The Price of Butcher's Meat (7 page)

He grinned and said, “You are forgetting, I suspect, that thanks to dear Peter Pascoe's aid and acumen, I am now a man of moderately independent means, even without the income I generate by my writing. If such a one as I could have any interest in the fair Clara, it would only be centered on her pilgrim soul.”

When an ex-con starts talking about pilgrim souls, I know he's talking crap, but I knew Roote weren't lying about the money. Pete had felt so grateful and guilty, he'd moved heaven and earth to make sure Roote got top compensation from Criminal Injuries, plus the leisure complex where he got shot had had a personal injury clause in their insurance which a smart brief persuaded a judge covered Roote's case. Best of all, Roote had just got back from the States on the day he got shot and when Pete were sorting out his stuff, he realized his travel insurance didn't expire till midnight. The buggers wriggled and wiggled like they always do, but in the end the same brief who'd done the leisure complex got them to cough up for total disability. When eventually it turned out Roote was going to be able to manage a wheelchair, this got considerably pared down, but it still amounted to a hefty chunk of money.

I said, “Independent means ain't the same as independence.”

I were just talking about money but soon as I said it, I saw it could be taken as a crack about his legs. Me and buffalo woman had a lot in common. But I knew better than to say sorry and get the piss taken out of me, so I went on quick, “So what's this writing that's making your fortune? You're not Lord Archer in disguise, are you?”

“Happily not,” he said. “Nor did I mention a fortune. It's academic stuff mainly, so it pays peanuts when it pays at all. I managed to finish my PhD thesis during my convalescence. Yes, strictly speaking it's Dr. Roote now, but no need to be embarrassed—I don't use the title. Strangers find it confusing and keep telling me about their back pain. Now I am completing Sam Johnson's critical biography of Thomas Lovell Beddoes. You recall dear Sam, my old supervisor, who was so foully murdered before he could finish his masterwork?”

“Aye, I remember the case,” I said. “So you're getting paid in advance for writing this Bed-loving fellow's life?”

“I fear not,” he said. “Though my publishers in California, the Santa Apollonia University Press, have made a substantial research grant available to me. There are, however, profitable spin-offs in the form of articles and interviews and seminars. In addition, I have a small retainer fee for my work as a consultant for Third Thought.”

Why was he so keen to impress me with his ability to earn an honest living, if you can call all this airy-fairy arty-farty stuff honest?

“Third Thought?” I said. “You mean that dotty cult thing the lentil and sandals brigade are into?”

“How well you grasp the essence of things, Mr. Dalziel! What more is necessary to say? Though the movement's founder, Frère Jacques, has written a couple of hefty tomes to bring out the fine detail.”

Always a sarky bugger!

He rattled on about how this Jakes fellow had nearly died and realized he weren't ready for it, so he'd started his movement to help folk get used to the idea afore it were staring them in the face, so to speak.

“A Hospice of the Mind, he calls it,” said Roote. “My own initial connection with Third Thought was, I freely confess, based purely on self-interest. Then I had my own close encounter, and as I struggled to come to terms with my lot, my mind turned more and more frequently to Frère Jacques's teachings, and I renewed my connection, but this time with genuine fervor. Eventually Jacques invited me to become a paid acolyte.”

He glanced at me sort of assessingly, then leaned forward and said in a low voice, “It occurs to me, Mr. Dalziel, that after your own recent trauma, you yourself might be seeking a new philosophy of being…”

The bugger were trying to convert me!

I said, “If tha's thinking of sending me a bill for this chat, lad, I'd advise thee to have third thoughts about it.”

He laughed so loud the two women at the bar glanced our way, the old bird with a disapproving glower. Probably thought I'd just told a mucky joke.

Roote settled down after a bit, supped his parrot piss, then said, “So how are you getting back up to the home?”

“On my own two feet if I have to,” I answered. “If you're thinking of offering me a lift, I warn you, I'm not sitting on thy knee!”

