The Killings at Badger's Drift

by Caroline Graham

  ‘Neither did I at first. I read the report until I knew it by heart. And it tallied so perfectly with Phyllis Cadell’s confession that there seemed to be little reason to look further. And yet there was something about it that didn’t quite fit and it nagged at me for days before I realized what it was. Now, I’m not a sporting man but it seems to me that the place for a beater is ahead of the guns. So why were Michael Lacey and Mrs Trace together? Come to that what was he doing out there in the first place? He told me some story about earning money but this couldn’t have been further from the truth. He was there to peel Mrs Trace off from the rest of the party. To isolate her so that she became a very clear target indeed; a sitting duck, in other words. Katherine was in the undergrowth - don’t forget we only have her brother’s word for it that she was in the kitchen at Tye House - and at a prearranged time, no doubt with a certain amount of leeway on either side, the murder was committed.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Both the Laceys were experienced shots. Mrs Rainbird told me so. And of course with all the kerfuffle with the dogs and everyone racing about she just slipped quietly away through the trees. And Michael, all eagerness to help, went racing off to phone for an ambulance. And now comes the second thing that struck me as odd. Surely, in an emergency, you dash up the nearest driveway and bang on the door, but Lacey went to Tye House. Almost as far as you could get from the spot where the accident occurred. Why did he not go to the first house in Church Lane? Or Holly Cottage, which would have been even nearer? There can only be one reason. Because he wished to delay the ambulance as long as possible. The last thing they wanted was an efficient team on the spot in no time, perhaps saving Bella’s life.’

  ‘Yes . . . I can see that it could well have been that way . . .’ So enthralling had Miss Bellringer found Barnaby’s recital that she had frozen into attention with a square of plum cake halfway between her plate and her mouth. She now popped the cake in and continued, whilst munching, ‘But then . . . why Phyllis?’

  ‘Well, not surprisingly, considering the terrible emotional pressure she was under, her lack of practice with a gun coupled with the vodka she’d consumed, Miss Cadell missed. By half a mile I shouldn’t wonder. But by one of those dreadful coincidences that sometimes happen and change our lives by doing so, Bella stumbled over a tree root as Phyllis fired. Lessiter mentioned at the inquest that Mrs Trace had already fallen once. There can be no other explanation.’

  ‘But . . . if Dennis saw what happened he must have seen Bella get up again. After Phyllis ran away, I mean.’

  ‘I should imagine so. That’s something we shall find out when he’s fit to be questioned. But I wouldn’t put it past either of them to bleed someone white, knowing them to be innocent.’

  ‘How absolutely appalling.’ Miss Bellringer looked anxiously around her exuberant room as if testing it for pregnability. She bent down and picked up Wellington, holding him to her flat chest like a charm. Four resentful feet stuck stiffly out. ‘And Bella’s murder . . . was this the first step in some grand design?’

  ‘Certainly. They left a letter. Everything clearly explained.’ Bold black writing boiling with anger. The only word of sorrow or regret in the whole seven pages was that they had not been able to deny themselves a brief visit to their secret place that fatal Friday afternoon. No point in wounding his elderly companion by repeating the names they called her innocent friend. ‘I believe it was you, Miss Bellringer, who used the term “bad blood”. I remember thinking at the time how melodramatic it sounded. As if wickedness could be passed on genetically, like blue eyes or red hair. But now . . . I’m not so sure. It’s all so reminiscent of the father’s behaviour. Using people with absolute callousness and then walking away from the pain and unhappiness to the next mark.’

  ‘Mark?’

  ‘Sorry . . . victim. They needed money, you see. Lots and lots and lots of money. It wasn’t enough to live quietly until Michael succeeded with his painting, which I have absolutely no doubt eventually he would have done. He was remarkably gifted. No, they had to travel. The Grand Tour. Venice, Florence, Amsterdam, Rome. For as long as Michael needed to soak up the artistic atmosphere. Then they planned to settle abroad, probably living as man and wife.’

  ‘And Henry?’

  ‘Ah . . . poor Henry. I’m afraid his demise would not have been long delayed. It’s my belief that he had already imbibed a certain amount of the substance that killed your friend. It surely cannot be a coincidence that on the evening of her death he fell conveniently into a doze after dinner. And it wasn’t just on that occasion either. What Henry actually said to me was, “I must have dropped off after dinner. I often do these days.”’

