An April Shroud

‘Friends. Visitors,’ he grunted.

‘For the funeral?’

‘Oh no. They were here when he snuffed it. Not that it made much difference to ’em, mark you. Not to any on ’em. No. They just carried on.’

‘Oh, aye?’ said Dalziel, thinking that the trio he had observed in the Lady Hamilton the previous night had hardly comported themselves like grief-stricken mourners.

‘What made you take to the water?’ he asked. ‘Couldn’t the funeral cars get round to the house?’

‘It’d be a long way round. They checked first thing this morning after last night’s rain. Couldn’t afford the time. They’ve a lot of work on in this wet weather. So it was either the boats or wait. And they wanted shot of the coffin quick, you see.’

‘Well, I suppose it’s a bit deadly having it lying around the house,’ said Dalziel charitably.

‘Oh yes. Specially when it’s on the billiard table,’ said the other.

There was no answer to this and they finished their cigarettes in silence.

‘What did he die of, anyway?’ asked Dalziel, growing tired of the unrelenting lap of water.

‘Some say his heart stopped,’ said the boatman. ‘And some say he was short of breath.’

With difficulty Dalziel restrained himself from bellowing don’t you get funny with me!

‘What do you say?’ he asked instead.

‘Me? What should I know about it?’

He relapsed into a silence which plainly rejected breaking by any conventional social means. Dalziel walked along the water’s edge a short way and stood inspecting the punt gun. It had been a formidable weapon, but looked very long disused. While the metal had probably never been bright (why give the poor bloody ducks even a chance of a chance?), now it was rusty and dirty and a spider had spun a few hopeful strands across the muzzle.

It began to rain and after a few moments he returned to the shelter of the car. The boatman ignored his invitation to join him and remained where he was, even his cigarette appearing impervious to the downpour.

Nearly half an hour later the first of the funeral party returned. It was the blond youth, alone and on foot.

‘Shit!’ said Dalziel and clambered out of the car once more.

‘Hello,’ said the youth as he approached. ‘You’re stuck in the water?’

Dalziel smiled his congratulations.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Where’s the funeral cars?’

‘I was just telling Pappy, there’s a lot more water on the road about a quarter of a mile round the bend. They weren’t very happy about taking their shiny limousines through it on our way to the church and now they reckon it’s even deeper, so I was sent on to bring the boats a bit farther along.’

He grinned amiably, apparently unresentful of the task. Dalziel could guess who had elected him to it. Anyone who let a woman punch him on the nose without setting matters right between them very quickly was saddling himself up for a hag-ride.

The boatman was casting off already.

‘Hang on,’ said Dalziel. ‘I’ll get my stuff.’

The level of the water seemed perceptibly higher as he waded back to the car and unloaded his old cardboard suitcase. As he returned cautiously to the dry road, he saw to his chagrin that the rowing-boat was already on its way, leaving him to the uncertain mercies of the punt.

‘He’s in a hurry,’ he grunted as he placed his case carefully on one of the seats. The floor looked as if a halfpenny dropped from three feet would blast a hole through it.

‘A devoted retainer,’ said the other with enough of mockery in his voice to give Dalziel some hope for him. ‘I’m Charles Tillotson, by the way.’

‘Andrew Dalziel.’

‘Dee-Ell,’ echoed Tillotson. ‘Dee-Ell. Spelt D-A-L-?’

‘Z-I-E-L,’ finished Dalziel.

‘How impressive to be pronounced differently from the way you are spelt,’ said Tillotson, flourishing the pole. ‘It’s sort of a test for people, isn’t it? Perhaps I should drop the ILL, Totson. What do you think?’

‘How about Tit?’ said Dalziel. ‘Are we going to move or shall we sit here getting wet all bloody day?’

Gingerly he seated himself next to his case and closed his eyes as Tillotson thrust off stylishly, got the pole stuck instantly and almost dislodged himself in his efforts to pull it out.

By the time they had followed the bend of the road and got the rowing-boat back in sight, it had reached the new landing-point and the rest of the party were already embarking. To Dalziel’s dismay the funeral car then began to move off.

‘Hey!’ he bellowed, drawing the attention of the mourners and frightening a small batch of teal who were exploring their new-found territory. But the black limousine purred disdainfully on its way and was soon out of sight.

‘Sod the bastard!’ said Dalziel savagely.

‘Pappy must have forgotten,’ surmised Tillotson.

‘Sod him too.’

Some explanation of his presence must have been required and given on the rowing-boat for when they drew level, no one showed much curiosity about him.

The woman, Mrs Fielding he presumed, was sitting in the stern with the old man. The stout youth had taken an oar and was seated alongside Pappy who returned Dalziel’s accusing gaze blankly. The boy was in the bows, curled up like the Copenhagen mermaid. And the other three were crowded in the flat-bottomed boat lately occupied by the coffin.

‘I think some of you must go back with Charley,’ said Mrs Fielding in a firm, rather deep voice. Her veil was lifted now, revealing a strong almost masculine face which grief and hard weather had only been able to sting to a healthy flush.

‘Oh no,’ protested the thin girl, Louisa. ‘Bertie’s rowing too, and we can’t weigh much more than a coffin.’

‘Nevertheless,’ insisted her mother.

‘I’ll go,’ said the dark hairy man who was taking some shots of the floods with an expensive-looking camera. He stood up and stepped into the punt with the ungainly ease of a sailor.

This seemed to satisfy Mrs Fielding’s distribution problems for the moment. She now addressed Dalziel.

‘I’m sorry the car went before Pappy could speak with the driver. If you’d care to come to the house, you can phone from there. Alternatively, we can leave you here and phone on your behalf.’

The man called Pappy started rowing and Bertie quickly picked up the stroke as Dalziel considered the alternatives. The rain was coming down harder. The occupants of the rowing-boat were concealed almost completely by a carapace of umbrellas which brought to mind the shield-wall of a Viking ship.

Dalziel turned to Tillotson.

‘Follow that boat,’ he said.