The Killings at Badger's Drift

by Caroline Graham

  ‘Now you mustn’t refuse, Mr Barnaby.’ (She addressed him as Mr Barnaby throughout their conversation, perhaps believing that policemen in the higher echelons were, like their medical counterparts, titularly civil.) ‘The inner man, you know.’

  Her son poured the tea, his bloodless white fingers flickering over the crockery. He popped an apostle spoon with a large purple stone embedded in the handle in a saucer and handed it, with the cup, to Barnaby. Feeling slightly repelled, the chief inspector took it and leaned back rather uncomfortably on his crunchy support.

  Dennis dealt an anchovy club, a salmon-spread spade, a potted-meat diamond and a marmite heart on to a plate, added a meringue erupting with chestnut-coloured worms, and swayed over to Sergeant Troy. He put everything on an occasional table, brought over the tea then swayed back to his mother. They beamed at each other then he plumped up her cushions before sitting, appropriately enough, on a pouffe at her feet. Finally Barnaby spoke.

  ‘We’re making inquiries into an unexplained death -’

  ‘Poor Miss Simpson of course,’ interrupted Mrs Rainbird. ‘I blame the parents.’

  ‘- and would be glad if you and your son could give me some idea of your whereabouts on the afternoon and evening of last Friday?’

  ‘Myself doing the flower arrangements and plants in the village hall. No doubt you’ve heard about the gymkhana?’ Barnaby indicated that he had. ‘I left around four-thirty with Miss Cadell of Tye House. One of the last as always. I’m afraid I’m one of those dreadful people who has to have everything just so.’ A little preen. A smug smile. She had a mouth like a goldfish which, even in repose, had a pushed-forward pouty expression. ‘“Delegate, Iris, delegate!” is my constant cry, but do you think I ever can? Where was I?’

  ‘One of the last to leave.’

  ‘Ah yes. I believe only Miss Thornburn, our dear Akela, remained.’

  ‘Did you happen to notice what time Miss Lacey left?’

  ‘A few minutes before four o’clock.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Foolish question. He already felt he was in the presence of something oracular rather than merely observant. Mrs Rainbird obviously had the eye of an eagle and, almost as important, an eagle’s Olympian lack of interest in the welfare of its prey.

  ‘Quite sure,’ resumed Mrs Rainbird. ‘She slipped away, in my opinion, in a very furtive manner indeed.’ She deigned to glance at Sergeant Troy on the last few words to make sure he was noting them down. ‘But I’m rather curious as to why we’re being asked about the afternoon. I understood that Miss Simpson died much later.’

  ‘We’re not sure exactly when she died.’

  ‘Well she was definitely alive around five o’clock because I saw her.’

  ‘You saw her!’

  ‘Certainly I did.’ She basked for a moment in the warmth of his reaction. Dennis screwed his head round and gave her an approving smirk. ‘I just happened to be in the hide at the time, charting the flight of a waxwing. Emily came hurrying along Church Lane from the direction of the woods. She stopped once, holding her side. I wondered if she were ill and had almost decided to run over when Denny arrived for his tea. Didn’t you, pet?’ Did her hand tighten on his shoulder? Certainly the sparklers were activated into instant life.

  ‘Mm.’ He laid his cheek briefly against her knees. ‘I usually get home about five-thirty but that night -’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Mr Rainbird. We’ll take those details in a moment.’

  ‘I can hardly wait.’ Dennis bit his lower lip, pink with delight at being the recipient of such masterful instructions. He smiled at Sergeant Troy, a smile as sweet and sickly as the vanilla slice he was consuming. ‘I don’t think the sergeant likes his marron Lyonnaise, Mother.’

  ‘Press him to a frangipane, then. Yes’ - she turned her attention back to Barnaby - ‘I was definitely concerned. In fact I’d almost decided to visit her after supper but then we got involved in a game of Monopoly and I felt it could wait till morning. She had a telephone after all and Miss Bellringer was close by. So we didn’t go out at all, did we, pet?’

  ‘No. Little home birds we.’

  ‘And who won all of Park Lane?’

  ‘Me, me! And a big chunk of Piccadilly.’

  ‘I saw Katherine Lacey again, though. Around eight o’clock time.’

  ‘Really? Wasn’t that a little late to be pursuing your hobby, Mrs Rainbird? What on earth is on the wing at that hour?’

