The Killings at Badger's Drift

by Caroline Graham

  ‘She loved her Shakespeare. Shakespeare and the Bible. Food for the mind and comfort for the soul.’ Julius Caesar lay open on top of the pile next to a magnifying glass. ‘She adored the theatre too. We used to go a lot when she could still drive. Topping times they were. Absolutely topping.’ She produced a large khaki and crimson silk handkerchief and blew her nose.

  They went upstairs. Only one bedroom was furnished. A narrow, virginal bed, wallpaper sprigged with forget-me-nots, faded velvet curtains. All as sweet and innocent as a liberty bodice. The spare room was used for storage. There was a vacuum cleaner and a stack of boxes, also several carboys of home-made wine, some cloudy, some clear, one or two hiccuping quietly.

  ‘She was planning to bottle the honeysuckle this weekend. It’s a bit like a Sancerre, you know.’

  They retreated down the narrow staircase and returned to the kitchen. Barnaby said, ‘There must be a bottle open somewhere. She drank something alcoholic before she died.’

  ‘You could try the cold larder.’ Miss Bellringer indicated a blue door at the end of the kitchen adding, a second too late, ‘Mind the step.’

  He pitched forwards into semi-darkness. What light there was had a greenish tinge, being admitted through the leaves of a cherry laurel which was pressing against a largish window covered with wire mesh of the type used in an old-fashioned meat safe. It had a simple catch fastening which was broken. Barnaby took his handkerchief, seized the catch, pulled the window open and carefully closed it again. There was more than enough room for a reasonably slender person to climb in.

  The larder had low stone shelves holding lots of bottles and jars. There was chutney and spiced apricots in tall jars and opaque whitish honey with flowered labels and last year’s date. A large bowl of luscious scarlet strawberries. And jams and jellies: liquid fruit, dark and translucent. She salted runner beans too, just like his mother had. Close to the door was a half-empty bottle of wine. Elderflower 1979.

  Barnaby opened the back door and beckoned Troy, saying, ‘I need you to take a statement.’ They re-entered the sitting room and sat down, Miss Bellringer looking slightly apprehensive and very serious.

  ‘Now,’ began Barnaby, ‘I’d like you to -’

  ‘Just a moment, Chief Inspector. You haven’t said . . . you know . . . anything may be taken down and used in evidence . . . all that . . .’

  ‘This is just a witness statement, Miss Bellringer. It’s not necessary in this case, I assure you.’

  That was the trouble with members of the public, thought Sergeant Troy. Watched a few so-called police dramas on the telly and thought they knew it all. Sitting out of his chief’s line of vision, he allowed his lip a slight curl.

  ‘If you could tell me what happened from when you first arrived.’

  ‘I came into the kitchen -’

  ‘Was the postman with you?’

  ‘No. After he’d spoken to me he went off on his rounds. I opened the back door and hurried in here and found her where I showed you.’

  ‘Did you touch the body at all?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t move her but I . . . I held her hand for a moment.’

  ‘And did you touch anything else?’

  ‘Not then. Doctor Lessiter arrived and examined her . . . he moved her, of course. Then he rang the mortuary to ask for a car . . . well a van it was actually, to take her away. He explained about the death certificate and asked who would be handling the funeral arrangements. I said I would and while we were waiting for the van to arrive I’m afraid’ - she blushed regretfully at Barnaby - ‘I’m afraid I tidied up a bit.’

  ‘What exactly did that involve?’

  ‘There was a cup of cocoa on the telephone table. And an empty wine glass. Which struck me as a little odd.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Emily never drank alone. It was one of her foibles. I believe she thought it rather dissolute. But anyone could get her to bring a bottle out. The merest hint would suffice. She made wonderful wine. It was the only thing she was vain about . . .’ She covered her face with her hands for a long moment then said, ‘I’m so sorry . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry. Just carry on when you’re ready.’ Of course if it was murder they were talking about there would be only one glass. The other would have been carefully washed and replaced in the cupboard.

