Deadheads (20 page)

'Mr Neville? The purchaser? What exactly did he die of, Mr Masson?' asked Pascoe, crossing his fingers and hoping for a car accident on another continent.

Masson's answer was worse than he would have believed possible.

'Poisoned,' said the old solicitor with relish.

'Poisoned?'

'Yes. Don't you recall? Quite a
cause célèbre
mainly because the Grandison and the Old Brew House were so determined to be clear of blame that they started washing each other's dirty linen in public.'

The Grandison Hotel and the Old Brew House Restaurant were two of the most expensive establishments in the area.

'He stayed at the Grandison? And ate at the Old Brew House? and he was poisoned at one of them?'

'Probably not. But
qui s'excuse, s'accuse,
as they say,' said Masson gleefully. 'Poor Mr Neville ate something with parathion on it. It's used as an insecticide, highly toxic they tell me. Probably helped himself to some recently treated fruit as he was tramping round the countryside. But there was fruit in his room at the Grandison and he dipped generously into the fruit bowl at the end of his meal at the Brew House. There were rumours of crate-loads of peaches and grapes being dumped before the public health people got round there. Knocked their trade back a bit, I tell you.'

Masson spoke with the satisfaction one overcharging profession must feel when another gets its come-uppance, thought Pascoe.

He said, 'Why was this chap tramping around the countryside anyway?'

‘Inspecting his acres, I should think,' said Masson. 'He was just back from Rhodesia as it still was. His family were staying in London while he looked around up here. He was from these parts originally and fancied ending his days doing a bit of farming up here. End his days he certainly did, poor chap. There was a nice parcel of land he fancied, but the farmhouse wasn't up to much. Then the agent drew his attention to Rosemont which abutted on the farm land in question. He fell in love. Fancied a bit of squiring, I suspect. And all those gardens gave him oodles of space to put up stock buildings, with electricity and water close at hand. He'd already settled to buy the land when he died, but contracts hadn't been exchanged on the house. The family wanted neither, but they were stuck with the land. Sold it back to the previous owner at a loss! There's no one sharper than a Yorkshire farmer.'

'And this is where he'd been tramping that day?'

'I expect so. Called in at Rosemont to discuss some points with Mrs Highsmith, but he seemed well enough there and only took a cup of tea. Terrible business all round. A great disappointment for Mrs Highsmith, of course.'

Pascoe said, 'Didn't Rosemont attract any other buyers?'

'No, I mean, there was no chance. Mrs Highsmith seemed quite knocked back by the experience. She took the house off the market. Of course, it wasn't the money she wanted, though the upkeep must have been considerable. Her inheritance had been substantial and Mrs Aldermann's investments, or rather her husband's investments, had been wise and showed a steady appreciation. It was London she missed. She began virtually to live there when her son started his accountancy course and not long after he reached his majority, she contacted me about making the new arrangements.'

'Which were?'

'Simply, a transfer of assets. A common enough transaction to avoid or at least minimize the punitive taxes which accompany straightforward inheritance.'

There was a tap at the door which opened without a pause for an invitation. A man in his early thirties came in, nodded pleasantly at Pascoe, and said to Masson, 'Sorry to interrupt, Edgar, but I wanted a word with you before I went off to court. There are a couple of points you might be able to help me with. Will you be long? I must be off in twenty minutes.'

'No, no,' said Masson enthusiastically. 'I'll be with you instantly. The Inspector and I are just about finished, I think.'

‘Inspector?' said the newcomer.

'Yes. Inspector Pascoe, this is Ian Coatbridge, our junior partner.'

'How do you do?' said Coatbridge. 'Anything I can do to help.'

Pascoe grinned amiably at him. He suspected that Coatbridge had just learned from the Irish girl that old Masson was entertaining the fuzz and had come rushing up post-haste to stem the flow of confidential information he suspected the old man was pouring out.

'I don't think so,' he said. 'I think we've just about finished. Mr Masson has been most helpful.'

The other man's surface of friendly interest shimmered into pained exasperation for a moment. Pascoe smiled and stirred the waters a little more.

