Reginald Hill - A pinch of snuff

'Ah,' said Pascoe. 'So there'd be no love lost?'

'Well,' said Wield. 'Burkill's a fair man. If he thinks someone's not trying, he'd refuse to pay and like as not thump 'em. But if he reckons someone's just got no talent, he'd slip 'em a quid and advise them to get out of the business. That's just as bad for some fellows, I know, but Arany's sharp. He'd begun to get the message anyway. That's more or less when he turned to agenting. And he's been pretty pally with Burkill since.'

'Has he now? And his family?' said Pascoe, remembering the gift-wrapped packet he'd seen at the Calli. 'Friendly enough to buy the girl a birthday present?'

'Wouldn't surprise me,' said Wield.

'You know the family?'

'I've seen Mrs Burkill at the Social Club. And I saw the girl once in the Club office waiting for her dad. Come to think of it, Arany was there too.'

'What's she like, this girl?'

'Just a girl. Can't tell the difference between 'em nowadays. Her mam's a fine-looking woman though. Are we interested?'

He sounded reproving. Oh God, thought Pascoe. I'm doing it again, keeping the poor sod in the dark. Quickly he explained about Shorter and Sandra Burkill's allegations; also about Dalziel's theory that Shorter had somehow been paving the way for this revelation by inventing the Droit de Seigneur story.

'Bit far-fetched that,' said Wield, to Pascoe's delight. 'Mind you, Shorter, the Calli, Arany, Burkill, Shorter. It's a bit of a coincidence, don't you think, sir?'

'You're not suggesting some kind of frame, are you?' said Pascoe incredulously. 'You're worse than Mr Dalziel!'

'When it comes to catching villains, most of us are, sir,' said Sergeant Wield.

Priory Farm was a long, low, whitewashed building, tastefully extended and beautifully maintained and it gave Pascoe great pain. He was not an overly envious man, but this house felt so right for him that it was as if Blengdale had tricked him out of it.

Blengdale was not there and his wife invited Pascoe to wait in a room furnished with quiet (and expensive) good taste.

None of this stuff had been knocked together from Blengdale's do-it-yourself furniture kits, thought Pascoe.

Blengdale's wife, who seemed somehow familiar though he had not met her before, also had much of the same patina of value and breeding. Pascoe knew nothing of her provenance but he would have classified her as genuine English county, probably with a good seat but not erring on the side of tweediness, equally able to be unobtrusively elegant (as now) in simple twinset and sensible shoes, or discreetly radiant at a Hunt Ball. If she was a trifle more faded than high – or indeed low – society expects its womenfolk to be in their late thirties, then this merely confirmed that she was 'right'. The English Rose fades early, but she fades exceeding slow.

'I'm sorry my husband's not here, Inspector,' said Gwen Blengdale. 'He had a meeting at one-thirty and did not anticipate it would go on very long.'

'That's all right,' said Pascoe peering enviously out of the window. 'What a lovely setting this is. We're looking towards the golf course, aren't we?'

'That's right. And to the right we abut on the grounds of the college. Your wife works there, I believe.'

'Yes. Have you met her?'

'We spoke on the phone once. Some committee of Godfrey's..’

She was interrupted by the violent passage before the window of a little fat man on a big black horse. Pascoe wondered how far he was ahead of the posse.

'Excuse me,' said Mrs Blengdale.

She left the room. Pascoe heard voices distantly, or rather one voice which came rapidly closer till the door burst open and the speaker appeared.

He was an ugly little man, round and red, with a foxy stubble of hair broadening out below the jug-handle ears into luxuriant sideboards. He wore a hacking jacket and jodhpurs, clearly specially tailored to accommodate such shortness of leg with such breadth of buttock. It was also clear that his naturally rubicund complexion was enhanced by deep emotion.

'What a fucking day!' he said. 'What a fucking day. You wouldn't believe it. My time's not my own. You're Pascoe, are you? Well you ought to try keeping your sodding wife in order, that's all I can say.'

He sat heavily on a chair which, being a non-Blengdale product, merely groaned slightly.

'Mr Blengdale, I presume,' said Pascoe.

'Presume, is it? I've had enough presumption from Pascoes for one day. Is she like that at home? You deserve police protection. Is that why you joined?'

Pascoe felt a protest was called for, though, knowing his Yorkshiremen, he suspected it would be useless.

'Mr Blengdale, what my wife does in her own professional capacity is her business. But I don't feel you're entitled to be abusive…'

'Me abusive? A fascist pig she called me! Feathering my own sty! That's abusive, that's what I call abusive!'

'It's certainly an abuse of the language,' said Pascoe. 'But I dare say Mrs Pascoe was carried away in the heat of argument and in truth meant to offend you as little as you mean to offend me.'

The reproof took a little time to sink in but finally it penetrated the carapace of indignation Blengdale was carrying around and while he wasn't equipped to look shamefaced, he lumbered into an explanation which might or might not have been second cousin to an apology.

'Bad day. Looked so nice too. There was a meeting at the college. Liaison committee. Liaison! There was better liaison with the SS in 1939. Anyway, the weather was so good, I saddled up Trigger and rode over to the college after lunch.'

'You went to the college on your horse?' asked Pascoe,

'Yes. Why not?'

'No reason. Not the slightest in the world,' said Pascoe, picturing this rotund cavalier crashing into the Senior Common Room during the post-luncheon period which Ellie had once described as bedpan time in the geriatric ward.

'That's where I've been ever since. It's ring-a-bloody-roses, ring-a-bloody-roses! Round and round. Reason? Argument? Some of them wouldn't recognize an argument if it had a British Standard label. I neglect my business, I neglect my recreation, I get no thanks, all I get's a lot of fucking abuse. Do you wonder I'm a bit short?'

'I'm amazed at your good humour,' said Pascoe. 'What I wanted to talk about was Friday night at the Calliope Kinema Club. You've heard what happened, of course.'

'Aye. Roughly. I was bowled over when I learned old Gil was dead. Bloody yobbos! Why don't you lot sort the buggers out?'

'Yes,' said Pascoe. 'Why don't we? Now, I believe you're not actually a member of the Club, Mr Blengdale?'

'No, but I've been along a few times as a guest.'

'I see. Whose?'

'Eh?'

'Whose guest?'

'Gil's of course. Gilbert Haggard. I was lunching in the Con Club on Friday and he was there too. Said if I fancied a good laugh to come round to the Calli that night.'

'You find these films amusing?'

'Some of them. You sound a bit disapproving, Inspector. I'm not ashamed of me appetites, you know. It's natural for a man to like to look at female flesh, wouldn't you say?'

'It depends what's happening to it,' said Pascoe. 'When it's being beaten and maltreated…'

'I notice you've seen the picture then,' said Blengdale with heavy irony. 'Didn't corrupt you, did it? Then why're you so worried about me? It's a laugh, that's all. You can't take that kind of thing seriously!'

'Of course not. What happened afterwards, Mr Blengdale?' said Pascoe.

'After the film, you mean? Well, I had a beer in the bar, then Gil said it was a bit crowded there, did I fancy a drop of the real stuff upstairs? I never say no to Gil's cognac. He knows – knew – what he was about in that line. So we sat and had a couple of glasses and a yarn.'

'Where?'