A Dedicated Man Page 9

  ‘Anyway, although I was, as I said, just about to go to university in London, I always came home at Christmas and in summer. I’d help around the house, do odd jobs, make bacon and eggs for the guests. And I loved being at home, being in the Yorkshire countryside. It was best when Harry and Emma came to stay for their annual holidays. I’d walk for hours, sometimes alone, sometimes with Harold or Penny.’

  ‘Penny?’ Banks cut in. ‘Would that be Penny Cartwright?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. We were very close until I went off to London.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We used to go out together, in a casual sort of way. It was all very innocent. She was sixteen and we’d known each other nearly all our lives. She’d even stayed with us for a while after her mother died.’

  ‘How old was she then?’

  ‘Oh, about ten or eleven. It was tragic, really. Mrs Cartwright drowned in a spring flood. Terrible. Penny’s father had a nervous breakdown, so she stayed with us while he recovered. It seemed only natural. Later, when . . . well, you know, we were a bit older . . . Anyway, Harold was very knowledgeable and enthusiastic about the area. He took to Swainsdale immediately, and pretty soon he was teaching me more than I’d learned living there all my life. He was like that. I was impressed, of course, but as I was about to study English at university I was insufferably literary – always quoting Wordsworth and the like. I suppose you know he bought the house when my mother couldn’t afford to keep it on?’

  Banks nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ Ramsden went on, ‘they came every year, Harry and Emma, and when father died they were in a position to help us out a great deal. It was good for Harry, too. His work at the university was too abstract, too theoretical. He published a book called The Principles of Industrial Archaeology, but what he really wanted was the opportunity to put those principles into practice. University life didn’t give him time enough to do that. He fully intended to teach again, you know. But first he wanted to do some real pioneering work. When he inherited the money, all that became possible.

  ‘When I graduated, I went to work for Fisher and Faulkner in London first. Then they opened the northern branch and offered me this job. I missed the north and I’d always hoped to be able to make a living up here some day. We published Harold’s second book and he and I developed a good working relationship. The firm specializes in academic books, as you can see.’ He pointed towards the crowded bookshelves, and most of the titles Banks could make out had principles or a study of in them. ‘We do mostly literary criticism and local history,’ Ramsden went on. ‘Next Harry edited a book of local essays, and since that we’ve been working on an exhaustive industrial history of the dale from pre-Roman times to the present. Harry published occasional essays in scholarly journals, but this was to be his major work. Everybody was looking forward to it tremendously.’

  ‘What exactly is industrial archaeology?’ Banks asked. ‘I’ve heard the term quite often lately, but I’ve only got a vague idea what it means.’

  ‘Your vague idea is probably as clear as anyone else’s,’ Ramsden replied. ‘As yet, it’s still an embryonic discipline. Basically, the term was first used to describe the study of the machinery and methods of the Industrial Revolution, but it’s been expanded a great deal to include other periods – Roman lead mines, for example. I suppose you could say it’s the study of industrial artefacts and processes, but then you could argue for a month about how to define “industrial”. To complicate matters even further, it’s very hard to draw the line between the subject as a hobby and as an academic discipline. For instance, if someone happens to be interested in the history of steam trains, he can still make a contribution to the field, even though he actually works nine to five in a bank most days.’

  ‘I see,’ Banks said. ‘So it’s a kind of hybrid area, an open field?’

  ‘That’s about it. Nobody’s yet come up with a final definition, which is partly why it’s so exciting.’

  ‘You don’t think Mr Steadman’s death could be in any way linked to his work, do you?’

  Ramsden shook his head slowly. ‘I can’t see it, no. Of course, there are feuds and races just like in any other discipline, but I can’t see any of it going that far.’

  ‘Did he have rivals?’

  ‘Professionally, yes. The universities are full of them.’

  ‘Could he have uncovered something that someone might wish to keep quiet?’

  Ramsden thought for a moment, his sharp chin resting in his bony hand. ‘You mean the unsavoury past of a prominent family, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘It’s an interesting theory. I can’t say for certain one way or the other. If he had discovered something, he didn’t tell me. It’s possible, I suppose. But we’re a long way from the Industrial Revolution. You’d have to dig back a very long way if you want to find a descendant of someone who made his fortune by exploiting child labour, for example, which wasn’t entirely uncommon back then. I don’t think there are many direct descendants of the Romans around who still have anything to hide.’

  Banks smiled. ‘Probably not. What about enemies, academic or otherwise?’

  ‘Harry? Good Lord, I shouldn’t think so. He wasn’t the kind to make enemies.’

  Again, Banks refrained from stating the obvious. ‘Do you know anything about this business with Teddy Hackett?’ he asked.