  ‘I can see why it would have been necessary for her to get out of the house, Chief Inspector. But I still don’t understand about the dog.’

  ‘It’s quite simple. She walked to the post box with her letter to Notcutts, posted it, carried on to the bottom of the lane, met Michael on the path by Holly Cottage and handed the dog over to him. He took it home with him and Katherine called on your friend, with what result we already know.’

  ‘She must’ve stayed quite a while to . . . to make sure . . .’ Her face crumpled with distress. ‘I’m sorry . . . all these details . . . it makes it so real . . .’

  ‘Are you sure you want me to continue?’

  ‘Quite sure. But perhaps a little fortification . . .’ She put Wellington down and unscrewed the Teachers, pouring a little into her glass. ‘And two . . . um . . . fingers isn’t it . . . for yourself?’

  ‘Thank you, no. To return to Beehive Cottage. Katherine needed to stay only until Miss Simpson had drunk the poisoned wine. Then she walked back to Holly Cottage and collected the dog, and Michael took over. No doubt there was the pretence that they both needed to speak to her. What they said we shall never know. Pleas for silence, for understanding. Perhaps even a feigned suggestion that the relationship would come to an end. They were both wonderful actors.’ His voice hardened as he remembered Katherine’s tearful display over Benjy’s slow demise.

  ‘How she would have hated that conversation. Emily, I mean. She was so fastidious. So it was Michael who . . . ?’

  ‘Yes. He stayed until she lost consciousness, then closed the sitting-room door so Benjy wouldn’t see his mistress and raise the alarm. He washed up Katherine’s glass but left Miss Simpson’s. Of course they both hoped that it would pass off as a natural death but in the unlikely event of an investigation a single glass with only her fingerprints and with a residue of poison would be found. Or rather would have been found . . .’

  Miss Bellringer blushed. ‘So the Shakespeare was just an added pointer? In case.’

  ‘Yes. There it was open. He was probably looking around whilst he was waiting. The speech must have caught his eye and seemed propitious. Out with the 6B pencil. Which one of them climbed through the larder window is something they don’t mention. What did become clear as I read the letter was that the Lessiter girl had a very lucky escape.’

  ‘Judy? I don’t understand.’

  ‘She went to the cottage whilst Katherine was with your friend. She actually saw Michael through the window. What she couldn’t have known was that he had a dog with him. If she’d knocked and the dog had barked . . .’

  ‘Poor child. I’m afraid she was born for unhappiness. Some people are, you know.’

  ‘Yes.’ Barnaby nodded. ‘She was made use of by the Laceys as was anyone else who came into their orbit. It was important for instance that Michael spent the afternoon of the Rainbird murder with her. I remember my sergeant remarking at the time, “Lucky he had an alibi”. On the contrary - luck had nothing to do with it. It was a crucial part of the plan that he should have an alibi. The knife was planted at Holly Cottage not, as I first thought, to incriminate Lacey, but to direct suspicion away from the guilty party on to someone whom the murderer knew to be innocent. And who could be proved to be innocent.

  ‘Even if Judy hadn�
��t contacted Michael Lacey he would have been in touch with her, as his first words “I was just going to ring you” imply. And of course he had to work at the Lessiters’ so that the cottage would be empty for the knife to be planted. Then, according again to the letter, there was to be an anonymous tip-off suggesting we search the cottage. But Mrs Quine beat them to it.’

  ‘What a chance to take. Walking round in her brother’s clothes in broad daylight.’

  ‘Well, of course she came straight from the cottage through the wood and into the spinney. I’ve no doubt that if she’d met someone face to face the whole plan would have been abandoned but, seen from a distance, hair piled up under her cap, she would simply be mistaken for Michael.’

  ‘Who had an unbreakable alibi?’

  ‘Precisely. There was a fair amount of risk involved but Mrs Rainbird had only given them till the wedding to come up with the first payment.’

  ‘Before she blew the gaff?’

  Barnaby smiled. He was going to miss Lucy Bellringer. ‘More or less.’

  ‘But surely Dennis wouldn’t have kept quiet? Especially after what happened to his mother. What were they going to do about him?’

