Pictures of Perfection (13 page)

‘Very generous parishioners you have round here,’ said Pascoe.

‘Indeed they are,’ said Lillingstone, as if suspecting a slight. ‘They practised self-help here long before it became a euphemism for governmental meanness and insensitivity.’

‘And Church Cottage became Corpse Cottage. Was Bendish bothered by ghosts that you heard?’

‘Young Harry? No!’ laughed Lillingstone. ‘Far too sensible to believe in ghosts.’

Pascoe noted ‘young Harry’, the first non-deprecatory reference to Bendish he’d heard. Christian charity? Law and order solidarity? Or genuine liking?

He said, ‘But the Hogbins weren’t sensible?’

Lillingstone laughed again and said, ‘I believe the Hogbins would still be here if the Squire hadn’t offered them the Lodge rent-free and a sharecropping deal in return for Jocky taking care of the Hall gardens. But it made a better story for them to be haunted out than hired out. Most Yorkshiremen love facts, Mr Pascoe, and they like them penny plain. Enscombians are something else. They go for tuppence coloured every time.’

Wield’s head appeared round the door and looked significantly at Pascoe.

Lillingstone said, ‘I’ll be on my way, then, if there’s nothing else?’

‘Not unless you’ve decided to tell me your real reason for being here,’ said Pascoe. ‘Vicars should stick to penny plain, even in Enscombe, wouldn’t you agree? So come to confession when you’re ready.’

Lillingstone left, looking seriously discomfited.

‘Doubt if you’ll be getting an invite to the Sunday School treat this year,’ said Wield.

‘I’ll survive. You found something, have you, Wieldy?’

‘Could be owt or nowt. Everything’s in order. Hard to say what’s missing without knowing what was here to start with. But at least we can be sure he wasn’t dressed for duty when he took off, which is a relief.’

He had led the way upstairs into the bedroom. The wardrobe door was open. He pointed to a black bin-liner lying inside. Pascoe stooped and opened it.

It contained two police uniforms, fresh back from the dry cleaners by the look of them.

Or rather, one and a half police uniforms, for Wield’s sharper eye had spotted a discrepancy. He picked up one pair of trousers, looked at the label and said, ‘We’re not using Marks and Sparks as a supplier now, are we?’

‘Seems unlikely. Why?’

‘That’s where these came from. Right colour, and just about the same material. Would get by a casual glance, maybe, but not a real inspection.’

Pascoe shrugged and said, ‘So he spilt paint on the originals and didn’t want to have to explain himself to Filmer. Who incidentally needs a kick up the backside for missing this lot.’

‘Probably just thought it was dirty washing,’ said Wield defensively.

‘Whereas it is in fact very clean washing,’ said Pascoe thoughtfully. ‘Odd. Bendish was wearing one of these uniforms at Scarletts last night. And I’ve not noticed an all-night dry cleaners in the village, have you?’

Before Wield could riddle this riddle, an all too familiar voice came drifting up the stairs.

‘Is there anybody there?’

Pascoe went out on to the tiny landing and looked down into the hallway.

‘Only us listeners,’ he said. ‘Can I help you, Mr Digweed?’

‘That depends,’ said the bookseller, frowning. ‘We met at the station earlier, didn’t we? I’ve forgotten your name …’

‘Pascoe. Chief Inspector.’

‘Just so. And from the sound of it you are perhaps also the token literate in our benighted constabulary. Or did my question merely stir up some childhood memory of rote-learned verse? I dare say even the worthy Sergeant Wield knows de la Mare’s
Traveller
.’

Here we go again, thought Wield as he descended the stairs behind Pascoe, wondering if his boss could resist the temptation to take the old fart on.

He couldn’t.

‘De la Mare’s
Listeners
, I think you mean,’ he said courteously. ‘His
Traveller
is of course something else. But what urgent business brings you here, Mr Digweed?’

‘Who said anything about urgency?’ said the bookseller, somewhat piqued.

‘A self there is that listens in the heart, To what is past the range of human speech, Which yet has urgent tidings to impart,’ said Pascoe.

Digweed regarded him, frowning. Yet it did not
seem to Wield that it was merely being capped in this arty-farty quotation game that made him frown.

Then the bookseller said, ‘Of course, you’re quite right. And I’m sorry if I spoke boorishly. Think of it as a protective bitterness, like painting the nails with alum, causing more discomfort to the biter than anyone who happens to get scratched.’

Wield, assuming cynically that his thick skin was excluded from this apology, was surprised when Digweed filtered a frosty smile in his direction also.

