Authors: Peter Robinson
Darnley nodded.
‘What about Mrs Steadman?’ Banks asked. ‘Did you see much of her when she was in Leeds?’ He addressed the question to Talbot, who seemed to have become quite garrulous,
but it was Darnley who answered.
‘At first we did, yes. Quite a pretty little thing, really. Naturally, they were in a new environment and wanted to meet people and settle in. But like many faculty wives, she soon
withdrew. It’s common enough, believe me. My wife, for example, wouldn’t be seen dead at an academic gathering these days. It bores them, you see. And they let themselves go over the
years. You know, not bothering much about their appearance any more.’
Banks couldn’t be sure whether Darnley was talking about his own wife or about Emma Steadman.
The conversation moved on to generalities again, with Darnley doing most of the entertaining, and Banks soon realized he wasn’t going to learn anything more of value.
When he left, he carried away with him the image of a young couple – perhaps not unlike Sandra and himself in the old days – newly married, the husband beginning what was likely to
be a distinguished academic career. There were long summer holidays in Gratly at the Ramsden house; there was the young ambitious Michael courting Penny, the flower of the dale; it was pure peace
and innocence with nothing but a bright future ahead for them all.
For Steadman, things seemed to get better and better; for Emma, there was withdrawal from the dull academic life into domestic boredom; for Penny, a wild exciting fling in the fast lane which
left her isolated and cynical, cut off from her roots; and for Ramsden, a steady advance up the publishing ladder and a return to his beloved north. It all sounded so idyllic, but one of them was
dead. What had gone wrong and why?
An hour later he was no closer to the solution, but his spirits felt lighter, despite the clouds, as he drove into the dales countryside and sang along with Britten’s versions of old
English folk songs.
They were sipping Coke and talking about boys under the scornful lascivious eyes of the old Greek. Hazel Kirk had had her first date with Terry Preston, son of the local
grocer, the previous night, and she was titillating her friends with an account of her attempt to keep his wandering hands from her most private parts. Once in a while she would blush while
describing the indefinable feelings she had had when she failed in her task.
But Sally Lumb, usually so interested – not to mention condescending – during such discussions, seemed preoccupied. The others noticed, but Hazel, for one, was not going to be done
out of her moment of glory simply because madam was sulking.
Anne Downes, perhaps more sensitive to mood and certainly less interested in boys and their inexplicable desires, waited patiently until Kathy Chalmers had stopped giggling and tried to change
the subject.
‘They haven’t caught him yet, you know,’ she announced, adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose.
‘Who?’ Hazel asked abruptly, annoyed at being dragged away from other, more important thoughts.
‘The killer, of course. Who else? The man who killed Mr Steadman.’
‘How do you know it was a man?’ Hazel asked. It was a question she’d heard on countless television programmes.
‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it,’ Anne snorted. ‘It’d have to be a pretty strong woman to slug him and carry him all the way up that field below Crow Scar.’
‘Mrs Butterworth could have done it,’ Kathy chipped in. They all giggled. Mrs Butterworth was the butcher’s wife, an enormous red-faced woman who towered above her meek hunched
husband.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Anne said, allowing herself a smile. ‘Why should she do it? Besides, the effort would probably give her a heart attack.’
‘Jimmy Collins told me the police have been talking to Penny Cartwright and the major,’ Kathy said. ‘He said the old man didn’t give them much time.’
‘How would Jimmy Collins know?’ Anne asked.
‘He was in the shop downstairs. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” my mother always says. I think Penny did it. I think her and Mr Steadman were having a torrid
love affair and when she wanted him to leave his wife and marry her he wouldn’t do it so she killed him.’
‘Don’t be so stupid,’ Anne said. ‘If it was really like that she’d have killed Mrs Steadman, not him.’
That silenced Kathy, but Hazel picked up the thread. ‘Well if that wasn’t why,’ she said, ‘there could have been plenty of other reasons. Everybody knows she went away
for ages and took drugs and was pro . . . prom . . .’
‘Promiscuous?’ suggested Anne.
‘Yes, promiscuous, clever clogs – that’s what I said. Maybe she had his baby or he knew something about her past. They’ve known each other a long time, you
know.’
The others were silent, taking it all in. ‘You might be right about the last bit,’ Anne allowed, ‘but she wouldn’t kill him just because she had his baby, would she? I
think it was Jack Barker.’
