LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter 7

      The Culpeppers’ house was an impressive structure. Built in traditional Cotswold stone, its lines and proportions were unequivocally though unobtrusively modern.

      The gardens consisted principally of herbaceous borders and lawns running down to an encirclement of trees. Whether the Culpepper estate extended into the woods was not clear. The lawns themselves were beautifully kept. Only one of them, hooped for croquet, showed any signs of wear. Coming up the drive, Pascoe had glimpsed a bent figure in a bright orange coat slowly brushing away the leaves which the autumn wind had laid on one of the side lawns. A fluorescent gardener, he thought, and prepared himself for anything from a parlourmaid to a full-dress butler when he rang the bell. But it had been Culpepper himself, features etched with well-bred solicitude, who opened the door.

      Pascoe could see that Ellie disliked him at once. He recalled his own reaction to Marianne Culpepper and groaned inwardly at the thought of the evening ahead. Not that much social intercourse would be expected of them, surely. Or sexual either, he added to himself as they were shown into separate bedrooms. The bed at Brookside Cottage with its ornamental pillow came into his mind. Half the local police-force would have seen it. It was a good job he hadn’t been having a bit on the side with the chief constable’s wife.

      The frivolity of the thought touched him with guilt. This was the way grief worked. It could only achieve complete victory for a comparatively short time. But it filled the mind with snares of guilt and self-disgust to catch at all thoughts and emotions fighting against it.

      Ellie felt the same. She had raised her eyebrows humorously at his as Culpepper opened her bedroom door. But it was a brief flicker of light in dark sky.

      The evening’s prospects did not improve when Marianne Culpepper returned. Pascoe heard a car arrive as he was unpacking his over-night case and when he left his room a minute later to collect Ellie, he found her standing at the head of the stairs, unashamedly eavesdropping on a conversation below.

      Culpepper’s neutral tones were audible only as an indecipherable murmur, but his wife’s elegantly vowelled voice carried perfectly. Pascoe was reminded of teenage visits to the local repertory theatre (now declined to bingo) where hopeful young actresses projected their lines to the most distant ‘gods’.

      Even half a conversation was enough to reveal that Marianne Culpepper had no knowledge whatsoever of her husband’s invitation to Pascoe and Ellie. They exchanged rueful glances on the landing. Pascoe moved to the nearest door, opened it and slammed it shut. It might have been more politic to retreat for a while, but Pascoe found himself looking forward to putting all that good breeding below to the test.

      ‘Let’s go down, shall we?’ he said in an exaggeratedly loud voice.

      The Culpeppers presented a fairly united front as introductions took place.

      ‘Didn’t I see you in the village hall this morning?’ asked Marianne of Pascoe. ‘I didn’t realize then. I thought you were just one of the policemen.’

      Oh, I am, I am, thought Pascoe.

      ‘Look,’ the woman went on, ‘I’m terrible sorry about your friends. I hardly knew them, the Hopkinses I mean, but they seemed very nice people.’

      Everyone speaks as if we’ve lost them both, thought Pascoe. Perhaps we have.

      ‘You’ll be tired of expressions of sympathy I know. They become very wearing.’ She paused as though communicating with herself only, then continued. ‘Which brings me to this evening. You are very welcome indeed to our house, but Hartley and I have got our lines crossed somewhere. I’ve asked a couple of friends along to dinner and a few more people may drop in for drinks later. Please, it’s up to you. If you’d rather duck out, have your meal early, and generally avoid the madding crowd, just say so. Don’t be silly about it.’