Then the bookseller’s expression turned businesslike.

‘And yes, Mr Pascoe, it is a matter of urgency that brings me here hoping to find Sergeant Filmer and your good Sergeant Wield at their rendezvous. My shop has been broken into. I have been robbed.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir,’ said Pascoe. ‘What’s been taken?’

Digweed rolled his eyes upward and said, ‘I run a bookshop, Chief Inspector, a shop for selling books. So why don’t you hazard a guess?’

And Wield grinned to himself at this evidence that not even quotation itself kept a man safe from scratching.

‘You distress me cruelly by your request about Books; I cannot think of any to bring with me, nor have I any idea of our wanting them.’

The bookshop had a musty, dusty smell which Pascoe drank in like mountain air. To Wield’s nose, however, it wasn’t a million miles removed from the pong of a damp cardboard box used as a cot by some unfortunate in the shopping precinct.

Digweed took them into a back room and showed them a window from which a circle of glass had been removed.

‘How could they do that?’ asked Digweed.

‘Stick a sucker on the glass, an ordinary drain plunger would do,’ said Wield. ‘Whip round it with a glass cutter and pull. Then reach in and unlock the window. I’d get on to the glazier right away, sir. Don’t want to put temptation in folks’ way.’

‘I am quite capable of cutting a piece of glass and opening a tin of putty myself,’ said Digweed acidly. ‘Country life teaches you self-sufficiency. Indeed, I begin to wonder if we might not be better off policing ourselves.’

‘What seems to be missing?’ interrupted Pascoe,
who had been examining the shelves more like a bibliophile than an investigator.

‘As far as I can make out from the gaps, a rather eclectic selection. To wit, a modern edition of
Thorburn’s Birds
, a nineteenth-century
History of the Warrior
, and a catalogue of the Renoir exhibition at the Hayward in 1985.’

‘So, a renaissance burglar,’ said Pascoe. ‘Worth much?’

‘Not a lot. The
Warrior
was rarish and nicely bound, but not in much demand. Fifty, sixty pounds the lot, I suppose.’

Wield, peering through the lozenged glass of a locked cabinet, said, ‘These in here would be more valuable, would they, sir?’

‘Indeed, but as the cabinet is locked and every inch of shelf space is full, I would hazard a guess that nothing has been removed.’

He spoke in the tone of voice used by primary teachers and Party Political broadcasters, provoking Wield to a dull obduracy.

‘He could have used a picklock, taken some valuable stuff, wrapped the covers round them other books and put them back in the cabinet so’s you’d not notice.’

He saw he’d said something daft as well as dull because even Pascoe was smiling. But at least he got between Wield and Digweed’s more savage mockery by quickly saying, ‘Not very likely, Wieldy, as having the original dust jacket usually quadruples a book’s value. Right, Mr Digweed?’

‘At the very least.’

‘Nevertheless, it might be as well to check,’ said Pascoe loyally.

With a long-suffering sigh, Digweed produced a key and unlocked the cabinet. He ran his eyes and one finger lightly along the book spines and said, ‘No, they have not been touched.’

Wield reached by him and plucked out a volume, not realizing till he did so that this might seem to imply a doubt of Digweed’s judgement, and not caring when he did realize. What had caught his eye was the author. It was a copy of
Lysbeth
by his much-loved Rider Haggard. The flimsy, rather soiled jacket was buff-coloured with nothing on it but the full title,
Lysbeth, A Tale of the Dutch
, the author’s name and that of the publisher, Longman & Co., on the spine in blue.

Digweed was hovering anxiously as if he feared Wield might be about to tear the volume in half like a circus strong-man.

‘May I take that, Sergeant?’ he said. ‘Unless of course you were thinking of purchasing it.’

‘No,’ said Wield. ‘I’ve got it already.’

‘Really? Not, I think, this particular edition,’ said Digweed with his best patronizing smile.

‘Oh yes,’ said Wield. ‘Just the same, except mine’s in a lot better nick. Published 1901, wasn’t it?’

He opened the volume to check, saw he was right, saw also the typed insert containing a description and price.

‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed.

Digweed removed the book from his fingers. He was no longer smiling.

He said, ‘If indeed you do have a copy of this edition, perhaps we could do business, Sergeant.’

‘No thanks,’ said Wield. ‘Sentimental value. They were my auntie’s. And besides, I like to read them.’

‘They? Them?’

Pascoe, who had been enjoying this, said, ‘Oh, yes. Sergeant Wield’s got what must be a full set of Haggards, isn’t that right, Wieldy?’

