"Asking For The Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hill Reginald)CHAPTER VIIIWhile from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down. The night had grown wilder during the hours since their arrival. There were flurries of rain in the gusty wind which tore at the clouds and sent bunches of stars scurrying across the sky. The ancient beeches rustled and groaned and swayed like an old Disney forest, and underfoot the long grass laid ankle-twisting traps over the forgotten coach ruts. Here once through an alley Titanic Of cypress I roamed with my Soul - Pascoe found himself jogging to the contrived but controlled rhythm of Poe's poem. Behind him, impeded by the woman's dress and shoes, ran Swithenbank and Jean Starkey. Far ahead in the tunnelled darkness he caught an occasional glimpse of a swaying light as though someone were holding a torch. At the end of our path a liquescent And nebulous lustre was bom. And there it was, not the pin-prick of a torch but a distinct glow hazed through the fine mist of rain. Pascoe paused and the pursuing couple came up with him. 'Someone's switched the Christmas floodlights on,' said Swithenbank. 'God, they'll have half the village at the church!' As though this were a congregation devoutly to be missed, he abandoned the hard-panting woman to Pascoe's care and sprinted ahead. Hard panting became Jean Starkey, Pascoe suspected, and normally he would have accepted the charge gladly, but he wanted to be at the church on time before the voices of reason and discretion had a chance to prevail. 'You OK?' he asked. A change of note in the heavy breathing and a vague movement of the shadowy head seemed affirmative, so abandoning chivalry and the woman together, he pressed on. In the darkness of the great outdoors a very few yards can make the difference between good vision and total obscurity. Suddenly what lay ahead swam into close focus – a gateway, a pair of looming evergreens immediately beyond, and fifty yards further on the bulk of the church, its grey stone silvery in the light which flooded its tower. The wrought metal gate hung open between its two stone posts. Pascoe leapt lightly through on to a neglected weed-snagged gravel path which curved among a forest of mossy and sometimes drunkenly angled tombstones. Leaning against one of these was a figure which might have been taken for an exuberant mason's impression of Grief had it not moved and said, 'Pascoe!' His recognition of Rawlinson was almost instantaneous but that 'almost' had his skin crawling chillily. 'Give us a hand,' said Rawlinson, groaning as he pushed himself up from the headstone. 'I came out in such a hurry, 1 forgot my stick and the leg's gone.' 'Look,' said Pascoe. 'Shouldn't you hang on here till I can rustle up a stretcher?' 'For Christ's sake, man! Peter's up that fucking tower! I've got to get there!' Dalziel would not have let such an opportunity pass, but Pascoe knew he was of more tender and humane stuff than his gross superior. It was this knowledge that made him regard himself with some surprise and distress as he took half a step backwards from Rawlinson's grasping hand and said coldly, 'Why? Why have you got to get there?' 'Why? Because it's my fault,' the man cried in anguish. 'I was as much to blame. And I said I forgave him, but he knew I didn't. Knowing that, where could he turn for help?' Pascoe nodded. He felt rather disappointed. The picture was going to show a frightened rabbit after all. 'He didn't find you by accident,' he said. 'He was up on the tower with you. He pushed you.' 'No, no, that was an accident,' insisted the distraught man. 'Please help me while there's still time.' 'Come on,' said Pascoe, suddenly full of self-disgust, an emotion which won the wholehearted support of Jean Starkey, who had arrived soon enough to catch the drift of the exchange and who now said to him as she lent her strength to getting Rawlinson upright, 'That was a shitty thing to do.' 'Don't you preach at me, lady,' he snapped back. 'Not you.' In silence, supporting Rawlinson between them, they made their way to the church. Here Kingsley came to meet them. 'Thank God you're here,' he said to Pascoe with what sounded like genuine relief. 'He's on top of the tower. He's locked the stair door behind him and he won't speak to anyone.' 'Who put that floodlight on?' demanded Pascoe. 'I did,' said Kingsley rather proudly. 'It's just used at Christmas really but I thought…' 'Switch the bloody thing off!' commanded Pascoe, easing Rawlinson against an old rugged cross. 'Leave the outer porch light on. Then see if you can break the tower door open.' 'It's five hundred years old,' said Kingsley, shocked. 'Then with a bit of luck it'll have woodworm,' said Pascoe. 'Hurry!' A moment later the bright light faded, leaving the tower as a black monolith while those below stood in the gentler glow which spilled out of the church porch. 'Why've you switched it off?' demanded Ursula. She looked wild and distraught, her gown sodden, her make-up smeared like an action painting by the driven rain. All her sexuality had gone, whereas even in the stress of the moment Pascoe had noted under the floodlight the amazing things dampness was doing to Jean Starkey's scarlet dress. 'If he looked down, all he'd be able to see was the glare,' said Pascoe. 'Like being on a stage. We don't want him to feel he's on a stage. I want him to be able to see us – and what he's likely to hit. And I don't want a crowd here either. Now tell me, has he said anything?' 'No, not a word.' 'But he's definitely up there?' 'Yes. We nearly caught up with him. He had to unlock the outer door of the church.' 'Where was the key to the tower?' 'Hanging up in the porch with all the other keys.' 'Is the outer door always locked?' 