Wallop?’ Or perhaps it was ‘You for wallop?’, meaning some startling new therapy. But Pascoe knew he was fantasizing, having glimpsed the sign proclaiming that the mess outside was the responsibility of Philip Wallop (Contractor) Ltd.
He said, ‘No.’
‘Is there anyone out there?’ she asked.
Assuming the question was neither theological nor thespian, he shook his head.
‘There is no one here,’ she bellowed into the phone. ‘And as it is now past the hour when Mr Wallop’s employees start packing up when they are here, I doubt if anyone’s coming today, wouldn’t you agree? So just tell Mr Wallop this when he finally emerges from his box of Transylvanian earth. Tomorrow lunch-time the whole village will be turning up here for my grandfather’s annual Reckoning Feast, and if the area in front of the house isn’t clean as a new penny by then, a new penny is a bloody sight more than Mr sodding Wallop will get out of me. Got that, dearie? Goodbye!’
She switched the phone off and said, ‘Right. Now who the hell are you? And what do you want?’
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Peter Pascoe,’ he said winningly. ‘And I’d like to talk to you.’
‘Why? You found some little regulation I’m breaking?’
‘Not my line, believe me,’ he said. ‘No, it’s nothing to do with the Health Park.’
‘In that case what you want is the Squire,’ she said, setting off at a rapid pace through the door and across the building site towards the main entrance of the house.
Breathlessly, Pascoe pursued her up some steps and through an imposing door into a sort of baronial hall. Compared to the acreage across which Errol Flynn swash-buckled with Basil Rathbone,this was small beer. Nevertheless, armed with one of the weapons festooning the wall and encouraged by the Korngold soundtrack his fertile imagination was conjuring up, Pascoe felt he could have buckled a fair swash in defence of Girlie Guillemard’s honour.
Then the music swelled again and he realized he was confusing cause and effect. No ditty of no tone this, but a tape of virtuoso ’cello being played in a minstrels’ gallery at the far end of the hall.
The volume faded again to be overlaid by a human voice chanting words roughly in time with the music.
‘Then up spake Solomon Guillemard
A gradely man was he,
“These nuns ye seek ha’ ta’en their wealth
And fled across the sea.
I serve the king, the king serves God,
The Church served God and king” …’
‘Grandfather!’ bellowed Girlie.
The voice and music died together and slowly a figure arose in the gallery. It was an old man cloaked in a velvet curtain and made taller by a moth-eaten Cossack hat.
‘Who calls so loud? Can you not see I am in the throes of composition?’
‘Tough tittie,’ said his granddaughter. ‘An inspector calls. You could be in trouble or a play. I’ll put him in the study.’
She was off again, a hard woman to keep up with but well worth the effort, Pascoe assured himself, puffing.
The study was an octagonal room, presumably fitting into one of the castellated towers (a nineteenth-century improvement?) flanking the Hall. It had the kind of wainscoting an extended family of mice could happily colonize and, from the holes at floor level, probably had. There were rows of dusty bookshelves but very few books, a rocking-chair minus one rocker, a chesterfield which looked as inviting as a basking alligator, and where one might have expected to see a handsome old desk stood a rather battered kitchen table.
Pascoe touched its rough surface. It must have come across as a comment for Girlie said, ‘Sorry it’s so Spartan but we had to realize a few assets. Banks are not so free with their money as once they were, not unless you’re a Third World dictator or a crook in the City. The Squire should be along
He said, ‘No.’
‘Is there anyone out there?’ she asked.
Assuming the question was neither theological nor thespian, he shook his head.
‘There is no one here,’ she bellowed into the phone. ‘And as it is now past the hour when Mr Wallop’s employees start packing up when they are here, I doubt if anyone’s coming today, wouldn’t you agree? So just tell Mr Wallop this when he finally emerges from his box of Transylvanian earth. Tomorrow lunch-time the whole village will be turning up here for my grandfather’s annual Reckoning Feast, and if the area in front of the house isn’t clean as a new penny by then, a new penny is a bloody sight more than Mr sodding Wallop will get out of me. Got that, dearie? Goodbye!’
She switched the phone off and said, ‘Right. Now who the hell are you? And what do you want?’
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Peter Pascoe,’ he said winningly. ‘And I’d like to talk to you.’
‘Why? You found some little regulation I’m breaking?’
‘Not my line, believe me,’ he said. ‘No, it’s nothing to do with the Health Park.’
‘In that case what you want is the Squire,’ she said, setting off at a rapid pace through the door and across the building site towards the main entrance of the house.
Breathlessly, Pascoe pursued her up some steps and through an imposing door into a sort of baronial hall. Compared to the acreage across which Errol Flynn swash-buckled with Basil Rathbone,this was small beer. Nevertheless, armed with one of the weapons festooning the wall and encouraged by the Korngold soundtrack his fertile imagination was conjuring up, Pascoe felt he could have buckled a fair swash in defence of Girlie Guillemard’s honour.
Then the music swelled again and he realized he was confusing cause and effect. No ditty of no tone this, but a tape of virtuoso ’cello being played in a minstrels’ gallery at the far end of the hall.
The volume faded again to be overlaid by a human voice chanting words roughly in time with the music.
‘Then up spake Solomon Guillemard
A gradely man was he,
“These nuns ye seek ha’ ta’en their wealth
And fled across the sea.
I serve the king, the king serves God,
The Church served God and king” …’
‘Grandfather!’ bellowed Girlie.
The voice and music died together and slowly a figure arose in the gallery. It was an old man cloaked in a velvet curtain and made taller by a moth-eaten Cossack hat.
‘Who calls so loud? Can you not see I am in the throes of composition?’
‘Tough tittie,’ said his granddaughter. ‘An inspector calls. You could be in trouble or a play. I’ll put him in the study.’
She was off again, a hard woman to keep up with but well worth the effort, Pascoe assured himself, puffing.
The study was an octagonal room, presumably fitting into one of the castellated towers (a nineteenth-century improvement?) flanking the Hall. It had the kind of wainscoting an extended family of mice could happily colonize and, from the holes at floor level, probably had. There were rows of dusty bookshelves but very few books, a rocking-chair minus one rocker, a chesterfield which looked as inviting as a basking alligator, and where one might have expected to see a handsome old desk stood a rather battered kitchen table.
Pascoe touched its rough surface. It must have come across as a comment for Girlie said, ‘Sorry it’s so Spartan but we had to realize a few assets. Banks are not so free with their money as once they were, not unless you’re a Third World dictator or a crook in the City. The Squire should be along
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