LITMIR.BIZ

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the trouble with this place now,’ averred the constable, lighting his cigarette which burnt like a fuse. ‘It’s full of bloody squires. Trouble is, there aren’t enough peasants to go round.’

      Constable Crowther, it appeared, invariably took a ten-minute nap after his lunch and could see no reason to interrupt his routine today. Pascoe was sorry about this. The man’s conversation interested him and he was still desperately in need of things to interest him. He decided to take a walk, down to the village perhaps, find out what was going on. As he stood up, he realized he hadn’t mentioned the arrangements that had been made for the evening.

      Mrs Crowther came into the kitchen and bustled around her snoozing husband, clearing the table with no effort at noise-evasion.

      ‘Miss Soper and I are going to spend the night at Mr Culpepper’s house,’ said Pascoe. ‘I’d like to let Miss Soper sleep, though, as long as possible. Is that OK?’

      ‘We could have kept you here,’ answered the woman. ‘Our lad could have used the camp-bed.’

      ‘Thank you very much. But I didn’t want to trouble you. And Mr Culpepper was most insistent.’

      Crowther opened his eyes and looked straight at Pascoe.

      ‘Culpepper,’ he said. He made it sound like an accusation. Then he went back to sleep.

      In Crowther’s book, Culpepper was probably one of the self-appointed squires, thought Pascoe as he stood outside the station in the bright sunlight and took his bearings. He wasn’t certain if he altogether liked what he saw. Not that it wasn’t pretty. In the rememberable past Thornton Lacey must have been a roadside hamlet of a couple of dozen houses plus a church, a shop and a pub which served the numerous farms in the rich surrounding countryside. But things had changed. Over the hill one day, perhaps only a couple of decades ago, had come the first – the first what? He remembered the phrase in Colin’s letter. Pallid cits. The first pallid cit. Soon there must have been droves of them. And they were still coming. He recalled as he had driven in that morning an arrowed notice on the outskirts of the village had directed their attention to a High Class Development of Executive Residences. It had made them laugh to think of Colin and Rose in such company. Many things had made them laugh on the journey.

      With an effort of will he returned his attention to the village. Pallid cits had to be catered for. There was a ladies’ hairdressing salon very tastefully slotted beneath an awryly-timbered top storey. At least two Gothic-scripted antique shops were visible. Passing pallid cits had to be tempted to stop and invest in the past. But not to stop permanently, he suspected. No one defends the countryside and its traditions more fiercely than he who has just got planning permission for his own half-acre. The Village Amenities Committee didn’t sound like a farmworkers’ trade union, somehow.

      It’s that bloody woman again, thought Pascoe gloomily. Why have I taken against her so much so rapidly? And I’m spending the night under her roof.

      But why the hell should I? I didn’t want to.

      That anger which had been bubbling under the surface all morning suddenly broke through again. He had progressed about a quarter of a mile down the long, winding village street and now realized he was opposite the Queen Anne. On an impulse he crossed over and went in.

      It wasn’t long till closing time and the bar was empty.

      ‘Lager, please,’ he said to the attractively solid-fleshed woman who came to take his order.

      ‘Thirsty weather,’ she said with a smile.

      ‘Do you put people up?’ he asked, sipping his drink.

      ‘Sorry. You might try the Eagle and Child. They have a couple of rooms there they sometimes let.’

      ‘Thanks. Is it Mrs Dixon, by the way?’ Pascoe asked.

      ‘That’s right,’ the woman answered, looking at him with sudden wariness. ‘Why?’

      ‘You served Mrs Hopkins, Mrs Rose Hopkins of Brookside Cottage, last night I believe.’

      ‘Yes. Yes, I did.’ She glanced through into the other bar.

      ‘Sam. Sam, love. Got a moment?’

      A red, jolly-faced man, solid as his wife, stepped through, a smile on his lips. Pascoe could understand how Crowther felt made welcome.

      ‘Lovely day, sir. Yes, my dear?’

      ‘This gentleman’s asking about Mrs Hopkins.’

      Sam Dixon composed his features to a solemnity they clearly weren’t made for.

      ‘A dreadful business. Are you from the Press, sir?’

      ‘No,’ said Pascoe. The man looked nonplussed for a moment.

      ‘The thing is,’ he said finally, ‘it’s an upsetting business. Molly – my wife – has spoken to the police already. Now, we don’t like talking about our customers at the best of times, but in circumstances like this, especially with friends of the poor woman …’

      ‘I’m a friend,’ said Pascoe suddenly. He appreciated the man’s diplomacy but he couldn’t keep the abruptness out of his voice. ‘I was a friend. I’m not just after a bit of sensational titillation.’

      ‘I never suggested you were, sir,’ said Dixon quietly.

      ‘No. Of course you didn’t. I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe. ‘The thing is, well, I found them, you see.’

      Absurdly he found himself unable to go on. One part of him was detached, viewing the phenomenon with a sort of professional interest. He had seen this kind of thing a hundred times in his job, had come to watch for it, the moment when a witness to a crime or an accident suddenly feels what he has seen. It was a completely unforecastable syndrome. Sometimes it was accompanied by complete collapse. Or mild amnesia. Blind panic. Or, as now, temporary paralysis of the speech organs.

      A large brandy appeared under his nose from nowhere. If you had to act like this, his detached portion thought, here was clearly the place to do it.

      ‘Sit down, sir. Drink this up. Nothing like it for clearing the head.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ said Pascoe, suddenly regaining control of his tongue. ‘It’s ridiculous.’

      ‘Nonsense. Go on, knock that brandy back.’

      He did so and felt much better.

      ‘You’re very kind,’ he said, trying to regain control of the situation. ‘I’m sorry. I should have said who I was before I started asking questions.’

      ‘Not at all.’ Dixon eyed him with the calculating scrutiny of one long expert at diagnosing the condition of his customers. Pascoe evidently passed muster.

      ‘What did you want to know?’

      ‘Just what happened when Mrs Hopkins came in. What she said. That kind of thing.’

      This was silly. It would all be on record. Backhouse might let him see it. Certainly he could arrange unofficially to have a look. What did he expect to do, anyway? Spot some incredibly subtly concealed clue which would reveal precisely what happened last night and prove Colin … innocent? He must be innocent! Then where the hell was he?

      ‘There was nothing special about last night,’ Molly Dixon was saying. ‘We were very busy. You’d expect that at that time on a Friday night, but it was worse than usual as I was on my own with just our barmaid, and she’s a bit slow. Sam was at the Amenities Committee Meeting. Rose came to the off-licence counter there.’

      She pointed at a small hatch which was visible through a door in the wall joining the two bars.

      ‘There’s a bell in there. She rang it. I went through as soon as I could. “A bottle of scotch,” she said. “First that comes to hand will do. I can see you’re busy.” I gave her a bottle. “Will this do?” I asked. “Anything,”

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