  ‘Owls, Mr Barnaby.’ A very sharp look.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Denizens of the night.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘We had taken a little break from the game, Denny was making some coffee and I just happened to glance out of the window.’

  ‘I see. Did you notice where Miss Lacey went?’

  She leaned forward dramatically and, as she still had her hand on her son’s shoulder, so did he. What a macabre double act they were, thought Barnaby. He was unaccountably reminded of the Joe Orton play his wife had been in last month. They would have fitted a treat into that.

  ‘She was turning into Church Lane.’

  ‘Do you think she was calling on someone?’

  ‘I couldn’t see. The road curves sharply to the right almost immediately. She’d got one of the beagles with her. And a letter in her hand.’

  ‘So she may have been simply going to the post box?’ Mrs Rainbird lifted an eyebrow like a crayoned new moon. It said that if he believed that he’d believe anything. ‘And did you see her return?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Her voice thickened with chagrin. ‘Mrs Pauncefoot rang. Wanted some more Lilium regale for the judges’ platform. If only I’d known’ - she punched her palm with her fist - ‘I would have kept watch.’

  Her expression was far more than just peevish. She seemed to seethe with frustration at this reminder of an opportunity missed. She obviously couldn’t bear not to know what was going on between everyone, everywhere, all the time. Charting the flayt of a waxwing my backside, thought Barnaby, and turned to question her son.

  ‘At work all afternoon, which my partner will confirm, left around quarter to five, drove straight home and stayed there.’

  ‘I didn’t realize you were a partner in the business, Mr Rainbird.’

  ‘Mother bought me in on my twenty-first. I’d been there three years by then and just knew I wasn’t ever going to want to do anything else.’ He hugged his knees boyishly. ‘I absolutely adore it. You understand?’

  Barnaby tried to look as if he understood. In fact he was not overly concerned with the Rainbirds’ alibis. What he was after at Tranquillada was something much more useful. Background information on the village inhabitants. And gossip. If he had summed up Iris Rainbird correctly both should be forthcoming once the correct opening gambits had been played.

  He said, ‘I’m sure you’ll appreciate, Mrs Rainbird, in a case like this how grateful we are to have someone as alert . . . as observant as yourself to call on. To fill the gaps as it were.’ The pagoda inclined graciously. ‘Tell me . . . Miss Lacey and her brother . . . have they lived in the village long?’

  ‘All their lives. Although not always in Holly Cottage. Their parents had a large farmhouse just a little way out on the Gessler Tye road. No land to speak of, just an acre of garden. Oh very upper class they were then. Old family nanny, the children at Bedales, ponies and cars and off to France every five minutes. And shooting and hunting in the holidays. Thought themselves real gentry. They weren’t, of course. No breeding at all.’ Sergeant Troy, his pencil at rest, recognized the concealed resentment in this remark immediately, without knowing why. ‘People liked Madelaine but he was an appalling man. Drank a lot and drove like a maniac. Violent too. They say he used to ill treat her. Quite heartless -’

  ‘Just like his son.’ Dennis spoke impulsively, his sallow cheeks flushed. This time there was no mistaking the warning grip on his shoulder. He added, stammering, ‘Well . . . so I’ve heard.’

  ‘T
hen, when the children were about thirteen all the money went. He’d been speculating, raised a second mortgage, raised more against that and lost the lot. It killed Madelaine.’

  ‘Do you mean literally?’

  ‘I certainly do. Drove her car into the Thames at Flackwell Heath. She hadn’t been dead more than a couple of months before he married some chit of a girl he met in London and off they went to live in Canada.’

  ‘And the children.’

  ‘Well . . . that was the end of the private schools of course. They had to come and attend at Gessler Tye with the rest of the hoi polloi.’ Satisfaction rang in her voice. Troy gave an unconscious nod of approval.

  ‘And where did they live?’

  ‘Now of course the Traces come into the picture. Henry was one of the first people that Gerald Lacey turned to for money. And he loaned him a considerable amount. I think he felt afterwards that it would have been better if he hadn’t. If he’d tried to help Gerald sort his affairs out instead. At least that’s the impression I got from Mrs Trace - Bella, that is . . .’

  Chief Inspector Barnaby tried to imagine the late Mrs Trace discussing her husband’s financial affairs with Mrs Rainbird, and failed. He wondered where she had really picked up the information.

