'Lost, are we?" he said.
'No. We passed it a quarter mile back.'
'So what the hell are we doing here?'
'There's a lane down to this cottage. I could see the roof of a car half way down.'
'So she's got a car.'
'Mebbe. But it looked a funny place to park a car to me. More likely they've got a minder.'
Stamper said disbelievingly, 'But you're a police superintendent.'
'That's no reason to throw my weight around,' said Dalziel rebukingly. 'Besides, the walk'll do us good. I reckon if we stroll across this field and through yon wood, we'll hit the wall of the Ongar estate that Kohler's cottage is up against. Then we'll just have to follow the wall round till we get there.'
As a broad outline, it proved correct. What it omitted was all reference to brambles and briar, bog and barbed wire. Both men bore the marks of their presence by the time they reached the high boundary wall, though surprisingly Dalziel's technique of ploughing straight ahead regardless of obstacles had resulted in rather less damage than Stamper's attempts at circumnavigation.
Finally Dalziel said, 'There we are, sunshine. What did I tell you?'
The wall curved inwards in a deep U, at the centre of which stood a small cottage. Dalziel didn't make for it straightaway but instead seemed more interested in a pair of holly trees growing against the wall to form a rough archway. In the darkness beneath it was a narrow gate set in the wall. Its flaky rusty bars didn't look as if they had been opened in years but his nose had caught the heavy smell of oil amid the sweet perfume of hawthorn and wild rose. He stooped beneath the hollies and touched the gate. It swung open without a sound.
‘Interesting,' he said, turning back to the cottage. 'Let's see if there's anyone at home.'
He walked across the neglected patch of garden to the rear door and tried it. It was locked. Then he walked round the building peering through windows.
'Why don't we just knock?' demanded Stamper. 'There's someone in. I can hear a radio.'
'Aye, you're right,' said Dalziel with heavy sarcasm. 'Must be someone in if there's a radio on. That's the first thing they teach burglars.'
'Are you saying they've gone? I mean really gone? Couldn't they just be out for a walk somewhere?'
'You reckon? Not very inventive for a writer, are you?'
'All right! Just stand where you are!'
The words came from behind them. Dalziel turned. A large young man in baggy slacks and a crumpled linen jacket was staring at them aggressively.
"Morning,' said Dalziel. 'If you want the folk in the cottage, they seem to be out.'
'Out?' echoed the man in puzzlement. Then reverting to aggression he demanded, 'Who the hell are you?'
Dalziel flushed indignantly and said, 'I'm Lord Ongar's estate manager and this is his lordship, and he doesn't care to hear language like that. Who are you, anyway? Don't you know this is private property?'
The man began to look uncertain and said, 'I'm sorry, but I've got to ask . . .'
'Oh, you're official, are you?' said Dalziel. 'Mr Sempernel said there'd be someone here taking care of things. We'd better just have a glimpse of your authority to be on the safe side.'
The man pulled a wallet from his inner pocket and showed the fat man an identity card.
'Right,' said Dalziel. 'Fair enough. Perhaps we should have given notice, but we were just out inspecting the estate and his lordship took a fancy to step through the wall and take a look at our famous neighbour.'
'Through the wall . . . ?'
'Aye. Through the gate,' said Dalziel pointing.
The gate clearly came as a shock to the young man. He tried it as Dalziel had done, then went to the back door of the house and, as Dalziel hadn't done, started to beat on it.
'No use,' said Dalziel. 'They're out. But they can't have gone far. They left the wireless on.'
'Oh shit,' said the young man. Then, remembering Dalziel's reproof, he flashed an apologetic smile at Stamper, said, 'Excuse me,' and hurried away up the lane.
'What's all this Lord Ongar crap?' asked Stamper. 'Was he a cop? Where's he gone? And where are Kohler and Waggs?'
'Sort of cop but not the sort you ask the time of,' said Dalziel, shepherding Stamper rapidly back the way they'd come. 'He's gone to radio in. I dare say when he mentions us, he'll get told to move his arse back to the house and finger our collars.'
'What for?'
'Personation for a start. You could be in big trouble.'
'Me? I did nothing.'
'You personated a lord, I only pretended to be an estate manager. Not to worry. He'll go chasing after us through yon little gate. We'll be long gone by the time he realizes he's wrong.'
'And Cissy Kohler? Where's she gone?'
Dalziel shook his head at the man's obtuseness.
'Where'd you want to go if you'd been banged up for all them years? Unless we've set the dogs on her trail too soon, I'd say that Cissy Kohler's well on her way home.'
FIVE
'What is it?'
'News from the other world!'
Within two minutes of driving out of the Partridge estate, Peter Pascoe suspected he was lost. The clincher was a small village pub called the Pear Tree which he was sure he hadn't passed on his outward journey. A good cop noticed such things.
He stopped before it to examine his map, glanced at his watch, groaned at how late it was and decided that this might be his best chance of getting a bite to eat before evening.
The pub was empty except for a solitary drinker who looked like he could be on his way to a
Wizard of Oz
party as the Scarecrow.
'Morning,' said Pascoe as he went to the bar. There was no one serving, so after a while he tapped a coin on an ashtray and said 'Hello?' in that tiny tentative voice used by well-brought-up Englishmen to draw attention to themselves without actually drawing attention to themselves.
Nothing happened.
‘TURD!'
