Dalziel And Pascoe: Pictures Of Perfection Part 16

Thoughtfully, Dalziel watched them go, then slapped his hands together and said, 'Right, where's this walled garden, then?'

Pascoe led the way round the side of the house, pointing out the conservatory en route.

'So it was from here the Squire saw Dirty Harry flas.h.i.+ng the family jewels.'

'So he claims. But like a lot of folk round here, he seems to inhabit more than one world at the same time,' said Pascoe.

'He were sure enough to write to Tommy Winter about it,' said Dalziel. 'Where's the door?'

'Round the side, but you can't get in. They lost the key when old Mr Hogbin had his stroke.'

'Oh aye? Let's take a look anyway.'

When they reached the door Dalziel tried the handle, shaking it vigorously to confirm it was locked.

'Want me to climb over, sir?' asked Wield, confident in his multi-gym agility.

'No need for that, Tarzan,' said Dalziel, taking from his pocket what looked like a fountain pen but unscrewed to reveal a bouquet of instruments like old-fas.h.i.+oned b.u.t.ton-hooks. Pascoe, who had seen it before, groaned and looked away, as he still averted his eyes from the television screen when something particularly unpleasant or embarra.s.sing seemed imminent.

When he looked back the door was open.

'Right. In we go,' said the Fat Man.

This was not, Pascoe realized, the secret garden of the old children's story, with shrubs and flowers allowed to rampage into weedy ruin. This was a garden which earned its keep, with bean rows and asparagus beds, cold frames and compost pits. Not that there was any lack of colour. The inner walls were lined with fruit trees all in various stages and hues of blossom, while over the narrow gravel paths red and black currant bushes draped their flowered festoons. Nor did it have a much-neglected air. There was work to be done, certainly, but it's an indefatigable worker whose garden doesn't have a slightly unkempt look after a long damp winter. To Pascoe's not very expert eye it looked as if someone had been keeping things ticking over, which - considering that the key had been allegedly lost since last autumn - was yet another probably meaningless oddity to add to the rest.

Dalziel was moving purposefully towards a long lean-to shed built against the southernmost wall, presumably because here it stole least sunlight. Warmth was of the essence in this moorland setting, which was why the walled garden had been built in the first place. Pascoe had felt a distinct rise in temperature as soon as he stepped inside, and when he touched the mortar holding the big granite slabs together, he found it held the albeit slight heat from this still dispa.s.sionate vernal sun.

The shed was locked, this time with a padlocked bolt. Dalziel seemed merely to glower at it and the door flew open.

'Sergeants first,' said the Fat Man, stepping aside. 'Just in case there's a mad axeman lurking.'

Wield would have liked to have been convinced this was a joke. He slowly advanced, blinking as he adjusted to the limited light seeping through the single-paned window, which weather on the outside and spiders on the in had rendered almost opaque.

His foot hit something loose and metallic, and he stooped to look closer. 'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,' he said.

'What?'

Wield turned to the opening.

'Half right, sir,' he said to Dalziel. 'All we want is the man.'

In his hands he held a small axe.

Now the other two followed. Dalziel produced another pseudo fountain pen from his inner pocket. This one turned out to be a torch. Bet he's got everything an old-fas.h.i.+oned cop needs in there, thought Pascoe. From a corkscrew to a cattle prod.

But he was glad of the thin beam of light which the Fat Man sent slicing through the shadows.

It was basically a store shed containing most gardening implements both ancient and modern, ranging from graip and dibber to chainsaw and strimmer. There was a musty, peaty, earthy smell, distantly and not too pungently underpinned by something vaguely stercoraceous. A double row of shelves bowed under the weight of various tins and bottles containing stuff to kill and stuff to quicken.

'Here, sir,' said Wield.

He was standing at the point furthest from the door, looking down at a tweedy travelling rug which had been laid over three or four bags of peat and commercial compost to form a rough bed with the imprint of a human figure still visible in it.

Dalziel squatted down with an ease surprising in a man of his shape and let the torch beam move slowly across the rug. The light brought out all its rich colours - and brought out too some darker flecks and several quite large stains.

'Blood?' said Pascoe.

'Could be,' said Dalziel. 'One way to find out.'

