An April Shroud (8 page)

Relaxed by his resolve, he fell asleep.

When he awoke it was quarter to six and he was starving. He rubbed his eyes, yawned, scratched his groin sensuously and headed for the bathroom.

What kind of nosh did they dish up here? he wondered as he pushed open the door. Old Fielding had made some nasty crack about Mrs Greave, the cook. But it'd have to be very bad to blunt Dalziel's appetite tonight.

The bathroom was full of steam. He paused in the doorway. Someone moved among the wraith of vapour and he had no difficulty in recognizing Mrs Fielding though her head was half covered by a towel and the rest of her body was not covered by anything but a healthy post-hot-bath glow.

'Beg, pardon,' he said, stepping back and closing the door. But he couldn't close out the mental picture of what he had seen and when he sat down on the bed, he realized he had the beginnings of an erection.

He whistled softly as he considered the phenomenon. He was far from being a sexual obsessive. Indeed, since his wife had left him, his sex life had been minimal. Not that opportunity was short. Like any society dedicated to money and male chauvinism, Yorkshire provided the kinds of relief strong men need from the pressures of the day. But a police officer had to be very careful. It was on the surface a very conventional society and scandals were easily kindled. As for paying for it, Dalziel refused on a point of pride rather than principle.

So generally he went without. It wasn't too difficult. With age, lust became an aesthetic tingle rather than a physical shock. It was a long time since desire had manifested itself to him so uncompromisingly as this!

He felt absurdly pleased with himself, as though something valuable had been proven. She was a fine-looking woman, mature, well-fleshed, without the flabbiness which his own once well-muscled body had declined to. He looked down at himself with distaste and his pleasure drained away at the thought that this ton of lard was all that she had had to look at in return. Not many women reacted to the pleasures of visual stimuli in the same way as men, but revulsion at ugliness must be a shared reaction.

There was a tap at the bathroom door and he jumped up, and dragged a blanket off the bed and wound it round him.

'May I come in?' she called.

'Yes,' he answered.

She entered, wearing a dressing-gown and carrying with her a coathanger festooned with his clothes.

'This lot's dry,' she said. 'I've been over them with an iron, so they should be fit to wear.'

'That's kind,' he said stiltedly.

'I brought them an hour ago, but the bedroom door was locked. You must be a distrustful soul, Mr Dalziel. Whereas me, I don't even remember to lock the bathroom.'

She laughed as she spoke, but he took it as a rebuke.

'I'm sorry, Mrs Fielding,' he began.

'For what?' she said. 'I'd be sorry if you were altogether sorry. We'll be eating soon. First come, first served, so I shouldn't hang about.'

She went back through the bathroom and Dalziel followed her a few moments later, making sure the door into the farther bedroom was locked before setting about his ablutions.

She was a kind woman, he thought, and she didn't shock easily. But that was hardly a basis to build erotic fantasies on. She didn't sleep with her husband, that was an interesting point. Could be good. Could be bad. He'd guessed at first it was because the poor sod was sick. But now it seemed he'd died from an accident.

Dalziel opened the cabinet again. One shelf was now entirely clear and all the pill bottles had gone. The process of clearing out in the wake of the departed had begun.

Or perhaps, some ridiculous and hitherto unsuspected romantic area of his imagination suggested, perhaps she had cleared the space for him, anticipating a longer than overnight stay . . .

These were mere hunger-fantasies, he told himself. He shook them out of his head and began to dress.

6

A Step into Summer

Dinner was served in the room in which they had taken their nourishing broth. The only alteration was the covering of the big kitchen table with a white cloth liberally spotted with the stains of previous meals and with one corner unravelling. Mrs Greave was present to start with, emerging from the back kitchen with a series of covered serving dishes which she deployed over the table with more panache than strategy. Dressed now in a pair of tight-fitting yellow slacks and a flowered blouse, with her red hair piled high in a precarious beehive, she looked less like a flower of the field and more like some exotically gaudy insect. Dalziel made no attempt to make contact with her, but he felt her eyes examining him from time to time as she came in and out.

'You all right now, Mrs Fielding?' she asked finally.

'Yes, thank you, Mrs Greave,' said Bonnie from the head of the table.

'Good night then.'