The thunderous bellow came from behind. He spun round in time to see the scarecrow's mouth closing. What unwitting offence had he committed to merit this abuse? Pascoe wondered.
'What's this bloody din, then?'
He spun back to the bar. A large red-faced man was standing there as if he'd been standing there all along. He was glowering angrily at Pascoe. Even for rural north Yorkshire, this was unwelcoming.
'Man wants a drink, turd.' No, not turd,
Ted,
with the vowel stretched and given a West Country or perhaps Welsh openness.
'You take care of thy own business, Vince Tranter, and I'll take care of me customers. What'll it be, sir?'
The man's tone became if not polite at least politic as he addressed Pascoe direct.
'Half of best,' said Pascoe. 'Do you do any food?'
'Pasties,' said Ted.
The scarecrow sneezed into his beer. It was a sound as non-phonemic as a sound can get, yet it conveyed derision and warning clear as a Party Political Broadcast.
'I'll just have a packet of peanuts,' said Pascoe. 'The Pear Tree. Interesting name. Because of the Partridge connection, is it?'
It was partly polite conversation, but also an instinctive reaction to a potential source of relevant information.
'Likely,' said the landlord. 'That'll be eighty-two pence.'
'I've just been up at the house,' said Pascoe as he paid.
'Is that right?'
'Yes. Matter of business. It was a sad loss to the country when he gave up his seat. Thank God that his son was cast in the same mould, that's what I say.'
'He does well enough,' said the man. This came close to being a thaw and Pascoe, hoping that a very little more pressure would crack the ice, went on, 'We got to talking about the old days. By coincidence I happen to be a friend of the old nanny, Miss Marsh. You'll likely remember her if you've been around some time.'
It was like the touch of the Snow Queen's finger.
'Never heard of her,' snapped the man. 'You want owt else?"
'I don't think so,' said Pascoe.
'Grand. I'll get back to me dinner.'
He sent a scowl at the scarecrow which included Pascoe in its penumbra, and left.
'Used to be the Green Man,' said the scarecrow.
'I'm sorry?'
'The pub. He changed it few years back. Said he didn't want a name that had anything to do with them Greens. All long-haired anti-bloods wanting to stop a man doing what he liked with his own property, that's what he said. Asked his lordship's permission to change it to the Partridge Arms.'
'And his lordship said no?'
'Sharp, that one." There was definitely a Welshness there. 'Knew it would make him look bloody ridiculous, grubby little drinking hole like this called the Partridge Arms, so he suggested the Pear Tree.'
'And the landlord agreed?'
The scarecrow sneezed again.
'Ted? He'd have called it the Bare Behind if his lordship had told him to. You'll get nothing about the big house out of Ted, nor any of the others round here. These locals know who butters their parsnips!'
Pascoe picked up his drink and nuts and went across to the man's table. On closer examination, the scarecrow proved to be a man of about sixty whose unkempt appearance was due to sartorial eclecticism rather than simple scruffiness. Taken separately, his dress shirt, tartan muffler, brocaded waistcoat, striped blazer, moleskin trousers and military forage hat were all of the highest quality, and, though antique, scrupulously clean.
'You're not local, then?' said Pascoe.
'Don't be silly!'
'How long have you been in these parts?'
'Oh, thirty years and a bit more.'
Pascoe laughed. 'How long do you have to stay before you become local?'
'There's people born here who aren't local,' said the man earnestly, ‘it's a burden inflicted on only the select few, thank God.'
'If you rate them so low, how come you decided to stay around?'
'Man with one eye travels the world till he finds a spot where most of the people are blind.'
'So what do you do?'
'This and that. Anything the locals can't manage, which is quite a lot.'
'And you don't think I'll manage to find one who can give me any information about the Partridges and their nanny?'
'No way. Bribes are no use either. They don't understand them, see? Offer them a pint and they'd take it and lie to you. Offer them a pony and you'd scare them off.'
'Whereas you . . . ?'
'I'll lie for nothing. But for a pony you'll get gospel.'
Pascoe looked at him dubiously.
'Twenty-five quid's a lot for a pig in a poke,' he said.
'Bargain basement,' retorted the scarecrow. 'I'm only offering you that price because you're British. It cost the Yank fifty.'
'The Yank?'
‘Him who got the other nanny out. I saw him on telly.'
'Waggs, you mean? You spoke with Waggs? When was that?'
'Couple of years back,' said the man vaguely. 'Taking inflation into account, you'll see I'm offering a real bargain.'
'So what are you selling?' asked Pascoe.
'What are you paying?' replied the man.
He produced his wallet and counted out twenty-five pounds. He meant to wave it seductively in front of the man but somehow the notes were pulled from his fingers without him feeling the friction.
'Nanny Marsh left the Partridge house about twenty years ago.'
'Yes, I know. Under a cloud.'
The scarecrow laughed.
'Oh, she'd been under something right enough, but it was a bit more substantial than a cloud.'
He patted his stomach significantly.
'Good lord,' said Pascoe. 'But who . . . ?'
'Well, I wasn't actually present at the coupling, but if you put a heifer in a field with a randy old bull, you don't need to look far when she drops a calf, do you?'
'Partridge, you mean?' said Pascoe, who liked to have things clear, especially when dealing with a Celt.
'Who said that? Not me. You may be a libel lawyer for all I know. But take a stroll round the village and after a while you get used to seeing the same little round faces peering at you.'
'So what happened to Miss Marsh?'