  ‘There was a milk pan in the kitchen,’ continued Miss Bellringer. ‘I washed everything up and put the things away. I knew how she’d feel, you see. Dirty pots and people coming into the living room. She was always most particular. I expect I’ve done the wrong thing.’ Guilt made her sound aggressive. When Barnaby did not reply she carried on, ‘Then I emptied the refrigerator. Some lamb and milk. A few bits and bobs. Half a tin of Benjy’s food. Actually I gave him that. He hadn’t had breakfast, you see.’

  ‘Where is the dog now?’

  ‘Trace’s farm. You must have seen the place. End of the village - pale orange job. They’ve got half a dozen already so one more won’t notice. I’ve been to see him a couple of times but I shan’t go again. It’s too upsetting. He just comes trotting out hoping it’s Emily. She’d had him thirteen years.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear him bark? On the evening of her death?’

  ‘No, but he was very good like that . . . for a Jack Russell. As long as he knew the people, of course. With strangers it was different.’ She smiled at Barnaby, the significance of the last two remarks not registering. ‘And he slept in the kitchen, so with the sitting-room door closed he’d simply think she’d gone to bed.’

  ‘To return to Friday morning . . .’

  ‘That’s about it, really. Once the van had gone I switched off the electricity, took the dog lead from behind the kitchen door, locked up and off we went.’

  ‘I see. I shall have to keep the key now, I’m afraid. I’ll let you have a receipt in due course.’

  ‘Oh.’ He watched questions form in her mind and remain unasked. ‘Very well.’

  ‘You went straight to the farm then?’ continued Barnaby. ‘Not into the garden or shed at all?’

  ‘Well . . . I had to tell the bees.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You have to tell the bees when someone dies. Especially if it’s their owner. Otherwise they just clear off.’

  Clear orf is right, observed Troy to himself. Clear orf her rocker. He flexed his fingers, deciding to omit this unlikely bit of potted folklore.

  ‘Really?’ said Barnaby.

  ‘Goodness yes. Known fact. I struck the hive three times with the key, said “Your mistress had died”, then left. Village people say you should tie something black around the hive as well but I didn’t bother. They’re a superstitious lot. Also I thought if I started messing about the bees might sting me.’

  ‘Thank you. Sergeant Troy will read your statement back now and ask you to sign it.’

  When this had been done Miss Bellringer rose, saying, rather wistfully, ‘Is that all?’

  ‘After lunch I’d like you to show me where the orchid was found.’

  ‘Won’t you have something to eat with me?’ she asked, visibly perking up.

  ‘No thank you. I shall get a snack in the Black Boy.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t do that! Mrs Sweeney’s food’s notorious.’

  Barnaby smiled. ‘I expect I shall manage to survive.’

  ‘Ahhh . . . I understand. You’re in search of local colour. Background information.’

  Using his handkerchief, Barnaby opened the door for her. As she turned to leave something caught her eye. ‘That’s funny.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Emily’s fork’s missing. She always kept it on that shelf with her trowel and apron.’

  ‘Probably in the garden.’

  ‘Oh no. She was a creature of habit. Tools cleaned with newspaper and placed on her mat after use.’

  ‘No doubt it will turn up.’

  ‘Doesn’t really matter now, does it?’ She turned away. ‘See you around two o’c
lock then?’

  After she had left, Barnaby posted Sergeant Troy outside the front door and sank into the chintz sofa in the still, orderly room and listened to the ticking of the clock. He faced the two armchairs, their cushions now plump and smooth. In one of them had someone sat with a glass of wine, smiling, talking, reassuring? Killing?

  There was little doubt in the chief inspector’s mind. The hemlock in the kitchen was almost certainly a rather crude attempt to suggest that short-sighted Miss Simpson had picked a bunch in mistake for some parsley and so poisoned herself. A hurried afterthought once the news of the post mortem had travelled around the village.

  He walked over to the piecrust table already covered in a thin film of dust and looked down at the books. The Shakespeare lay open on top of the pile. Julius Caesar, the noblest Roman of them all. Not to mention the most boring, thought Barnaby, remembering his struggles with the text over thirty years before. He had read no Shakespeare since, and a dutiful visit to an overly inventive production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in which Joyce had played Titania as an Edwardian suffragette, did nothing to make him regret the decision. He looked at the open pages, screwing up his eyes. He felt for his reading glasses, remembered they were in his other jacket and picked up the magnifying glass with his handkerchief.

