Reginald Hill - An April Shroud

The unfaced stone wall gave little away. There were a variety of scratch marks on it, some of which might have been made by a ladder scraping along the stone as it tumbled to one side.

About fifteen feet up the wall, the stone ended and was replaced by a band of white roughcast about three feet thick which reached the angle of the roof. There were signs of drilling here and Dalziel wondered if Conrad Fielding had intended to fit another beam in here, though it would have spoilt the symmetry of those already erected.

He climbed a little higher and craned his head sideways in an attempt to see how the next beam along was fixed. It was nearly three feet away and he had to lean out at a dangerous angle to get a decent view. The position suddenly made him feel very giddy, so much so that as he leaned forward and clung closely to the ladder it seemed as if it moved quite violently from side to side. He held on tight for a moment, then began to descend. Half-way down he felt able to look to the ground and he stopped abruptly when he saw a figure below, grasping the ladder and peering up at him. It was Papworth.

Quickly now Dalziel almost slid down the remaining few feet.

'You want to be careful,' observed Papworth. 'I thought you were going over just now.'

Dalziel did not reply at once but retrieved his beer bottle and emptied what remained in a single draught.

'Lucky you were here,' he said.

Papworth shrugged, an ambiguous gesture.

'I heard you,' he said. 'What were you doing?'

It was a blunt question, bluntly put, but justifiable from an employee of the house to a comparative stranger, thought Dalziel charitably.

'Morbid curiosity,' he answered. 'I just wanted to see where it happened. Was he much good at do-it-yourself?'

'Fielding?' said Papworth. 'I suppose so.'

'He didn't ask you to give him a hand in here then?'

'No,' said Papworth turning away. 'I'm not paid to work at this.'

He began to walk towards the door.

'Just what are you paid to work at, Mr Papworth?' said Dalziel to his back.

'Maintenance,' said the man, pausing and glancing over his shoulder. 'House and garden. Not this.'

'I see,' said Dalziel. 'And Mrs Greave? She's in charge of cooking and cleaning. That right?'

'Right,' said Papworth.

'So neither of you would have much occasion to come in here,' continued Dalziel. 'Strange, I've found you in here twice.'

'Wrong,' said Papworth, turning. 'I've found you in here twice. I don't know what right you think you've got questioning me, mister. You stick to the family. Do what you want there. You can get your leg across each of 'em in turn, and see if it bothers me. But don't try leaning on me.'

'Sorry,' said Dalziel with a smile. 'Like I said, just morbid curiosity.'

Papworth set off for the door once more but a man more acquainted with the sunshine of Dalziel's smile would have known matters were not at an end.

'What about Mrs Greave?' mused Dalziel.

'What about her?' demanded Papworth, halting.

'You still here? I'm sorry. I was just wondering if it was all right to get my leg across Mrs Greave. Or is she taken?'

'What do you mean?' said Papworth, his brown leathery face set in a mask of suspicion.

'I mean, what about you and Mrs Greave? Have you got full-time rights there?'

'She's my daughter,' said Papworth in a low voice. Dalziel laughed.

'And I'm your long lost sister Annie,' he mocked. 'Come on, Papworth. There's nothing to be ashamed of. We all need it now and then! It won't stay in the mind for ever.'

'With a gut like yours, it's got to be in the mind,' snapped Papworth. He looked for a moment as if he were going to say a great deal more, but his control was good and he left without another word.

Dalziel watched him go, then resumed his inspection of the hall and his ingestion of the meat pie. Afterwards he collected his raincoat without meeting any of the others and set off at a gentle walk along the road which led to the village. The pub was still open when he got there and it seemed silly to miss the chance. The landlord proved to be an amiable and forthcoming drinking companion, ready to talk knowledgeably and scandalously about everything in the neighbourhood. Fortified with drink and information, Dalziel next retired to the telephone-box outside the little post office. He spent an interesting half-hour in there too.

As he strode vigorously back towards Lake House he was passed by a total of three cars, each containing two men. None offered him a lift though one did slow down. Thirty minutes later, when with somewhat diminished vigour he finally splashed through the water by the gate and climbed up the drive, he saw the trio parked outside the house.

The Gumbelow deputation had arrived.

The house was full of noise, most of it emanating from Herewaid Fielding's sitting-room. Dalziel met Bonnie in the hall. She looked exasperated but her face lit up when she saw him. He did not know what he had done to cause this reaction but felt himself basking in the glow.

'There you are!' she said.

'I went for a walk,' he explained.

'We'll have to do something about that surplus energy,' she said. 'These people have arrived; you know, the award people. But Herrie's throwing another tantrum. I used to think Conrad was the world champion, but he was minor country stuff compared with this. Do you think you could speak to him?'

'Me?' said Dalziel. 'You must be joking! I'm not even good with animals. Besides I don't know what the old bugg – fellow is talking about half the time.'

'That's part of your charm,' said Bonnie. 'He mentioned you at lunch today, said it was nice to have someone safe and ordinary about the place for a change. I know it's a liberty, but if you could just let him know you think it's daft to turn down good money, he might take some notice.'

Dalziel let himself be led into the sitting-room, the whiles considering safe and ordinary. They were not adjectives many of his acquaintance would have applied to him, he thought. But safe in particular was an interesting choice for the old man to make. The room seemed crowded with people, all gathered round the bay window in which, looking both defiant and trepid, stood Fielding. Dalziel's expert eye categorized the onlookers in a trice. The family and the other residents were there, of course. In addition there were two men in athletic middle age and well cut grey suits, wearing such similarly cast serious expressions that differences of feature were eliminated and they might have been brothers. They also might have been gang leaders, astronauts, presidential aides or Mormon PR men, but they were unmistakably American. Alongside them preserving the symmetry of the tableau were two equally unmistakably Englishmen (it's something about the eyes, decided Dalziel) who had had the misfortune to turn up, presumably without premeditation, in identical off-white corduroy suits. They looked as if they were part of an advertising campaign for spaghetti, thought Dalziel. One was balding rapidly but wore his hair so long at the back that it seemed as if the weight of it had merely pulled his forehead up over his crown. Associated with him was a pop-eyed girl, festooned with the impedimenta of photography and wearing a light green tunic which matched her chosen make-up. The other spaghetti man was presumably the radio interviewer for no one else could so impassively have ignored the comments and questions of a small negro with hornrimmed spectacles who was fiddling apparently haphazardly with a large tape-recorder.

'Let's all have a drink, shall we?' said Bonnie in her best no-nonsense voice. No one, Dalziel noticed with approval, attempted to breach Herrie's well fortified drink cupboard, but Tillotson disappeared and returned almost immediately with a laden tray, which must have been prepared for just such an emergency. Pausing only to seize two large glasses of scotch, Dalziel joined the old man.