The Killings at Badger's Drift Read online

  Barbara Lessiter felt the hard paper ball pressing on her thigh when she moved. She wondered, for the millionth time in the last five minutes, where the hell she was going to find five thousand pounds.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Where to now, sir?’

  ‘Well, there’s Mrs Quine in Burnham Crescent . . .’

  ‘I thought the others were doing the council houses.’

  ‘I’m doing that one, she’s Miss Simpson’s cleaner. Then there’s that alarmingly smart bungalow and the next four cottages - and Trace’s farm. Or rather, Tye House.’

  ‘Expect to see a bit of rank, do they? Top people?’

  ‘I can do without the mass observation, Troy. Just keep your wits about you and your eyes open.’

  ‘Right, Chief.’

  ‘And your pencil sharp. We’ll start with the farmhouse and work down.’

  There was a graceful iron white-ribbed fanlight with lacy curlicues over the main door. The magnolia was in fulsome bloom, great waxy cups in dark green saucers pressing against the windows. Sergeant Troy gave the brass pull a yank and, a long way away, a bell could be heard tinkling. Barnaby wondered if they had a glass and mahogany case in the kitchen with a row of little bells jerking imperiously under their designations. Breakfast Room. Laundry. Still Room. Nursery. No one came.

  ‘Must be the maid’s day off.’ Troy was unable to sustain the jokey note. The remark came out as a sour sneer. He followed Barnaby round the side of the house, fighting angry memories. His mother had always had to remove her apron before answering the door. And her headscarf. He could see her now nervously patting her hair in the hall mirror, smoothing her collar. ‘Mrs Willows to see you, my lady.’

  They entered a cobbled yard at the back of the house and, as they did so, a small dog, very thin, with a grey muzzle and brindled chest, came hurrying towards them. He was an old Jack Russell and his eyes were not good. He was quite close to the two men before he realized his mistake. Troy bent down to pat the dog but it turned, inconsolably, away. Barnaby approached the back door. ‘Perhaps we’ll have more luck here.’

  It stood wide open, revealing a vast kitchen. A man, facing the door, sat at a refectory table in an attitude of complete dejection, his forehead supported on one hand, his shoulders sagging. Close to him, perched on the table’s edge with her back to Barnaby, was a young girl. As Barnaby watched she leaned forward and touched the man’s shoulder. Immediately he seized her hand then, looking up, saw the two men in the doorway and leapt to his feet. The girl turned to face them more slowly.

  Years after the case was closed Barnaby would still remember his first sight of Katherine Lacey. She was wearing a silk dress, ivory and apple-green stripes, and was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. And her beauty was more than simple perfection of face and form (and how often in any case did you come across that?); it had the remote perfection of a distant star. It smote the heart. She came towards them, her exquisite lips parted in a smile.

  ‘I’m sorry - have you been ringing long? I don’t always hear in the kitchen.’ Barnaby explained the reason for their visit. ‘Oh, of course - please come in. We were all so shocked to hear the police had been called in, weren’t we, David?’ The man, who had re-seated himself in one of the wheelback chairs, did not reply. ‘She taught my father, you know, Miss Simpson. Both my parents were very fond of her. I’m Katherine Lacey by the way. And this is David Whiteley, our farm manager.’

  Barnaby nodded and queried her movements on the day in question whilst glancing at the man at the table. He was over six feet tall, with the bronzed, almost weathered complexion of someone who works continually in the open. He had vivid cobalt-blue eyes and hair the colour of flax, worn rather longer than might have been expected. He appeared to be somewhere in his late thirties and was now looking more resentful than dejected. Barnaby wondered what would have happened if he and Troy had not appeared on the doorstep. Was the girl’s touch on his shoulder a gesture of comfort? A caress? Would his fervent handclasp have led to a rebuff? Or a kiss?

  ‘. . . the afternoon’s easy. Most of it was spent in the village hall getting ready for the gymkhana on the Saturday. You know . . . putting the trestles up . . . sorting things . . . I was helping on the WI stall.’

