Bones & Silence (13 page)

The Resistance always saved its most unremitting hate for collaborators, Pascoe reminded himself.

He said, 'I still don't see why you feel sorry for him.'

'Well, whether he killed her or not, he's here not because he wants to be, but to brazen it out, isn't he? Perhaps he even got word Fat Andy might be here. Either way, he's jumping from a great height on all the nasty rumours that must be running around. But he can't be enjoying it.'

The trouble with Ellie was that there was always a mad logic behind her apparently most irrational assertions.

Pascoe spent the next half-hour mingling, but finally his leg began to ache and he made the fatal error of seeking support and respite in a corner. Within two minutes he found himself trapped there by two of the most boring men he'd ever met. One was Professor Unstone, an opinionated mediaevalist who used his bloated belly to ram home arguments; the other was Canon Horncastle, pale, bespectacled, his flesh honed almost to the bone by sanctity, but no less assertive in debate. Pascoe, feeling he could contribute little to their discussion of the social significance of the Mysteries, twice attempted exodus and was thwarted first by the mediaeval belly then by the clerical elbow. Their only point of accord seemed to occur whenever they glanced towards the bar where the granite of Dalziel's and the gold of Chung's foreheads still formed an excluding arch over the Highland Park. Then, quite clearly across the disputants' features he saw written in letters of fire and letters of ice the same emotion - resentment.

'I thought Chung would be making a speech,' he managed to slip into one of these pregnant pauses.

'I dare say she will, once her attention ceases to be so rudely monopolized,' said the Canon sharply.

'Who is that creature she's talking to, anyway?' asked the Professor. 'I didn't know they featured Sumo wrestling at the Kemble.'

This was a bit rich coming from the only man in the room who could have offered Dalziel the best of three falls.

'That,' said Pascoe, 'is Superintendent Andrew Dalziel, my boss, who will be glad to know that academic objectivity and Christian charity are still alive and well in the world. Excuse me.'

The belly and the elbows parted like the Red Sea and he moved away to join Ellie who was deep in conversation with a middle-aged, somewhat drab-looking woman in a tweed suit and sensible shoes.

'Hello,' said Ellie. 'Enjoying yourself?'

'I've just been squeezed between the two dullest men imaginable,' he said. 'And I'm much in need of light relief.'

'Yes, we noticed you in the corner,' said Ellie rather too brightly. 'Dorothy, this is my husband, Peter. Peter, this is Dorothy Horncastle.'

'Hello,' said Pascoe, not registering for a second. But Ellie left no doubt.

'Canon Horncastle's wife,' she said. 'Excuse me. I really must have a word with Councillor Wood about the coffee machine at the Unemployed Centre.'

It may have been intended as a tactful removal of her witness to Pascoe's embarrassment but all he felt was deserted.

'What I meant was not being into the mediaeval period myself, I couldn't really follow the ins and outs of a highly specialized discussion though I've no doubt that of itself...’

He stuttered to a stop under Dorothy Horncastle's gaze. It wasn't, he thought, a sophisticated coolness under-pinned by amusement at his embarrassment, but a genuine disinterest in his slighting of her husband.

'You're a policeman, I gather,' she said.

'Yes. CID.'

'One of Mr Dalziel's men?'

'That's right. You know the Superintendent?'

'Only by reputation,' she said. 'Is he an old friend of Miss Chung's?'

'No, though you'd think so, wouldn't you?' smiled Pascoe, looking to where the tete-a-tete was just being broken up by the irrepressible assault of the Press in the form of Sammy Ruddlesdin of the
Evening Post.

'He has the reputation of being a man of surprising insight,’ said Dorothy Horncastle.

'Does he? I mean, yes, I suppose he does. Would you like to meet him?'

She considered, then smiled as if at some inner joke.

'Perhaps later,' she said.

Chung had left Dalziel to Ruddlesdin and was making her way towards them. She didn't stop, however, but said in passing, 'Hi, Dorothy. Pete,' and gave him a long-lashed wink and an almost imperceptible thumbs-up, before joining the mediaeval disputants. Unstone became a quivering jelly of delight, bowing over her hand to plant a reechy kiss. Even the gelid Canon, though making no attempt at a physical salute, thawed visibly in the solar energy of Chung's presence. Pascoe realized that Mrs Horncastle was watching the scene with great intensity. She could hardly be experiencing jealousy, could she?