  Miss Simpson had almost reached the end of the play. Pindarus had brought the bad news to the battlefield. Barnaby read a few lines. None of it was in the slightest degree familiar. Then he saw something. A faint soft grey line in the margin. He took the book to the window and peered again. Someone had bracketed off three lines of a speech by Cassius. He read them aloud:This day I breathed first. Time is come round,

  And where I did begin there shall I end;

  My life is run his compass.

  Chapter Five

  All conversation ceased as Barnaby entered the Black Boy. Not that that was saying much. There was an old gaffer in the corner, only partly visible through drifts of noxious smoke; two youths with their feet on the bar rail; a girl playing the fruit machine. Mrs Sweeney, grey-haired and untypically flatchested, had an air of being at bay rather than at home behind the counter.

  Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby asked about food, refused one of Mrs Sweeney’s home-made pies and settled for a ploughman’s and a half of bitter. He was sure that curiosity as to the reason for his presence would soon produce some comment or other. However he was unprepared for the rapidity with which the nub of the matter was reached. He had hardly taken a sip of his beer (warmish and soapy) before one of the youths said, ‘You’re the fuzz ’ent you?’

  Barnaby cut off a piece of cheese and made a movement of the head that could have meant anything.

  Mrs Sweeney said, ‘Is it about poor Miss Simpson?’

  ‘Did you know the lady?’ asked Barnaby.

  ‘Ohhh . . . everyone knew Miss Simpson.’

  The fumes in the corner cleared slightly and a rattlesnakish clatter could be heard. My God, thought Barnaby, the poor old chap must be on his last legs. Then he realized that the sound was caused by a collapsing wall of dominoes. ‘She used to teach me in English,’ the old man stated.

  ‘That’s right, Jake, she did,’ agreed Mrs Sweeney, adding, in a whispered aside to Barnaby, ‘and he can’t read nor write to this day.’

  ‘She was well liked in the village then?’

  ‘Oh yes. Not like some I could mention.’

  ‘What d’you want to know about her for?’ said one of the youths.

  ‘Yeah,’ the other chipped in. ‘She been up to something?’

  ‘We’re just making a few inquiries.’

  ‘Do you know what I reckon?’ said the first one again. He wore a T-shirt reading ‘Don’t Drink and Drive You Might Get Caught’. Beneath it a wodge of fat, leprously white and hairy, hung over his commando belt. ‘I reckon she was a godmother. Gorra vice ring going over there. Slipping it in the honey.’ They both guffawed. The girl tittered.

  ‘That’s not funny, Keith,’ Mrs Sweeney said angrily. ‘If that’s the best you can find to say you can go and drink somewhere else.’

  Barnaby listened for another half hour as more people came and went, but the verdict on Miss Simpson didn’t change much. Very kind. Patient with the children. Ever so generous if there was a stall. Jam. Honey. Jars of fruit. Did lovely flowers for the church. That poor Miss Bellringer. Whatever will she do now? And what about Benjy? They pine, you know. And he’s getting on. She’ll be greatly missed. Sadly missed.

  Even when it was shorn of the eulogistic flavour deemed obligatory in all statements about the recently dead, Barnaby was still left with the picture of a singularly nice human being. Mrs Sweeney’s final remark seemed to sum it up neatly.

  ‘Not an enemy in the world.’

  The air was green and fresh as they entered the wood, yet within minutes Barnaby felt a change. As the trees closed tightly over their heads the ripeness of the vegetation all around and underfoot assailed his nostrils with a rich and rotten scent.

  Miss Bellringer was leading the way. She was carrying a shooting stick and keeping close to the chief inspector, as he had requested.

  ‘It was just over there I think, by those hellebores. Yes - there it is.’

  ‘Wait.’ Barnaby took her arm. ‘If you could stay here, please. The less trampling about the better.’