‘Of first editions?’ said Digweed faintly.

‘I don’t rightly know,’ said Wield. ‘I’ve never bothered to look.’

‘And dust jackets?’

‘Oh aye. They’ve all got wrappers, stops ’em getting mucky. That’s what they’re for, isn’t it?’

‘Oh yes.’ Digweed replaced the book. ‘All finished here? Good.’ He smiled at Wield as he relocked the cabinet and said, ‘Forgive me if I seemed brusque before, Sergeant. You were quite right. You cannot tell a book by its cover. And you, Mr Pascoe, are you also a collector? An incunabulist, perhaps?’

Wield could see that Pascoe knew what this meant.

‘Far from it,’ he said, smiling. ‘About four hundred years in fact. If I collect anything, it is, for my sins, detective novels. Like Sergeant Wield, I inherited a few first editions. From my grandmother.
Her tastes, alas, ran to crime rather than Rider Haggard. She had a good collection of pre-war Christie. I suspect she probably had the lot at some stage, but she bought to read, not to collect, and I get a mild pleasure out of filling the gaps, usually without jackets, I hasten to add.’

‘Yes, they can be very expensive,’ said Digweed, regarding Pascoe sourly. Perhaps he didn’t approve of collecting crime!

‘Back to business,’ said Pascoe briskly. ‘You live on the premises?’

‘I have a flat upstairs.’

‘And did you come in here when you got up this morning?’

‘No, I didn’t. I don’t open till ten, and as I unlocked the door Sergeant Filmer came hotfoot from the Café where Miss Creed had assured him I would be able to give a first-class description of the horrendous Hells Angel who had kidnapped PC Bendish.’

He flashed a shared-joke smile at Wield. Funny what a few old first editions will do, thought the Sergeant.

‘Since that time, as you will know, I have not had a minute which I could call my own.’

‘In other words, we don’t know if the break-in took place last night or this morning,’ said Pascoe.

‘No. I suppose we don’t. Does it matter?’

‘If it was this morning with the place empty, he might have gone upstairs to see if there was any
cash or valuables lying around,’ said Pascoe. ‘Did you check up there, sir?’

‘No. I just spotted that some books had gone, and following the popular trend, went straight out in search of a policeman.’

‘Shall we look now?’ suggested Pascoe.

They followed Digweed upstairs.

It was not the easiest of journeys as the narrow treads were rendered even narrower by piles of books which reared into tall stacks when they reached the landing and spread to fill all but the narrowest channels of floor space in the first room they entered.

A desk was just visible under a Manhattan skyline of Waverley Novels. Digweed pulled open its drawers and said, ‘All in order as far as I can see.’

The next door on the landing stood ajar to reveal a bedroom. The single bed was unmade. Above the bed hung a handsome charcoal sketch of a tree-sheltered river pond with the initials R.D. in one corner. The floor space was crowded with books also.

‘Do your customers come up here to browse?’ asked Wield, unable to keep the wonderment from his voice.

‘Of course not,’ snapped Digweed. ‘In fact, browsers form a relatively small part of my custom. The specialized and commercially viable end of my business is done through the mail.’

Then, as if recalling his be-nice-to-the-Sergeant policy, he added ruefully, ‘But I see your point.
Fond as I am of books, I have no desire to end up crushed to death in my own bed by the sheer weight of literature. I am seriously considering a shift to new premises.’

‘For the books?’ said Pascoe.

‘Oh no. The books have their home here. For me. In fact, if the rumour I hear that your policy on rural policing is changing and Corpse Cottage might soon be on the market, that could suit me very well.’

He paused, considered, then added, ‘Oh dear. That must sound rather crass in the circumstances, concerned as you are about your missing colleague.’

‘Possibly missing colleague,’ said Pascoe.

‘Whatever. I apologize. Back to our crime. No, I can see no evidence that our burglar has been up here.’

Pascoe wondered what, in the midst of such chaos, such evidence might look like. But as he looked down at the book-lined stairs his mind was filled not with the regret of a detective that in all this confusion he might be missing a clue, but of a book junkie that he might be missing a bargain.

The shop doorbell rang and a voice called, ‘Anyone there?’

Next moment Sergeant Filmer appeared at the foot of the stairs.

‘Thought you’d got lost,’ said Pascoe accusingly.

‘Sorry, sir. But the ambulance took an age. Saw
your note at the cottage. You said you’d found something there …’

Pascoe gave a God-help-us glance at Wield, then said, ‘You finish off here, Sergeant,’ and clattered down the stairs.

