An April Shroud

‘What?’

‘Shout,’ he said. ‘If he is stuck somewhere, he’ll answer.’

They started to shout, sometimes separately and sometimes with Fielding’s reedy tenor, Papworth’s strong baritone and Dalziel’s totally unmusical bellow blending into a single dreadful cry. The damp air absorbed all their effort with indifferent ease and returned nothing.

‘Let’s try a bit farther out,’ said Dalziel finally, reaching for the punt pole. But as he did so, he realized their yellings had not gone entirely unheard. Standing in the garden near the flooded landing-stage were the rest of the Fieldings and Tillotson. He guessed what anxieties were swarming through Bonnie’s mind and spoke to Papworth.

‘We’d best let Mrs Fielding know what’s going on,’ he said. ‘Can you scout a bit farther in that thing while I take the punt back?’

‘If you like,’ said Papworth. He removed the oar from the thole-pin and using it as a rather cumbersome paddle began to move away.

‘Where’s that fellow going?’ demanded Fielding. He looked to be in the extremities of distress, both physical and mental. Even without his daughter-in-law’s right to an explanation, it would have been necessary to get him back to the house soon.

‘He’s going to search,’ said Dalziel, wielding the pole inexpertly and for the first time feeling some sympathy for Tillotson. ‘We’d better get back to the house and organize things there.’

Mrs Fielding remained controlled when she heard what Dalziel had to say, but he sensed a strong underlying concern.

‘Let’s get inside,’ she said. ‘Herrie, you’re soaking! What possessed you to go out in only your jacket?’

She gave a half-accusing glance at Dalziel. She had the kind of solid, bold-eyed face much admired by the Edwardians and which had still stared provocatively at an adolescent Dalziel from Scarborough What-the-Butler-Saw machines a couple of decades later. He felt an in the circumstances incongruous urge to wink invitingly.

Surprisingly in the light of her earlier indifference, Louisa was outwardly the most agitated.

‘We can’t just hang about, doing nothing,’ she cried. ‘Let’s get something organized.’

Her urgency seemed to infect the others and her mother and brother began to move back to the house at an accelerated pace almost beyond the means of the old man who hung on to his daughter-in-law with the stoic look of one who is ready at a moment’s notice to make his final exit.

Dalziel followed, eager to get out of the rain but without any feeling of urgency. He doubted whether speed was going to contribute much to Nigel Fielding’s safety now. Either the lad was safe or his body was waiting to be grappled from the water by a boat-hook. But the illusion of great activity was a useful anodyne.

The Uniffs who had had enough sense to stay out of the wet met them at the door and received explanations in the hall.

Mavis displayed the same calm competence as before and even Hank made conventional soothing noises, putting his arm round Louisa’s thin shoulders and pressing his University of Love T-shirt (the same one? or did he have duplicates?) against her soaking sweater whose new skin-clinging properties managed the merest hint of a female figure.

‘We must ring the police,’ she said. Dalziel sighed and prepared to step forward to reveal himself. It would be unprofessional to let this short-tempered girl give her unstructured and semi-hysterical account of the situation to the local bobby when he could get things moving in half the time.

‘Perhaps,’ he began. And the telephone rang. For a moment they all froze. It was Bonnie Fielding who was quickest off the mark, heading for the room which old Fielding claimed as his own.

They heard her pick up the phone.

‘Nigel!’ she exclaimed.

‘Yes,’ she said, as the rest of them crowded into the room. ‘Yes. Look, Nigel, where are … no … oh, damn!’

It was clear from her face that the boy had rung off.

‘Where is he?’ demanded Fielding.

‘I’m sorry, Herrie,’ said the woman. ‘But he didn’t say. Just that he wanted us to know he was OK. He saw the boat go adrift after he’d abandoned it and thought I’d be worried. Anyway, thank God he’s safe. Now, Herrie, let’s see about you before you get pneumonia.’

She ushered the old man out of the room, and though the news of his grandson’s safety revived him enough to snap a token protest at this unwanted solicitude, he let himself be led upstairs with no physical demur.

‘End of crisis,’ said Uniff cheerfully. ‘All’s well etcetera.’

The telephone rang again and the bearded man picked it up.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Yeah. Look, man, you take that up with the Post Office, OK? No, she’s not available right now. I mean, we just had the funeral so she may not want to talk insurance. OK. I’ll tell her.’

He replaced the phone.

‘Sphincter?’ said Bertie.

‘That’s it. Seems to think we’re trying to avoid him. The usual moans. He’s a pain. I should have asked if we were insured against Nig’s taking off!’

Louisa’s sibling solicitude, recently overflowing, was now completely spilt.

‘Little bastard,’ she said. ‘He should have been drowned at birth.’

‘That’s a bit strong,’ protested Tillotson, but she ignored him and followed Uniff out of the room.

Tillotson caught Dalziel’s eye and grinned sheepishly.

‘Someone ought to tell Pappy,’ said Bertie suddenly. He was right, thought Dalziel, but he obviously had no intention of doing anything about it himself.

‘Yes, they should,’ said Tillotson. ‘I’ll take the punt.’

He left, whistling cheerfully.

‘Go with him,’ said Dalziel.

‘Do you mean me?’ said Bertie incredulously.

‘I’m not so old I see bloody spectres,’ said Dalziel. ‘Who else? You really want a drowning on your hands, then let the lad go punting by himself. Hurry up.’

‘Why can’t you go?’ demanded Bertie.

‘I’m older than you,’ said Dalziel, patience draining away. ‘And I’m colder than you, and I’m wetter than you, and I’m a guest in your fucking house, and I don’t care a toss if yon silly bugger ends up in the south Pacific. But he’s your friend. So get a bloody move on!’

Bertie moved, looking rather dazed. At the door he paused, opened his mouth goldfish-like, but left without speaking.

‘You’ve had practice,’ said Mavis admiringly. ‘What was it? Army?’

Dalziel had lost sight of her presence and looked at her assessingly, working out if an apology were in order. He decided not.

‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Natural leadership qualities. That one needs a bit of stirring.’

‘Mebbe so,’ said the girl. ‘But don’t be too certain about Bertie. Some people develop that kind of complacency as a cover. The world’s ruled by calm, smug, self-righteous pigs, and they’ve all been clever enough to get to the top of the dungheap.’

‘Cocks,’ said Dalziel.