He grinned and said, “I'll be delighted to take you back in my car, though I suspect it may not be necessary.”

“Why's that?”

He glanced at his watch. It looked expensive.

“I suspect that within a few more minutes someone from the Avalon staff is going to arrive. They'll order a drink, glance round, look surprised to see you, have a quick chat, finish their drink, head for the door, then as an afterthought say, ‘Would you care for a lift, Mr. Dalziel, or are you sorted?'”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because not long after you arrived, Alan will have made a call to the Avalon in case they haven't noticed one of their convies has gone missing. And he's probably just been reassuring Lady Denham that she needn't worry about you frightening off the more sensitive customers all afternoon as you'll be out of here in ten minutes tops.”

“Why'd she be worried about that?” I asked.

“Because she owns the Hope and Anchor,” he said. “In fact, dear Lady Denham owns a great deal of real estate in and around Sandytown. I told you she was wealthy as well as healthy. Moby's, however, where they are going to lunch, belongs to her dear friend Mr. Parker. She enjoys the food there but never goes unless someone else is paying, in this case her nephew, Teddy Denham, who can ill afford it.”

“For someone not interested in money, you've got a sharp eye for how other folk spend it,” I said.

He said, “Only because as a disciple of Third Thought, I have a deep interest in the human condition. Doesn't Paul tells us that the love of money is the root of all evil?”

“Paul?” I said. “Thought that were one of Ringo's. No, sorry, bit further back. Adam Faith, right?”

Not often you can shut Roote up, but that did it.

The women finished their drinks and slipped off their stools, the lass like a snowflake, the old lady like an avalanche.

Clara gave a shy little wave as her aunt said, “Alan, perhaps my scatterbrained nephew has gone straight to Moby's. If he does turn up here, tell him that's where we will be. And don't forget to get payment for our drinks. A gentleman does not invite guests and expect them to pay for themselves. Talking of money, these ideas you have about modernizing
the cellar, I think we really need to do an in-depth costing. I need quotations, not estimates. If I have time I'll drop in later to take a closer look.”

The landlord bowed his head deferentially, or mebbe he were worried in case his expression showed this weren't the best news he'd had today!

“Of course, Lady Denham,” he said.

Now she glanced our way and said, “Toodle-pip, Franny. Don't forget you're lunching with me this week.”

“Engraved on my heart, Lady D,” said Roote.

Her gaze shifted to me and she ducked her head and gave a little snort like she were wondering whether to charge but headed for the door instead.

I muttered, “Will that be lobster at Moby's?”

“Alas, no. Belly pork at Sandytown Hall, I fear,” said Roote with a little shudder.

Afore I could ask what he meant, the door opened as the women approached it and a Yankee voice gushed, “Daphne, Clara, how nice. How are you, dear ladies?”

Toilet-tooth Festerwhanger.

Well, at least they really had sent Prince bloody Charming, not some snotty-nosed orderly to round me up. Always supposing that's why he'd come. I could see Roote thought it was. He gave me one of them little looks. Quizzical, I think they call 'em. Like Pascoe sometimes. Mebbe him and Roote had more in common than I realized.

Stepping into the bar, Festerwhanger flashed the young lass a spotlight smile, then got folded into buffalo woman's arms. It were like watching one of them Cumberland wrestlers tekking hold, except they don't clamp their gobs onto their opponent's face and give his tonsils a tongue massage. I saw now what Roote's little insinuation were all about.

Eventually he broke loose, staggering a bit, like a diver who'd come up too quick. But to give him his due, he made a quick recovery, and soon him and Lady D were chatting away—him all Yankee charm and
her sort of girlishly flirtatious, like an elephant dancing in that old Disney cartoon. I almost felt sorry for old Fester. Got the feeling she could chew him up and spit him out all over his consulting room couch. Finally she gave him a farewell kiss that made the first one seem like a rehearsal and set off again but stopped dead in her tracks as the door opened to admit another man.