He said, 'Well, Chung seems to have stopped them arguing, which is more than I could.'

'He thinks he's God,' she said.

'I'm sorry?'

'My husband thinks he's God.'

Pascoe re-examined the man in the light of this suggestion. He had to admit that, though on short acquaintance he had characterized the Canon as prissy, pratty, and priggish, he had stopped well short of paranoid.

'Is there any particular way in which he puts this belief to the test?' he inquired. 'I mean, miracles, levitation, that sort of thing?'

'What?' Suddenly the woman smiled away a decade. 'Oh no. I don't mean he is mentally deluded, Mr Pascoe. He simply believes that Miss Chung is going to ask him to be God in the Mysteries.'

'That's a relief,' said Pascoe, returning her smile. 'Though I fear he may prove to be deluded after all.'

It was a slip of the tongue he couldn't even blame on booze and she was on to it in a trice.

'Why do you say that? Has she got someone else for the part?'

'I don't know,' hedged Pascoe. 'I just heard a rumour she had someone else in mind.'

'Who?'

Certainly no word passed Pascoe's lips and he would have sworn that his face remained a blank, but somehow this surprisingly acute lady read his secret there, for suddenly she said, 'Mr Dalziel? You mean Mr Dalziel, don't you? Why, he's just perfect!' And let out a peal of such joyous laughter that her husband turned to glower at her as though she'd started singing a drunken ditty.

Chung seized the moment to detach herself from the sacred and profane pair and head back to the bar, onto which willing hands hoisted her when she requested quite unnecessary assistance.

She didn't need to call for quiet. Her seventy-five inches of perfectly proportioned beauty would have stopped people looking at the Boy David.

'No long speech,’ she said. 'I've got myself a team of doers, not debaters, and because of your efforts, every obstacle has been overcome, and now it's all systems go and I can promise you that in just over three months' time, this city is going to see the greatest dramatic event mounted here for nigh on four centuries!'

Everyone applauded enthusiastically. Pascoe guessed that a large majority of those present had done even less than himself to further the project. But Chung had the power to make everyone feel good.

'The main casting is practically complete,' she went on. 'But I'm not going to publish this just yet. These aren't professional actors but private people with their own lives to pursue. I want to work with them individually for a while before introducing them to the media. As well as their lines, perhaps I can teach them a few survival techniques!

'One thing that has changed is the performance site. The Council generously offered us Charter Park for the duration, but I didn't feel good about taking over the city's largest and most popular green space, particularly during a holiday week. Then I got an offer I couldn't refuse because it was a suggestion of sheer genius. The man who made it won't thank me for revealing his name. In his line of work, doing good by stealth is considered the virtue, but I'm afraid he's going to find, now he's got mixed up with show business folk, that it's hiding your light that's considered the sin. So put your hands together for the man who not only spotted that the best site for our performances dramatically, historically, and atmospherically, was the ruins of St Bega's Abbey in the lee of our great cathedral, but also got us permission to use it. Canon Eustace Horncastle!'

The Canon looked genuinely distressed as his fellow guests began to applaud. Pascoe noticed his wife did not join in but her defection seemed more than compensated for by a sudden swell of noise from the entrance to the bar. It took a second or two to register that this after all was not a spontaneous overflow of applause. A man and two women had entered the bar. One of the women was hidden behind a placard on which was printed THOU SHALT NOT TAKE THE NAME OF THE LORD THY GOD IN VAIN. The other two intruders were chanting, 'Anti-Christ! Sabbath-breakers!' more or less in unison, with a curious mixture of religious fervour and English embarrassment at creating a scene.

Slowly the clapping faded away till only the chanting remained. The woman, middle-aged with an anxious, washed-out face, soon gave up under the puzzled scrutiny of the assembled guests but the man kept the burden going with harsh insistence. Dark-suited, white-shirted, black-tied, he looked familiar. Then it came to Pascoe - this was Arnie Stringer, Swain's building partner, hitherto only seen in a cloth cap and overalls.

'Shouldn't you intervene?' wondered Mrs Horncastle.

'Senior officer on the scene makes the decisions,' said Pascoe smugly.