He produced a pair of scissors and a plastic bag from his portmanteau pocket and snipped a small area of stained fibres from the rug.

'Why not take the whole thing?' wondered Pascoe.

'Because this is the nearest we've got to a scene of the crime so far,' said Dalziel. 'Not very near, if you ask me, but scenes of crime are like bathrooms, lad. Always leave 'em the way you'd like Forensic to find 'em, did no one ever tell you that?'

Pascoe, who had seen Dalziel leave a scene of the crime like a rose-garden invaded by a billy-goat, and heard him opine that Forensic couldn't find t.u.r.ds in a cesspit, held his peace.

Wield said, 'So you don't reckon there's much chance this has got owt to do with Bendish, sir?'

'Didn't say that,' said Dalziel. 'But ask yourself, you've met some odd b.u.g.g.e.rs round here by the sound of it, but are any on 'em really odd enough to a.s.sault a police officer and keep him locked in a garden shed?'

He paused expectantly, awaiting his answer. And answer there came, but not from Wield.

The shed door was suddenly slammed with great force. They heard the hasp being rammed home. And before they could move or even utter their outrage, the grimy window pane was shattered, admitting a flood of dazzling daylight, the barrel of a shotgun and the somewhat paradoxical series of commands, 'Now listen in, you blighters, down on the ground, hands in the air, and don't move a finger or I'll blow your heads off!'

CHAPTER II.

'I feel happy in having a friend to save me from the ill effect of such a blunder.'

Their rescue came almost as quickly as the attack, which was perhaps just as well for the future of civilization as Pascoe knew it, or at least that part represented by Squire Guillemard.

Dalziel had fallen sideways as if in obedience to the first clause of the paralogical command, but once out of sight of the person at the window he bounced up silently and murderously with the wood axe in his hand, clearly intent on severing the gun barrel from its stock, and as much of its owner's arms from his torso as he could manage.

After that Pascoe did not doubt but that the Fat Man would have run through the wooden wall of the shed to complete the amputative process.

As it was, a sharply upraised female voice crying, 'Grunk! What are you doing?' was followed by the immediate withdrawal of the gun and the almost simultaneous opening of the door.

Pascoe, recognizing the voice, was the first to step cautiously into the sunlight. A few feet away he saw Frances Harding with one restraining arm round Selwyn Guillemard's waist and the other forcing the shotgun barrel downwards.

The weapon jerked spasmodically as Dalziel emerged, and it took all the girl's strength to maintain it at a safe angle. On the whole, Pascoe found his sympathies with Selwyn here, for the sight of Dalziel furioso, or perhaps more precisely furiosant, for there was certainly more of the mad bull than the enraged hero in his looks, was enough to set a conchie reaching for his rifle.

'You!' he snarled, striding towards the old man. 'Put that gun on the ground else I'll chop it in half!'

'Steady on,' protested the Squire, it's a Purdey.'

'I don't care if it's Prince Philip's p.r.i.c.k, put it down in one piece else I'll put it down in two.'

Perhaps feeling that one capable of such lese-majeste was not going to show much respect for the person of a mere country squire, the old man carefully laid the weapon on the gra.s.s.

Dalziel hurled the axe between Guillemard's feet with a force that buried the head several inches into the turf, scooped up the shotgun and broke it in a single movement.

It was unloaded.

'He wasn't going to fire it,' protested Fran Harding indignantly, then rather weakened her moral position by adding, 'We don't let him have any cartridges.'

Pascoe decided it was time for introductions.

'Sir,' he said. 'This is Mr Selwyn Guillemard, who owns Old Hall. And this is Miss Harding, his great-niece. Squire, this is Detective-Superintendent Dalziel of the Mid-Yorks.h.i.+re CID.' The Squire, though giving the general impression of being shorter of marbles than the Parthenon, had no difficulty in taking this in.

'Oh Lord. Bobbies,' he said. 'Met you before, haven't I?'

'Yes, sir,' said Pascoe. 'I called earlier.'

'Yes. Thought you looked a bit familiar when I saw you breaking in, but after Aunt Edwina, my mind was very much on burglars. And that bleeding fellow's one of yours too, is he?'

