Chapter Ten
The little country church was packed. Barnaby slipped in unnoticed and stood behind a rear pillar. It was a brilliant day; sun poured through the clerestory windows. Behind the chancel rail all was white: the white-haired, white-robed vicar; two lovely arrangements of white flowers flanking the altar; a simple sheaf of lilies on the small coffin.
Most of the mourners were in ordinary clothes but there was an inky spattering of black. Several men wore arm bands, some of the women dark scarves. Barnaby was surprised to see that almost a quarter of the gathering were what he thought of as young: i.e. under thirty.
Miss Bellringer, clad in rusty, jet-encrusted black, sat in the front right-hand pew, her eagle profile expressionless under a plumed cavalier hat, her eyes dry. In the opposite pew (kept for the squire and his relations?) Henry Trace sat, sombre-suited, with Katherine. She wore a coffee-coloured silk dress and a black chiffon scarf with little gold coins sewn into the edge. The Lessiters sat, together but separately, staring straight ahead. You would never have thought they were a family.
Dennis in his role as usher had gone right over the top, tying a huge black bow to his arm, the ends shyly resting on his hip. His mother lay, becalmed, a mountain of bullet-coloured taffeta and grey net veiling in the second pew. Mrs Quine was there showily wiping away a non-existent tear, with Lisa Dawn still sighing and snuffling. Phyllis Cadell was in navy, David Whiteley in jeans and a dark striped shirt. In the back row the old man Jake wept openly, mopping up his tears with a red-spotted handkerchief. Then, when everyone knelt and Henry Trace bowed his head, Barnaby saw Michael Lacey, who remained upright in his seat glancing round at the respectful congregation with a mixture of impatience and scorn. He had made no concession to propriety and was wearing a paint-stained boiler suit and a peaked denim cap.
‘For man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live . . .’
Emily Simpson had lived, by comparison with a large proportion of the world’s population, quite a long time, but she had still not been allowed her allotted span. No one, thought Barnaby, should be sent out on to that long journey a day, an hour or even a second before their natural time. He loosened his collar against the heat, closed his eyes and rested his forehead for a moment on the cool stone.
Figures moved behind his lowered lids: Laceys and Lessiters, Phyllis Cadell, David Whiteley, the Rainbirds, Henry Trace. They approached each other, met, mingled, broke apart in a passionless pavane. Who belonged with whom? If he knew that he would know everything.
Barnaby had started dreaming about the couple in the woods: two shapes twisting and turning, loops and knots of white limbs now fixed like sculpture, now softly melting together. Last night they had spun very slowly, a mobile of lust on an invisible thread, and he had waited in his sleep, breath seemingly held, for his first sight of their faces. But as the figures finished their slow circumfluence all he saw were two blank white hairless ovals.
A beam of dust-filled sunlight ambered the sheaf of lilies. Everyone rose to sing ‘The Day Thou Gavest Lord is Ended’. Behind Barnaby a dark branch of yew, activated by a sudden flurry of wind, knocked on the glass.
PART THREE
REPETITION
Chapter One
On the afternoon the inquest was reconvened the coroner’s court was packed. Every light-oak-stained folding seat was taken. Badger’s Drift seemed to have turned out in its entirety. It appeared (Barnaby scanned the rows of faces) that only David Whiteley and Michael Lacey had not turned up. The jury - striving to look serious, disinterested and worthy of the trust placed - were in position.
Barbara Lessiter was incongruously dressed in a black and white spotted frilled dress more suitable for a garden party, a little black hat with a frou-frou of spotted veiling concealing her face. Judy wore a fair-isle jumper and tweed trousers, Katherine Lacey a culotte suit in white linen. Her hair was held back by two scarves, brilliant turquoise and acid yellow, twisted around each other in a tight circlet. Mrs Rainbird had gone the whole hog and was wrapped, like some gargantuan Christmas gift, in shiny crimson satin topped off with a green hat covered in little berries. The coroner took his seat and the inquest began.