'And Patrick got the house as a result of this transfer of assets?' he said to Masson.

'That's it. That was the only odd thing. She split the inheritance straight down the middle, you know, which meant he got the house and a bit of cash. What would a young fellow want with a rattling great place like that? I wondered. I thought he'd sell, but he didn't. No, the following week he was back here, enquiring about changing his name to Aldermann and of course he's lived in the damn place ever since. Odd, that. What do you think, Ian?'

Coatbridge gave a wan smile and said, 'Our clients must be permitted their little quirks, Edgar.'

He was clearly acutely embarrassed, but as Pascoe took his leave, he doubted whether the junior partner had as much cause for concern as he imagined. There was little doubt in his own mind that Masson's rambling reminiscences had concealed as much as they had revealed.

5

ICEBERG

(Floribunda.Very vigorous, upright and shapely, graceful poise, well-formed, pure white blooms, useful for large beds, excellent hedger.)

Ellie Pascoe was not in the best of tempers when the phone rang.

The previous evening she had been unpleasantly reminded that she was now theoretically back in full-time academic employment by the arrival on her doorstep of a cardboard box chock-full of examination scripts.

The middle-aged colleague who delivered them had wanted to do nothing but talk at great circular length about his future in the new institution that was being created. His name was Rothmann and he was a self-banished Johannesburg Jew of unimpeachable liberal credentials who embarrassed Ellie sorely by constantly cracking jokes whose racist content from another source would have made her scream with rage.

'The Principal says we will all be well looked after in the new Institute,' he now said anxiously. 'But, Ellie, I keep on hearing this voice saying
you will now all der shower be taking; please to form der orderly line and into der shower be moving.'

Finally he left. At the door Ellie asked when the department would like the scripts returned.

'Oh, a couple of days,' he said vaguely. 'With all this time on your hands, it shouldn't take you long.'

She had closed the door with great force and made a rude gesture at the trembling woodwork. But the scripts had to be read and the sooner the better. The only firm commitment she had the following day was coffee with Daphne Aldermann again. They had met in the Chantry on Monday as arranged and she'd enjoyed it so much that she'd offered no resistance when Daphne, obviously thirsty for friendship, suggested Wednesday and insisted they should return to the Market Caff. It had been this gesture towards democracy which had persuaded Ellie that, scripts or no scripts, she shouldn't put the meeting off, and to find herself stood up had not pleased her, though she had no doubt there was a perfectly adequate explanation.

And when after an hour of yawning her way through the scripts as though her jaw were seeking a physical dislocation to match the logical and linguistic ones which abounded therein, she snatched up the phone and heard Daphne's voice, it was this perfectly adequate explanation she expected to receive.

Instead Daphne said abruptly, 'I want to see you.'

'You do? Now, if you'd been in the Market Caff at nine-thirty as arranged, you might just have managed it,' replied Ellie with spirit.

'I'll come round,' said Daphne. 'I just wanted to check you were home.'

'Yes, I'm at home. And I'm also extremely busy marking exam scripts,' said Ellie, feeling all her irritation welling up. 'Daphne, what is it . . .'

The phone went dead.

Puzzled, Ellie replaced the receiver. Trouble was imminent, she felt sure of that. Daphne had sounded cold and hostile as only the well-brought-up English girl can sound cold and hostile. Ellie had read enough Marxist interpretation of history to know that the wrath of the bourgeoisie was not to be taken lightly.

She returned uneasily to her marking.

Half an hour later the doorbell rang.

'You found it then,' said Ellie inanely.

‘It wasn't easy,' said Daphne accusingly.

Ellie guessed that the taut fury which she had sensed behind the telephone call had slackened off to some extent during the drive, and now Daphne was seeking new devices to renew the tension. Ellie resolved to make things difficult for her.

'I'm so glad to see you,' she smiled. 'You've no idea what a hundred exam scripts with half an idea between them can do to the brain.'

'No, I wouldn't have, would I? Middle-class reactionaries with kids at private schools aren't intellectual enough to recognize even half an idea, are they?'

