm and diplomacy he could muster.

'Hey, you!' he shouted. 'Come and give us a push.'

The old boatman looked at him impassively for a moment before he slowly rose and approached. He was wearing gum-boots which came up to his knees but even so the water lapped perilously close to their tops.

When he reached the open window he stopped and looked at Dalziel enquiringly.

'Yes?' he said.

'Don't just stand there,' said Dalziel. 'Give us a push.'

'I hadn't come to push,' said the man. 'I've come to negotiate.'

He proved a hard bargainer, totally uninterested in payment by results. It wasn't till he had folded the pound note Dalziel gave him into a one-inch square and thrust it deep into some safe apparently subcutaneous place that he began to push. The effort was in vain. Finally Dalziel dragged his own scene-of-crime gum-boots out of the chaos in the back of the car and joined him in the water. Slowly the car edged forward but once it reached the up-slope its weight combined with the water resistance proved too much.

'Sod it,' said Dalziel.

They sat together on the rowing-boat and smoked. Dalziel had already had the one post-breakfast cigarette he allowed himself nowadays, but he felt the Situation was special.

‘ They'll be coming back soon?' he asked between puffs.

'Half an hour,' said the boatman. 'Not long to put a man in the earth.'

'Good,' said Dalziel. 'I'll beg a lift from the undertaker. Who’re they burying?'

‘Mr Fielding,' said the boatman.

‘Who's he?'

'Mrs Fielding's husband,' was the unhelpful reply.

'Mrs Fielding was in the boat with you?'

Dalziel reached into his pocket, produced the emergency half-bottle he always carried with him in the car, took a long draught and offered it to his companion.

‘ Ta,' he said, and drank.

‘You didn't make that in your garden shed,' he added when he'd finished.

‘No. Are you Mrs Fielding's . . . ?'

He let the question hang.

‘I work up at the house. Most things that need done and can’t be done by lying around talking, I do.'

‘I see. Not a bad job if you play your cards right,’ said Dalziel with a knowing smirk. 'Have another drink. That was Mrs Fielding's family, was it?'

Why he should have been interested in anything but getting his car out of the flood and back into working order he did not know. But time had to be passed and the habit of professional curiosity was as hard to change as the habits of smoking or drinking or taking three helpings of potatoes and steamed pudding.

‘Most on 'em. The old man's her dad-in-law. Then there's the three children.'

‘Which were they?' interrupted Dalziel.

‘The two lads, Bertie, that's the older one, Him with the gut. Then there's Nigel, the boy. And their sister, Louisa.'

‘The thin girl?'

'You've got bloody good eyes, mister,' said the man, taking another drink. 'Must be this stuff.'

'What about the others?'

'Friends. Visitors,' he grunted.

'For the funeral?'

'Oh no. They were here when he snuffed it. Not that it made much difference to 'em, mark you. Not to any on 'em. No. They just carried on.'

'Oh, aye?' said Dalziel, thinking that the trio he had observed in the Lady Hamilton the previous night had hardly comported themselves like grief-stricken mourners.

'What made you take to the water?' he asked. 'Couldn't the funeral cars get round to the house?'

'It'd be a long way round. They checked first thing this morning after last night's rain. Couldn't afford the time. They've a lot of work on in this wet weather. So it was either the boats or wait. And they wanted shot of the coffin quick, you see.'

'Well, I suppose it's a bit deadly having it lying around the house,' said Dalziel charitably.

'Oh yes. Specially when it's on the billiard table,' said the other.

There was no answer to this and they finished their cigarettes in silence.

'What did he die of, anyway?' asked Dalziel, growing tired of the unrelenting lap of water.

'Some say his heart stopped,' said the boatman. 'And some say he was short of breath.'

With difficulty Dalziel restrained himself from bellowing
don't you get funny with me!

'What do
you
say?' he asked instead.

'Me? What should I know about it?'