The statement of Doctor Trevor Lessiter was read out. In it he made the point most strongly that, on examining the deceased, he certainly had noticed congestion of the lungs, but as he was treating Miss Simpson at the time for bronchitis he thought the fact hardly surprising. Naturally he had not checked for symptoms of coniine poisoning. What physician in those circumstances would? The coroner said there was no blame to be apportioned in this matter and the doctor stared hard at the reporter from the Causton Echo to make sure he’d got that down. He then signed his statement and walked importantly back to his seat, his round head and pudgy shoulders looking pompous even from behind.
The pathologist’s report was read. There was a buzz of interest at the word hemlock and the Rainbirds held hands excitedly. Next a scientist from the Police Forensic Laboratory gave evidence relating to the analysis of fibres found in an area of beechwood near the village Badger’s Drift, and the identification of dirt and leaf mould adhering to tennis shoes belonging to the deceased as coming from the same area.
Two scene-of-crime officers described the large flattened space near which a deep impression of the same shoes indicated that Emily Simpson had been standing for some time. Here Barnaby noticed Miss Bellringer flush with anger and glare at the man giving evidence. He continued to describe an impression that could have been made by someone of Emily Simpson’s height and weight having fallen a few feet away. The coroner asked for a pause whilst he checked back on Doctor Lessiter’s statement. He then asked the doctor if the bruises on Miss Simpson’s shin could have been caused by the earlier fall. The doctor sighed mightily and, in a voice indicating that they had already wasted enough of his valuable time, said that he supposed so.
Scene-of-crime continued. Fingerprint details. The marked passage in the volume of Shakespeare, a 6B pencil which had not been found. The afternoon wore on. The postman was called, as was Miss Lucy Bellringer. She assured the court that on the morning of her friend’s death the larder window was undamaged and the hemlock not in the house. And that, as regards the 6B pencil, Miss Simpson would never have defaced her beloved Shakespeare. ‘She never put a mark in any of her books. They were far too precious to her.’
Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby described Miss Bellringer’s first visit and his meeting with Terry Bazely at which there was an even stronger buzz of interest. He glanced around the court as he mentioned Annabella but saw only a few puzzled looks. No flicker of recognition. As he sat down he glanced at the jury. Their seriousness now was not assumed. They were totally engrossed, looking intently at the coroner. One woman had gone very white. An usher crossed to her and murmured something but she shook her head, edging further forward in her seat.
The coroner started his summing up, concluding with directions to the jury which were unmistakable. They conferred together only for a moment before giving their verdict, which was that Emily Simpson had been murdered by a person or persons unknown.
Immediately the reporter from the Echo, perhaps influenced by too much film noir, flung on his brand-new white trench coat, pushed back an invisible eye shield and raced from the courtroom. Everyone else left more slowly - talking, questioning, looking at each other with a mixture of excitement and dismay like a bunch of critics at a prestigious first night whose worst hopes have just been confirmed.
Barnaby watched Barbara Lessiter leave on the arm of her husband. She had sat, apparently placid, through the whole proceedings, but he had noticed her hands moving. He walked now to the end of the row which held her seat and looked along the floor. Just in front of her chair was a little pyramid of shredded tissues. He remembered the letter which she had so quickly thrust out of sight the other morning, and regretted the veil. He would have liked to have seen the expression on her face when the verdict had been announced.
Almost everyone had now gone. But on a bench, some distance away, a solitary figure sat bowed, head low. He crossed the space and sat down.
‘Miss Bellringer . . . ?’ She looked at him. Her skin was ashen, her fine eyes dull. ‘Are you all right?’ When she did not reply he said quietly, ‘Surely you understood where our investigations were leading?’
‘Of course . . . that is . . . I suppose I did.’ Her ebullience was quite gone. She looked very old. ‘But I hadn’t put it into words to myself. Why is it so much worse now that it’s been put into words?’ She looked at him inquiringly as if he would know. There was a long pause.
