to tell me, you know.’
‘Well, if your grandparents ever really did say that,’ I said, ‘I can only tell you that they copied it from Mrs Gaskell.’
‘Eh?’ he said, dumbfounded, and it was perfectly obvious to me that he had never heard of Mrs Gaskell, but had unconsciously drained the allusion off as an appropriate undertaker’s platitude in the presence of a bereaved family, from the recent TV adaptation of
The Old Nurse’s Story –
his grandparents be damned. He had a fruit juice on the bar beside him, and took a sip of it. The white fingers, the colourless but cracked nails held the glass delicately and also jealously away from me and he beamed on me as one does on an evident inferior. He took another sip, and his stomach growled in him somewhere far down: ‘I should like it if you would join me in a half of bitter.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I never drink halves. Or bitter.’
‘Something stronger, perhaps?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘I hear you’re a police officer.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Might I ask what you’re doing down here in Thornhill?’
‘I’m doing what I always do,’ I said, ‘minding the public’s business.’
A titter went up from the big public bar whose counter I could see opposite us; people were leaning across. ‘What’s your name anyway?’ I said to him.
‘I’m Baddeley, Walter Baddeley,’ he said. ‘Estate agent.’
The titter became a gust of laughter. A young man from by the dart-board shouted: ‘He’s Baddeley, Walter Baddeley, an agent of this town! He owns it, he loans it, he’s known for miles around!’
‘Nice to have an audience,’ I said.
Baddeley didn’t appear to think so. He stopped smiling, his hand fell away from me to his side and he said: ‘Young, well young somethings, only I naturally won’t say it.’
I said: ‘Are you also the Baddeley whose name I noticed over the undertaker’s place up the street?’
‘That most certainly is me,’ he said. ‘Yes.’
The crowd in the other bar roared out: ‘Going out to bury, makes Walter Baddeley merry! He sends in his bill, gets a clause in the will, and then he’s happy, very!’
Baddeley started moving away, furious, but I caught him by the arm on an impulse and said: ‘What do you know about the Mardys?’
‘I’d rather not talk about them,’ he said. ‘It’s too sad.’
‘What’s sad?’ I said. ‘Come on, you start getting familiar with police officers in a pub, you can’t complain if you get asked questions – I’m here to do that.’
‘They were going downhill,’ said Baddeley. ‘Of course, I went up occasionally for Madam Mardy’s concerts.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘you like music, do you?’
‘All I can tell you,’ he said, ‘is that the Mardys were both very, very special people.’
‘And of course you were upset when Mrs Mardy disappeared last August?’
‘I was naturally very distressed, like everyone else here in Thornhill.’
‘And what did you do about it? Did you go up to see her husband, try to console him at all?’
‘We weren’t close friends,’ he said primly, ‘I didn’t feel I had the right to intrude.’
I knew instantly that he was lying. ‘I find you quite interesting,’ I said. ‘I hear a rumour you’re running for mayor, yet something bad happens to quite prominent fellow citizens of yours and you just let them drop, if I’m reading you properly. You enjoyed their hospitality and their music while it lasted, showed your face because it was the thing to do and then, when things went sour, you forgot all about them, terrific.’
‘You’re bending what I’ve said.’
‘No I’m not,’ I said, ‘but you might be; I think you might be quite wicked.’ I added: ‘Just tell me something as a one-off, did you everhave any business dealings with the Mardys?’
‘Why should you think I had?’
‘Instinct,’ I said. ‘I didn’t order you in this bar, but you saw Colonel Newington pointing at you just now, and
‘Well, if your grandparents ever really did say that,’ I said, ‘I can only tell you that they copied it from Mrs Gaskell.’
‘Eh?’ he said, dumbfounded, and it was perfectly obvious to me that he had never heard of Mrs Gaskell, but had unconsciously drained the allusion off as an appropriate undertaker’s platitude in the presence of a bereaved family, from the recent TV adaptation of
The Old Nurse’s Story –
his grandparents be damned. He had a fruit juice on the bar beside him, and took a sip of it. The white fingers, the colourless but cracked nails held the glass delicately and also jealously away from me and he beamed on me as one does on an evident inferior. He took another sip, and his stomach growled in him somewhere far down: ‘I should like it if you would join me in a half of bitter.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I never drink halves. Or bitter.’
‘Something stronger, perhaps?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘I hear you’re a police officer.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Might I ask what you’re doing down here in Thornhill?’
‘I’m doing what I always do,’ I said, ‘minding the public’s business.’
A titter went up from the big public bar whose counter I could see opposite us; people were leaning across. ‘What’s your name anyway?’ I said to him.
‘I’m Baddeley, Walter Baddeley,’ he said. ‘Estate agent.’
The titter became a gust of laughter. A young man from by the dart-board shouted: ‘He’s Baddeley, Walter Baddeley, an agent of this town! He owns it, he loans it, he’s known for miles around!’
‘Nice to have an audience,’ I said.
Baddeley didn’t appear to think so. He stopped smiling, his hand fell away from me to his side and he said: ‘Young, well young somethings, only I naturally won’t say it.’
I said: ‘Are you also the Baddeley whose name I noticed over the undertaker’s place up the street?’
‘That most certainly is me,’ he said. ‘Yes.’
The crowd in the other bar roared out: ‘Going out to bury, makes Walter Baddeley merry! He sends in his bill, gets a clause in the will, and then he’s happy, very!’
Baddeley started moving away, furious, but I caught him by the arm on an impulse and said: ‘What do you know about the Mardys?’
‘I’d rather not talk about them,’ he said. ‘It’s too sad.’
‘What’s sad?’ I said. ‘Come on, you start getting familiar with police officers in a pub, you can’t complain if you get asked questions – I’m here to do that.’
‘They were going downhill,’ said Baddeley. ‘Of course, I went up occasionally for Madam Mardy’s concerts.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘you like music, do you?’
‘All I can tell you,’ he said, ‘is that the Mardys were both very, very special people.’
‘And of course you were upset when Mrs Mardy disappeared last August?’
‘I was naturally very distressed, like everyone else here in Thornhill.’
‘And what did you do about it? Did you go up to see her husband, try to console him at all?’
‘We weren’t close friends,’ he said primly, ‘I didn’t feel I had the right to intrude.’
I knew instantly that he was lying. ‘I find you quite interesting,’ I said. ‘I hear a rumour you’re running for mayor, yet something bad happens to quite prominent fellow citizens of yours and you just let them drop, if I’m reading you properly. You enjoyed their hospitality and their music while it lasted, showed your face because it was the thing to do and then, when things went sour, you forgot all about them, terrific.’
‘You’re bending what I’ve said.’
‘No I’m not,’ I said, ‘but you might be; I think you might be quite wicked.’ I added: ‘Just tell me something as a one-off, did you everhave any business dealings with the Mardys?’
‘Why should you think I had?’
‘Instinct,’ I said. ‘I didn’t order you in this bar, but you saw Colonel Newington pointing at you just now, and
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