An April Shroud. Reginald HillЧитать онлайн книгу.
suitcase and begun to empty its damp contents on to the bed.
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Very kind.’
‘There’s a bathroom through that door. It communicates with my room, so if it’s locked, it’ll be because I’m in there.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, starting to remove his coat. But she did not leave immediately.
‘You said something about being punched on the nose,’ she prompted.
‘It was nothing,’ he said generously. ‘A misunderstanding.’
‘I see. Well, our children seem determined to be misunderstood, and usually it’s someone else who gets hurt. Don’t you agree, Mr Dalziel?’
‘I’m not married,’ said Dalziel, unpeeling his huge sports jacket and revealing broad khaki braces. ‘And I’ve no kids.’
‘Oh. The last of the line, Mr Dalziel?’ she said.
‘Aye. You could say. Or the end of the tether.’
With neat efficient movements she gathered the damp clothing from the bed, an act of conservation as well as kindness.
‘I’ll see to these,’ she said. ‘You look as though you could do with a hot bath straight away.’
Dalziel was touched by this concern with his health till he saw her gaze fixed on his right hand which had unconsciously unbuttoned his shirt and was presently engaged in scratching his navel.
‘Thanks,’ he said and began to take off his shirt.
The water in the antiquated bathroom was red hot both to the touch and to the sight. Having seen the brown peat water used in the manufacture of the best whisky, Dalziel did not anticipate harm from a little discoloration and wallowed sensuously in the huge marble tub, his feet resting on brass cherubim taps which time and neglect had verdigrised to a satyric green.
From what he had seen so far of the house, he surmised that the Fielding family had been going through bad times. You needed a lot of cash to keep up a place like this these days. This didn’t necessarily mean they were poor, not by his standards. It did mean that probably they had been living beyond their means, or rather that as far as the house was concerned their means had lagged behind their rapidly growing expenditure. He was rather surprised to find himself being so charitable towards the idle rich but whatever the failings of the younger members of the household, Mrs Fielding had struck him as a pleasant intelligent woman. And handsome with it. Not a word much used of female attractiveness nowadays. You couldn’t call loose-haired kids with consumptive eyes and no tits handsome. But Mrs Fielding was. Oh yes.
One of the cherubim seemed to leer at him with unnecessary salaciousness at this point. A trick of the steam. He got out and towelled himself vigorously.
Back in the bedroom he discovered that his tin of foot powder had become a runny blancmange, so he opened the bathroom cabinet in search of a substitute. There was a mixture of male and female cosmetics and a variety of pill bottles. Either Mrs Fielding or her late husband was a bit of a hypochondriac, thought Dalziel. It was difficult to tell from the scrawl on the labels. Even the printed words were difficult. Boots of Piccadilly he could manage. But Propananol … could that be for athlete’s foot? Piles, more likely. There was a tap on the communicating door.
‘Just finishing,’ he called.
‘Your trousers were soaking,’ Mrs Fielding answered, ‘so I’ve put them with the rest to dry. You’ll find some things in the wardrobe to wear for the time being if you like. There’re hot drinks downstairs.’
‘Ta,’ he called. A kind and thoughtful woman, he decided. Once she had made up her mind to be welcoming she carried it through.
Mr Fielding had clearly not been as fat as Dalziel but he had been tall and broad-shouldered. The trousers wouldn’t fasten at the waist, but a long nylon sweater stretched over the cabriole curve of his belly and covered the shameful schism. An old sports jacket, also unfastenable, and a pair of carpet slippers completed the robing and it was time to descend.
Downstairs no sounds offered him a clue to the location of the hot drinks, but after three false starts he at last opened a door into an inhabited room.
‘Who the devil are you?’ demanded the old man, glaring at him through the steam rising from a mug held at his thin bluish lips.
‘Andrew Dalziel. I was given a lift. My car broke down. Can I have some of that?’
He advanced to the broad kitchen table on whose scrubbed wooden top stood a steaming jug.
‘No. That’s mine. You’ll find some on the hob through there.’
There was the adjacent back kitchen where on a gas stove coeval almost with the house Dalziel found a pan of what his mother would have called ‘nourishing broth’.
He plucked a large mug from a hook on the wall, filled it and tasted. It was good.
He returned to the other room. Probably nowadays an estate agent would call it a breakfast-room, but the plain wooden furniture pre-dated the studied pseudo-simplicities of modern Scandinavian pine. These chairs threatened real painful splinters to the unwary. Dalziel sat down cautiously.
‘Those are my son’s clothes you’re wearing!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘I recognize them. Even the slippers. Ye gods, ye gods, how little time it takes!’
‘My clothes were wet,’ explained Dalziel, thinking that someone ought to have persuaded the old man also to a change of clothing. The raincoat and umbrella had not been able to protect the bottom of his trousers and his shoes from a soaking.
‘I’m sorry about your son,’ he said.
‘Why? Did you know him?’
‘No. How could I? I’m here by accident.’
‘So you say. So you say. Men come, men go, and it’s all put down to accident. Have you known Bonnie long?’
‘Your daughter-in-law? I don’t know her at all, Mr Fielding,’ averred Dalziel. ‘I don’t know anyone here.’
‘No?’ The emphasis of Dalziel’s answer seemed almost to convince the old man. But only for a moment.
‘You’re not from Gumbelow’s, are you?’ he suddenly demanded. ‘Or television? I have positively interdicted television.’
Dalziel’s patience was wearing thin, but now the door opened and the stout youth who must be Bertie Fielding came in. He ignored the inmates and passed straight through into the back kitchen, returning a moment later to stare accusingly at Dalziel.
‘That’s my mug. You’ve taken my mug.’
Dalziel blew on his soup till he set the little globules of fat into a panicky motion.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
Bertie turned once more and went back to the stove.
‘My grandson is an ill-mannered lout,’ said Mr Fielding sadly.
‘Can’t think where he gets it from,’ answered Dalziel.
Bertie returned, drinking soup from what appeared to be an identical mug.
‘I hear Charley sank your case,’ he said, more amicably now. Like a baby who doesn’t really mind what teat gets stuck in his mouth, thought Dalziel.
‘Mr Tillotson? Aye, there was a spot of bother,’ he answered.
‘There would be,’ said Bertie maliciously. ‘Evidence of divine whimsy is Charley. Looks like a Greek god but things happen to him like Monsieur Hulot.’
‘You haven’t quite got the balance right,’ mocked Mr Fielding, explaining to Dalziel, ‘Bertie likes to rehearse his witty abuse till he’s got the lines off pat.’
Bertie smiled angrily.
‘Still