to Brookside Cottage, but after discussion we decided against this. Thus it must have been two or three minutes before nine o’clock when we reached the cottage. The curtains were all drawn and we received no reply to our knocks.
‘We should have waited,’ said Pascoe smugly.
‘Nonsense. If they got so pie-eyed last night that they can’t hear us knocking, they weren’t to be ready for nine-thirty either.’
The professional part of his mind felt there was some flaw either of logic or syntax in this statement, but this week-end he was very firmly and very consciously off duty. So he grinned and stepped back from the doorway, craning his neck to spot any signs of activity behind the bedroom curtains.
It was a lovely cottage, just stopping this side of biscuit-tin sentimentality. Tudor, he told himself, half-timbered, doubtless full of wattle-and-daub whatever that was (those were?). A not very successful attempt had been made to train a rambling rose around the doorway. Above the thatched roof a flock of television aerials parted the morning breeze and serenely sang their triumph over charm and Tudory.
‘Colin’s quite ruthless,’ said Ellie, following his gaze. ‘If you modernize, modernize. He doesn’t see any virtue in pretending that a pair of farm-labourers’ cottages was once a desirable sixteenth-century residence.’
‘Nor in keeping farming hours, it seems,’ said Pascoe, banging once more on the door and rattling the worn brass handle.
‘Though perhaps,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘they do preserve some old country customs, such as never locking your door.’
He pressed the door-handle right down and pushed. The hinges creaked most satisfactorily as the heavy oak door slowly swung open.
Now it was Ellie’s turn to show reluctance.
‘We can’t just appear at the foot of the bed,’ she protested, hanging back.
‘Well I’m not going to go and get a warrant,’ answered Pascoe. ‘At least we can find the wherewithal to make coffee and a lot of noise. Come on!’
The front door opened directly into a nicely proportioned lounge, with furnishings which, though comfortable looking, were antiquated rather than antique. Two or three whisky tumblers stood on a low table in the middle of the room; they were still half full. An empty bottle of Teacher’s stood beside them. A Churchillian cigar had been allowed to burn out in a large cut-glass ashtray. Ellie sniffed the air distastefully.
‘What a fug! I was right – they must have been having themselves a quiet little ball last night.’
She began drawing curtains back prior to opening a window. Pascoe too was sniffing gently, a faintly puzzled look on his face. He crossed the room to the door in the farthermost wall. It was ajar and he pushed it fully open and stepped through into the next room. It was clearly the dining-room. The round, highly polished mahogany table still bore the debris of a meal.
But it wasn’t the table which held his attention.
White-faced he turned to stop Ellie from following him. She had moved to the rear window now and was just drawing the curtains there.
‘Ellie,’ he said.
She froze, her hand on the window-latch, staring incredulously through the pane.
A thin, single-noted scream forced its way from the back of her throat.
Two men were lying on the dining-room floor in the positions indicated in the police photograph ‘A1’. They had both received severe gunshot wounds, and had been bleeding copiously. The nature of the wounds and the strong cordite smell I had noticed in the air led me to assume the wounds had been caused by a shotgun fired at close range. The man lying beside the dining-table (position ‘X’ on the photograph) I recognized as Timothy Mansfield of Grover Court, London, NW2. The other man I was not able to recognize immediately as he had received the greater part of the gun-blast in the neck and lower face, but later I was able to confirm he was Charles Rushworth of the same address. I turned to prevent Miss Soper from following me into the room, but she was clearly disturbed by something she could see from the rear window. I looked out into the garden at the back of the house and saw the figure of a woman lying at the base of the sundial in the centre of the lawn (photograph ‘C3’) I could not recognize her from the window as her face was pressed to the grass. There had been a great deal of bleeding from the head.
‘It’s Rose,’ said Ellie, not believing herself. ‘There’s been an accident.’
She made for the dining-room, seeking a way into the garden. Pascoe caught her by the shoulders.
‘Telephone,’ he said, his voice low, his mind racing. From the dining-room a narrow flight of stairs ran to the next floor. His ears were alert for any slight sound of movement above.
‘Yes,’ said Ellie. ‘Doctor. No, ambulance is better, there was a hospital sign, do you remember?’
There was a telephone on the floor beside one of the two armchairs. She bent over it.
‘No,’ said Pascoe, taking her arm and pushing her towards the front door. ‘We passed a phone box down the road. Use that. And get the police. Tell them they’ll need an ambulance and a doctor.’
‘Police?’ repeated Ellie.
‘Hurry,’ said Pascoe urgently.
He heard the Riley start as he placed his foot carefully on the first stair. It creaked, the second even more so, and, abandoning stealth, he took the rest at a run, narrowly missing cracking his head against the ceiling cross-beam halfway up.
He went through the nearest door low and fast. A bedroom. Empty. Bed unslept in.
The next the same. Then a bathroom. A tiny junk-room. One more to go. Certain now the first floor was uninhabited, he still took no chances and entered as violently as before.
Looking down at the bed, his heart stood still. A pair of children’s handcuffs lay across the two pillows. In one bracelet was a red rose. In the other a young nettle. On the bedhead above was pinned a paper banner.
It read Eloisa and Abelard, Welcome Home.
Pascoe felt the carapace of professionality he had withdrawn behind crack across. The room overlooked the rear of the house. He did not look out of the window but descended rapidly. With a great effort of will, he forced himself to confirm by touch what his eyes had told him, that the two men were dead.
Timmy used to play the guitar and when in funds gave presents of charming eccentricity to those he loved. Carlo (it was Carlo, the one eye which remained unscathed told him that) had a fiery temper, adored Westerns, demonstrated for civil rights, hated priests.
These were memories he didn’t want. Even less did he want to kneel beside this woman, turn her gently over, see the ruin of soft flesh the shotgun blast had made in Rose Hopkins.
She was wearing a long silk evening gown. Even the rain and the dew had not dulled its iridescent sheen of purple and green like a pheasant’s plumage. But her eyes were dull.
The sundial against which she lay had an inscription on its pedestal. He read it, desperately trying to rebuild his carapace.
Horas non numero nisi serenas.
I number only the sunny hours.
He was still cradling the dead woman in his arms when Ellie returned, closely followed by the first police car.
‘Dalziel here.’
‘Hello, Andy. Derek Backhouse here.’
‘So they said.’ Dalziel’s voice fell a long way short of enthusiasm. ‘It’s been a long time. And you must be after a bloody big favour, to be ringing on a Saturday