Pictures of Perfection

‘I were coming to that. Jake set up house here, started a family, and in the fullness of time sent his eldest, Jeremy, to Oxford. Put a real polish on him, came back very arty-crafty. When he got married, he wanted a place of his own and it was him as started building Scarletts on the bit of land his dad had bought by the river. Things had been quiet between the Halavants and Old Hall for a bit, but this set them going again. First off the Guillemards complained the builders were interfering with the fishing. Then, when they realized what kind of house Jeremy was building, they played merry hell. Said it looked like a Chinese brothel and such outrages shouldn’t be allowed in a godfearing community like Eendale. Naturally that just egged Jeremy on to make it as bright and beautiful as possible.’

‘And how did the villagers feel?’ asked Pascoe.

‘Loved it,’ said Wapshare. ‘Not had so much fun since the Civil War. You see, we don’t take sides here, Mr Pascoe, we take seats and sit back to enjoy the show. But most folk thought things had gone too far when the Guillemards set fire to Jeremy’s house when it were nearly done.’

‘Good Lord! But surely they couldn’t get away with that?’

‘Couldn’t they just? Mind you, nothing were ever proved, but everyone knew,’ said Wapshare. ‘The Guillemards had to call in a lot of favours to get themselves clear, and that left them vulnerable to Jeremy’s next move a year later when old Jake finally fell off the perch. This place were empty again. Most folk expected Jeremy to sell. Instead …’

‘He turned it into a pub,’ completed Pascoe. ‘Brilliant! Do you think my trousers will be dry yet?’

‘Nay, but your throat will be,’ said Wapshare, topping up his glass. ‘Naturally, once word got to Old Hall what he was up to, hell broke loose again. The Guillemards opposed the licence, but they were short on favours now, and getting short on money. Aye, I reckon even then the Guillemards’ day was over, though they still couldn’t tell twilight from noon. In the end they were left with nothing to fight about except the pub’s name.’

‘Why? What did Jeremy want to call it?’

‘He really tried it on! His first suggestion was The Guillotine and Basket! No one was very happy about that, and the Guillemards screamed loud enough to get his next two ideas vetoed too. These were The Cobden Arms and The Tolpuddle Martyrs. Politically provocative, said the Squire. And when Jeremy finally came up with The Morris Men’s Rest, you’d have thought the Guillemards had won the Battle of Waterloo!’

‘Because they’d got something all feudal and pastoral instead of radical and provocative? I see their point,’ said Pascoe.

‘Aye. And they saw Jeremy’s when the sign went up,’ said Wapshare gleefully. ‘Not straight away, I shouldn’t think. Likely they were just puzzled when instead of a picture of daft buggers with bells on their knees dancing around a pole, what they got was a portly gent with a big beard. But finally it clicked.’

He looked expectantly at Pascoe who felt his detective credentials were at stake. He wrestled mentally, was ready to admit defeat, then it came, the click.

‘Morris!’ he said. ‘Not Morris dancers, but William Morris, the socialist. Good Lord, yes, that must have annoyed them. I presume the sign was a bit clearer then? It’s a bit of a mess now.’

‘So would you be if you’d been shot at, attacked with an axe, tossed on a bonfire,’ retorted Wapshare. ‘The Guillemards put their people up to it, of course. But every time it happened, Jeremy just got his lads to put the sign up again, no repairs or anything, so everyone could see what silly asses the Guillemards were making of themselves.’

It was a good story, but even as local colour he doubted if Dalziel would reckon it relevant to inquiries. Perhaps Mrs Wapshare had been eavesdropping till her husband finished, for now the door opened and she appeared with Pascoe’s trousers, cleaned and ironed and looking rather better than they had done when he put them on that morning.

He waited till she’d left before he started removing the borrowed bags.

‘Mr Halavant, Justin, does he own the pub now?’

‘Aye. It’s still his. Though for how much longer, I don’t know.’

Suddenly the merriment faded from Wapshare’s voice.

‘Why? Up for sale, is it? And would that affect your tenancy?’

‘If Justin sells to who I think he’s got in mind … but it’s still all hush-hush. We’ll have to wait and see. We’re good at that round here.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Pascoe, stepping out of the trousers which he folded neatly and laid on the bar. ‘This feud between the Guillemards and the Halavants, does it still go on?’