The Corpse at the Haworth Tandoori (14 page)

Without waiting for a reply she smiled in the direction
of Mrs. Max, who had come up with more refreshments and now stood observing the little party. Declan took a deep breath of relief, but found himself almost immediately surrounded.

“My boy,” barked Colonel Chesney, “there are two heroes here tonight, and you are one of them.”

Declan made modesty noises.

“You are,” said Jenny Birdsell. “You have made it possible, revived Ranulph's will to do great work.”

“Not great work
yet
,” said Ivor Aston, with unattractive pedantry. “But who can doubt it is to come?”

“You must be
enor
mously proud,” said Charmayne, coming over to stand, unwanted, beside her brother. “But the responsibility is awesome.”

“I just do what I can in a practical way,” said Declan.

“No, no—there must be more to it than that,” said Jenny. “Your personality must
liberate
him, must concentrate all his powers, the ones that have been dormant. What a privilege for you! But it is a responsibility too, to see that those powers are never again allowed to fall fallow.”

“You owe that to Ranulph,” said Arnold Mellors. “You also owe it to yourself.”

No, I don't, said something very powerful inside Declan. I'm just an Irish boy making his way around the world before deciding what to do with his life. I don't owe anything to anybody. And there's something here that I can't pin down. Something I don't like.

He looked around at the passionate eyes. He was getting tired of being looked at, at something being expected of him—something that nobody seemed willing to specify, that he could not begin to guess at, because he had not
enough experience of the world, though he had
some
. And looking around at those faces, at Melanie and Martha watching from a distance, and conscious of Ranulph slumped in his chair but still obviously aware, Declan realized that he didn't feel only pressurized, badgered. Something in those eyes made him feel something else: uneasiness, apprehension,
fear
.

He shook himself.

“Come along, sir,” he said in a lordly tone, going over to Ranulph. “You're tired. Time for bed.”

PART III

Charlie pushed open the gate and walked through it, shutting it carefully behind him. That much he knew about country practice, though he doubted whether he was shutting any farm animals in. He himself, though, was crossing a border, entering the confines of the dark tower. All the animals were human ones.

He shook himself, feeling he was being silly and fanciful. But he stopped for a moment, having a distinct sense of being watched—could it be eyes intending “to view the last of me, a living frame for one more picture,” as Childe
Roland imagined? He grinned and shook himself again. There were no faces visible in the windows of any of the cottages as far as he could see. In any case, the big house was obviously his destination—the farmhouse, as it must once have been. He turned and made his way to its front door.

His ring produced no scuffles or muttered whisperings on the other side, merely, after a few seconds, a measured footstep, probably female, Charlie thought. When the door was opened it was by a worried-looking, middle-aged, slightly disorganized woman who seemed surprised to see a black man on her doorstep but not worried. The local bush telegraph, then, had not extended as far as the Ashworth community. They were somehow apart, socially as well as geographically.

“Yes?”

Charlie took out his ID and flashed it under her eyes, making sure that she had read it.

“I'm DC Peace of the West Yorkshire Criminal Investigation Department. I wanted to ask you a few questions about this man.”

Yet again he fished out the picture. The woman frowned over it.

“You recognize him?”

“Well, it looks a little like Declan.”

“That's the boy who worked here as a handyman?”

“Ah, you know? Why are you asking, then?” She handed it back to him as if to hasten the end of the questioning. “I wouldn't say it looked a lot like him, but that sort of picture—”

“Yes, they're always a bit generalized, aren't they? What was your handyman's full name?”

“Declan O'Hearn. He's Irish.”

“And when did you last see him?”

“Oh . . .” She frowned. “He must have left about a week ago. I was away for the weekend in London and I wasn't back till Monday, and didn't hear of it till then.”

“And did he just throw up the job, say good-bye, and leave?”

“No, it would have been a lot easier if he had—easier with Father, I mean. My father is Ranulph Byatt, the artist.” She looked into Charlie's eyes, and he nodded with the air of being impressed. “He's been very upset since.”

“So what happened when he left?”

“He just took off in the middle of the night, or early in the morning. Left a note and that was that.”

“What did the note say?”

“I didn't see it, but Mother told me about it. It just said that he was leaving—he'd been paid the day before—and that he wanted to see a bit more of the country.” She frowned again. “Why are you so interested in Declan? He was very naughty in the way he took off like that, and inconsiderate too, but he's the last person to be involved in anything criminal.”

Charlie tried directness.

“A dead body has been discovered in the Haworth area. We think it might be him.”

His instinct told him that her surprise and distress were genuine. His instinct had sometimes been wrong.

“Oh, no! I'm sure it's not Declan. I'm sure if he'd just left and gone to Haworth we would have heard. His note implied he was going a lot farther than that.”

“Maybe he was on his way when—” He stopped when he saw the expression on her face. “Who saw the note?”

“My mother. Stephen too, I think.”

“Do you mind if I come in and talk to them?”