  ‘Michael was to dispose of Dennis. In fact his life was saved only because he came home half an hour earlier than usual. We met Lacey in the spinney behind the bungalow. He pretended he was on his way to the pub but we now know that his real intention was to make sure the Rainbird boy did not survive his mother.’

  ‘They must have been frantic.’

  ‘Yes indeed. If they hadn’t been they would have realized that if Katherine was spotted, even from a distance, it would give the game away. Who else amongst our small ring of suspects was of a build and height to be mistaken for Michael Lacey?’

  ‘But surely she took care to have an alibi?’

  ‘Of a sort. She said she’d been picking mushrooms. There was a basket of them on the kitchen table with some in. And they were fresh. I sniffed them. Certainly she would not have had time to pick them, commit the murder, shower, change clothes and so on. But if they had been gathered earlier that day by Michael and left at Holly Cottage ready . . .’

  ‘Ahhhh.’ Miss Bellringer nodded. ‘That must be the explanation.’

  ‘After cleaning herself up’ (in a flash of memory Barnaby saw the girl, dazzlingly, ironically pure in her snow-white dress) ‘she slipped out of the bungalow, no doubt checking the road carefully first, by the front door and then knocked, quite loudly, to draw attention to herself. Mrs Sweeney, hearing the knock and seeing her put the mushrooms on the step and walk away, naturally assumed, as anyone would, that she had also walked up the path.’

  ‘But the clothes . . . the cap and everything. And you said something about a rug. Do you know what happened to that?’

  ‘Oh yes . . . the rug was rolled up by the back garden hedge. Michael collected it after he left the Lessiters’ and returned it to the pond. The clothes were simply taken away in the mushroom basket. It was a very large basket and, when I saw it in the kitchen, barely half full, so there was plenty of room to spare. She then walked down to Holly Cottage, hid the murder weapon, rather too successfully as things turned out, dumped the bloodstained clothing temporarily in the woods, and returned to Tye House.’

  ‘What does that mean? Your remark about the murder weapon?’

  ‘Well, we had a warrant to search the house. Now, if she had planted the knife in the kitchen drawer or in his bedroom we might not have entered the studio, a room that proved to be crucial, until later.’

  ‘Surely they thought you would search everywhere, Chief Inspector? As a matter of course?’

  ‘Normally yes, but Lacey made a bolt for it simply, as I realized later, to get us out of the house. And I’d had a quick look around the studio. It seemed perfectly in order. But as we drove away from the village Katherine saw the car. When her brother made a square around his face and shouted “I’ve been framed” I took this as a mere gesture of bravado. In fact it was a message that couldn’t have been clearer. What does a frame enclose but a painting? And why, when the cottage held so much that was valuable to him, namely all his work to date, did he leave the door open? Why did he pretend it was never locked? Because something in the studio had to be removed and if this was done when the place was locked up the culprit, as the only other person to have a key, would have to be Katherine. Unlocked, it could have been anyone.’

  ‘Yes . . . I can see that. But what had to be removed? Was it a picture? Why was it so important?’

  Barnaby drained his Teachers and sat back in his chair, wondering how best to word his reply. He saw the painting again, heard Troy cry - ‘But who is it?’ Felt once more the almost physical blow to his solar plexus that had struck as he gazed at the easel. He understood fully Troy’s bewilderment. For Katherine Lacey was practically unrecognizable. It was the most erotic nude he had ever seen. She was sprawled on the double bed and although there was something post-coital about the positioning of her limbs there was nothing relaxed or reflective in the work. It was riven with power. Her skin was pearly with sweat; her legs and arms throbbed with energy, seeming almost to move on the canvas. There was something rapacious about them. And something faintly sinister. Barnaby was reminded of a praying mantis, alluring and deadly. She looked bigger in every way than the woman he had known. Her neck was thick and powerful, her breasts large, her belly richly curved.

  But it was the face that had brought forth Troy’s cry of disbelief. It was the face of a maenad. Wet red lips were drawn back into a fierce smile: greedy, lustful and cruel. Her eyes glittered with an unholy satisfaction. Only her hair was recognizable and even that seemed to have a life of its own, twisting and turning like a nest of snakes. Barnaby felt that any minute she would spring out of the canvas and devour him.