He relapsed into a silence which plainly rejected breaking by any conventional social means. Dalziel walked along the water's edge a short way and stood inspecting the punt gun. It had been a formidable weapon, but looked very long disused. While the metal had probably never been bright (why give the poor bloody ducks even a chance of a chance?), now it was rusty and dirty and a spider had spun a few hopeful strands across the muzzle.

It began to rain and after a few moments he returned to the shelter of the car. The boatman ignored his invitation to join him and remained where he was, even his cigarette appearing impervious to the downpour.

Nearly half an hour later the first of the funeral party returned. It was the blond youth, alone and on foot.

'Shit!' said Dalziel and clambered out of the car once more.

'Hello,' said the youth as he approached. 'You're stuck in the water?'

Dalziel smiled his congratulations.

'Yes,' he said. 'Where's the funeral cars?'

'I was just telling Pappy, there's a lot more water on the road about a quarter of a mile round the bend. They weren't very happy about taking their shiny limousines through it on our way to the church and now they reckon it's even deeper, so I was sent on to bring the boats a bit farther along.'

He grinned amiably, apparently unresentful of the task. Dalziel could guess who had elected him to it. Anyone who let a woman punch him on the nose without setting matters right between them very quickly was saddling himself up for a hag-ride.

The boatman was casting off already.

'Hang on,' said Dalziel. 'I'll get my stuff.'

The level of the water seemed perceptibly higher as he waded back to the car and unloaded his old cardboard suitcase. As he returned cautiously to the dry road, he saw to his chagrin that the rowing-boat was already on its way, leaving him to the uncertain mercies of the punt.

'He's in a hurry,' he grunted as he placed his case carefully on one of the seats. The floor looked as if a halfpenny dropped from three feet would blast a hole through it.

'A devoted retainer,' said the other with enough of mockery in his voice to give Dalziel some hope for him. ‘I’m Charles Tillotson, by the way.'

'Andrew Dalziel.'

'Dee-Ell,' echoed Tillotson. 'Dee-Ell. Spelt D-A-L-?'

'Z-I-E-L,' finished Dalziel.

'How impressive to be pronounced differently from the way you are spelt,' said Tillotson, flourishing the pole. 'It's sort of a test for people, isn't it? Perhaps I should drop the ILL, Totson. What do you think?'

'How about Tit?' said Dalziel. 'Are we going to move or shall we sit here getting wet all bloody day?'

Gingerly he seated himself next to his case and closed his eyes as Tillotson thrust off stylishly, got the pole stuck instantly and almost dislodged himself in his efforts to pull it out.

By the time they had followed the bend of the road and got the rowing-boat back in sight, it had reached the new landing-point and the rest of the party were already embarking. To Dalziel's dismay the funeral car then began to move off.

'Hey!' he bellowed, drawing the attention of the mourners and frightening a small batch of teal who were exploring their new-found territory. But the black limousine purred disdainfully on its way and was soon out of sight.

'Sod the bastard!' said Dalziel savagely.

'Pappy must have forgotten,' surmised Tillotson.

'Sod him too.'

Some explanation of his presence must have been required and given on the rowing-boat for when they drew level, no one showed much curiosity about him.

The woman, Mrs Fielding he presumed, was sitting in the stern with the old man. The stout youth had taken an oar and was seated alongside Pappy who returned Dalziel's accusing gaze blankly. The boy was in the bows, curled up like the Copenhagen mermaid. And the other three were crowded in the flat-bottomed boat lately occupied by the coffin.

'I think some of you must go back with Charley,' said Mrs Fielding in a firm, rather deep voice. Her veil was lifted now, revealing a strong almost masculine face which grief and hard weather had only been able to sting to a healthy flush.

'Oh no,' protested the thin girl, Louisa. 'Bertie's rowing too, and we can't weigh much more than a coffin.'

'Nevertheless,' insisted her mother.

