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studies, he didn’t change his way of life much. He wasn’t really interested in money for its own sake.’
    ‘You say it came as a surprise to him,’ Banks said. ‘I thought he inherited it from his father. Surely he must have known that he was in for a sizeable inheritance?’
    ‘Well, yes he did. But he didn’t expect as much as he got. I don’t think he really paid much mind to it. Harry was a bit of an absent-minded prof. Took after his father. It
seems that the old man had patents nobody knew about tucked away all over the place.’
    ‘Was Steadman mean, stingy?’
    ‘Good heavens, no. He always paid for his round.’
    Hackett smiled tolerantly while Barnes sighed and excused Barker’s flippancy. ‘What he’s trying to say in his charming manner,’ the doctor explained, ‘is that none
of us feel we belong to the country club set. We’re comfortable here, and I’m not being facetious when I say it’s a damn good pint.’
    Banks looked at him for a moment then laughed. ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ he agreed.
    This was another thing Banks had picked up during his first year in the north – the passion a Yorkshireman has for his pint. The people in Swainsdale seemed to feel the same way about
their beer as a man from, say, Burgundy would feel about wine.
    Banks got himself another drink and, by directing the conversation away from the murder, managed to get everyone talking more openly on general matters. They discussed ordinary things, it turned
out, just like anyone else: politics, the economy, world affairs, sport, local gossip, books and television. They were three professionals, all more or less the same age, and all – except
perhaps Barnes – just a little out of place in a small community that had its roots deep in agriculture and craftsmanship.
FOUR
    Penny Cartwright locked and bolted the sturdy door behind her, drew the thick curtains tight and switched on the light. After she had put down her package and dropped her shawl
over a chair, she went around the room lighting candles that stood, at various lengths, on saucers, in empty wine bottles and even in candlesticks.
    When the room was flickering with tiny bright flames which made the walls look like melting butter, she turned out the electric light, slipped a tape in the cassette player and flopped down on
the sofa.
    The room was now as private and cosy as a womb. It was the kind of place that looked bright and happy in sunlight, and warm and intimate by candlelight. There were a few things tacked to the
walls: a postcard-size reproduction of Henri Matisse’s The Dance , which a friend had sent her from New York; a framed copy of Sutcliffe’s photograph, Gathering Driftwood ;
and a glossy picture showing her singing at a concert she and the band had given years ago. Shadowed by candlelight, the alcoves at both sides of the fireplace overflowed with personal knick-knacks
such as shells, pebbles and the kind of silly keepsakes one buys in foreign lands – things that always seem to bring back the whole atmosphere of the place and details of the day on which
they were bought: a plastic key ring from Los Angeles, a miniature slide viewer from Niagara Falls, a tiny porcelain jar emblazoned with her zodiac sign, Libra, from Amsterdam. Mixed in with these
were earrings, which Penny collected, of all shapes and colours.
    Penny took out papers and hash from a battered Old Holborn tin and rolled a small joint; then she unwrapped the half-bottle of Bell’s. There seemed no point getting a glass, so she drank
straight from the bottle, and the whisky burned her tongue and throat as it sank to stir a warm glow deep inside her.
    The tape played unaccompanied traditional folk songs – a strong clear woman’s voice singing about men going off to war, lifeboat disasters, domestic tragedies and supernatural lovers
of long ago. With part of her mind, Penny studied the vocal style critically; she admired the slight vibrato, but winced at the