Barnaby said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Such wickedness.’ A flash of anger raked her face and left a spark in her eyes. ‘After a lifetime of caring for other people. She was a wonderful teacher, you know. Better than I’ve ever been. And of course she knew them, whoever it was. That’s the terrible thing. She must have welcomed them in.’ Silently Barnaby agreed. ‘Well, they must be caught,’ she continued, her voice strengthening by the minute. ‘Right - what are your instructions, Chief Inspector? What shall I do next?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. We—’
‘Oh but I must do something. I can talk to people, can’t I? Find out if anyone noticed anything, anything at all on the day she died. And what about this mysterious Annabella? Perhaps I can discover who she is.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Bellringer—’
‘But I’ve got to help. Surely, Chief Inspector, you can see why?’
‘Of course I understand your—’
‘Poirot,’ she interrupted wistfully, ‘had his Hastings, you know.’
‘And I, Miss Bellringer, have all the resources of a modern police force at my disposal. It’s a different world.’
‘They can’t be everywhere at once. And in any case I’m sure’ - she laid a gloved hand on his arm - ‘they can’t all be as intelligent as you.’
‘Please be sensible,’ said Barnaby, resisting as well as he could such blatant flattery. ‘I’m sure your friend would not wish to put your life at risk.’
She removed her hand. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘In a community as small as Badger’s Drift everyone will know what you’re about. Someone who has killed once and who thinks he can protect himself by killing a second time will not hesitate to do so. And don’t forget’ - he turned and they walked together towards the exit - ‘that if Miss Simpson knew the murderer very well, so do you.’
Chapter Two
It was nine o’clock that same evening. Phyllis Cadell stood by the chiffonier in the larger of the two sitting rooms at Tye House. She stood stock still, listening. She had gobbled her pudding so quickly she thought the other two might notice but, as was sickeningly usual, they paid close and affectionate attention only to each other.
She stared at the half-open door. Katherine was safely in the kitchen stacking the plates in the dishwasher. Henry would inevitably be nearby, gazing with fatuous admiration at this difficult accomplishment. Quickly Phyllis unstoppered the heavy cut-glass decanter. She picked up a chunky tumbler and half filled it with brandy. There was a clear chink as glass and decanter collided. She glanced at the door again, replaced the stopper and started to drink.
It was wonderful. Fiery and strong. It lagged her misery with warmth like a cosy coat. There had been wine at dinner but what were two bottles of wine between three people? And in any case wine no longer seemed to have any effect. She emptied her glass, eased out the stopper and poured another, splashing a little in her haste.
‘A small one for me too, Phyllis, if you would?’
‘Oh!’ She swung round. Henry was propelling himself across the carpet. ‘Of course . . . I’m sorry . . . I didn’t hear you.’ She turned her back on him, concealing the nearly full tumbler in her hand. She pushed it behind a plant and took a drink over to her brother-in-law. ‘And one for Katherine?’ she asked, proud of the balance in her voice.
‘I shouldn’t think so. She hardly drinks at all, as you know.’
She doesn’t need to, does she, thought Phyllis savagely. Do you think I’d drink if I had her life? Her looks? Her future? Concealing the glass in her hand she walked over to the window and placed herself behind a tall jardinière. She took another long, deep swallow.
She began to feel better. Then, as the unhappiness receded, her sense of her surroundings became strangely distorted. The velvet pile of the carpet seemed to be alive, rubbing around her feet like a cat; stripes on the curtain raised themselves and went zinging up and down like railway lines. A tumbling spray of stephanotis in the jardinière poured out a rich, sensuous smell, filling her nostrils cruelly. Reminding her of the coming nuptials. If you prick us do we not bleed she thought chaotically.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad at the cottage. At least she’d be out of their way. The place was a good ten minutes’ walk from the main house and they’d hardly be dropping in all the time. They might visit a bit at first, feeling vaguely uncomfortable at her solitude, but that would soon wear off.
The kitchen was quiet now. Katherine would be joining them any minute. Phyllis took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. She blinked very hard, willing herself to see the room as it really was and not as a crudely drawn, unnaturally lively stage set. Then she saw the bride-to-be walking across the yard carrying the wilting flowers from the dining table. Phyllis stared at her through the glass. Perhaps, she thought, there will be no wedding after all. Perhaps Katherine would have an accident - fall into the lake, smash up the Peugeot, walk into the combine harvester. The images in her mind frightened her. No. Katherine was young and strong and would live a long, long time. Probably for ever.