“Oh, that wouldn't be very convenient. Just before dinner.”

“Murder does tend to cause inconvenience.”

He stood his ground, waiting, as if he had not had a refusal. But her mind had been diverted by his words.

“Murder. But you didn't say—”

“Death and police detectives do suggest murder to a lot of people.”

“But I didn't—it could have been—” She stopped, and then swallowed. “But that makes it quite certain it's not Declan in that picture. The nicest boy you could imagine. No one could conceivably want to murder him.”

“Murder is often a question of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now, I'd be obliged if you'd let me in to talk with your mother and father, and Stephen, whoever he is.”

She had remained standing square in the doorway, but now she seemed to lose confidence, and stood uncertainly aside.

“Stephen is my son. He's at Oxford at the moment. . . . I do hope you don't need to talk to my father.” She had led the way down the hall on a gesture from Charlie, and now she opened the sitting room door. “Mother, it's a policeman. It's about Declan. He thinks he may have been murdered.”

“Quite impossible. I hope you've told him so.”

The only person in the room was tall, strikingly handsome as fine-boned elderly people can be, and straight of back. Her voice had a distinctness of enunciation Charlie associated with a bygone era, as well as upper-class vowels,
which spoke of the same time. She rose now with difficulty from her chair.

“Sit down and tell us the story, however improbable. Declan was a lovely boy, if a touch thoughtless. No one would want to murder him. Won't you join us in a sherry?”

“Thank you very much.”

It was not Charlie's habit to drink with suspects, but he hoped they would be more unbuttoned in a social situation. Melanie moved painfully over to the sideboard, poured from a decanter into a large, modern sherry glass, then let Martha take it over to their guest. Charlie sipped his drink. It was very cold, and the sort of sherry he always thought tasted as if it had been made with grapefruit.

“Now, can you tell me all you know about Declan O'Hearn leaving here?”

He was looking at Melanie. She needed to make none of the elderly person's usual efforts to remember recent events.

“It was about a week ago. Friday night. Some time either in the night or the early morning he packed his knapsack and left. Let himself out by the front door and put his key through the letter box.”

“I believe he left a note?”

“That's right. By the table in his bedroom.”

“Can you tell me exactly what it said?”

She frowned.

“No, not exactly, but nearly so, I think. It was very short. ‘I'm taking off to see a bit more of the world like you said. Sorry for any inconvenience caused.' That was pretty much it.”

“I see. Do you still have it?”

“Good Lord, no. I just threw it out.”

Charlie thought over the meager substance of the supposed note.

“What did he mean by saying ‘like you said'? Had you told him it was time for him to go?”

Melanie shook her head vigorously.

“Oh, certainly
not
! Declan was a treasure, and so good with Ranulph. No, it was just that I'd said to him—several times, I think, but certainly at the viewing of the new picture a few days earlier—that I realized he wasn't in the job for life, and that he would want to move on before long.”

“I see. He was Irish, your daughter said. Southern Irish?”

“That's right.”

“Do you know where he was from?”

“Oh, dear, where was it?” Now she was exhibiting an elderly person's vagueness. “Was it County Clare? I have a feeling he mentioned a county but not a town—is that right, Martha?”

“That's right. I think it may have been County Clare.”

At that point a head came around the door.

“Would you like dinner delayed a little, Melanie? Mr. Byatt has had his, and it will all keep quite well.”

“Yes, if you could hold it for half an hour, could you, Mrs. Max?”

At that point, Charlie felt, it would have been natural for Melanie or Martha to ask Mrs. Max if she knew where Declan's home was. Declan and she were both, after all, domestic staff, who presumably had chances to talk to each other. But the question wasn't asked.

“Oh, Mrs.—Mrs. Max, is it?” he put in, as she was withdrawing her head. “I wonder, did you ever talk to Declan O'Hearn about his home?”

She came in and stood respectfully by the door.

“Oh, yes. He liked talking about Ireland. Not so much about his home or family, though he did mention a brother called Patrick and a sister called Mary.”

“That's useful,” said Charlie, though he thought that perhaps a Patrick and a Mary were not a great deal to go on, so far as Irish families were concerned. “Did he talk about his home village?” Mrs. Max nodded. “Do you remember where that is, precisely?”

“It's County Wicklow,” she said, very positive. “Now, where was it? A little village . . . I think the name began with D. . . . It'll come back to me, I expect. I know that the nearest town is a place called Rathdrum. I must admit I'd never heard of it before he mentioned it.”

“He never talked to you before he left here about his reasons for moving on?”

“Oh, no. Just disappeared into the night. Young people are like that these days. Keep their own counsel.”

Then she withdrew. Charlie settled down in his chair and took another sip of his sherry.

“So, that should make things easier,” he said, his eyes fixed on the two women. “We've narrowed it down quite nicely.”

“I still do
not
believe it's Declan,” pronounced Melanie. “Do you want me to come and see the body you've got? I'm quite willing. I'm not squeamish about dead bodies.”