‘Why would he do it?’ Kathy asked.
‘Maybe he was just doing research for his next book,’ Hazel joked.
‘And maybe he’s in love with Penny Cartwright and wanted to get Mr Steadman out of the way so he could have her all to himself,’ Anne said. ‘And there’s another
thing: I heard the police gave Teddy Hackett a nasty time the other day.’
‘He certainly looked a little pale when I saw him,’ Hazel added.
‘My dad heard them arguing a couple of weeks ago – Hackett and Mr Steadman,’ Anne said.
‘But they can’t think he did it,’ Hazel reasoned, ‘or they’d have arrested him in custody by now. I bet he’s got a skintight alibi.’
‘It’s “watertight”, you fool.’ Anne laughed. ‘And he can’t be “arrested in custody”, only “in custody”.’
‘All right, Miss Know-it-all. So what?’
‘I wonder who she was,’ Kathy said. ‘Teddy Hackett’s alibi.’
And they all laughed. To them, Hackett, with his droopy moustache, receding hairline, gold medallions and beer belly hanging over his fancy belt buckle, was a figure of ridicule, the male
equivalent of mutton dressed as lamb.
‘What do you think, Sally?’ Anne asked. ‘You’re very quiet today.’
‘I’ve got a few ideas of my own,’ Sally replied slowly and quietly. ‘But I’ve got to check them out.’
And with that she walked out, leaving them all gaping again, not knowing whether to believe her or not.
By seven thirty
, the lounge bar of the Dog and Gun was almost full. It was a long narrow room with only one vaguely demarcated aisle down the centre. The audience was
clustered around small tables, and a white-jacketed waiter had been employed so that people wouldn’t have to move about to get drinks. He moved awkwardly among the crowd, a tray of black and
amber drinks tottering menacingly at shoulder height. The jukebox had been unplugged for the evening, and piped folk music played softly enough to make conversation easy. Dim wall lights gave the
room a dark orange glow, and at the bar the brass rail, polished hand pumps and coloured bottles by the mirrors gleamed. At the far end of the room was a low wooden platform, too makeshift to be
dignified with the name of a stage, and on it stood a couple of microphones on stands, two large speakers, three stools and an amplifier with its red light on.
Banks and Sandra sat with Harriet and David about halfway down the room on the right-hand side. Harriet, pixieish in looks, animated and intelligent in character, drove a mobile library around
the more remote dales villages. Her husband David was an assistant bank manager in Eastvale and, if truth be told, Banks found him a bit of a bore.
David had clearly said something that required more than a mere nod in response, but Banks had been watching a fresh-faced young camper, probably under eighteen, who was already displaying the
effects of too much alcohol in his desire to show off to his girlfriend.
‘Pardon?’ Banks said, cupping his hand to his ear.
‘I said, I suppose you know all about computers yourself, being on the force,’ David repeated. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been boring you.’
‘Not at all,’ lied Banks. He tamped down the tobacco in his pipe and lit it in defiance of Sandra’s sharply aimed frown. ‘No, not at all. But yes, I know a little bit
about computer languages.’ That old-fashioned phrase, ‘on the force’, made him smile. It was an odd way of looking at his job, he thought. On what force? The forces of law and
order, no doubt. ‘May the force be with you.’ The force of good against evil? It was a stiff dry phrase that hardly did the job justice.
While telling David what little he did know about the subject, Banks noticed Penny Cartwright come in with Jack Barker. The two of them made their way to the front, where chairs had been saved
for them. Shortly afterwards, a nervous spotty young man took the stage, tapped the microphones, said ‘testing’ in each one three or four times, then welcomed everyone to folk night at
the Dog and Gun. One by one, conversations died down until all that could be heard was the barman ringing up sales and the steady humming of the amplifier. The microphone shrieked when the young
man got too close, and he backed off quickly, pulling a face. Banks couldn’t catch the names of all the scheduled performers, but he gathered that Penny was set to sing two forty-minute sets,
the first starting at eight thirty and the second at about ten fifteen.
After more notices and introductions, a duo clambered on to the stage. The boy had only a guitar, but the girl spread several ancient and obscure stringed instruments on the floor around her.
First they launched into a Bob Dylan song, and what they lacked in talent, Banks thought, they made up for in enthusiasm. After the applause, the young man made jokes about the notes he had missed
and apologized for the rawness of his technique. It worked: after that the audience wanted him to succeed and most people were willing to overlook the rough edges.