Digweed said, ‘Curious how whenever one of you seems about to say something interesting, my presence becomes de trop.’

‘We’ll be just as discreet about your little bit of bother, sir,’ said Wield.

‘My
what
?’ said Digweed with indignation. And something else?

‘The break-in, sir. Better check in here while we’re at it.’

Without waiting for a reply, he pushed open the one remaining door and peered in with surprise. It still wasn’t tidy, but compared with what lay behind it was like walking into a police box and finding yourself in a spaceship. He saw a couple of computers, a printer, a copier, a binder and various other bits of equipment. There were piles of books here too, but not the dusty derelicts crowding the landing and stairs. These were sparkling new; indeed some of them were still only half born.

‘He didn’t get in here, Sergeant,’ said Digweed irritatedly. ‘I can see everything’s in order.’

‘Just as well. Worth a bob or two, this stuff,’ said Wield. ‘You do your own publishing as well, do you?’

‘In a modest way. Now can we …’

‘This is nice,’ said Wield, picking up a slim volume entitled
On the Banks of the Een – A Naturalist’s Year
. The author was Ralph Digweed.

‘A relative, sir?’

‘How perceptive,’ said Digweed. ‘It was published privately in 1914. I thought it worth offering to a wider readership.’

Wield’s mind went back to the War Memorial. There had been an R. Digweed on it, died in 1918, aged fifty-eight. Presumably it was not only the young who lied about their age. He opened the book.

March 21st, 1913
. Last night we celebrated the birth of the Squire’s heir. The wags recalled that four years ago when we celebrated Miss Frances’s arrival, the ale ran out before midnight. Strange how the Guillemards at birth value so cheap what at marriage they will declare so far beyond common purchase! But the birth of a son naturally turned the flagons of Old Hall into Widows’ Cruses and the revels went on into the early hours with promise that they would be renewed in a couple of days at the Reckoning. Not for this, however, was I going to neglect my custom these many years of welcoming the first day of spring by Scarletts Pool, so I sat in the parlour, chuckling over little Edwin’s present of
The Card
till dawn pinked the sky when I made my way down to the river.

Wield looked up to find Digweed watching him closely.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Got carried away. Real interesting. This Edwin …’

‘No,’ said the bookseller. ‘Despite my foxed and faded cover, I am not little Edwin.’

‘Didn’t think you were,’ said Wield. ‘Your father, right? And Ralph was your grandfather? I were looking at the War Memorial earlier …’

‘Yes. The war. Ironically, on the first day of spring five years later he was still waiting for dawn on the misty bank of a river. It was the Oise. But the only light he saw in the east was the flame of the German guns as Ludendorff’s army began their last big push which almost won them the war. An hour later he was dead. That copy of
The Card
he mentions was in his effects which were returned home. Later I inherited it in turn. It was my first valuable first edition. In a sense it set me off on the path which brought me here, so perhaps the Great War wasn’t a total waste after all.’

He spoke in his usual dry, faintly mocking tone, but Wield had no difficulty in detecting the current of pain and anger beneath, nor in sympathizing with it as he thought of that other Digweed letting his mind wander to the peace of Enscombe and the clear waters of the Een as he stood in a cold, dank trench, waiting for his death.

But sympathy was a dangerous dish to offer the bookseller. His eye caught a pile of unbound title pages bearing a striking design of a woman stepping through an archway entwined with flowers and the words
The Journal of Frances Guillemard Harding: A Selection
.

His mind made connections.

‘This Frances he talks about …’ he said, holding up the
Naturalist’s Year
.

‘The same. Our Squire Selwyn’s big sister.’

‘And what relation is she of that little lass up at the Hall?’

‘Ah, you’ve met young Fran? Her grandmother, who married the local vicar back in the ’thirties.’

‘That’s why she’s coming out of Green Alley into the churchyard, is it?’

Digweed’s eyebrows shot up.

‘You recognize the arch? Well spotted. They may make a detective of you yet.’

‘It doesn’t have any flowers round it, but,’ said Wield.

‘The flowers are dear Caddy’s version of the pathetic fallacy, and a peculiarly apt conceit, I would say. By her own account the day Frances swapped the Hall for the vicarage was the day she started to bloom. Not that her family saw it like that, of course. Thus time brings in his revenges.’

Wield said, ‘You say Caddy, the Scudamore lass, did this?’

‘That’s right.’

‘But the illustrations in your granddad’s book are his own.’