An April Shroud

‘I’d be delighted to stay,’ said Dalziel.

‘Mother,’ said Louisa from the door.

‘Hello, darling. Did you find Nigel?’

‘No, but I found this in his bedroom.’ She held up a piece of paper.

‘The little sod’s taken off again.’

4 (#ulink_1a0d45f1-c701-5cd2-a7c9-d1f6157eb1ce)

Premises, Premises (#ulink_1a0d45f1-c701-5cd2-a7c9-d1f6157eb1ce)

The general atmosphere of resigned annoyance told Dalziel he was in the middle of a routine upset rather than a major disaster. Nigel, it seemed, had left home to seek his fortune on several previous occasions. Looking at the flaking paint and faded wallpaper around him, Dalziel felt that perhaps the boy had a point. It would take a fool or a clairvoyant to seek a fortune here.

The current weather, however, added a new dimension of concern to this latest escape, for his mother at least. His brother and sister seemed completely unworried, though the Uniffs whether out of sympathy or politeness were much more helpful.

‘He can’t have gotten far,’ said Hank. ‘Poor kid. He’ll soon have his bellyful of this rain.’

It was not the most diplomatic use of the idiom. Quickly Mavis stepped in.

‘Hank, take a look outside. He might be sheltering quite close. If not, we’ll take a run down the road in the car.’

Hank left, and Mrs Fielding sat down at the table. She appeared quite composed now.

‘Lou, darling,’ she said. ‘How’s the soup? Nigel will be freezing when he gets back.’

‘There’s oodles left,’ said Bertie. ‘We’re hardly down below yesterday’s tide mark.’

‘I like it best when we reach that ox-tail we had at New Year,’ said Louisa. ‘That was my favourite.’

Indifferent to this family humour, Dalziel picked up the note which Mrs Fielding had dropped on the table.

I am leaving home because (1) my plans for the future don’t coincide with yours (2) I have no desire to live off money coined by my father’s death and (3) there are some people I don’t care to have near me. Nigel. PS. I don’t mean you. I’ll write when I’m settled.

He turned it over. It was addressed to the boy’s mother.

Hank returned.

‘Any sign?’ asked Mavis.

‘No. But the rowing-boat’s gone.’

‘He always threatened to run away to sea,’ said Louisa.

‘Lou, shut up, will you?’ said Mrs Fielding. ‘Oh damn. I wish he hadn’t taken the boat. I don’t like the thought of him on the water.’

‘Shall I go after him in the punt?’ volunteered Tillotson, a suggestion which drew derisive groans from everyone except Mrs Fielding and Mavis. And Dalziel too, though he groaned internally.

‘Thank you, Charles, but no,’ said Mrs Fielding. ‘Hank, did you see Pappy out there?’

‘Not a sign,’ said Uniff.

‘See if you can find him and tell him Nigel’s loose again. Then perhaps you’ll join us in the study. It’s time to talk.’

Uniff left and the other young people drifted out after him. When Mrs Fielding spoke, Dalziel noted approvingly, the others jumped. He liked a strong leader.

‘I’m sorry to leave you alone, Mr Dalziel,’ she said. ‘But we have to have a business conference. Make yourself at home.’

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep the soup hot for Nigel.’

‘That boy. You must think us very odd.’

Dalziel did not deny it.

‘He sounds a sensible lad,’ he said, indicating the note.

‘You think that’s sensible?’ she asked, surprised.

‘Well, it’s neatly laid out. One, two, three. I like that,’ he said with the authority of one whose own official reports were infamous for their brevity. I came, I saw, I arrested was the Dalziel ideal according to Pascoe.

‘It’s possible to be methodical and still find trouble,’ she answered. ‘There’s probably a cold joint in the pantry if you’re hungry. We usually eat on our feet during the day and sit down for a meal about six-thirty.’

She left and Dalziel glanced at his watch. It was one o’clock. Five hours.

He went into the kitchen in search of food. There was a small deep freeze into which he peered hopefully. It contained very little and nothing of particular appeal. He shuffled the contents around in the hope of coming across one of his favourite frozen dinners-for-two, but there was no sign of such delights. One foil-wrapped package caught his eye. The remnants of a cold joint perhaps. He unwrapped it.

‘Well bugger me!’ said Dalziel.

Inside the foil, sealed in a transparent plastic bag, was a dead rat.

These sods might be hard up but there were limits, he told himself. Gingerly he re-interred the corpse in its icy tomb and closed the lid.

His appetite had left him for the moment so he lit a cigarette and sat down once more to muse upon this odd household.

Just how odd was it? he asked himself. Well, the atmosphere for a start. It didn’t feel very funereal. Not that that signified much. He’d been at funerals where by the time the poor sod was planted, half the mourners were paralytic and the rest were lining up for the return to the loved one’s house like homesteaders at the start of a land-race.

Anyway atmosphere was too vague. You could breakfast on atmosphere, but you’d better make your dinner out of facts.

Fact one was the age of the non-Fieldings. Coeval with Bertie and Louisa, they were hardly the mourners one would expect at the funeral of a man of Fielding’s assumed age.

Fact two was this business conference going on. What were they doing – reading the will? Not likely these days. Then what?

Fact three was the lad, Nigel. His farewell note hinted at household relationships more turbulent than the usual teenage antipathies.

Fact four was the enigmatic remarks people kept dropping about Fielding’s death.

And fact five was a freezer with a dead rat in it.