'It has been since last year, since Geoff's accident. But what's all this got to do with getting Peter down from there?' Ursula demanded angrily. She was right, thought Pascoe guiltily. He must keep his eye on the rabbit for the moment and forget the goose. He took the woman by the arm and led her unresisting to where Rawlinson was standing by the cross peering helplessly upwards. 'Listen,' he said. 'I think I know why he's up there, but I'm not sure what'll bring him down. You'd better tell me. Is it just the drink talking? I mean, when the rain and the cold sobers him up, will he come down of his own accord?' Brother and sister exchanged glances. 'No,' said Ursula. 'Drinking's an escape. The soberer he gets, the worse it'll be.' 'I guessed so,' said Pascoe. 'Then you two had better talk to each other fast. Whatever you know, you've both got to know it, because he's got to know you both know it.' Ursula managed to raise a wan smile. 'That's a lot of knowing.' Pascoe regarded her seriously. 'Too much for you?' She shook her head, then to her brother she said gently, 'Geoff, I'm a good guesser. And I'm Peter's wife.' Rawlinson rubbed the rain off his face or it may have been tears. Then he began to talk rapidly, in a confessional manner. 'When he used to come and stay with us, we always shared a bed. Some time, it must have been in our early teens, I don't remember, but one summer when he came, well, we'd always played and wrestled before like boys do, only now puberty was well under way and we started exciting ourselves and each other with talk and pictures. For me, I believe for most adolescents if it happens, it was just a sort of marking time. I'd have been terrified to go near a real girl but that was always the image I had in my mind. Later, as I got older and started making dates with girls, I wanted to stop. It would have been earlier but for Peter; but in the end we did stop. We did our college training, settled down to our careers. I got married, John and Kate got married and finally Ursula and Peter married. I was delighted. I liked him, we were close friends, our childhood was far behind us, then last year…' 'It was after the harvest supper, wasn't it?' interrupted Ursula with the certainty of revelation. Rawlinson nodded glumly, unsurprised that she knew. 'Yes. We were clearing up together, alone. I was… unhappy. Well, that's my affair. I talked to Peter. He touched me. And what we did seemed natural, innocent almost. Till next day. I was so full of guilt it almost choked me. I couldn't believe it of myself. The only thing to do seemed to be to pretend it hadn't happened. I made sure I was never alone with Peter during the next couple of weeks. He made no sign that anything was between us, and when he told me about the owls in the tower, I didn't think twice about asking if I could go up there at night. The first three nights I was by myself, getting them accustomed to my presence. The fourth, that was the Friday, he came up with a flask of coffee for me. What happened then – well, all you need to know is the falling was pure accident. My own fault. I was stupid. But stupid or not, it did this…' He slapped his damaged leg in anger and frustration. 'We've got to get him down,' he said desperately. 'Yes, I've blamed him for this and he knows it. But I never wished the same on him. Never!' Pascoe was looking at the woman. She put her arm round her brother's shoulder. 'It's OK, Geoff. It's OK. I know, I know. Or at least I guessed.'It's OK.' 'And your husband, have you talked about it with him?' asked Pascoe. 'No, not directly. It's a myth, isn't it, that everything's solved by bringing it out in the open? We have a kind of jokey relationship about sex. It's a delicate balance but we keep it, we keep it.' She sounded desperate for reassurance. 'Something's upset the balance,' urged Pascoe gently. 'Yes, I know. Three or four months ago something, I don't know what. And tonight. Perhaps it's something to do with you being at Boris's!' She flashed this at him furiously as though delighted to have found a target. 'My God!' cried Rawlinson, who'd never taken his eyes off the tower. 'He's there!' Pascoe screwed up his eyes against the now driving rain. The figure leaning over the parapet could have been part of the stonework, some graven saint, so still and indistinct it was. 'Peter! Peter!' screamed Ursula, cupping her hands in an effort to hurl her words skywards. So strong was the wind now that Pascoe doubted if anything but the thin edge of that cry sounded aloft the tower. His training told him he should already have summoned the fire brigade, at least got them on stand-by. But this story could destroy those concerned just as much as the fall could destroy Davenport. A figure darted from the church porch. It was Swithenbank, excited but controlled. 'We've got the door open,' he said. 'What next?' Pascoe thought rapidly. 'What's at the top of the stairs?' he demanded of Rawlinson. 'Another door out on to the tower.' 'Does it have a lock?' 'Just a hasp and a padlock.' 'So he can't lock it from above. OK. Mr Rawlinson, can you manage to move forward a bit, get on to the path right beneath Davenport? Ursula, give him a hand.' Rawlinson clung heavily to his shoulder and limped into position. 'Now stand there the pair of you and bellow at him. He may not be able to hear, but keep on bellowing. I want him to see you two side by side. And I don't want him to be able to jump without risking landing on one of you. If he shifts position, follow him!' Accompanied by Swithenbank, he dashed into the church porch. Jean Starkey was there, so wet she might as well have been naked. By contrast Stella Rawlinson was relatively dry. She had found time to put on a raincoat and headscarf before coming out, though her patience had not stretched to moving at her lame husband's pace. Pascoe wondered how much she knew and what the knowledge was doing to her. She it was who carried the torch he had spotted in the distance. He took it from her hand without speaking and pushed his way past Kingsley, who was peering through the tower door with all the nervous excitement of a subaltern about to go over the top. 