There was a fine high colour in her cheeks, the divided emblem of anger and embarrassment. It made her look extraordinarily attractive. If I caught a man thinking that, I'd call him a sexual fascist, Ellie thought.

She said, 'Daphne, something's upset you . . .'

'Sharp!' mocked the other, now fast re-approaching the pole of her cold biting anger. 'Really keen! What I wouldn't give for such sensitivity! Well, I may be just a plain little pawn in the class war, but at least I'm not the kind of two-faced bitch who goes around spying on her friends!'

Ellie had retreated into the lounge where she was working, with Rose in her carrycot lying at the open french window and gurgling at the sparrows quarrelling over scraps on the bird table. She now subsided into an armchair so that Daphne towered over her.

'You don't look much like a plain little pawn from here,' she observed, still determined not to react. 'Daphne, please, forget the forensic fire and just tell me in plain words what you're talking about.'

'Oh, don't pretend you don't know,' said Daphne, attempting a sneer which came close to being a sob.

'I may have my suspicions, but I won't know till you tell me,' said Ellie. 'And if you could sit down first, I'd appreciate it.'

Daphne hesitated, then sat on the edge of a high, wing-chair. Rosie, momentarily attracted by the prospect of quarrelling adults, decided that size was no substitute for savagery and returned her attention to the sparrows.

'Just answer me one thing,' said Daphne. 'Yes or no. Did you know when you decided to take me under your little left wing that
your
husband was in charge of an investigation into
mine!'

'Oh dear,' said Ellie, her worst fears confirmed.

'Yes or no!' insisted Daphne, latching on instantly to this hint of assent.

'It's not as simple as that,' protested Ellie. 'Any simple answer to that question accepts all the implications of the question, which I don't.'

'Oh come on!' said Daphne. 'Don't play the nit-picking academic with me. It's a simple question.'

'And don't you play the WI plate-cake and flower-arrangement dummy with me!' retorted Ellie, happy to let go now she knew what she was into, it's not a simple question and you know it. Let's get my reasons for making your acquaintance quite clear for a start. First, I gave you a lift because it was raining. Nothing more. I'd no idea who you were. All right, I did work out you were a St Helena parent and it did amuse me to see your reaction when you spotted the placard in the car, but my motive was simple humanity. Second, I didn't decide to take you under my little left wing, though I must say I quite admire the phrase. It was just that as I talked to you, well, I found I
liked
you.'

'Rather to your surprise, you mean?' said Daphne. 'What did you do? Watch three Party Political Broadcasts as a penance?'

'There, that's one of the reasons,' said Ellie, risking a grin. 'You're sharp! And, all right, if there was a touch of political condescension in it to start with - you know:
Fancy little activist me liking someone like her!
 can you deny that there wasn't a bit of social condescension in your reaction?
Hey, look at good old moderate tolerant me passing the time of day with an anarchist
!Right?'

Daphne said sourly, 'You say I'm sharp. I'm sharp enough to see you're avoiding the main point of the question.'

But she had relaxed perceptibly in her chair.

'Clearing the decks, merely,' said Ellie. 'All right. When you told me your name and mentioned where your husband worked, yes, I realized that Peter had a professional interest. I didn't do anything about it because all I could have done was nip our acquaintance in the bud and I wasn't about to do that. Why not? You want yesses and noes and all I give you is a multiplicity of reasons! I'm sorry, but here's three more. One, because I don't let my husband's concerns affect my own freedom of choice; two, because what he'd told me about his interest in your husband made it all sound like a bit of a joke anyway; and three, because I'd taken a fancy to you. Liberty, equality and human rights you can fight for, but friends are much harder to come by and you've got to grab them fast when they come along.'

'Now, that's very moving,' said Daphne in a hard clear tone, then she paused and when she resumed her voice had softened and become more hesitant. 'I'm sorry, I meant that to be sarcastic, but really it's not, I don't think. It
is
very moving what you've said, about friends and everything. You know, I haven't sat and talked about being
friends
with anyone since I was a schoolgirl and all those awful childish loyalties and loves and feuds meant such a lot! What I don't understand is how, if you're my friend, you could sit and listen to your husband talking about Patrick and . . . and . . .'