And sure enough, there was Dalziel, glass in hand, beginning to move from the bar. Whether his purpose was honeyed diplomacy or cracking of heads was not to be revealed, for Chung leaned forward, rested her hand on his shoulder and jumped lightly to the ground.

She walked forward to the intruders and stood smiling at them till even Stringer's voice faded.

'Hello,' she said. 'I'm Eileen Chung. This is my party. You're very welcome.'

For a second they looked nonplussed, then the woman said with nervous force, 'Remember the sabbath day and keep it holy!
Exodus
20, verse 8.'

'I hope there's nothing unholy going on here,' said Chung. 'And wasn't the sabbath made for man, not man for the sabbath,
Mark
2, verse 27?'

The woman looked ready to collapse under this unexpected counterblow, but suddenly Arnie Stringer intervened.

'It's not what's going off here that's the trouble,' he said. 'It's these plays.'

'You don't like the plays?' said Chung.

'I'll not object to a good play in its rightful place but that's here, in a theatre, not out in the street and on consecrated ground,' he said. 'Especially not when there's going to be papish processions and men pretending to be God and Jesus. I find that offensive, missus. And there's a lot more like me.'

'We tried to consult every aspect of local opinion,' said Chung.

'Oh aye? You consulted him -' a finger stabbed at the Canon - 'whose bosses want to sell out to Rome. And him -' the President of the Chamber of Commerce - 'who'd sell his own grannie if he could get a good price. And him -' the Head of the Community Project Group - 'who reckons charity begins in the Indian Ocean and equality's about being black. And him -' the local NUM boss - 'who's spent so long acting as a worker, no wonder he feels at home in a place like this. And him -' Dalziel - 'who sups so much of that stuff, he probably thinks he's still in the Middle Ages anyway. Oh aye, you asked all them, missus, knowing the answer you'd get. But you didn't ask me what I thought. Nor a lot like me either.'

It was a statement not without force and dignity, and Pascoe could see Chung was professionally impressed. Poor sod, he thought. He'll end up as St Peter if he's not careful!

'I'm sorry,' said Chung. 'Let's remedy that. Not now though, as I've my guests to look after. Why not stay and join us in some refreshment. Plenty of soft drinks going, I prefer them myself. No? OK, some other time. Hey, I love the banner. Who did the lettering?'

The banner-bearer lowered it and to Pascoe's surprise revealed herself as Shirley Appleyard. She hadn't struck him as being much in tune with her father's religious beliefs.

'I did,' she said.

The two women examined each other with undisguised curiosity.

'It's really very striking,' said Chung. 'Such strength, such directness.'

'She were always good at art,' declared the older woman with a pride that could only derive from parenthood.

'We've not come here to chit-chat about art,' growled Stringer.

'Of course not,' said Chung. 'Look, I'd really love to talk, I mean it. I'll be here tomorrow lunch-time, why not come then? I'm sure there's nothing separating us that a frank and free exchange of views won't clear.'

As she spoke Chung was drawing the protesters with her towards the stairway. They passed quite close to Swain, who raised his glass with what might have been an ironic smile to Stringer as he passed. Then the little group vanished down the stairs and behind them the silence was swept away by a wave of excited speculation.

'Isn't she marvellous?' said Pascoe, and when Mrs Horncastle didn't at once reply, he added with a votary's vigour, 'Don't you agree?'

'I'm sorry. Of course I agree. I was just detecting in myself a disturbing strain of envy! Yes, of course she's marvellous, and how marvellous it must feel to be so complete, so at one with yourself.'

Chung returned, cutting off congratulation by resuming her speech, though this time she kept her feet on the ground. She said pretty thank-you's to a lot more people and by the time she had finished, the interruption was almost forgotten.

Half an hour later the party was breaking up. Swain had left immediately Chung had finished. Pascoe, who had been keeping a professional eye on him, had noticed that when not actively engaged in talking or, more often, listening, he looked haggard and weary. How else should he look in the circumstances, no matter which set of circumstances applied?

Ellie came up to him and said, 'Message from the Almighty. He won't be needing his chariot of fire again tonight. I think he's got himself a date with a bottle of Highland Park.'

'Well, well. First round to Chung. Can she pull it off?'