  Miss Bellringer repeated her question. Barnaby, aware that his reminiscences had left his face heavily flushed, replied, ‘It was a portrait of his sister which left little doubt as to the truth of their relationship.’ No wonder, he thought, the little single bed always looked so pristine and newly made. She probably hadn’t slept in it since Mrs Sharpe left. And now he knew why Katherine hadn’t moved into the vacant bedroom which was so much larger than her own.

  ‘How clever they have been. And to what a terrible end.’

  ‘Yes. Oddly enough my sergeant said something quite early on in the case which could have been a pointer if only I’d had the wit to see it. He noticed Mrs Lessiter never missed an opportunity to have a dig at Lacey and said, “It wouldn’t be the first time a married woman’s pretended to dislike her lover in public to put people off the scent.”’

  ‘They were certainly convincing.’

  ‘Mm. There was one episode that I had great difficulty with. Troy and I -’

  ‘I still don’t like that man.’

  Barnaby smiled noncommittally and continued, ‘We were walking along the path to Holly Cottage and heard the Laceys in the midst of the most terrible row. Later, when I had decided they were guilty, I simply couldn’t fit this scene into my puzzle. Why continue to act out in private a charade that is purely for public consumption? It didn’t make sense. In fact I’m afraid overhearing them made me slower to reach my final conclusion than I would otherwise have been. And then, returning home from Saint Leonards, and noticing my sergeant’s constant attention to his driving mirror, I realized that the whole scene had been set up for my benefit. Because although we were behind a tall hedge and could not see them they would have had a very clear view of our approach in the mirror placed near the opening where the motorist turned round.’

  There was a long pause, then Miss Bellringer said, ‘So . . . that’s it then . . . ? The final piece slips into place.’

  Barnaby drained his glass and pressed the remaining delicious crumbs of cake into a neat ball. He thought it seemed much longer than two weeks since his companion had first sat in his office rootling in her capacious bag and fixing him with her glittering eye. What
had she just said? The final piece? Yes, it must be. The vague feeling he had of one more loose end must simply be his natural inability to believe in life’s tidiness.

  There was nothing more to say. He rose to his feet. Lucy got up too and held out her hand. ‘Well, goodbye, Chief Inspector. It’s been most stimulating working with you. How I shall settle down again to the normal dull routine I just don’t know.’

  Barnaby shook hands and said, with absolute sincerity, ‘I can’t imagine anything being dull for long in your presence.’

  As he walked towards the layby where he had parked the Orion he passed the churchyard, hesitated, then turned in. He made his way around the building through a gate in the box hedge to where the newest graves showed, rectangular strips of cold clay, in the lumpy greensward.

  One was heaped with wreaths, the flowers still glowing and vibrant; on the other the tributes had been removed, leaving only a vase of dark red, sweetly scented roses. A plain stone was already in place. It read:EMILY SIMPSON

  A Dear Friend

  1906-1987

  Barnaby stood in the shade of the dark yew trees and listened to the kaah-kaah of the rooks for a long moment, then turned and walked quickly away.

  Dinner was almost finished. Cully had provided assorted dips with crudités. Chicken chasseur. Broccoli. New potatoes. Watercress. A wedge of double Gloucester and lemon chiffon pie. And there was a little box of florentines to nibble with their coffee. Barnaby’s stomach, torn between disbelief and excitement, muttered gently. Cully poured the last drops from the second bottle of Côtes de Gascogne and lifted her glass.

  ‘Merde in your eye, folks.’

  ‘I was going to drink to Beatrice,’ replied Barnaby. His daughter was in the last week of rehearsals for Much Ado, happy to stay in Cambridge, even in the long vacation, if it meant getting her teeth into a good part.

  Sartorially she seemed to have quietened down a bit whilst still looking definitely pantomimic. She wore a man’s tailored three-piece suit in grey and white chalk stripes dating from the early fifties and her hair, the colour of sloe gin, was cut in an Eton crop. There was a monocle pinned to her lapel. She looked aggressive, sexy and, because of her youth, rather touching. Barnaby thought she was softening up a bit. He had not discussed the dénouement of the Simpson case with Joyce, waiting until Cully was home, saving it for their first long meal together. And she had listened courteously, intent and thoughtful to the very end. Joyce now returned briefly to the subject.