The girl said nothing but concentrated on tuning what looked to Banks like a mandolin. She played extremely well on the next number, a medley of old English dances. On the whole, the audience
was respectful and attentive, but there were occasional, unavoidable interruptions as the waiter passed by and more drinks were ordered. Someone told the inebriated young camper to shut up,
too.
Banks and David seemed to have settled into buying rounds, the two men drinking pints of bitter and the women lager and lime. Banks had to watch his intake because he didn’t want to appear
even slightly intoxicated in the village where he was conducting a murder investigation. Two pints in an hour and a half wasn’t at all bad, he told himself, but it was only just after eight
o’clock. He was aware that he tended to speed up towards closing time.
The first intermission came and people started making their ways to the toilets and the bar. As he walked down the narrow aisle, Jack Barker noticed Banks’s party and came over.
‘Good evening,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘What a surprise to find you here. I’d no idea you were a folkie.’ There was just enough of a twinkle in his eye to
make the irony apparent. ‘Mind if I join you for a moment?’ He grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it up before Banks could object. ‘Is it just Miss Cartwright you’ve come to
hear?’
‘Actually, it’s Ms Cartwright,’ Banks corrected him. ‘And yes, I’ve heard she’s very good.’ His tone was brusque; he wished Barker would go away.
‘You’re in for a real treat, Chief Inspector, a real treat. People come from miles away to hear Penny Cartwright, you know. She’s got a solid reputation in these parts,
especially since she gave up fame and fortune to return to her roots. People appreciate that.’
From what Banks had heard, appreciation wasn’t quite the word for the gossip that had surrounded Penny’s return to her roots, but he kept quiet. Barker obviously wanted to show off,
and, short of being rude, there was no way to stop him. Sandra returned from the Ladies and looked at Barker curiously. There was no escape, Banks realized, cursing himself; he would have to
introduce them.
Barker favoured the women with what Banks suspected was a well-practised Clark Gable smile.
‘Delighted,’ he said theatrically, taking Sandra’s hand. ‘I never imagined a policeman’s wife could be so charming and so beautiful.’ Banks was irritated;
David simply looked on, a vacant grin on his face.
It was not only Barker’s charm and social finesse that annoyed Banks. It was all very well socializing in the community, but to be seen with his wife openly fraternizing with a suspect
jarred against his deepest instincts as a detective. It made him feel conspicuous, for one thing, and that was a feeling he disliked. Gristhorpe’s advice – get in there and let them
talk to you – was all very well, but a line had to be drawn. He was off duty, and the whole thing was just too pally for his taste. He was sucking on his dead pipe, glowering and contributing
monosyllables only when necessary.
‘How do you manage to fit in here?’ Sandra asked after Barker had told her his occupation. ‘Aren’t writers usually regarded with a good deal of suspicion?’
Barker nodded. ‘True. They didn’t like me being here at first,’ he replied. ‘Not one bit. You’re right – people don’t trust writers in small
communities, and they’ve good reason not to. Some communities have had bad experiences with chaps who live among them, fit in, then go and write devastating critiques, hardly even bothering
to disguise names and identities. It’s like the way some Indians see photographers – people who steal their souls. Quite right too, in my opinion. The kind of writers they have in mind
are unscrupulous. They give us all a bad name.’
‘But don’t you think writers have to be a little ruthless?’ Harriet asked. ‘Especially if they’re to tell the truth.’
‘Perhaps. But the ones I’m talking about accept your hospitality, then strip you naked on the page. Some writers even worm their way into people’s confidence and set up
situations, manipulate events just to see how their “characters” will react. I knew one chap, for example, who used to throw regular parties. This was in London. Real lavish dos they
were, no expense spared – champers, single malt Scotch, beluga caviar, quail – more than anyone could hope to devour in an evening. When everyone got sozzled and started arguing, crying
or pawing other people’s partners, there he was, sober as a judge, sitting in a corner making mental notes. It took people a long time to figure out what was going on – after all, they
were having a good time – but sure enough, they’d appear, thinly disguised, in stories published in magazines, and their friends and colleagues would recognize them. A couple of
marriages broke up, reputations were destroyed. All in the name of “art”. After a while, attendance dropped dramatically.’