  ‘Hence Holly Cottage.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A gamekeeper lived in it originally. Henry offered it to the children and the nanny stayed to look after them. They gave her a terrible time, poor old soul. Thick as thieves when they were little, always leading her a dance. Then, when they were older, endless rows. Well you know what adolescents are. Not that my Denny ever gave me any trouble.’ Denny simpered into his vanilla slice. A fringe of cream, hardly in colour any different from his skin, graced his upper lip. ‘She used to come over here, Nanny Sharpe, just for a cup of tea and a bit of peace and quiet. Cat and dog wasn’t in it. Have you seen that mark on Michael’s face?’

  ‘We haven’t yet interviewed Mr Lacey.’

  ‘She gave him that . . . his sister. Threw an iron at him, apparently.’ She noticed his change of expression and sniffed. ‘Oh you can look, Mr Barnaby. Those pansy faces take everyone in but they don’t fool yours truly.’

  Mrs Rainbird’s detachment, which he had so admired at the start of their interview, seemed to have temporarily deserted her. The fact that the son she obviously if somewhat unhealthily adored had been slighted in some way seemed still to rankle.

  ‘Did Mr Trace support the Laceys financially?’

  ‘Oh yes. The father didn’t leave a penny piece behind. And, as far as I know, Henry still is supporting Michael. Not that he’d get a word of thanks.’

  ‘Doesn’t Mr Lacey work, then?’

  ‘If you can call painting work.’

  ‘And is he successful? Does he sell much?’

  ‘No he doesn’t. And I’m not surprised. Ugly violent things. Lays the paint on with a shovel. Mind you there’s no shortage of models.’

  ‘No,’ chipped in Dennis. ‘That Lessiter girl’s always hanging round. Not that it’ll get her anywhere - frumpy old thing. Michael painted me once, you know.’ He bridled, all pallid petulance, in Troy’s direction.

  ‘And a hideous thing it was too.’

  ‘Oh I was pussycat of the month all right while he was doing the portrait,’ continued Dennis, ‘all a-taunto I was. Then - when he’d got what he wanted - he told me to sod off.’

  ‘Denny! Another iced sombrero, Mr Barnaby?’

  ‘Thank you, no. And is the nanny, Miss Sharpe, still here?’

  ‘Mrs Sharpe. No. She went to live in Saint Leonards as soon as they could look after themselves. Glad to get out of it. They were about seventeen then, I think. She didn’t even drop in to say goodbye. I must say I was a bit hurt. I got her address off the Traces and wrote a couple of times but she didn’t reply. I sent a card at Christmas, then gave up.’ Frustration surfaced again. It was plain she would have preferred an extended farewell drama full of awful revelations. As she launched into a vivid description of one of the more spectacular domestic confrontations at Holly Cottage, Barnaby, nodding attentively from time to time, stretched his legs by strolling to the patio doors at the end of the room.

  Outside the lawn was clear and sharp as glass. More flowering trees and shrubs and a pretty gazebo at the far end. He wondered how Mr Rainbird had made his pile. There must have been plenty of it, what with the bungalow, and Denny’s partnership and silver Dinky toy. Not to mention the tea trolley.

  He turned back to the conversation. He was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. Although it was a warm day the radiators were full on. He looked at Dennis, batting his almost colourless eyelashes at Sergeant Troy, and wondered if he felt the cold. He certainly didn’t have any flesh to spare for insulation.

  The room really was unbearably oppressive. It was crammed full of voluptuous showy furniture. And there were cabinets of china, mostly Capo di Monte, and shelves of dolls dressed in differing national costumes, plus several original deeply awful paintings. The one nearest to Barnaby showed a cocker spaniel in - he peered disbelievingly closer - floods of tears. The whole shebang was what his daughter would have called twentieth-century grotesque.

  ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Rainbird.’ He stemmed the tide, courteous but firm.

  ‘Not at all, Mr Barnaby.’ She flung a dazzling arc in his direction. He could not avoid shaking hands. It was like seizing a lump of dough. ‘What are we here for if not to help each other?’

  As the two policemen walked down the drive Sergeant Troy said, ‘Men like that ought to be castrated.’ When Barnaby did not reply he tacked an ameliatory ‘sir’ on the end, adding, ‘as for his mother . . . nothing but a spiteful old gasbag.’