She left and there was a general uncovering of serving dishes as though no one had cared to delve beneath the china surface while the cook was still in the room.

'I can't believe it,' said Louisa.

'What?'

'Sausages. And some of them look only mildly burnt. First or second degree.'

'It must be because we've got a visitor.' Pleased to be thought the cause of such a treat though unable to comprehend its particular nature, Dalziel seated at Bonnie's right hand in the place of honour piled bangers and mash on to his plate.

'Mr Fielding not coming down?' he asked, glancing round the table.

'No. He's a bit under the weather, I fear. He's well over seventy you know and today's been a great strain,' said Bonnie.

'I hope he doesn't snuff it before Gumbelow's cough up,' said Louisa.

'Would it make any difference? The award has been announced,' mumbled a fast-chewing Bertie whom Dalziel had picked out as his only serious rival in the race for a second dip into the depleted sausage dish.

'Children!' reproved Bonnie. 'This is no way to talk!'

She smiled apologetically at Dalziel. She was wearing a white sleeveless blouse, semi-transparent. Her right bra strap had slipped and was visible at her shoulder. Dalziel concentrated on his plate.

'What's Gumbelow's?' he asked.

'Oh, haven't you heard?' said Tillotson, 'Herrie's got an award.'

'What for?' asked Dalziel, meaning to be polite. But they all laughed.

'That would please him!' said Uniff. 'Where've you been, man? Herrie's a great poet. At least that's what Gumbelow's have decided. Yes, sir. Sixty years, but they get there in the end!'

'It's an American thing called the Gumbelow Foundation,' explained Bonnie seeing Dalziel's puzzlement. 'They have various artistic prizes they dish out every so often. Herrie's will, of course, be for his poetry. He gets a silver plaque, I believe.'

'It should be a silver loo seat for the stuff he writes,' said Bertie viciously. 'Ouch!'

He started to rub his leg, glancing round the table as he did so. Plainly someone had kicked him beneath the table, but it was impossible to tell who. Dalziel put away two sausages and a substantial portion of mash while his rival was recovering and sent grateful vibrations out to the assailant.

'Of course there's the money too,' said Bonnie. 'Fifteen thousand.'

'Pounds?' asked Dalziel, amazed.

'Oh no.Dollars.'

But even
dollars,
he thought. Fifteen thousand. For
poetry.

Uniff was grinning at him, openly amused.

'Are we getting to you now, Mr Dalziel? That old silvery, tinkly sound?'

'I'm a plain, poor man,' responded Dalziel. 'I know nowt about poetry, and I wouldn't recognize fifteen thousand dollars if it got into bed with me.'

'Well, you may have the chance to see it,' said Bonnie. 'These people want to have a little award ceremony. Herrie's too old to go wandering across the Atlantic so he's told them that if they want to give him anything, they have to come here. It's a marvellous bit of cheek really, but, as he says, he didn't ask them to make the award.'

'He also says he doubts he'll live long enough to enjoy the money,' said Uniff.

'What's that mean?' said Bertie, staring across the table at the bearded man.

'It means he's old, and he's sick, and what the hell is there down here you can spend fifteen grand on,' answered Uniff slowly and coldly.

There was a pause of complete silence, even Dalziel stilling his champing jaws for a moment.

'There's the restaurant,' said Louisa brightly.

Uniff roared with laughter.

'You know what your grandfather thinks of the restaurant, Lou,' said Bonnie reprovingly. 'We've been through all this before.'

'Now that'd be the place out back,' said Dalziel. 'The one that's being done up.'

'You've seen it?' said Bonnie, surprised.

'Mr Dalziel gets around quite a lot,' said Uniff with a malicious inflection Dalziel found it hard to understand.

'Your father-in-law took me in there this afternoon,' explained Dalziel. 'Looking for Papworth.'

'Ah. And what did you think?'

'It looked - ' he searched for a word which would combine admiration and reservation - 'all right.'

Uniff and the young Fieldings laughed. Dalziel glared at them. They didn't know how lucky they were that he chose to pick his words carefully. Their amusement stung him to go on.

'Me,' he said, 'I don't much care where I eat. If the food's good and there's lots of it, the surroundings don't matter.'

He dug out a spoonful of sausages from under Bertie's questing hand.

