The Killings at Badger's Drift

by Caroline Graham

  A much larger room was next door, empty but for a small old-fashioned bed, two wicker chairs and a garden table. ‘I suppose this is where the nanny slept,’ offered Troy.

  The third room, biggest of the three, clearly belonged to Michael Lacey. The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled, one of the pillows on the floor. There was some grey scummy coffee on a scarred bedside table next to a copy of Vasari’s Lives of the Artists, and a packet of Gitanes. The acrid smell of the cigarettes hung in the air, mingled with the smell of stale sweat. The only chair was decorated with a shirt and a grubby pair of Y fronts. Sergeant Troy, ‘clean from the skin out every day’ as his wife was wont to boast in their local laundrette, turned up his nose and sniffed.

  ‘A bit careless,’ he said as they re-entered the hall, ‘leaving the door unlocked.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know.’ Barnaby opened it a fraction and checked the view, then stepped out. ‘The only room where there might be anything worth pinching was secured.’

  ‘Great works of art d’you mean?’ jeered Troy as they walked back towards the hedge.

  ‘I was thinking of canvases - they cost a hell of a lot. So do paints. Or of course he might be doing a Keating.’

  ‘Come again, sir?’

  ‘Tom Keating. A very successful forger.’

  ‘Well whatever he’s doing he’s not successful. I’ve seen families on the Social living better. Didn’t even have a telly.’

  ‘And you can’t sink much lower than that.’

  Troy looked at his chief suspiciously as they walked on but Barnaby’s expression remained bland. As they came to the junction of Church Lane and the Street several more police cars arrived. The crowd, now swelled by the return of the local work force, was being urged to move along or go home. Barnaby wondered how long it would be before the nationals got hold of the story. There was a rustle of speculation as the two men appeared, a rustle that became a loud hum as Barnaby and Troy turned into the Lessiters’ driveway. The fact that everyone in the village would shortly be questioned was, even if it had been known, supremely irrelevant. It was the Lessiters whom the police were visiting. The Lessiters who were, in some way as yet unrevealed, connected with the crime.

  As Barnaby stood once again beneath the Madame le Coultre and looked through the window he, once again, saw Barbara Lessiter. This time far from looking afraid and shaken she had taken a combative stance. He could not see her face but her shoulders had a martial set and her hands were clenched into angry fists. He heard Lessiter shout, ‘You sang a different tune in bed last night.’

  ‘That was last night.’ She tossed her head as she yelled her rejoinder and Barnaby caught a glimpse of her tight angry profile. Troy raised sandy eyebrows, muttered, ‘Naughty naughty.’ He rang the bell.

  Stepping into the sitting room was like stepping on to a battlefield. The whiff of the last two salvoes hung, still and trembling in the stifling air. Barnaby gave them a moment before ascertaining that they had both heard of Mrs Rainbird’s death.

  ‘Terrible business, terrible!’ cried Lessiter. ‘Head split open by an axe, I understand. I suppose he had some sort of fit . . . Dennis I mean. At least,’ he added with a scornful curl of his lip, ‘no one can accuse me this time of wrongly issuing a death certificate.’

  Both the Lessiters looked at the policemen with interest, no doubt glad of a breather. However, the doctor did not wear his air of detached attention for long. Barnaby asked where he was between three and five that afternoon.

  ‘Me?’ He gasped at them, his rubicund complexion fading to a mere puce, ‘What on earth has this to do with me?’

  ‘Everyone is questioned in a murder case, darling.’ Barnaby was glad no one had ever called him darling like that. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He moved to his writing desk. ‘Very well, Inspector. I . . . was visiting a private patient. I’ll be glad to write the name and address down for you.’ He scribbled something, tore off the sheet and was just crossing to Barnaby when his wife ran forward and snatched it out of his hand. ‘Barbara!’

  She read the piece of paper then handed it to Barnaby. She seemed calm but her eyes glittered like diamond chippings.

  ‘And you, Mrs Lessiter?’

  ‘I was at my health club in Slough . . . the Abraxas if you want to check. I went for a salad lunch, a sauna and massage. I was there till around half three then I did some shopping. Got back here five-thirty.’