  ‘I understand.’ She sounded disappointed but stayed obediently where she was, opening her shooting stick and perching on the canvas strap. She called, ‘More to the left’ and ‘Getting warmer’ and ‘Hotsy totsy’ as he walked carefully around the patch of little green flowers. Then, when she saw him bob down, ‘Perfect isn’t it?’

  Barnaby studied the orchid and the little stick with the red ribbon. Inanimate, the marker still seemed more alive than the ash-pale plant. There was something very touching about the neatly tied bow. He got up and looked round. As far as he could see the leaf mould in the immediate area, although scuffed about, probably by rabbits and other small creatures, revealed no more serious disturbance.

  To the left of him was a tightly latticed screen of branches. Treading carefully, he looked at the ground. There were two quite deep indentations indicating that someone had been standing there for some considerable time. He noted where the broader part of the shoe had pressed, stood parallel and looked through the branches.

  He was facing a hollow. Quite a large piece of the ground was flattened: bluebell leaves and bracken bent backwards and crushed. He walked around the screen and approached the rim of the hollow, where he crouched and studied the ground more closely, being careful not to step on the squashed area, which was quite extensive. Someone or something had certainly been threshing about a bit. On his way back to Miss Bellringer he saw on the ground an impression not clearly defined enough to be called an outline, as if a log or something heavy had briefly lain there.

  ‘Thank you for showing me.’ It was good to break out of the oppressive crowding trees into an open field. Lapwings wheeled overhead in a sky full of light and sun. ‘Would you like to be taken to the inquest, Miss Bellringer?’

  ‘Oh no. We have an excellent village taxi. I shall be quite all right.’

  As they approached Beehive Cottage they saw that Sergeant Troy, watching watchfully, was now surrounded by a small but appreciative audience. Barnaby bade Miss Bellringer goodbye and crossed the road. He was immediately accosted by the youngest of the group.

  ‘Woss he doing standing around like a wally?’

  ‘Is he the police?’

  ‘You’re the police aren’t you?’

  ‘Why ain’t he got a uniform on?’

  ‘Now, son.’ The words were chopped off individually through Troy’s gritted teeth. ‘Why don’t you just move along? There’s nothing to see here.’ The suggestion sounded stale and had a mechanical ring. The group stayed put.

  ‘I’ll send someone to relieve you, Troy.’

  ‘I’m off duty in half an hour.’

  ‘You were, Serge
ant, you were. Someone should be here by five.’ A teenage girl with a toddler and a baby in a push-chair joined the group. Barnaby grinned. ‘You should have a full house by then.’

  The proceedings at the coroner’s court the following day took no time at all. The remains of Emily Simpson had been identified, a short time previously, by her friend Lucy Bellringer, and were released for burial. The pathologist’s report was read and the inquest adjourned to a later date pending further police inquiries.

  PART TWO

  INVESTIGATION

  Chapter One

  Barbara Lessiter approached the cheval-glass in the corner of her bedroom. She had switched off all the lights with one exception, the ivory figurine by her bed. The light from this filtered through an apricot shade, casting a warm glow over her shimmering nightdress and brown, solarium-toasted skin. Little peaks of strawberry-scented mousse-like cream trembled on the tips of her fingers. She started to stroke her throat from the hollow at the base to the point of her chin, rhythmically, closing her eyes and smiling. Then, using both hands and more mousse she tapped all over her face. Oil for her eyes came last. French, forty-five pounds a pot, and it went nowhere.

  She loved this ritual. Even as a young girl, years before it had been necessary, she had massaged and patted and knuckled and stroked with voluptuous satisfaction. It was hardly necessary even now, she told herself, secure in the light from the shaded lamp.

  After she had finished her face she brushed her hair: fifty strokes from the crown to the tip. Glowing reddish-brown hair as rich and glossy as henna and egg yolks and conditioners could make it. She tossed her head back and smiled.

  The movement caused a strap to slip from her shoulder. She came closer to the glass, touched her naked breast, touched the tiny purplish red bruises and smiled again, a smile of greedy reminiscence. Then she stood very still, listening.