And there might be children. Somewhere deep under the cosy coat a knife turned. She would be useful then. Poor old Aunty Phyllis. Funny Aunty Phyllis. A tear plopped into her empty glass. God, she could do with another drink. She became vaguely aware that Henry was saying something.
‘. . . and we’re both very worried about you.’
‘. . .’Bout what, Henry?’
‘Haven’t you been listening?’ She stared at him with intense drunken concentration. ‘About you, of course.’
‘Nothing matter with me.’
He put down his glass and propelled himself over to where she stood. ‘Look - you don’t have to go to the cottage, you know, Phyllis. It was you who suggested it. Kate and I would be happy for you to stay here.’ She made a peculiar sound which could have been a sob or a laugh. ‘In any case we both hope you’ll still spend a lot of time with us. Katherine isn’t used to running a big house, you know. She’ll be grateful for all the help you can give her. As I have always been.’
‘Is that what I’m reduced to then? An unpaid domestic?’
‘Of course not. I simply—’
‘Is that the price I have to pay for my tied cottage? Scrubbing floors.’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’ She watched his face crease into irritation. Henry hated rows. Bella had always been wonderful at defusing them before they really got a hold. She would have stopped right now. ‘You don’t know what it’s like. What I’ve had to put up with since she came. All the sneering remarks, the little humiliations. She never does it when you’re around.’
‘You’re imagining things—’
‘Am I? Oh, she’s clever. You were blind but I saw what she was up to. Bella was hardly in her grave before she was up here . . . helping with this . . . helping with that . . . simpering shyly . . . pushing in where she wasn’t wanted.’ Oh stop, Phyllis, stop! You’ll make him hate you. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it was going on while Bella was still alive.’
‘That’s enough. You know that isn’t true. I won’t have you speaking of Katherine in that way.’
‘She’s only marrying you for your money. Do you think she’d look twice at you if you were paralysed and poor?’ She drove on and on. Henry Trace watched her, more amazed and distressed than angry. So much v
enom. He almost expected to see bile, black and thick as treacle, bubbling between her lips. When she had finished he said quietly, ‘I’d no idea you felt like this. I thought you would be pleased at my happiness. I thought you were fond of me.’
‘Fond . . .’ She cried out then, hard ugly sounds. Her cheeks remained dry and red with anger. When Katherine appeared in the doorway Phyllis Cadell ran from the room, pushing the girl’s slim figure aside, unable to look at her face, which she was sure would be filled with sly laughter - or worse, with pity.
‘Oh Pookie.’ Barbara Lessiter curled her tongue into her husband’s ear like a pliant little snail. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so . . .’ She took a deep breath, putting an impossible strain on the thin lace and crêpe-de-chine nightdress. Her headache was better at last.
‘There, there. You mustn’t worry,’ replied Pookie, romping happily between satin sheets. Like a very hungry man after a vast banquet he felt that what he had just received (twice) would last him forever. Which was fortunate because, as things turned out, it was going to have to from that particular source at any rate. ‘Change of life, I expect.’
At this reference to her age he felt Barbara withdraw slightly. Well, a little dig from time to time wouldn’t come amiss. Keep her on her toes. Show her she wasn’t dealing with the lovesick swain of five years ago. He’d be damned if he was going to be grateful for something that was his by rights. If her headache had gone on much longer it could have featured in the Guinness Book of Records. His hand moved again.
‘Darling . . . Pooks?’
‘Mm?’ Ah, there was nothing like silk and lace. Unless it was warm bare flesh.
‘Don’t, sweetheart . . . listen to Barbie . . .’
Growl, growl. And a pretend doggy panting.
‘It’s just that . . . I’ve been so terribly worried . . . I know I’ve got to confess . . . but I don’t know how to tell you . . .’
The Killings at Badger's Drift Page 15