  ‘Thank you. Is Miss Lessiter at home? I’d like a word with her.’

  ‘No. We passed each other in the hall as I arrived. She was on her way out and looking very strange.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well . . . if it had been anyone but Judy I’d say she’d been with a lover.’

  ‘That’s remarkably catty even for you,’ blurted out Lessiter, regretting it immediately as he caught the glimmer of satisfaction on Troy’s face.

  ‘She gave me an ecstatic smile - incidentally the first I’ve received from that direction since the day I moved in - and said she was driving into High Wycombe to buy a new dress before the shops shut. Which is also strange. I’ve never known her take the slightest interest in clothes. Quite understandable when you think that she’s shaped like a couple of suet puddings.’

  Whatever was on that piece of paper, thought Troy, had made her as bold as brass. She didn’t look like a centrefold dream today. The facial lines under the bronzy powder seemed more deeply etched, her eyes were hard and her hair had an inelasticity that made it look completely artificial. Even her curves seemed rigid and unyielding.

  ‘Someone will call later to talk to your daughter, sir,’ murmured Barnaby, and bade them good evening. The door had hardly closed behind them before Trevor Lessiter turned to his wife.

  ‘I hope you’re not expecting—’

  ‘You dirty sod!’

  ‘Don’t you speak to me like that. I shouldn’t be driven to places like the Casa Nova if you were any sort of a wife.’

  ‘I might be more of a wife if you had the slightest idea how to set about it. You’re bloody pathetic.’

  ‘At least they care about me there. Krystal’s always—’

  ‘Care about you? They must be laughing themselves sick.’

  ‘How the hell do you know so much about it? I’m surprised you’ve even heard of the place.’

  ‘They were talking about it in the Abraxas, if you must know. Some of the old slags come in for a spot of rejuvenation.’

  ‘Doesn’t work though, does it, Barbara?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The rejuvenation. I mean you’re really looking your age right now. That was one of the first lies you told me, wasn’t it? About your age. God - today’s opened my eyes all right. I feel as if I’m seeing you for the first time.’

  Barbara walked over to the window, carefully selected a cigarette from the silver box and lighted it. She turned and faced him, blowing out a cool plume of smoke.

  ‘Well that goes for both of us, husband mine,’ she said, baring her teeth in an implacable smile. ‘That goes for both of us.’

  Chapter Five

  David Whiteley opened the door of Witchetts wearing his working jeans and a sweat-stained shirt, with a tumbler of whisky in his hand. He showed them into the sitting room and turned off the blaring stereo. (‘Bridge over Troubled Water.’) He invited them to sit down and offered Barnaby ‘a touch of Jameson’. The offer being declined he drained his own and poured another. His hand was as steady as a rock; his voice strong and clear and, although he consumed a third glassful during their brief visit, both hand and voice remained unchanged.

  ‘You know what has happened, Mr Whiteley?’

  ‘Yes. I stopped my car and asked one of the multitude outside the Black Boy. Load of ghouls.’

  Barnaby asked about his movements during the afternoon. Whiteley was sitting in a bentwood rocker and tipped it very slowly back and forth as he surveyed them both. He looked incongruous in this traditional refu
ge of the old and resigned. There was something so potent about his masculinity; his blond good looks and rather crude sexual vigour. It seemed only fitting that, like the corn god, he should spend his days reaping and renewing the land. He said, ‘I was supervising the hopper till about three . . . three-thirty . . . then I took a combine harvester down to Gessler Tye. We’ll start cutting in a couple of days . . . well, probably not Saturday because of the wedding but Sunday I should think.’

  ‘Sunday?’

  ‘Oh yes. Once harvesting starts you can write off your weekends.’

  ‘Did you know Mrs Rainbird at all?’

  ‘By sight only. I don’t socialize much in the village. Any . . . picking up I do is in the Bull over Gessler way. Or in Causton.’

  ‘Nothing nearer home?’ murmured Barnaby delicately.

  ‘No. Oh I knew what you were thinking the other day, Inspector. In the kitchen at Tye House. But there’s nothing doing there, believe me. At the moment that is. Mind you I don’t think our Kate’s nearly as cool as she makes out. I shall try again once she’s safely married.’