  Ramsden glanced sharply at him. ‘You don’t miss much, do you?’ he said. ‘Yes, I know about it, for what it’s worth. There’s a field in Helmthorpe over the river near the cricket pitch – it’s called Crabtree’s Field because it used to belong to a farmer named Crabtree. He’s long dead now, though. There’s a small bridge which connects the field with the campsite on the other side, and Hackett wants to provide more “facilities” for the campers – by which he no doubt means junk food and video games. You must have noticed the increasing Americanization of the English countryside, Chief Inspector. McDonald’s seems to be springing up everywhere now, even in places as small as Helmthorpe. Harold had good reason to suppose – and I’ve heard his evidence – that there was once a Roman camp there. It could be a very important discovery. He was trying to persuade the local authorities to protect it for excavations. Naturally, that caused a bit of friction between Harry and Teddy Hackett. But they remained friends. I don’t think it was a serious quarrel.’

  ‘Not serious enough to lead to murder?’

  ‘Not in my opinion, no.’ Ramsden turned sideways again and looked out over the river at the shining Minster towers. ‘They were quite close friends, though God knows why, seeing as their views on just about everything were always diametrically opposed. Harry enjoyed a good argument for its own sake – that was the academic in him – and Hackett is at least a fairly intelligent, if not a very tasteful, adversary. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Harry’s friends in the village how serious the quarrel was. I didn’t get over there often enough. I suppose you’ve met the good doctor and the resident scribbler?’

  Banks nodded. ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘A little. Not very well, though. As I said, I don’t get to Helmthorpe as often as I’d like. Doc Barnes has been around as long as I can remember, of course. And I’ve had one or two beery evenings in the Bridge. Naturally there was quite a bit of excitement when Jack Barker moved to Gratly three or four years back, but it soon settled down when he proved to be much like everyone else.’

  ‘Where did he come from? What made him choose Gratly?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue, I’m afraid. I have a vague notion he’s from somewhere in Cheshire, but I couldn’t swear to it. You’ll have to ask him.’

  ‘Did he know Mr Steadman before he moved to Gratly?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Harry never mentioned him.’

  ‘Does your company publish his books?’

  ‘Lord, no.’ Ramsden made curious snuffling noises through his nose, and Banks took the sound for laughter. ‘I told you what we specializ
e in. I believe Barker writes paperback originals.’

  ‘Did Mr Steadman ever say anything about Dr Barnes or Jack Barker?’

  ‘He said a number of things, yes. What do you have in mind?’

  ‘Anything odd. Did he ever tell you anything about them that you thought they might not want to be common knowledge?’

  ‘Are you trying to suggest that Harry was a blackmailer?’

  ‘Not at all. But if he did know something, they weren’t to know what he’d do with the knowledge, were they? You say he was a decent upright man – fair enough. If he knew of anything illegal or immoral anyone was involved in, what do you think he would have done?’

  ‘I see what you mean.’ Ramsden tapped a yellow pencil on his bottom teeth. ‘He’d have done the right thing, of course. Gone to the authorities. But I still can’t help you. He never indicated to me that either Barker or Barnes had ever been involved in anything untoward.’

  ‘What about Penny Cartwright?’

  ‘What about her? Harry certainly never spoke ill of Penny.’

  ‘What about your relationship with her?’

  Ramsden paused. ‘I’m not sure it’s any of your business.’

  ‘Up to you,’ Banks said.

  ‘It was all a long time ago. There was certainly nothing odd about it. I don’t see how knowing can possibly help you.’

  Banks kept silent.

  ‘Oh, what the hell, then,’ Ramsden said. ‘Why not? I told you – we were good friends, then we drifted apart. We were both in London at roughly the same time, but we moved in very different circles. She was a singer, so she hung around with musicians. She was always a bit of a rebel, too. You know, had to be different, embraced all the causes. She made a couple of records and even toured in Europe and America, I believe. It was traditional folk music they played – at first, anyway – but they jazzed it up with electronic instruments. Then she got tired of life in the fast lane and came home. Her father forgave her and she settled into her cottage. Apart from the old man getting a bit overprotective now and again, she more or less gets on with her own life. Still sings a bit around the local pubs, too.’

  ‘What’s her father like?’

  ‘The major? To do him justice, he never really recovered from his wife’s death. He’s a strange old bird. Lives right on High Street with his dog. Has a flat over old Thadtwistle’s bookshop. There were rumours, you know, when Penny left. Look, I’m not sure I should be telling you this. It’s just silly local gossip.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about that, Mr Ramsden. I know a hawk from a handsaw.’

  Ramsden swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘People said they were a bit too close, father and daughter, living together after the mother died. They say the old man wanted her to take her mother’s place in his bed and that’s why she took off so young. Do you know what I’m saying? It’s not entirely uncommon around these parts.’

  Banks nodded. ‘Do you believe it?’

  ‘Not for a moment. You know how vindictive gossip can be.’

  ‘But what did anyone have against the Cartwrights?’

  Ramsden picked up his pencil again and started rolling it between his fingers. ‘People thought they were a bit stuck-up, that’s all. The major’s always been stand-offish, and his wife wasn’t from around these parts. People in the dale used to be a lot more parochial than they are now so many outsiders have moved in. Even now most of them think of Penny as some kind of scarlet woman.’

  ‘You were close to her. Did she say anything?’

  ‘No, she didn’t. And I think she would have done if anything unusual had been going on.’

  ‘Was she friendly with Mr Steadman?’