'I'll go,' said the dark hairy man who was taking some shots of the floods with an expensive-looking camera. He stood up and stepped into the punt with the ungainly ease of a sailor.

This seemed to satisfy Mrs Fielding's distribution problems for the moment. She now addressed Dalziel.

'I'm sorry the car went before Pappy could speak with the driver. If you'd care to come to the house, you can phone from there. Alternatively, we can leave you here and phone on your behalf.'

The man called Pappy started rowing and Bertie quickly picked up the stroke as Dalziel considered the alternatives. The rain was coming down harder. The occupants of the rowing-boat were concealed almost completely by a carapace of umbrellas which brought to mind the shield- wall of a Viking ship.

Dalziel turned to Tillotson. '

Follow that boat,' he said.

3

A Nourishing Broth

The teal had dropped back to the surface and followed at a safe distance.

'I had a friend,' said the ugly man in a pseudo-American accent, 'got badly hurt trying to screw a duck.'

'Oh, yes?'

'Yeah. He had this thing, you know, about having relationships with the whole of creation. But the duck didn't see it that way. Took half his nose off. After that he changed his scheme, went for the spiritual communion thing more, you know.'

'Just as well perhaps,' said Dalziel. 'He might have had trouble with ants.'

The other laughed approvingly.

'That's true, man.'

He thinks he's tested me, thought Dalziel. Now I've passed his little shock test, he'll try to patronize me.

'Charley there, the boy with the wooden whanger, now he goes in more for this kind of kick.'

He squatted behind the punt gun and made firing noises more appropriate to a howitzer.

'No, Hank, you've got it wrong,' protested Tillotson amiably. 'I like a bit of sport, that's all. I say, these floods are rather jolly though. I bet a lot of birds will come back. It must have been fine fowling country, this, before they drained it.'

'See what I mean?' said the other. 'He's just aching to get this old phallic symbol jerking off again.' At last Dalziel had penetrated through the pseudo-mid-Atlantic flip speech style to a couple of recognizable vowels. He liked to know where he was with people and basic information about background was a good place to start. It gave him something to occupy his mind, to keep out the greyness which threatened to seep in whenever he relaxed.

'Not many ducks in Liverpool,' he said. 'My name's Dalziel. Who're you?'

The dark man looked at him assessingly before replying, 'Hank Uniff.'

Dalziel laughed, a short sharp offensive bark which acknowledged that there hadn't been much chance of his interlocutor being called Jim Smith or Bill Jones.

'Pleased to meet you,' he said. 'How was the funeral?'

'Full of images, man,' said Uniff. 'Hey, Charley, great funeral, huh? I mean, when they dropped the coffin in the hole, well, it was just about waterlogged. Cheerist, what a splash!'

'Yes,' admitted Tillotson as he passed them in practice of his new technique which involved thrusting the pole into the water off the bows and walking the whole length of the punt. It was inevitable, thought Dalziel, that one so obviously born a victim would sooner or later step over the side.

'Yes,' repeated Tillotson, 'it
was
rather like a burial at sea. Full fathom five, Tom Bowling, all that. Did you get some good pictures, Hank?'

'I shot off a whole roll,' replied Uniff. 'But did I get the light right? It wasn't easy to judge and that creepy preacher man didn't help by complaining.'

He cradled his camera protectively as if an attempt were being made to wrest it from his hands.

'Didn't Mrs Fielding object?' queried Dalziel.

'Bonnie? Hell, no. I mean, why, man?'

'Hank's an artist,' explained Tillotson, passing them again at a smart trot. His new technique was certainly moving the punt along much faster, but at the expense of direction if one assumed that the rowing-boat was taking the shortest route home. It was now almost out of sight and several points to the nor'-east.

Dalziel pulled his coat collar more tightly round his neck and resisted the temptation to take charge of the vessel. He was the super-cargo, not the captain. But something of his feelings must have shown to Uniff who grinned maliciously at his discomfiture and began to whistle 'The Skye Boat Song'.