“I haven’t.”
“How d’ye know about the ghost then?”
“Whose ghost – what ghost?”
“The Colonel – Colonel Dauntsey.”
“I thought he was a major.”
“No. I’m not talking about him. Not Rupert Dauntsey – the Major. He’s the one you’re looking for now. I mean his father – the old Colonel. His grave’s over there, look – that posh job with the fancy statue on the roof.”
A white marble blockhouse stood out against the back wall and appeared almost floodlit in the murk. “The mausoleum?” he enquired.
“Yes, that one, Chief Inspector – anyway his ghost is supposed ...”
Bliss wasn’t listening as she steered him toward the mausoleum; he was reading the names off gravestones, half expecting to see “Mandy Richards” – knowing he wouldn’t. Knowing Mandy inhabited a cemetery a world away. Not for her the tranquillity of a country churchyard with overhanging beeches and chatter of birdsong. Even the vicar’s words at her funeral, “In the midst of life we are in death,” had been lost to the roar of a 747 struggling to escape the gravitational pull of Heathrow Airport.
They had reached The Colonel’s resting place and Bliss stood back to admire the statue soaring above the sarcophagus – a white marble winged chariot drawn by a team of flying stallions.
“Very mythical,” said Daphne, following his eye-line.
“That’s strange. Jonathon mentioned something about Homer’s Iliad. I wonder if there’s some connection?”
“What did he say?”
“It didn’t make any sense to me – something about letting fate choose. I don’t remember to be honest.”
“Probably the bit about Hector and Achilles ... ” she started, then cried in surprise, “Oh look! His name was Wellington ... Wellington Rupert Dauntsey.”
“Didn’t you know?”
“No. He wasn’t the sort of man who needed a name. He was just The Colonel. I suppose his family called him something, but I assumed Rupert – Major Dauntsey – called his father ‘Sir’ or ‘Colonel’ like everyone else.”
“‘Sir,’” repeated Bliss. “You think he called his Dad ‘Sir?’”
“Not a Dad, Chief Inspector. People like that don’t have Dads. Dads are warm friendly creatures who cuddle their children, take them on picnics, play silly games and make funny noises ... People like the Dauntseys have fathers who totally ignore them for eight years, then pack them off to a boarding school saying, ‘Thank God for that – children can be such an inconvenience don’t you know.’”
The ornately carved wooden door to the family tomb was locked, and the huge galvanised padlock demanded his attention. “I wonder who holds the keys,” he muttered, examining it carefully, noting that it did not look as though it had been opened recently.
“The family probably – The Major I expect,” said Daphne, peering over his shoulder. “The Vicar will know.”
“I must ask him,” said Bliss with tepid intention, thinking it unlikely that Jonathon would have put his father’s body in such an obvious, albeit appropriate, location. “I’d better get over there,” he continued with a nod toward the knot of policemen still clustered around the open grave.
Daphne’s eyes lit up. “Could I come and have a peek?”
“There’s nothing to see really, just an empty grave. The Major’s body wasn’t in it, just the duvet.”
“I always reckoned he’d have trouble getting past St. Peter, but I thought he’d manage to get as far as the grave,” she whispered, as if fearful of being overheard.
“Why do you say that?”
“What?”
“That he’d have trouble getting past St. Peter.”
“I don’t talk ill of the dead, Chief Inspector,” she said stalking off huffily. “I’m surprised you’d even ask me.”
He caught up to her and tried flattery. “I just thought as how you’re so much part of the police here ...”
“Not me, I’m not. All I do is clean up after the filthy beggars – you should see those toilets – piss all over the floor – young girls today wouldn’t do it. Most of them would throw up at the thought.”
Bliss let her cool down for a few seconds then tried again. “So, without speaking ill, what can you tell me about him – the Major?”
Daphne’s face blanked to an expression of deep thought as she put together a picture of the missing man, then she screwed up her nose. “He was nothing much to look at, certainly no oil painting, but then neither was his father, the old colonel. It was the chin mainly, or lack of it. I think his Adam’s apple stuck out further than his chin. He wasn’t a big man either, although his rank added a foot or so to his height. It’s a good job for Jonathon he took after his mother.”
“When did you last see him – the Major?”
“Oh, I haven’t seen him for a long time, Chief Inspector, I’m not in the landed gentry league.” Then she suddenly changed her mind about inspecting the grave. “I’ll walk home from here,” she said, turning and heading back to the gates. “The rain’s eased, and it’s not far.”
Bliss stopped and watched her, feeling she knew more than she’d let on. Then she paused, and swung around with an afterthought. “Where are you staying?” she called. “Presuming you’re not driving back and forth to London every day.”
“It’s only an hour or so outside rush hour, but I’ve booked in at The Mitre for a few days ’til I sort something out.”
“Well you won’t want to eat there.”
“I won’t?”
“Good God no, Chief Inspector. Mavis Longbottom’s cooking there – she’s already lost two husbands?”
“What do you mean – food poisoning?”
“No – Lost ’em to other women – doesn’t say much for her cooking though does it? ... Well you’d better come to me this evening.”
“Oh, I couldn’t ...”
“Don’t talk nonsense, of course you can. Anyway, it’ll give me a chance to tell you what I know about the Major.” Then she looked at him with a cheekiest of sideways glances, “If you’re interested that is.”
He would have said as how he couldn’t possibly impose when she held up a hand to block his refusal.
“I shall expect you for dinner at seven, Chief Inspector,” she said, adding without pause for dissent. “I noticed my butcher had a nice tray of pork chops laid out this morning,” as if her directive was not in itself sufficiently compelling.
Bliss folded. “Alright, Daphne. It’d be a pleasure, but we’d better say eight to be on the safe side, I’ve a feeling it’s going to be a very long day.”
“Roger Wilco. Eight it is,” she said and bounced away like a ten-year-old whose best friend was coming to tea.
Still half expecting to come upon Mandy Richards name on a tombstone, Bliss made his way to the open grave. No further evidence had been uncovered, and Detective Constable Dowding was only too happy to accompany him to the nursing home. Anything was better than guarding a hole in the ground, in the rain, while photographers and scenes of crime officers bustled excitedly around, seizing on anything that may have the slightest connection to the case.
The nursing home was