LITMIR.BIZ

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Greave. The cook.’

      Fielding laughed again.

      ‘I hope not,’ he said. ‘She’s his daughter!’

      ‘His daughter?’ echoed Dalziel. ‘You’re sure?’

      ‘No one can ever be sure of their father,’ said Fielding. ‘We believe what we’re told, don’t we? Come on. We might find him in the Hall.’

      It seemed that this hunt for Papworth was becoming an obsession with the old man. Dalziel’s own enthusiasm had waned, partly because he still had not discarded his theory about Papworth’s whereabouts (a man could visit his daughter in her bedroom, couldn’t he?) but mainly because Fielding now proposed that they should go out into the rain-filled yard.

      ‘Hold on,’ he said at the door. ‘Where are we going?’

      ‘Just over there,’ said Fielding, pointing to a long high-roofed building which ran out from the main house. It looked as if it might once have been a stables, but surprisingly, in this neglected house, this particular block looked as if someone had been working on it fairly recently, an impression confirmed by the wording on a sign propped against the wall. Gibb and Fowler, Building Contractors, Orburn.

      ‘It joins up with the house,’ said Dalziel reasonably. ‘Can’t we get into it without going outside?’

      ‘If you must,’ said the old man crossly, shutting the door.

      Their route this time took them through a new world in the form of a large room (or perhaps two or three rooms knocked into one) where the old stone walls had been plastered and painted a brilliant blue. On one side were a pair of large freezers and on the other, gleaming in silver and white, a row of microwave ovens. It was like stepping out of a bus shelter into a space ship.

      ‘What’s all this?’ asked Dalziel in bewilderment.

      ‘We drink a lot of soup,’ said Fielding, not stopping to offer further explanation but pressing on through the room with unflagging speed.

      Dalziel followed down another short corridor, then into the building which was the object of Fielding’s forced march.

      Here he halted and let his eyes get used to the dim light filtering through the narrow arched windows. If the microwave ovens had been a step forward out of the nineteenth century, what was going on here was just as determined a step back.

      The building had been a stables, he reckoned, with an upper floor used perhaps as a hay-loft. This floor had now been removed with the exception of a small section at the far end which had been transformed into a kind of minstrels’ gallery. The joists supporting the arched roof had clearly lacked something in antiquity and they were being supplemented by a new fishbone pattern of age-blackened beams, standing out starkly against the white-washed interstices. Dalziel rapped his knuckles against one of these beams which was leaning against the wall, prior to elevation. It rang hollowly and felt smooth and cold to the touch. Dalziel was not repelled. He had nothing against plastic. He would as lief eat off colourful Formica as polished mahogany. Nor did it seem distasteful to him that the panes of stained ‘glass’ which were being fitted into the windows were plastic also. His reaction was one of simple puzzlement.

      To what end would the Fieldings be transforming an old stables into something that looked like a set for a remake of Robin Hood?

      Old Fielding, having peered into various recesses and through various doors, now abandoned his search for Papworth and returned to enjoy Dalziel’s bewilderment.

      ‘What do you think of this?’ he asked, gesturing with a flamboyance more in keeping with his surroundings than his person. ‘Is it not a fit monument for our times? What would Pope have had to say?’

      ‘Monument?’ said Dalziel, wondering momentarily if the old man was being literal and this place was indeed intended to be some sort of mausoleum, a kind of bourgeois Taj Mahal. But what about the ovens?

      The answer was obvious.

      ‘It’s a café,’ said Dalziel.

      This solution sent the old man into paroxysms of laughter which modulated into a coughing bout from which it seemed unlikely he would recover. Dalziel watched for a moment coldly, then administered a slap between his shoulder-blades which brought the dust up out of the old man’s jacket and sent him staggering against a section of stone reproduction wall which gave visibly.

      ‘Thank you,’ said Fielding. ‘Though I fear the cure was more dangerous than the disease. Well now. A café. Yes, that’s the word. Not the word that will be used, of course, should this sad enterprise ever come to fruition. No. Then this place will be called a Banqueting Hall. My daughter-in-law is too careful, I think, to risk the penalties prescribed under the Trades Descriptions Act by calling it a Medieval Banqueting Hall, but the word “medieval” will certainly appear somewhere on the prospectus.’

      ‘People will eat here,’ said Dalziel.

      The prospect did not displease him. Eating was one of the Four Deadly Pleasures. Though he could not see the necessity for all these trappings. A meal was a meal.

      ‘That’s right. A dagger and a wooden platter. At a given signal, chicken legs will be thrown over the right shoulder. It’s a pastime very popular I believe in the North-East where the past is still close and tribal memories are long. My foolish family believe the inhabitants of Orburn and district will be equally gullible. The dreadful thing is, they may be right.’

      ‘There’s still a bit of work to be done,’ observed Dalziel. ‘Where are the builders today?’

      ‘They would not come today,’ said the old man significantly.

      ‘No? Oh, of course. Sorry. The funeral.’

      Fielding laughed again, but this time, with a wary eye on Dalziel’s hand, he kept it to a controlled barking.

      ‘Builders are not noted for their delicacy, Mr Dalziel, not here, anyway.’

      Dalziel ran his mind’s eye down a list of building contractors working in his area and had to agree.

      ‘What then? The weather?’

      ‘Money, Mr Dalziel. When the head goose has been killed, you make damn sure someone else is going to start dropping the golden eggs.’

      ‘Ah,’ said Dalziel. ‘Then this business conference …?’

      But his cross-examination was interrupted.

      ‘You are looking for me, Mr Fielding?’ said a voice from above.

      They looked up. Leaning over the rail of the minstrels’ gallery was Papworth.

      ‘There you are,’ said Fielding. ‘About time too. Have you seen anything of my grandson yet? Young Nigel?’

      ‘No,’ said Papworth. ‘Should I have done?’

      ‘Don’t you know he’s missing? Hasn’t anyone told you?’ demanded Fielding.

      ‘No,’ said Papworth. ‘I’ve been busy. What’s the fuss?’

      ‘The boy’s run off again. It seems he’s taken the rowing-boat and naturally we are all very worried.’

      ‘The rowing-boat,’ said Papworth thoughtfully.

      ‘That’s right, man. Aren’t you going to do anything? You can take the punt out and scout around, if you are not too busy, that is.’

      You didn’t have to be a detective to spot the dislike the old man felt for Papworth, thought Dalziel. If only all relationships were so clear!

      ‘No. That’s just what I was going to do when I heard you wanted me,’ said Papworth.

      ‘But you said you didn’t know the boy was missing,’ interjected Dalziel.

      ‘No. But the boat is. Or was.’

      ‘Was?’

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