Reginald Hill - Recalled to Life

With hindsight he guesses her real anger was aimed at Mickledore, and, unable to contain it, she did her best to conceal its object by scattering its manifestations indiscriminately, though, as was to be expected, her husband came in for more than his fair share. 'It was, of course, too early in the year for any serious shooting, but the whole party, male and female, were taken on a tour of the estate and given the chance to blast away at whatever Mickledore designated as vermin. Fresh air and killing things did surprisingly little to improve their spirits. And when they returned to the house in the late afternoon they heard the news that Stephen Ward had died. 'The previous night, according to Partridge, as if by mutual agreement no one had mentioned the Profumo affair or the Ward trial. Saturday night was different. Pamela Westropp wouldn't leave the subject. She went on about the hypocrisy of the British Establishment which had hounded him to his death. And she said, "Of course, Mick, you knew him pretty well, didn't you?" "I suppose I did," said Mickledore, unperturbed.

"But then so did a lot of us here, I imagine." He looked around as he spoke. Westropp as usual gave nothing away. My father, I would guess, attempted to look as if he'd been a long-time member of the Ward/Cliveden set. Rampling said cheerfully, "Hell, yes, I met the guy, but it was one of your judges that introduced me. I'd have paid more heed if I'd known he was the top people's pimp!" And Partridge himself, who'd met Ward several times but naturally wasn't anxious to advertise the fact in view of recent events, kept quiet and hoped he wasn't being got at. 'But clearly it was Mickledore who was Pam's chosen target. '"I suppose you think he deserved everything he got?" she pursued. ' "I think he broke the one law of the tribe he wanted to belong to," said Mickledore. '"Which was?" 'And Mickledore laid his finger across his lips. 'Some time later, it was certainly after eleven for they all remember having heard the stable clock strike, Mickledore made his usual inquiry about "gun fatigues". Pam Westropp said defiantly that no, she hadn't cleaned hers, and was she expected to wash her own dinner dishes too? Nevertheless, after another couple of drinks she said she supposed she'd better get it over with, and stood up. Her husband rose too, rather unsteadily, having stuck doggedly to Mickledore's coat tails during a wide-ranging tour of the delights of his cellar. It took a hard head and a pair of hollow legs to keep up with Mick when he was in the drinking mood. According to Westropp's later statement, he went upstairs with his wife, offered to help her clean her gun, was told she was quite capable of performing her own menial tasks, staggered into his bed- room, got undressed, fell into bed and knew no more till awoken by the disturbance later on. 'Downstairs, Jessica Partridge was ready for bed too, but her husband said he was looking forward to a game of billiards with Mickledore. Warning him not to disturb her, Jessica left accompanied by my mother, Marilou. My father, who liked to claim he needed less sleep than ordinary mortals, said he fancied a stroll around the estate with his pipe, a mode of behaviour he probably picked up from the novels of Dornford Yates. 'Scott Rampling asked if he could phone the States and Mick told him to use the phone in the study which was in the East Wing. According to his statement, confirmed by Mickledore's phone bill, Rampling was in conversation with America for the next hour and a half at least. 'Meanwhile my father claimed he had been tempted by the fine moonlit night to walk further than he intended. He took no heed of time, except that he heard the stable clock strike midnight not too long after he set out on his perambulations. This clock, incidentally, had – presumably still has – the loudest bell I've heard outside Westminster. Mickledore through long usage was untroubled by it, but weekends of haggard faces over the breakfast table had finally persuaded him to fit a device which switched the chimes off between midnight and eight A.M. So, it wasn't till he got back to the house that my father, who never wore a watch on the grounds that he made time work for him, was able to confirm that it was after one. 'He met Mickledore and Partridge coming out of the billiard room. Mickledore, who'd sent Gilchrist, his butler, to bed after dinner, went off to check the house was secure, while the other two went upstairs together. 'Outside Partridge's bedroom they paused to finish off their conversation. Mickledore appeared at the far end of the same corridor, having ascended the side stairs, and opened the outer door of the gunroom. After a few moments he approached them, looking concerned. The key to the inner door was not in its customary place on the ledge. He had his own personal key, of course, but when he tried to use this, it would not go far enough into the hole to turn, and when he peered through the keyhole, he could see another key already in the lock from the inside. 'The other two went with him to the gunroom to check. Mickledore was right. They could see the key quite clearly. Back along the corridor Jessica Partridge emerged to ask what all the row was, in tones loud enough to rouse my mother. Scott Rampling appeared on his way to bed. Soon they were all gathered outside the gunroom, all except the Westropps. Mickledore went and banged on their door but had to go in through the dressing-room before he could rouse Westropp. It took some time to penetrate his alcoholic torpor, but when he realized his wife was the only person on the guest floor unaccounted for, he flung himself against the gunroom door in a vain effort to break it down. But his efforts must at least have loosened the key in the inner lock, for now when he seized Mickledore's key and thrust it into the hole, he was able to turn it and the door swung slowly open…'

The phone shrilled like an owl in a haunted tower. Pascoe, startled as if he too had been dragged from deep sleep, grabbed it, said, 'Hello, this is…' and couldn't remember his number. 'Peter, are you all right?' It was Ellie's voice, close and concerned. 'Yes, fine. Hang on.' He switched off the tape. 'Sorry, I was listening to something. How's things? How's your mum? Your dad? Rosie?' 'Rosie's fine. I tried to ring earlier so she could have a talk to you, but I couldn't be bothered to talk to that bloody machine. She's asleep now.

If you ever get home early enough, maybe you could ring…' He could sense the effort not to sound reproving. He said, 'Of course I will, I promise. And your mum, how's she?' There was a silence. He said, 'Hello? You still there?' 'Yes. She's… Oh, Peter, I'm so worried…' 'Why? What's happened?' 'Nothing really… except.

.. Peter, I'm terrified it's all happening again. I thought it was just physical, you know, the strain of looking after Dad, and she's always had these circulatory problems, and the arthritis, and I thought that once things settled down… Well, in herself, physically I mean, she doesn't seem too bad… but she's started forgetting things… she'd forgotten we were coming though we'd just spoken on the phone that morning… and this morning I heard her calling Rosie Ellie…' That can happen to anyone,' said Pascoe confidently. 'I've done it myself. As for forgetting things like phone calls, if I don't make a note of everything instantly, that's it, gone for ever.' The silence again. Then: 'I hope you're right. Maybe I'm over-sensitive because of Dad.' That's right. Have you seen him?' 'I went today. I'd forgotten how awful it is, looking into a face you know, being looked at by eyes that don't know you… I came out feeling like… I don't know… like it was all my fault somehow.

..' 'For God's sake! How do you work that out?' demanded Pascoe, dismayed to hear such fragile uncertainty in her voice. 'I don't know … using them as an excuse, maybe… that's what I've done, isn't it? Saying I thought I should come down here for a few days because I wanted to make sure Mum was coping… doing the concerned daughter bit when all I was really looking for was a place to lie low … like getting out of something by saying you've got the 'flu, then really getting the 'flu like it was a judgement, only far worse.