Reginald Hill - Ruling Passion

'This gets worse!' said Culpepper.

'I trust not,' said Backhouse seriously. 'Inspector!'

'Let's call it a loan,' repeated Pascoe. 'The more important question at the moment is why did Mr Culpepper want it so quickly and in cash? My suggestion is simple. You wanted it for Mr Davenant.'

'But why should I wish to give Davenant a thousand pounds?' asked Culpepper.

'Why? Because he has been supplying you with pieces for your collection which you may have known or suspected to be stolen. Now he's in a hurry to get on his way. He realizes we're on to him. He heads straight down here, and is just hanging around for the money to arrive when unfortunately I turn up.'

Culpepper smiled. His anger seemed to have left him now, which was a pity. He looked cool and alert.

'You tell a good story, Inspector. But it's a fairy story, of course. You're very welcome to inspect my collection for stolen articles.'

'I don't doubt they've been removed since Mr Davenant's arrival,' replied Pascoe. Pelman, he noted, was looking more worried now than at any time hereto, which was interesting. It was time Backhouse made a move. He had been very insistent that the Brookside Cottage case was his. Pascoe had delivered into his hands Davenant, who admitted he was there on the night of the murders, and now also Pelman, who had just delivered a thousand pounds in used notes to the house of the woman whose story supported his alibi. Let the superintendent pick the bones out of that.

But Backhouse showed no sign of being ready to make a move. Palfrey glanced at his watch and stood up.

'I think this is outrageous, Hartley,' he said, shooting a malicious glance at Pascoe. 'If you want any witnesses to this gross misuse of police authority, just let me know. But I've got to push off now and see to my pub.'

'Thanks, JP,' said Culpepper. 'Your story falls down elsewhere, Pascoe. For example, if I wanted money in that much of a hurry, why should I go through the complicated business of contacting Angus? Why not just get it myself?'

He smiled round as if he had produced a rabbit out of a hat.

You poor bastard, thought Pascoe.

He felt reluctant to go on. A man had a right to his areas of privacy. Why should Culpepper's small secret be revealed here?

Because, he told himself looking round at the ring of expectant faces, because it had or might have or could have something to do with a crime.

And perhaps also because of something in those faces – wariness, expectancy, warning, or in the case of Marianne Culpepper, supercilious disinterest. That especially.

'Because, Mr Culpepper,' he said, 'you no longer work for the Nordrill Mining Company. In fact I believe you no longer work for anyone. You are unemployed, have been unemployed for six months and are practically destitute.'

If he had expected this to be an explosive revelation, he was disappointed.

True, Culpepper stood very still, his expression freezing as though a film had stopped on a single frame. But the others were manifestly unsurprised.

'I don't see what Hartley's financial affairs have to do with you,' said Pelman scornfully.

'So what?' said Dixon with a surprising amount of aggression.

Even Palfrey risked a contemptuous sniff, and Marianne merely turned away.

Only Davenant looked surprised.

'You all knew?' he said. 'Well, well. Isn't that an interesting thing? They all knew, Hartley, old son.'

'So much for your bombshell,' murmured Backhouse, taking Pascoe into the window bay. 'Even I knew. It was in Crowther's first batch of background notes. How did you find out?'

'I rang up Nordrill, put on a bit of an act,' admitted Pascoe, feeling suddenly rather shame-faced as well as very foolish. 'There were some discrepancies, the date of the AGM and Sotheby’s sale clashed, for instance; other things. I thought I was being pretty clever.'

'It's cleverer than getting into fights, anyway. But I fear you've bowled over our genial host.'

Culpepper certainly looked unwell now. The little colour in his cheeks had ebbed away and he seemed able to pay little attention to the attempts at polite chat which the others were directing at him. Only Marianne was not joining in the general rally-round-Hartley movement. Presumably she had known – or had he imagined he had kept his insolvency a secret from her also? Impossible. Pelman knew and Pelman would surely have told her.

It was Pelman who returned to the attack now.

'We've had a lot of accusations and hints of accusations, Superintendent,' he said to Backhouse. 'I think it's time we saw some cards on the table.'

'A splendid idea. Perhaps you'd begin, sir, by telling us why, when you knew Mr Culpepper was in financial straits, you were so willing to lend him a thousand pounds?'

Pelman momentarily looked uncomfortable, but recovered quickly.

'Why, you've just said it! Because I knew he was in a bit of trouble financially, that's why. What better reason for giving a neighbour a loan? You don't lend money where it's not needed, do you?'

'I didn't realize you were such good friends, sir,' said Backhouse with a smile. There was a thoughtful pause.

Surely, thought Pascoe, he knows Pelman's got something going with Marianne. It's conscience money, if anything. The important thing is, what was Culpepper going to do with it? Davenant was still standing at the periphery of the group, apparently casual and very much at his ease. It would be a good idea to get him out of the room and isolate him from the present discussion. But before he could suggest this, Backhouse started talking again.

'The question still does remain,' he said, addressing himself to Culpepper who all this time had retained his statue-like pose by the doorway, 'what, in fact, were you going to do with the money?'

'I think I ought to clear up something first,' interjected Davenant. 'Everyone's entitled to have all the facts, don't you think so, Superintendent? I've already told you that I was at Brookside Cottage that night. Oh yes. Gasp gasp all round. But I left shortly after seven when all was still well and made my way to dear old Hartley's pad where we sat sipping his super whisky and talking of matters cultural until – when was it, Hartley, my love? – about half past ten?'

Damn! thought Pascoe. This is what he had been afraid, of. He couldn't understand Backhouse's policy. Separation of suspects and witnesses was usually as essential to a case as separation of yolks and whites was to a souffle. Now here was Davenant publicly inviting Culpepper to give him an alibi. Or reminding him of what they had agreed.

But Culpepper's response could have brought little comfort to Davenant. He stared coldly, almost unseeingly, at him, turned and left the room. Marianne, with a quick perfect-hostess's apologetic smile at the gathering, followed him.

'Well now, Mr Davenant,' said Backhouse. 'I'm sure Mr Culpepper will be able to confirm your story when he's feeling better. Or is there anyone else who can help us? Did Mrs Culpepper come home while you were there?'

'No. No. Not exactly,' said Davenant. 'At least, I didn't see her. For all I know, of course, she came in earlier, heard Hartley and me talking, decided not to interrupt and went up to her room. Now that's a possibility of course. Oh yes, that's a very distinct possibility.'

The cocky bastard! thought Pascoe. He's inventing alibis publicly as he goes along and putting them on display for all to see. Marianne's not here to hear it, of course. But her boyfriend is. And Davenant knows!

Slowly a picture was forming itself in Pascoe's mind. It was not yet complete, but its main outlines were clear. And as he examined it and found its composition more and more balanced, the ball of rage in his breast began to swell and swell till it was ready to burst in black hatred.