'You come second,' said Pascoe to Swithenbank. 'Keep three steps behind me. If I stop, you stop. No talking. I'll try to go through the door at the top quietly. If I can't, I'll go at a rush. Come quick then, I may need help.' 'What about me?' said Boris eagerly. 'Stay at the bottom,' ordered Pascoe. 'If he gets past us, stop him.' It was an unlikely contingency, an unnecessary job. But he didn't want Boris's bulk creaking up those wooden stairs and past experience had taught him that the fewer men you had making an arrest in the dark, the less chance there was of ending up with each other. The original staircase of the tower must have long since rotted away, but this one was quite antiquated enough. It consisted of five steep wooden steps to each narrow landing and when he gripped the banister, the newel post above rocked so alarmingly in its joint that he ignored the rail thereafter and proceeded bent double to test the stairs by eye before weight. The air smelt musty and what little light came through the narrow windows was hardly reinforced by the dim glow of the torch. Soon Pascoe could see neither the floor he had left nor the roof he approached. He remembered a ghost story in which a girl counted three hundred steps going up a tower, but coming down soon found herself far beyond that figure without any sign of the bottom. Perhaps this was the way it ended for him, too. He flashed his torch downward to seek reassurance in the presence of Swithenbank, but the sight of that narrow intense face with its high forehead, blank eyes and black moustache brought little comfort. For all he knew this man was a murderer. It was still very much a possibility. Though his theory that Rawlinson had been hurled from the tower because of what he had seen had proved a non-starter, that meant nothing. The rabbit could co-exist with the goose. On the other hand, if Swithenbank were a murderer, he had been too successful so far to need to risk attempting to dispose of a suspicious policeman. Indeed, if one of Pascoe's other hypotheses proved true… But speculation was terminated by the sudden awareness that the next landing was the last. Ahead was the door leading to the top of the tower. There was no latch on it, only an empty hasp with the discarded padlock lying on the floor. Gently Pascoe pushed at the door. He felt a resistance and for a moment thought that Davenport must have wedged it shut from without. Then he realized that it was only the force of the wind which pressed against him, and as he pushed again that same wind, as if delighted to get a grip on what had so long resisted it, caught the partly opened door and flung it wide with a tremendous crash that almost tore its hinges out of their post. The dark figure against the furthermost parapet started and turned. Pascoe hurled himself forward. The figure placed one foot on the parapet and thrust itself upwards. What might have been a shriek from below or merely a new crescendo of wind cut through the air. Pascoe sprang to the parapet, gripped one of the castellations with his left hand and caught Davenport by the jacket pocket. He felt the material begin to tear but dared not release either handhold to try for a better grip. Where the hell was Swithenbank? He heard the steps behind him, glanced back, saw that intense, controlled stare, and for a long ghastly moment wondered how he could have been so wrong about his own safety. Then with a strength unpromised by his slight frame, Swithenbank caught Davenport by the shoulders and bore him easily backwards. There was no resistance. 'I wouldn't have jumped,' he said mildly as they thrust him before them through the doorway. Pascoe half believed him but not enough to relax his grip as they clattered down the wooden stairs. Once in the church porch he released him to Ursula's equally tight clasp and thought ruefully that of them all Davenport probably looked the least distraught, though what emotion it was that twisted Stella's face as she watched her husband talking earnestly to Davenport was hard to say. 'Is he all right?' asked Kingsley anxiously. 'I doubt it,' said Pascoe. 'We'll get him home, call a doctor and get him sedated. After that…' He shrugged. 'Terrible, terrible,' said Kingsley. 'Look, Ursula won't want us all tramping around the rectory. Shall I take the main party back to Wear End to dry out? Oh, and there's the supper! It'll be ruined! And you can come on as soon as decently possible.'› Pascoe sought for some way of saying that, as the matter was not official, a close friend would be more suitable company for the Davenports than an intrusive policeman, but nothing came to mind. 'All right,' he sighed. And in any case, he was still curious to discover what it was that had sparked off Davenport's extraordinary behaviour. He found out in the next ten seconds. 'All right everybody,' called Kingsley. 'Here's what we're going to do.' But nobody was listening. Behind him the big church door, closed against the violent weather, was swinging slowly open. Into the lighted porch stepped a dark-clad figure in a dripping shapeless cap. In the crook of his arm was a shotgun. Pascoe saw the glance of hatred that came from Davenport's eyes even before the newcomer spoke. 'Evening, Vicar,' said Arthur Lightfoot. 'Here we are again, then.' |
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