'You're missing the point, Mr Dalziel, baby,' said Uniff.

'Oh aye?' grunted Dalziel.

'The thing with this medieval banquet kick is the food doesn't matter. Serve up this - ' he held an impaled sausage - 'and call it King Henry's Banger and they'll shovel them down. What we're talking about is the cafeteria system with five-star prices. You dig?'

'I know nowt about the catering trade,' said Dalziel heavily, 'but that sounds fraudulent to me.'

'Hank's exaggerating as usual,' said Bonnie quickly. 'This is a simple business enterprise, Mr Dalziel. We've all got money in it. ‘Though whether we'll get anything out of it's a different matter,' said Louisa.

Tillotson spoke for the first time, with a reproving look at Louisa.

'I'm sure we'll all get a good return on our investment. The Hall's nearly finished and the kitchens are ready. With a bit of luck we could still open on time.'

He looked defiantly round the table.

Bertie shook his head.

'You don't listen, Charley. You
were
at the meeting, weren't you? Confucius he say, no pay, no play.'

'Everyone done? Right pass your plates,' said Bonnie firmly. 'Mr Dalziel, how do you feel about apple crumble and custard?'

'Keen,' said Dalziel.

'You look like a crispy edge man to me,' said Bonnie, piling a substantial portion on to his plate. 'That do you for now? Good. Now, no more shop till we've finished. Understood? Hank, how's your film coming on?'

'Fine, man, fine. I showed Herrie some clips yesterday and he made a couple of suggestions.'

'Painful, no doubt,' said Bertie.

'No, no. Pertinent. Words are his scene. You should learn to give credit, Bertie boy. Bend a little.'

'You're making a film, Mr Uniff?' said Dalziel.

'That's right. Don't be surprised. I mean, do I look like a tycoon? I mean, do any of us look like tycoons? Bertie there, perhaps. Yeah, Bertie's got some of the distinguishing marks of your lesser duck-billed tycoon. No, we've all been sweet-talked into this business in the hope and expectation of much bread, by which, verily, man might not live alone, but without which, verily, he surely can't live with anyone else.'

'We agreed, no shop,' said Bonnie warningly.

'Did we? You need to watch yourself in this house, Mr Dalziel. You can be lying in bed minding your own business and wham! you find you've made an agreement!'

He subsided behind his apple crumble and the rest of the meal passed in meteorological chitter-chatter, though Dalziel had to field a couple of invitations to reveal his own line of business. Never before could he recall himself concealing his profession - except for professional reasons. There were none that he could formulate, so why was he doing something which, when admitted by his colleagues, had always filled him with contempt?

After dinner they drank coffee whose bitterness resisted the addition of four teaspoons of sugar. The dinner dishes were then piled on a trolley to be wheeled down to the new kitchen where a huge dishwasher was the one positive benefit so far derived from the restaurant scheme.

'You know, it's stopped raining, for the moment at least,' said Bonnie, looking out of the window. 'I think I'll stroll out and post some letters. Anyone fancy a walk?'

'I'd like some fresh air,' said Tillotson, but Bonnie shook her head.

'Sorry, but I told Herrie you'd go up and read to him. There's nothing wrong with his eyesight,' she explained to Dalziel, 'but there are many things he prefers to hear read aloud. And Charley's got the best voice for it.'

'It's those upper class vowels,' said Bertie. 'Basically the old man's a simple snob.'

'Hush. So you run along, Charley, Mr Dalziel what about you?'

'It'd be a pleasure,' said Dalziel. He thought he saw an ironic smile flicker across Mavis's face, but it was hard to be sure.

'Right. Gum-boots and wet kit, I think. Your stuff should all be dry now. I'll see you outside in five minutes.'

The rain had indeed stopped, but the atmosphere was damp to the point of saturation. What light there was seemed to glint dully from the surface of the water rather than come from above. There was at first an illusory silence which after a while fragmented into a myriad soft lapping, splashing, dripping noises and the gentle night wind was like a damp breath on Dalziel's face.

They walked without speaking along what he took to be the main drive of the house. It ran downhill but only reached the level of the floods at the gateway to the road and the light from Bonnie's torch showed that the water though extensive was easily fordable here. They splashed through it, turned away from the lake, and were soon back on dry tarmac as the road began to climb.