  No need for him to visit the Casa Nova, thought Troy, admitting for once to a male persona probably nearly as attractive to women as his own. Looking round the room Barnaby noticed, on the mantelpiece, the photograph of a child, the glass a cobweb of splinters and cracks.

  He said, ‘I got the impression when we met in the kitchen that you were depressed about something.’

  ‘Me? You must be joking. I never get depressed.’ He stared at Barnaby aggressively. ‘Doctor Jameson cures all ills.’ He lifted his glass then tipped it back. The sort of man, thought the chief inspector, who would use the loss of his son as a sympathy-producing counter in the game with women but who would never admit to fatherly affection in front of a member of his own sex.

  Barnaby continued, ‘And after you’d taken the harvester?’

  ‘I drove back to Tye House in the Land-Rover, picked up that pathetic Jack Russell and took it to the vet. Katherine didn’t want them to come to the house. It should’ve been done before now in my opinion but she kept trying to feed it. After that -’

  ‘A moment, Mr Whiteley. Were Miss Lacey and Mr Trace at home when you picked up the dog?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What time would you say this was?’

  ‘Some time between half four and five, I suppose. I only caught a glimpse of Katherine. She ran upstairs when I came in - so as not to see me take him, I suppose. After I’d handed the dog over I drove back here, poured myself a drink and you turned up.’

  ‘He’s got the strength and build for it,’ said Troy moments later as they crossed the road, making for Tye House. ‘And with an estate the size of Trace’s who’s to know where he is half the time? I thought that actually, sir, when we questioned him about the first murder . . . you know, the couple in the woods.’ Encouraged by Barnaby’s silence he continued, ‘I mean what’s to stop him taking half an hour off for a quick screw when he’s miles from anywhere? And take today . . . he could have left the hopper for a while. Or turned the combine into the nearest field instead of taking it to Gessler Tye, doubled back and done for Mrs Rainbird. Pity we’ve no idea of the motive.’

  Barnaby, who had a very good idea of the murderer’s motive, arrived again at the apricot-coloured farmhouse. Katherine Lacey opened the door. She looked very pale and, even if Barnaby had not witnessed the earlier scene at Holly Cottage, he would have known that she had recently been crying. Distress did not mar her remarkable beauty. Her violet eyes looked very large with tears as yet unshed. She was wearing a white dress of spotless linen and flat sandals. She gazed at them unsmiling and said, ‘We’re in the kitchen.’

  Henry turned his chair around as the chief inspector entered, and wheeled it across the floor. ‘What has really happened, Barnaby? Surely it can’t be true that the Rainbird boy has attacked his mother?’

  ‘Mrs Rainbird has certainly been killed, sir. In a very violent and unpleasant manner.’

  Henry turned a stunned face to his fiancée. ‘You see, darling.’ She sounded gentle but firm. ‘We can’t . . . now . . .we’ll just have to wait.’

  ‘Katherine thinks we should cancel the wedding. It’s ridiculous. A hundred invitations accepted. The catering organized. The marquee’s being put up tomorrow. The house is bulging with presents -’

  ‘I only meant for a week or two. Until all this awful business is sorted out. And perhaps by then Michael will have come round.’

  ‘Since when has your brother -’ He broke off. He was not the sort of man, Barnaby judged, to even admit to familial discord much less display it in front of complete strangers. He appeared older today. There were liver-coloured rings beneath his eyes and he looked distrait. ‘I simply won’t hear of it, Katherine. It’s out of the question. After all, this is nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Could I ask you both what you did this afternoon, Mr Trace?’

  ‘Us? Well, we’ve been organizing for Saturday,’ said Henry. ‘I didn’t go over to the office today. Katherine and I spent the morning arranging the wedding presents in the main dining room, then we had lunch, finally decided on the placing for the marquee, then Katherine went mushrooming -’

  ‘Mushrooming?’ Barnaby remembered the little pile on the doorstep of the bungalow.

  ‘Yes. There are some flat open ones not far from Holly Cottage,’ said the girl. ‘And some girolles. They taste wonderful. Not like those awful things you buy in the shops. I wanted to do an omelette for supper.’

  ‘There were some on Mrs Rainbird’s step.’