  ‘Mrs Rainbird and folks like her are a godsend in any investigation, Troy. Just don’t mistake gossip for facts. And when they give you what they say are facts, always check them thoroughly. And don’t come to early conclusions. An open mind, Sergeant, an open mind.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  They made their way to Burnham Crescent and council house number seven, the home of Mrs Quine.

  As Barnaby and Troy passed through the space in the sour and dusty hedge flanked with rotten gate posts, Mrs Rainbird and her son closed the door of Tranquillada and turned to each other, alight with excitement.

  ‘Did you get it?’

  ‘Mummy - I did.’

  ‘Ohhh . . . where . . . where?’

  ‘Wait a minute. You haven’t said . . .’

  ‘You’re a good boy. Now - show me.’

  ‘No.’ His face, an unpleasant orange colour beneath the hall lantern, became closed and stubborn. ‘That wasn’t properly. You’ve got to do it properly.’

  ‘You’re a goodboy,’ she crooned, kissing him full on the mouth. Her breath was very sweet, a soft explosion of violet cachous and cream and rich vanilla. ‘Mummysbestboy.’ Her fingers slipped into his shirt, caressing the bony wings of his shoulder blades. ‘Bestestonlyboy.’

  He licked her ear with its dropping cluster of rhinestones. ‘Mmmm.’ His breathing quickened. ‘Clever Denny.’

  ‘Now’ - she took his hand, leading him down the corridor towards the french windows and the garden - ‘show me . . .’

  ‘I want to play some more.’

  ‘Later we’ll play.’

  ‘All sorts of things?’

  ‘Everything. Come on . . . where is it?’

  They stepped out on to the lawn. Behind the gazebo was a large dark pile of something dripping wet, the water seeping out on to the bright green grass in concentric rings. Dennis led his mother up to it proudly. Hand in hand they gazed down. Mrs Rainbird’s eyes shone.

  ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘In the pond behind the beechwoods. I saw them throw it in tied round some stones.’

  She made no reply; just breathed out, a long slow contented hiss.

  ‘My mo-mo’s all wet. I had to put it in the boot, you see.’

  ‘We’ll buy you another
one.’

  ‘Oh Mummy . . .’ Ecstatically excited, he squeezed her arm. ‘Do you think it’s worth a lot, then?’

  ‘Oh yes, my dear.’ She took a step forward and poked the sodden mass with the toe of her shoe. ‘A very great deal. A very great deal indeed.’

  Chapter Five

  The garden of number seven was a tip. Literally. There was a small pyramid of junk teetering up against the side of the house. Bed frames, broken prams, old boxes, rusty iron chains and a large splintering rabbit hutch. The curtains downstairs were tightly closed. Barnaby rattled the letter box. Somewhere in the house a child was crying. He heard a woman scream, ‘Shut it, Lisa Dawn.’ Then, ‘Wait a minute can’t you?’ Thinking this might apply to him he waited.

  Eventually Mrs Quine appeared. She was a thin woman with a concave chest and a cluster of red spots around her mouth. She was smoking and had an air of constant movement even when standing still, as if she had just been wound up and was raring to go.

  ‘Come in.’ She stepped back as they entered. ‘My neighbour said you were going round everybody.’

  The room they entered was thick with smoke and dimly lit with a centre light, a wooden chandelier with parchment galleon shades. The television was blaring loudly. Mrs Quine made no move to turn it down. The room was untidy and not very clean. A little girl was sitting at a plastic table, sniffling and snuffling.

  ‘Now look who’s come, Lisa Dawn.’ The child looked across at Barnaby. ‘Told you I’d get a policeman if you warn’t a good girl.’ More tears. ‘Look what she’s done, Mr Policeman.’ Mrs Quine seized a dark wet object from the table. ‘Her Baby Jesus Pop-Up Book. Only had it Christmas. Blackcurrant everywhere.’ She opened the book. Jesus, Mary, Joseph and a clutch of assorted beasts rose up from the page, richly and symbolically empurpled. ‘Nothing’s new for five minutes in this house.’

  ‘Oh I’m sure it was an accident.’ Barnaby smiled at Lisa Dawn, who knuckled her eyes sadly and sniffed again. He turned to Mrs Quine who was now pacing briskly around the room sucking violently on her cigarette and flicking the ash about. ‘I have to be on the go,’ she explained.