This seemed an unnecessarily rude way of referring to Wield until Pascoe glanced round. A sliver of flying gla.s.s must have caught the Sergeant's left ear-lobe which was gus.h.i.+ng like a punctured wine-skin.

'Wieldy, you all right?' asked Pascoe anxiously.

'Fine,' said Wield phlegmatically, applying an already sodden handkerchief.

'We really ought to stop that bleeding,' said Frances.

'Nay, la.s.s, a good blood-letting never harmed anyone,' said Dalziel dismissively. 'And he's not lost as much as 'ud make a good black pudding.'

But Frances Harding was not to be overfaced.

'Will you be all right, Grunk?' she said to her great-uncle.

'Of course, my dear. You run along and st.i.tch the fellow's ear back on. Can't have the place looking like Gethsemane.'

The girl offered the Squire's arm to Pascoe, who gingerly took it. Then she went to Wield and after a brief examination of the cut urged him towards the house despite his evident reluctance.

'Trained nurse, you know,' said the Squire with proprietorial pride. 'And eats like a sparrow.'

So. Another surprise from the pa.s.serine Miss Harding. Or perhaps not. Even when they ate like birds, poor relatives were probably expected to sing a varied repertoire for their supper.

'Now, sir,' said Dalziel, whose rage had vanished like a politician's principles in the face of altered circ.u.mstances. 'I'd like a quick word, if I may. We'll let the other matter go, shall we? Genuine misunderstanding.'

The Squire shot a glance to second slip as if in search of guidance.

'Very well,' he said. 'I shan't bring any charges. But you really ought to get permission before you start breaking into a fellow's property.'

Pascoe watched to see if this legal one-upmans.h.i.+p would continue, but Dalziel was not a man to lose sight of the main object for long. A patient man, he reckoned that once you'd got what you'd come for, there'd still be a lot of time to kick the other b.u.g.g.e.r in the b.a.l.l.s.

'Sorry about that,' he said. 'But you weren't about. I believe you are a chum of Tommy Winter's, sir.'

'That's right. You know him, do you? Yes, I suppose you would. Run off to the West Indies with the mess funds, your chappie here was telling me.'

'Was he now,' said Dalziel. 'Well, we like to keep these little upsets in the family. What I wanted to talk about was this letter you wrote to Tommy. About Constable Bendish.'

'He did get it, then? Good. Took his time about replying, I must say. So what are you going to do? Sweep it under the carpet, eh?'

'We take the matter very seriously, sir, believe me,' said Dalziel. 'So you'll understand if I ask you a few questions, just to make sure we've got the facts straight.'

'Help with inquiries sort of thing, you mean? I'm with you. Fire away.'

Pascoe closed his eyes and wondered how in a world full of politicians, prelates, insurance salesmen, alternative comedians, and Dalziel, evolution had failed to come up with a closable ear.

'Right. First off, what was the weather like?'

Pascoe opened his eyes.

'Weather? Let me see. Yes, I've got it. Sunny, I recall he was silhouetted against the sun. Had to squint a bit to make out who it was.'

'Yes, I see. Excuse me, sir, but I wonder, could you tell me what kind of bird that is? Sorry to change the subject but it's an interest of mine.'

Dalziel pointed upwards. Pascoe strained his eyes to glimpse the object of this. .h.i.therto unsuspected ornithological interest circling high to the north.

The Squire said, 'Buzzard. Useful Johnny for clearing up carrion. Excellent eyesight. Like mine. That satisfy you, Dalziel?'

Stark bonkers he might be, but he was no fool, this Squire.

'Thank you, Squire,' said Dalziel, inflecting the word ambiguously so that it fell between feudal address and saloon bar familiarity. 'Warm sun, was it?'

'Hardly, man. It was the middle of winter. Sharp wind coming over the moor if I recall.'

'What we used to call crinkle-ball weather, eh?'

'Long time since I heard that. But yes. Only in this case ...'

'Yes, sir?' prompted Dalziel.

'Fellow didn't seem to be very crinkled to me. On the contrary. Rigid above and swinging free. Lots of it too. No shortage of coupons when he got his meat ration. Is any of this significant? I mean, are these clues or something?'

'Could be,' said Dalziel. 'So what happened?'

'He jumped down out of sight.'

'And what did you do, sir?'

'Me?'