  ‘I see . . .’ Barnaby nodded, trying in vain to picture Miss Lacy in the Women’s Institute. ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘Oh around four I think. But it could’ve been earlier. I’m hopeless about time, as Henry will tell you.’

  ‘And did you go straight home?’

  ‘Yes. To pick up the Peugeot. Then I drove over to the barn at Huyton’s End to collect Henry. He has an office -’

  She broke off suddenly, then said, ‘Look - wouldn’t it be more sensible if you talked to us both together? We always have some coffee around now in the drawing room. You’re welcome to join us.’

  Barnaby declined the coffee but agreed that her suggestion was a helpful one.

  ‘You come too, David.’ She smiled again, this time at the man in the chair, and the three of them followed her back view, only marginally less heavenly than the front, across a hall and down a long carpeted corridor. One wall was lined with ornately framed oil paintings of Trace’s past, the other with delicate watercolours to which Barnaby lent an expert and envious eye. At the end of the corridor double glass doors opened on to an orangery: a dazzling pattern of white iron loops and curls. Through the glass Barnaby caught a glimpse of formal lawns, elegant topiary and a glittering fountain. He wondered if there were peacocks. Katherine spoke over her shoulder.

  ‘Apart from Henry the only other person living here at the moment is Phyllis Cadell - his sister-in-law. Her room is upstairs.’ She turned sharply and opened the first door on her right.

  They entered a very long drawing room. The walls were stippled apricot and cream and there were rich Persian rugs scattered over the high honey-gloss parquet. Rocailles of gold leaf decorated the ceiling. At the far end of the room a man sat in a wheelchair by a magnificent Adam fireplace. There was no fire but the space was filled with a starburst of white and silver flowers and leaves. The man’s knees were covered by a travelling rug. He had a grave - almost stern - face with two deep grooves running from his nose to the corners of his mouth. His dark hair was streaked with grey and his shoulders were slightly bent. Barnaby was surprised to discover later that Henry Trace was only forty-two. He wondered if it was quite without thought that David Whiteley took the seat nearest to his employer. There could hardly have been a crueller contrast. Even in repose Whiteley had an air of aggressive vitality. His limbs, so straight and strong, seemed almost to be bursting the seams of his cords and check shirt. Marlboro man, jeered Troy to himself. Katherine explained why the police were there, then sat on a footstool close to the wheelchair and took Trace’s hand.

  ‘A terrible business,’ he said, ‘surely it’s not true that there’s been foul play?’

  ‘We’re just making a few inquiries at this stage, sir.’

  ‘I just can’t believe anyone would wish to harm her,’ continued Trace, ‘she was the kindest soul alive.’

  He didn’t add, noticed Troy, flipping open his pro-forma pad, that she taught his mum. Probably went to a private school. All right for some.

  ‘I actually saw her on the day she died,’ said Katherine, her voice quite untainted by the slightly salacious excitement that usually accompanies this sort of remark.

  ‘When was this?’ asked Barnaby, glancing at Troy who described an arc with his pencil to show awareness.

  ‘In the morning. I don’t remember the exact time I called at the cottage. She’d promised me some honey for the stall. She gave me some parsley wine as well. She was always very generous.’

  ‘And that was the last time you saw her?’ Katherine nodded. ‘To return to the afternoon . . . you left the hall around four . . . took the Peugeot . . . ?’

  ‘And drove over to Henry’s office. I picked him up, we came back here, had supper
and spent the evening wrangling over -’

  ‘Discussing.’

  ‘- discussing’ - she screwed her head round and gave him a teasing look - ‘a new rosarium. I left about half-past ten.’

  ‘You don’t live here then, Miss Lacey?’

  ‘Not until next Saturday. We’re to be married then.’ She exchanged glances with the man in the wheelchair. Hers was simply fond but his was not only adoring but triumphant. The triumph of a collector who has spotted a rare and beautiful specimen and, against all the odds, captured it for himself. If you’ve got the money, thought Sergeant Troy, you can buy anything.