Different this time, but. No gush and hugs. In fact, if I can read a face, there's neither of them would have lost sleep if t'other had dropped dead on the spot!

The new guy had halted right in the doorway so she couldn't get by.

“If you don't mind,” she said, haughty as a duchess talking to a game-keeper she don't fancy shagging.

He didn't move. He looked about ninety and I've seen healthier-looking faces at an exhumation. His eyes were deep sunk, his few bits of hair clung to his pate like mold on an old plum, and he had a beard like a wildlife sanctuary. Despite the heat, he were wearing a mucky old donkey jacket, an old-fashioned striped shirt without a collar, and the kind of baggy pants farmworkers used to tie up with string, only no self-respecting rat would have cared to run up these.

Suddenly I didn't feel so badly dressed.

Still he didn't move or speak. Then the landlord said warningly, “Hen.”

Now he smiled. Bare gums mainly, and the few teeth you could see through the foliage were greeny yallery shading to black at the roots. I half-expected Festerwhanger to faint.

Then he stepped to one side and did a piss-taking bow and said, “So sorry, Your Ladyship. Didn't see you there. So sorry. Would hate to get in Your Ladyship's way.”

“You won't,” she said. And went sweeping past him, young Clara in pursuit, looking a bit embarrassed.

The old boy kicked the door shut behind them. The landlord said, “Watch it, Hen. It's me as is responsible for fixtures and fittings. Your usual, Dr. Feldenhammer?”

The Yank, who'd been watching the incident with interest, nodded. His usual was a short. Dark amber, enough ice to sink the
Titanic.
Jack Daniel's mebbe. At least it weren't purple. Festerwhanger sipped it, then turned and leaned against the bar. His face split into that toothy grin as he acted like he'd just noticed us.

“Well hello there, Franny,” he called. “And Mr. Dalziel too. Glad to see you're getting around, sir. You're looking well.”

Roote gave my thigh a told-you-so jab under the table. I'd have given him a let's-wait-and-see kick back, only with him not having any feeling in his legs, it didn't seem worth the effort.

“Aye, I'm not so bad,” I lied. Truth was, I felt distinctly woozy. The ancient geezer had got himself a pint without opening his mouth or handing over money, so far as I could see. Another time I'd have been interested to find out what had just gone off here, but at the moment, I didn't give a toss.

“Good. And you, Franny, how are you? Coming to Tom's meeting on Friday, I hope?”

“Of course. Exciting times, Lester. Won't you join us?”

Franny and Lester. Like an old music hall act. Roote had really got his useless legs under the table round here. Sounded like his social calendar were pretty full too.

“Thanks but I can't stay,” said the Yank. “Just came out to drop an express package in the post office. My niece's birthday back home. Almost forgot, which would have been a capital offense. Felt I'd earned a quick one, but I need to be back up at the clinic pretty much right away.”

I weren't so ill I didn't notice there were too much bloody detail. Think a shrink would know summat like that. Plus, most country post offices I'd come across shut up at midday on a Saturday.

The door opened again. This were getting like a French farce. New arrival were a well-set-up young fellow, one of them craggy faces that has five o'clock shadow at half past one. Looked like he reckoned the world owed him a living and the women in it owed him a shagging.

He said, “Alan, any sign of my aunt?”

“Been and gone. Says she'll see you in Moby's.”

“Oh dear. Bit pissed off, is she? That will mean the lobster thermidor, I fear. But then, she was never going to choose the monkfish pâté, was she?”

He made a wry sort of face to show he was joking, only he wasn't.

Now he let himself take in the others in the bar. Worzel Gummidge he ignored, me and Roote he shot a cocky grin at and said, “Ah, Franny, nursy taking you for a stroll?” then he did a double take, as if he'd just noticed Fester, and cried, “Is that you, Dr. Feldenhammer? Didn't recognize you in a sitting position, sir. I hope I find you well. Mustn't keep auntie waiting.”