  ‘Yes, they were very good friends. Penny knows a lot about folk traditions through her music, you see, and Harold was always willing to learn. She even taught him some guitar. Also, she was very disorientated for a while after she came back from her brush with fame and fortune, and I think Harry’s support meant a lot. He thought the world of her. They both loved going for long walks, watching birds and wild flowers, talking about the past.’

  There was plenty to follow up in that, Banks thought. But he had no more questions to ask. He already had more than enough information to digest and analyze.

  He thanked Ramsden, said goodbye and walked back over the sluggish Ouse to his car.

  He stopped at the first likely-looking village inn he saw and enjoyed a late, leisurely pub lunch of shepherd’s pie and a refreshing pint of shandy made from Sam Smith’s Old Brewery bitter. As he drove back to Eastvale listening to Purcell’s airs, he began to go over the list of involved characters in his mind, trying to imagine motives and opportunities.

  First there was Teddy Hackett. That field business might only be the tip of the iceberg, and if Steadman had been blocking similar projects, Hackett would have a good enough reason for wanting rid of him.

  Then there was Jack Barker. No obvious motive there but no alibi either, as Barker himself had admitted on Sunday evening. His glance at Penny Cartwright in the Bridge had spoken volumes, and if there was more to her relationship with Steadman than Ramsden had told him, then jealousy may have provided a very strong motive.

  As for Dr Barnes, his alibi hadn’t been nearly as solid as he had seemed to think, and though there was no motive apparent yet, Banks wasn’t willing to consider him out of the running.

  It seemed pointless to include Emma Steadman; for one thing she was left-handed, and for another she had been watching television with Mrs Stanton all evening. But there was the money. She did have a great deal to gain from her husband’s death, especially if the two weren’t seeing eye to eye anymore. She could, possibly, have hired someone. It was unlikely, but he couldn’t rule it out.

  Ramsden seemed to have neither the motive nor the opportunity. In a way, Steadman was his bread and butter, an important client as well as an old friend. Perhaps he did envy Steadman, but that was no reason to kill him. Banks couldn’t quite work Ramsden out. There was the business of the novel, for a start. He sensed that perhaps great things had been expected of Ramsden artistically but had never really materialized. Why? Indolence? Lack of talent? He seemed to have a rather precious personality, and Banks guessed that he had been pampered as a child, most likely by his mother, and led to believe that he was special and gifted. Now he was in his twenties and the talent hadn’t really made itself manifest.

  Penny Cartwright remained a grey area. She might have had both motive and means, but they had yet to be discovered. Banks wanted very much to talk to her, and he decided to go to Helmthorpe that evening. He would have to see her father, too, at some point.

  One problem was that there was so much time to account for. If Steadman had left the Bridge at about a quarter to nine and his body had been dumped at twelve fourteen, where had he been and what had he been doing during those three and a half hours? Surely someone must have seen him?

  Slowly, Banks’s thoughts faded as the countertenor sang a mournful ‘Retir’d from any Mortal’s Sight’ and the poplars and privet hedges that lined the road gave way to the first houses in Eastvale.

  TWO

  ‘So you told him everything then?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to, Kevin, honest – not your name and all. But it just slipped out.’

  Kevin leered and Sally’s expression darkened. She elbowed him in the ribs. ‘You’ve got a filthy mind, you have. It was the time that did it. Twelve fourteen. He could see I hadn’t got a digital watch. Why do you have to wear that silly thing anyway?’

  Kevin looked down at his watch as if examining it for faults. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘It beeps every hour,’ Sally went on, her voice softening. ‘No matter what you’re doing.’

  Kevin leaned forward and kissed her. She squirmed beneath him and he slipped his hand under her blouse to hold her soft warm breast. Her body was pressed down hard against the ground, and the moist sickly smell of grass filled the air. Insects buzzed and
whined all around. Finally, she broke away and gasped for breath. Kevin lay back with his hands behind his head and stared at the deep-blue sky.

  ‘What did you think of him, then, this hotshot from London?’ he asked.

  Sally snorted. ‘Some hotshot. Fancy leaving London to come up here. The bloke must be barmy.’

  Kevin turned to face her, leaning on one elbow and sticking a long stalk of grass between his teeth. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Didn’t seem very interested, really. He just asked me a lot of daft questions. I don’t know why I bothered. I won’t be so fast to go out of my way and help the police next time, that’s for sure.’

  ‘What do you mean, “next time”?’

  ‘I mean if I find out anything else.’

  ‘Why should that happen? It was only by chance we heard the car. We didn’t even know what it was.’

  ‘But we do now. Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know who did it?’

  Kevin shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t want to get involved. Leave all that to the police. That’s what they get paid for.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that a typical small-minded attitude?’ Sally said scornfully.

  ‘It’s a sensible one, though.’

  ‘So? It’s no fun being sensible all the time.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘Nothing. I just might do a bit of snooping on my own, that’s all. I’ve lived here all my life. I ought to know what’s going on in the village.’

  ‘What can you do that the police can’t?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but I bet I can do better than them. Wouldn’t it be exciting if I solved the case for them?’