later on.
‘Downstairs, Jessica Partridge was ready for bed too, but her husband said he was looking forward to a game of billiards with Mickledore. Warning him not to disturb her, Jessica left accompanied by my mother, Marilou. My father, who liked to claim he needed less sleep than ordinary mortals, said he fancied a stroll around the estate with his pipe, a mode of behaviour he probably picked up from the novels of Dornford Yates.
‘Scott Rampling asked if he could phone the States and Mick told him to use the phone in the study which was in the East Wing. According to his statement, confirmed by Mickledore’s phone bill, Rampling was in conversation with America for the next hour and a half at least.
‘Meanwhile my father claimed he had been tempted by the fine moonlit night to walk further than he intended. He took no heed of time, except that he heard the stable clock strike midnight not too long after he set out on his perambulations. This clock, incidentally, had – presumably still has – the loudest bell I’ve heard outside Westminster. Mickledore through long usage was untroubled by it, but weekends of haggard faces over the breakfast table had finally persuaded him to fit a device which switched the chimes off between midnight and eight A.M. So, it wasn’t till he got back to the house that my father, who never wore a watch on the grounds that he made time work for him, was able to confirm that it was after one.
‘He met Mickledore and Partridge coming out of the billiard room. Mickledore, who’d sent Gilchrist, his butler, to bed after dinner, went off to check the house was secure, while the other two went upstairs together.
‘Outside Partridge’s bedroom they paused to finish off their conversation. Mickledore appeared at the far end of the same corridor, having ascended the side stairs, and opened the outer door of the gunroom. After a few moments he approached them, looking concerned. The key to the inner door was not in its customary place on the ledge. He had his own personal key, of course, but when he tried to use this, it would not go far enough into the hole to turn, and when he peered through the keyhole, he could see another key already in the lock from the inside.
‘The other two went with him to the gunroom to check. Mickledore was right. They could see the key quite clearly. Back along the corridor Jessica Partridge emerged to ask what all the row was, in tones loud enough to rouse my mother. Scott Rampling appeared on his way to bed. Soon they were all gathered outside the gunroom, all except the Westropps. Mickledore went and banged on their door but had to go in through the dressing-room before he could rouse Westropp. It took some time to penetrate his alcoholic torpor, but when he realized his wife was the only person on the guest floor unaccounted for, he flung himself against the gunroom door in a vain effort to break it down. But his efforts must at least have loosened the key in the inner lock, for now when he seized Mickledore’s key and thrust it into the hole, he was able to turn it and the door swung slowly open …’
The phone shrilled like an owl in a haunted tower. Pascoe, startled as if he too had been dragged from deep sleep, grabbed it, said, ‘Hello, this is …’ and couldn’t remember his number.
‘Peter, are you all right?’ It was Ellie’s voice, close and concerned.
‘Yes, fine. Hang on.’ He switched off the tape. ‘Sorry, I was listening to something. How’s things? How’s your mum? Your dad? Rosie?’
‘Rosie’s fine. I tried to ring earlier so she could have a talk to you, but I couldn’t be bothered to talk to that bloody machine. She’s asleep now. If you ever get home early enough, maybe you could ring …’
He could sense the effort not to sound reproving.
He said, ‘Of course I will, I promise. And your mum, how’s she?’
There was a silence. He said, ‘Hello? You still there?’
‘Yes. She’s … Oh, Peter, I’m so worried …’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘Nothing really … except … Peter, I’m terrified it’s all happening again. I thought it was just physical, you know, the strain of looking after Dad, and she’s always had these circulatory problems, and the arthritis, and I thought that once things settled down … Well, in herself, physically I mean, she doesn’t seem too bad … but she’s started forgetting things … she’d forgotten we were coming though we’d just spoken on the phone that morning … and this morning I heard her calling Rosie Ellie …’
‘That can happen to anyone,’ said Pascoe confidently. ‘I’ve done it myself. As for forgetting things like phone calls, if I don’t make a note of everything instantly, that’s it, gone for ever.’
The silence again. Then: ‘I hope you’re right. Maybe I’m over-sensitive because of Dad.’
‘That’s right. Have you seen him?’
‘I went today. I’d forgotten how awful it is, looking into a face you know, being looked at by eyes that don’t know you … I came out feeling like … I don’t know … like it was all my fault somehow …’
‘For God’s sake! How do you work that out?’ demanded Pascoe, dismayed to hear such fragile uncertainty in her voice.
‘I don’t know … using them as an excuse, maybe … that’s what I’ve done, isn’t it? Saying I thought I should come down here for a few days because I wanted to make sure Mum was coping … doing the concerned daughter bit when all I was really looking for was a place to lie low … like getting out of something by saying you’ve got the ’flu, then really getting the ’flu like it was a judgement, only far worse … not thinking about her at all really …’
‘Well, let’s think about her now, shall we?’ said Pascoe sharply.
Again silence, the longest yet. Her voice was calmer when she finally spoke.
‘So I’m doing it again, you reckon? Getting in the spotlight instead of sticking to my bit part. Yes, you could be right.’
‘Forget right,’ said Pascoe. ‘Only in this case, maybe you should just go for best-supporting-actress for a while. Look, why not get your mum to come up here for a while? Or I could steal a couple of days’ leave and come down there.’
She thought for a while, then said, ‘No. Mum wouldn’t come, I know that. Remember I tried to get her away after Dad went into the home and she wouldn’t budge. She knows it’s hopeless but she thinks she’s got to stay close.’
‘So, shall I come down?’
‘Peter, believe me, I’m tempted, but I don’t want to get things all mussed up together. I’ve used them once as an excuse to get away and I don’t want to find I’m using them as an excuse again to step back … Look, I know I’m putting this badly but we both know we’ve reached an edge, OK, so it’s dangerous, but at least the view is clear … God, even my metaphors are … what’s the opposite of euphemistic? Look, I’d better go now. I can promise Rosie you’ll ring early enough to speak to her, can I?’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ said Pascoe. ‘Take care. Love to your mum. And Rosie. And you.’
‘Peter, Christ, I’m a selfish cow, this has been all about me and I’ve not asked anything about you, how you’re coping, what you’re eating, all the wifely things. You’re not living off those dreadful pies at the Black Bull, are you? You’ll end up like Fat Andy. Incidentally, I see they’ve released that poor woman your mob fitted up nearly thirty years ago. Plus ça change and all that.’
‘Plus ça change,’ echoed Pascoe. ‘I’ll prepare answers to satisfy your wifely curiosities next time. After I’ve finished eating this pie. Good night, love.’
He put the phone down. His mind was wriggling with thoughts like an angler’s bait tin. He poured a long Scotch and took it out into the garden where he watched scallop-edged clouds drift across the evening sky like thought bubbles in some divine cartoon, but he couldn’t read the message.
Old troubles,