Peter Robinson: A Dedicated Man

‘Could you tell me where Mr Ramsden lives, too? I’d like to let him know what’s happened as soon as possible.’

Mrs Steadman seemed a bit surprised, but she gave the information without questions. ‘It’s not so hard to find,’ she added. ‘There are no other houses within half a mile yet. Do you need me to… er.. .’

‘To identify the body?’

Mrs Steadman nodded.

‘Yes, I’m afraid we do. Tomorrow will do, though. Is there anyone you can get to stay with you for a while?’

She stared at him, her features ugly and swollen with crying; her eyes looked fishy behind the harsh magnification of the glasses. ‘Mrs Stanton, next door… if you would.’

‘Of course.’

Banks went next door. Mrs Stanton, a long-nosed, alert-looking little woman, immediately grasped the situation. Banks sympathized with her shock. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It must seem so abrupt. To think that you saw him only last night.’

She nodded. ‘Aye. And to think what was happening while me and Emma were watching that silly old film. Still,’ she ended stoically, ‘who are we to question the ways of the good Lord?’ She told her husband, who sat slouched in an armchair reading his News of the World, to keep an eye on the roast, then went over to comfort her neighbour. Sure that he was leaving the widow in capable hands, Banks returned to his car and got in next to Weaver, who had regained his pinkish colour.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he mumbled. ‘About being sick. I’ve-’ ‘

Never seen a corpse before? I know. Never mind, Constable, there’s a first time for everyone, more’s the pity. Shall we go to the Bridge for a bite to eat?’ Weaver nodded. ‘I’m starving, myself,’ Banks went on, starting the car, ‘and you look like you could do with a drop of brandy.’

As he drove the short distance down to the Bridge on Helmthorpe High Street, Banks thought about his interview with Mrs Steadman. It had made him feel edgy and uneasy. At times, after the initial shock, her reaction had seemed more like relief than grief. Perhaps the marriage had been shaky, Banks found himself thinking, and Mrs Steadman had suddenly found herself both wealthy and free. Surely that would explain it?

Weaver pulled a face. ‘I don’t like brandy, sir,’ he admitted sheepishly. ‘My mum always used to give me a drop for medicinal purposes whenever I got a cold as a lad. Never could stomach the stuff.’

The two of them sat in a corner of the Bridge’s quiet lounge. Banks nursed a pint of hand-drawn Theakston’s bitter, and Weaver complained about his brandy.

‘Did it do you any good?’ Banks asked.

‘I suppose so, sir. But it always reminds me of medicine, of being poorly, if you follow my drift.’

Banks laughed and went to buy Weaver a pint to chase away the bad taste. They were waiting for Detective Sergeant Hatchley, who was still with Tavistock, no doubt enjoying a good cup of tea or something stronger and, perhaps, a plateful of roast beef.

‘Tell me,’ Banks asked, ‘why is this place so empty? It’s Sunday dinner time and the village is crawling with tourists.’

‘That’s right, sir,’ Weaver said. His boyish face had fully regained its natural pink flush. ‘But look around you.’

Banks looked. They were in a small lounge with faded wallpaper and a cracked brown ceiling. A few water-colours of local scenes, reminiscent of the ones in old railway carriages, covered the most obvious damp spots on the walls. The tables were worn and scored from years of dominoes and shove-ha’penny, and ringed by generations of overflowing beer glasses; around the edges were charred semicircles where cigarettes had been left to burn out. A rack holding tongs and a bent poker stood by the small tiled fireplace. True, it didn’t look much.

‘There are three pubs in Helmthorpe, sir,’ Weaver began, counting them off on his chubby red fingers. ‘That’s if you don’t count the country club, for the nobs. There’s the Dog and Gun, and the Hare and Hounds; they’re for the tourists mostly. Real olde worlde country inns, if you get my meaning, sir – horse brasses, copper bedwarmers, antique tables with kneecapper wrought-iron legs, you name it. They have big old fireplaces too, all done up with black lead. Now that every pub in Christendom seems to offer real ale, it’s got trendy to advertise a real fire.

‘The Dog and Gun’s a kind of family place with tables out back by the river and a little enclosed area for the kiddies to play in, and the Hare and Hounds is more for the younger set. They have a disco there every Friday and Saturday in season and you get a lot of the campers going along. That’s when we get most of our bother here – the odd fight, that kind of thing. Some nights during the week they have folk music, too. A bit more civilized, if you ask me.’

Weaver sniffed and nodded towards the wall. ‘And then there’s this place. It’s fairly new by village standards – Victorian, I’d say at a pinch. And it’s all that’s left for the serious drinkers. The only people who drink here are the locals and a few visitors who know about the beer. It’s a pretty well-guarded secret. Course, on weekends you do get a few hikers and whatnot in the public bar. They’ve all read their good beer guides these days, it seems. But they never cause much trouble; they’re a quiet lot, really.’

‘Why did Steadman drink here, do you think?’

‘Steadman?’ Weaver seemed surprised to be so quickly jolted back to business. ‘Liked the beer, I suppose. And he was pally with a few of the regulars.’

‘But he had money, didn’t he? A lot of money. He certainly didn’t get that house on the cheap.’

‘Oh yes, he had money. Rumour has it he inherited over a quarter of a million from his father. His pals have money too, but they’re not nobs. Much more down-to-earth.’

Banks was still puzzled why someone so well off would drink in such a dump, good beer or not. By rights, Steadman ought to have been chugging champagne by the magnum to wash down his caviar. Those were London terms, though, he reminded himself: ostentatious display of wealth. Maybe people with over a quarter of a million who lived in Helmthorpe by choice were different. He doubted it. But Steadman certainly sounded unusual.

‘Liked his drink, did he?’

‘Never known him drink too much, sir. I think he just enjoyed the company here.’

‘Glad to get away from the wife?’

Weaver reddened. ‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir. Never heard anything. But he was a funny sort of chap.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, sir, like I said, he used to be a professor at Leeds University. When he inherited the money, he just packed in his job, bought the old Ramsden house and moved up here.’

‘Ramsden house?’ Banks cut in. ‘That wouldn’t have anything to do with Michael Ramsden, would it?’

Weaver raised an eyebrow. ‘As a matter of fact, sir, yes,’ he answered. ‘It was his parents’ house. Used to be a bed-and-breakfast place when Steadman and his wife started coming up here for their holidays ten years ago or more. Young Michael went to university and landed a good job with a publishing firm in London. Then, when old Mr Ramsden died, the mother couldn’t afford to keep on the house, so she went off to live with her sister in Torquay. It all happened at just the right time for Steadman.’

Banks looked at Weaver in astonished admiration. ‘How old are you?’ he asked.

‘Twenty-one, sir.’

‘How do you manage to know so much about things that happened before your time?’

‘Family, sir. I was born and raised in the area. And Sergeant Mullins. He runs the show around here usually, but he’s on holiday right now. There’s not much escapes Sergeant Mullins.’