Free An April Shroud by Reginald Hill

hardly a basis to build erotic fantasies on. She didn't sleep with her husband, that was an interesting point. Could be good. Could be bad. He'd guessed at first it was because the poor sod was sick. But now it seemed he'd died from an accident.
    Dalziel opened the cabinet again. One shelf was now entirely clear and all the pill bottles had gone. The process of clearing out in the wake of the departed had begun.
    Or perhaps, some ridiculous and hitherto unsuspected romantic area of his imagination suggested, perhaps she had cleared the space for him, anticipating a longer than overnight stay . . .
    These were mere hunger-fantasies, he told himself. He shook them out of his head and began to dress.
     

 
    6
     
    A Step into Summer
     
    Dinner was served in the room in which they had taken their nourishing broth. The only alteration was the covering of the big kitchen table with a white cloth liberally spotted with the stains of previous meals and with one corner unravelling. Mrs Greave was present to start with, emerging from the back kitchen with a series of covered serving dishes which she deployed over the table with more panache than strategy. Dressed now in a pair of tight-fitting yellow slacks and a flowered blouse, with her red hair piled high in a precarious beehive, she looked less like a flower of the field and more like some exotically gaudy insect. Dalziel made no attempt to make contact with her, but he felt her eyes examining him from time to time as she came in and out.
    'You all right now, Mrs Fielding?' she asked finally.
    'Yes, thank you, Mrs Greave,' said Bonnie from the head of the table.
    'Good night then.'
    She left and there was a general uncovering of serving dishes as though no one had cared to delve beneath the china surface while the cook was still in the room.
    'I can't believe it,' said Louisa.
    'What?'
    'Sausages. And some of them look only mildly burnt. First or second degree.'
    'It must be because we've got a visitor.' Pleased to be thought the cause of such a treat though unable to comprehend its particular nature, Dalziel seated at Bonnie's right hand in the place of honour piled bangers and mash on to his plate.
    'Mr Fielding not coming down?' he asked, glancing round the table.
    'No. He's a bit under the weather, I fear. He's well over seventy you know and today's been a great strain,' said Bonnie.
    'I hope he doesn't snuff it before Gumbelow's cough up,' said Louisa.
    'Would it make any difference? The award has been announced,' mumbled a fast-chewing Bertie whom Dalziel had picked out as his only serious rival in the race for a second dip into the depleted sausage dish.
    'Children!' reproved Bonnie. 'This is no way to talk!'
    She smiled apologetically at Dalziel. She was wearing a white sleeveless blouse, semi-transparent. Her right bra strap had slipped and was visible at her shoulder. Dalziel concentrated on his plate.
    'What's Gumbelow's?' he asked.
    'Oh, haven't you heard?' said Tillotson, 'Herrie's got an award.'
    'What for?' asked Dalziel, meaning to be polite. But they all laughed.
    'That would please him!' said Uniff. 'Where've you been, man? Herrie's a great poet. At least that's what Gumbelow's have decided. Yes, sir. Sixty years, but they get there in the end!'
    'It's an American thing called the Gumbelow Foundation,' explained Bonnie seeing Dalziel's puzzlement. 'They have various artistic prizes they dish out every so often. Herrie's will, of course, be for his poetry. He gets a silver plaque, I believe.'
    'It should be a silver loo seat for the stuff he writes,' said Bertie viciously. 'Ouch!'
    He started to rub his leg, glancing round the table as he did so. Plainly someone had kicked him beneath the table, but it was impossible to tell who. Dalziel put away two sausages and a substantial portion of mash while his rival was recovering and sent grateful vibrations out to the assailant.
    'Of course there's the money too,' said Bonnie. 'Fifteen thousand.'
    'Pounds?' asked