  ‘Yes - I was coming to that. The last time I saw her -’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Yesterday at the Parish Council meeting. She gave me a recipe for mushroom and anchovy ketchup and I said next time I gathered some I’d let her have a few. So I went round and knocked but no one answered so I just left them on the step and came away. Now I can’t stop thinking about it . . . he must have been in there . . . perhaps even . . . but it was so quiet . . . I thought she’d gone out, you see.’ She repeated the words, her voice suddenly jangled and shrill. ‘I thought she’d gone out.’

  ‘Kate.’ Henry held out his hand and she gripped it, crying, ‘Everything’s going wrong . . . just like I said the other day . . . it’s all slipping away from us.’

  ‘Now you must stop this, darling. All right? You’re talking nonsense.’

  Barnaby crossed to the table and the mushrooms. He picked one up and sniffed it. There was a large basket, only half full but still holding a lot of mushrooms. ‘It must have taken you quite a while to pick all these?’

  ‘Not really. About half an hour, I suppose.’

  ‘When actually was this?’

  ‘I left here . . . when was it, darling? About quarter past three and was back three quarters of an hour later . . .’

  ‘You say the place where they grow is quite near Holly Cottage. Did you happen to call in at all?’

  ‘Yes I did. I thought Michael might have -’ She broke off, catching Henry’s eye. ‘Anyway it was a waste of time because he wasn’t there.’

  ‘Was this before or after you did the picking?’

  ‘After.’

  ‘Between four and half past in other words?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She did not mention her later visit and the spectacular row and, as the timing made it irrelevant to his present inquiry, Barnaby saw no need to mention it either. He had no doubt that it would not meet with her fiancé’s approval.

  ‘And you were here when Miss Lacey returned, Mr Trace?’

  ‘Yes. I was with Sam . . . he’s the boy who does bits and pieces of maintenance and helps with the garden. I was unpacking Katherine’s roses, he was mixing peat and bonemeal, preparing the ground. We made some tea. Kate rang the cottage to see if Phyllis would like to join us but she wanted to carry on doing her curtains and unpacking stuff.’

  Barnaby asked, ‘Has Miss Cadell moved out for good then, sir?’
/>   ‘Not quite. She’ll be sleeping here tonight. For the last time, I believe.’ Barnaby was hard put to disentangle the mixture of emotions in Trace’s voice. Relief, satisfaction and more than a little worry.

  ‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough to direct us to the cottage?’ asked the chief inspector.

  ‘It’s a bit difficult to describe,’ said Katherine, ‘I’ll take you there.’

  As they left the house Barnaby said, ‘I’ll leave Miss Cadell to you, Sergeant. You know what I’m looking for. And then you can try Holly Cottage again. I’ll be in the pod when you’re finished.’ He watched them go off across the lawn towards the grove of poplars, the girl’s shoulders bowed slightly, her dark hair stirred by the evening breeze. Troy walked a little closer to her than was necessary to deliver the animated stream of chatter that his lively profile suggested. Every now and again he pulled down his black leather blouson and smoothed his hair. Barnaby made his way back to the pod.

  Here all was activity. A certain amount of simple forensic work had already been done. The exhibition officer had logged a fair bit of detail. All the blood came from Mrs Rainbird. There were filaments under her nails, not yet analysed, which suggested the murderer had worn a stocking or tights over the face. Soap in the bathroom was marbled with streaks of blood, indicating that a shower had been taken. Barnaby got on to the station and briefed Inspector Moffat to handle communications for the case. As he did so a TV pantechnicon drew up outside and a uniformed scene-of-crime officer entered the pod.

  ‘Oh - you’re back, sir. A message from a Mrs Quine. Said to tell you that she saw a Michael Lacey in the spinney approaching the bungalow and acting in a highly suspicious manner -’

  ‘Actually we also saw Mr Lacey in the spinney acting in a fairly ordinary manner. But thank you. Has the body been taken away?’

  ‘They’re just bringing it out now, sir,’ the man replied unnecessarily. You could have heard the gasps and murmurs half a mile away.

  ‘Are you on to the outbuildings?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. Just starting on the kitchen.’

  ‘Right.’