Free The Corpse at the Haworth Tandoori by Robert Barnard

he had just manufactured, still less apologized for it, but he did say cheerfully, “I think I’ll begin a new picture tomorrow. Something a little less factory-made. Something angry .”

6
THE DISCIPLES
    As he pottered around Ashworth and the surrounding country in the days that followed, Declan began to fall into a routine. He realized as he got his bearings on the place that he now knew people in all the dwellings that made up the little community. Mrs. Birdsell, in the row of three tiny cottages, had Ivor Aston on one side of her and his sister Charmayne Churton on the other. The siblings were together yet not together, it seemed. Declan had a strong impression that Jenny Birdsell did not relish the closeness of the pair. Arnold Mellors had a rather larger cottage builton to one end of the main farmhouse. He asked Declan in for a drink one evening, and they talked in a relaxed and general way—politics, weather, painting, but nothing directly about Ranulph Byatt. The relaxed nature of the talk was something Declan never felt with Colonel Chesney, mainly because the man himself never was. He lived in a semidetached cottage, the other half of which was occupied by Mrs. Max. They nodded to each other if they passed or met on their front doorsteps, sometimes chatted in the lane, but they did not seem close in any way except geographically.
    Stephen was someone Declan saw little of. After the scene at dinner he seemed to make himself as scarce as possible, ranging the fields and moors, his camera slung over his shoulder, or shut up in his room reading. Any “natural” closeness between two young men, both apparently without any circle of friends, was avoided and when they met he was polite to Declan, no more. His hobby, photography, was not one that could bring them together, Declan being ham-fisted with a camera. If Stephen went out to a pub it was with people from Ashworth, and Declan felt he did not want to get involved with any drinking set in his immediate vicinity. So he avoided the pub in Stanbury and roamed the district if he fancied a beer after the evening meal, sampling pubs in Crossroads, Oakworth, and Oxenhope. There he found uncomplicated conversation, companionship that might or might not blossom, and even now and then an audience: with a badly out-of-tune piano to accompany him he sang Irish ballads and folk songs in Oakworth, and was told by more than one beery customer that he ought to go professional. After that he sometimes took his guitar with him on these excursions.
    It was in a pub in Crossroads, oddly enough, that he met Jenny Birdsell’s daughter, Mary Ann. She came in in full Salvation Army gear, in the company of an older man wearing the male equivalent, and together they went around the two bars rattling their collection boxes and selling The War Cry . Declan was among the last to have the box thrust under his nose, and he was surprised when the girl said, “I know you.”
    â€œDo you?” he asked, looking up at a pleasant but insignificant face behind round rimless spectacles. “I don’t think—”
    â€œYou’re the new help at Ashworth, looking after that dreadful old sinner.”
    Declan felt awkward.
    â€œHe’s probably that, but he treats me fine and we get on OK. How do you know?”
    â€œI’ve seen you around. From my bedroom window. I’m Mary Ann Birdsell, by the way.”
    â€œDeclan O’Hearn.”
    Mary Ann made a quick decision, handed her box to her partner, and sat down.
    â€œI’ve finished for the day, Jack. See you same time tomorrow.”
    Declan thought he ought to buy her a drink, and he got up, feeling in his pocket for coins from his first week’s wages.
    â€œYou don’t have to,” said the girl. “They won’t turn me out or anything. Well, a Coke if you must.”
    When he got back from the bar with her drink she was sitting on her bench seat, her mouth primly set,