Digweed’s face to the sign above the Wayside Café.
‘Creed,’ he said suddenly.
‘Is that a request? A command? Or the beginnings of a conversion?’ asked Digweed.
‘It says up there the lady who runs the café is Dora Creed. Any relation of that farmer back there?’
‘Brother and sister.’
‘Ah.’
‘Ah what?’
‘I’d been wondering how a man up to his eyes in lambs could have heard so quick about Constable Bendish.’
‘And you conclude this is explained by his having a sister working in the centre of the village? How beautifully logical, Sergeant. And how elegantly illustrative of the deficiencies of the detective process.’
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘Because Dora Creed stopped speaking to George yesterday lunch-time.’
‘I see,’ said Wield, who didn’t. ‘And why was that?’
‘Because of George’s sin, Sergeant,’ said Digweed gravely. ‘Dora is a most religious lady. I myself regard religion as mostly pie in the sky, but if the pie is Dora Creed’s apple, I may be a convert yet.’
‘And just what was this sin?’ persisted Wield.
Digweed laughed his superior laugh and said, ‘That’s where you could really impress with your detective skills. You see, no one has yet been able to find out. Sniff it out, Sergeant, sniff it out!’
I’d rather sniff out one of Dora’s pies, thought Wield, his nose twitching at the delicious smells wafting from the café.
But duty called.
‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ he said to Digweed. ‘Thank you for your help.’
And hoping, though doubting, that his courtesy might give the bookseller a brief frisson of shame, he headed for the Eendale Gallery.
CHAPTER SIX
‘Our Improvements have advanced very well.’
In England, before the Great War destroyed the eternal verities, for a noble family to stop ‘improving’ their country seat was pretty clear evidence of financial difficulties.
In the years since, however, it has been the arrival of the contractors which has signalled trouble, for no longer are ‘improvements’ made in the name of beauty, taste or even convenience, they are offerings on the altar of commerce.
Such thoughts ran through Peter Pascoe’s mind as he negotiated the driveway up to Old Hall and came to a halt on a building site.
It was not a particularly large building site but typical of the genus in that order was minimal and activity non-existent. The work seemed centred on a building separate from the main house and he guessed this was the stable block which was going to house the Holistic Health practitioners.
Like many men who see the clouds of middle age on the horizon, Pascoe’s scientific scepticism about alternative medicine cloaked a superstitious hope that some astounding revelation would blow the clouds back before it was too late. So it was withthe reverence of a man entering a church that he pushed open the stable door.
The smell that met him was just about right for a man in search of a quasi-religious experience. Thuriferously spicy, malty and leafy, it seemed to emanate from a column of smoke. A burning bush perhaps. If so, it should speak.
It spoke. A warbling bird-like note, once repeated. Then a female voice. God after all was a woman.
‘Yes, this is Girlie Guillemard. No, I do not see the point of checking again, but I shall do so. Wait.’
Out of the smoke emerged a woman. Her tangle of ochrous hair was restrained by a fillet of baling twine. She wore a moulting brocaded waistcoat over a once elegant silk blouse tucked into a pair of overlarge jeans whose rolled-down waist underpinned her heavy breasts and whose rolled-up legs overhung a pair of wellingtons, one green and one black. Her face was round, her eyes were grey, her nose was snub, her mouth too large, allowing plenty of room for both the meerschaum which was the source of the smoke, and the mobile telephone into which she was speaking. She was incredibly attractive.
At sight of Pascoe she halted and said, ‘You from
‘Creed,’ he said suddenly.
‘Is that a request? A command? Or the beginnings of a conversion?’ asked Digweed.
‘It says up there the lady who runs the café is Dora Creed. Any relation of that farmer back there?’
‘Brother and sister.’
‘Ah.’
‘Ah what?’
‘I’d been wondering how a man up to his eyes in lambs could have heard so quick about Constable Bendish.’
‘And you conclude this is explained by his having a sister working in the centre of the village? How beautifully logical, Sergeant. And how elegantly illustrative of the deficiencies of the detective process.’
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘Because Dora Creed stopped speaking to George yesterday lunch-time.’
‘I see,’ said Wield, who didn’t. ‘And why was that?’
‘Because of George’s sin, Sergeant,’ said Digweed gravely. ‘Dora is a most religious lady. I myself regard religion as mostly pie in the sky, but if the pie is Dora Creed’s apple, I may be a convert yet.’
‘And just what was this sin?’ persisted Wield.
Digweed laughed his superior laugh and said, ‘That’s where you could really impress with your detective skills. You see, no one has yet been able to find out. Sniff it out, Sergeant, sniff it out!’
I’d rather sniff out one of Dora’s pies, thought Wield, his nose twitching at the delicious smells wafting from the café.
But duty called.
‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ he said to Digweed. ‘Thank you for your help.’
And hoping, though doubting, that his courtesy might give the bookseller a brief frisson of shame, he headed for the Eendale Gallery.
CHAPTER SIX
‘Our Improvements have advanced very well.’
In England, before the Great War destroyed the eternal verities, for a noble family to stop ‘improving’ their country seat was pretty clear evidence of financial difficulties.
In the years since, however, it has been the arrival of the contractors which has signalled trouble, for no longer are ‘improvements’ made in the name of beauty, taste or even convenience, they are offerings on the altar of commerce.
Such thoughts ran through Peter Pascoe’s mind as he negotiated the driveway up to Old Hall and came to a halt on a building site.
It was not a particularly large building site but typical of the genus in that order was minimal and activity non-existent. The work seemed centred on a building separate from the main house and he guessed this was the stable block which was going to house the Holistic Health practitioners.
Like many men who see the clouds of middle age on the horizon, Pascoe’s scientific scepticism about alternative medicine cloaked a superstitious hope that some astounding revelation would blow the clouds back before it was too late. So it was withthe reverence of a man entering a church that he pushed open the stable door.
The smell that met him was just about right for a man in search of a quasi-religious experience. Thuriferously spicy, malty and leafy, it seemed to emanate from a column of smoke. A burning bush perhaps. If so, it should speak.
It spoke. A warbling bird-like note, once repeated. Then a female voice. God after all was a woman.
‘Yes, this is Girlie Guillemard. No, I do not see the point of checking again, but I shall do so. Wait.’
Out of the smoke emerged a woman. Her tangle of ochrous hair was restrained by a fillet of baling twine. She wore a moulting brocaded waistcoat over a once elegant silk blouse tucked into a pair of overlarge jeans whose rolled-down waist underpinned her heavy breasts and whose rolled-up legs overhung a pair of wellingtons, one green and one black. Her face was round, her eyes were grey, her nose was snub, her mouth too large, allowing plenty of room for both the meerschaum which was the source of the smoke, and the mobile telephone into which she was speaking. She was incredibly attractive.
At sight of Pascoe she halted and said, ‘You from
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