  ‘I live in a cottage on the edge of the beechwoods. Holly Cottage. It’s quite outside the village, really.’ A shadow darkened her eyes. She added so quietly that Barnaby could hardly hear, ‘With my brother Michael.’ He asked the exact location of the cottage and she described it, adding, ‘But you won’t find him there at the moment. He’s gone into Causton to buy some brushes.’ Even volunteering this hardly disturbing piece of information seemed to distress her and she folded her lips together tightly and frowned. Trace patted her head gently as if soothing a fretful animal.

  ‘Did you pass Miss Simpson’s house on your way home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you see anyone? Or hear or notice anything?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Was the light on? The curtains closed?’

  ‘I’m sorry - I just don’t remember.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Barnaby turned his attention to Henry Trace. He felt the questions here were a mere formality, yet not to have asked them would have appeared insensitive to say the least. Whilst Trace could perhaps have wheeled himself down to Miss Simpson’s cottage and poisoned her (in which case his fiancée was lying about their evening together) he could hardly have been frolicking in the woods that afternoon, even assuming any man on the point of marrying Katharine Lacey would have been mad enough to want to. There had been no wheel or tyre marks anywhere near the place. Barnaby assumed the paralysis was genuine. It was surely only in films that strong, healthy people spent years concealed under a rug in a wheelchair simply so that they could leap out at the crucial moment and commit the perfect crime.

  ‘Do you confirm Miss Lacey’s account of your movements together, Mr Trace?’ He heard the flick of paper from Troy’s corner.

  ‘Yes I do.’

  ‘And were other people about when you were in your office?’

  ‘Oh yes. Tractors are stored there. All the fertilizers. There’s a hopper . . . out-buildings. It’s a very busy part of the farm.’

  ‘How large is the farm?’

  ‘Five thousand acres.’

  Sergeant Troy’s pencil stabbed savagely at his page. ‘And could you give me the name of your doctor?’

  ‘My doctor?’ Henry Trace gave Barnaby a bemused stare. Then the stare faded. He said, ‘Oh - I see.’ The grooves on his face deepened. He smiled, a smile totally without any mirth or pleasure. ‘Trevor Lessiter’s my GP. But you’d best have a word with Mr Hollingsworth, University College, London.’ He added bitterly, ‘He’ll be able to confirm that my paralysis is genuine.’

  There was a cry of indignation from the girl at his feet and she stared at Barnaby angrily. Trace said, ‘It’s all right, darling. They have to ask these things.’ But she remained unmollified and continued to glare at the two policemen during the questioning of David Whiteley. Troy thought this made her look more beautiful than ever. The farm manager’s replies were brief. He said he had been working on the afternoon in question.

  ‘Where precisely was this?’

  ‘Three miles down the Gessler Tye road. I was repairing some fencing. There was a nasty accident a couple of days before and a considerable amount got smashed.’

  Barnaby nodded. ‘And when you were through there?’

  ‘I drove into Causton to order some more netting. And then went home.’

  ‘I see. You didn’t return to the farm office?’

  ‘No. It was nearly six by then. I don’t have to clock on and off, you know. I’m not a hired hand.’ He strove to sound amused but there was a flick of temper in his voice.

  ‘And home is . . . ?’

  ‘Witchetts. The house with the green shutters opposite the pub. Goes with the job.’

  ‘And in the evening?’

  ‘I showered. Had a drink. Watched a little television. Then went to the Bear at Gessler for a meal and some company.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘About half eight I suppose.’

  ‘You’re not married, Mr Whiteley?’

  ‘Mind your own business!’

  ‘David!’ cried Henry Trace. ‘There’s no need -’

  ‘I’m sorry but I really don’t see how the hell whether I’m married or not is relevant to an inquiry into the death of an old woman I barely knew in the first place.’ He closed his mouth stubbornly, folded his arms and crossed his legs. A moment later he uncrossed them. Then crossed them the other way again. Barnaby, looking completely incurious, sat placidly in his armchair. Henry and Katherine looked rather embarrassed. Troy eyed Whiteley’s straining calves and biceps caustically. He knew the type. Fancied himself as a stud. Probably couldn’t even get it up without half a dozen beers and a soft porn video. The silence lengthened. Then David Whiteley heaved an exaggerated sigh.

  ‘Well yes, if you must know I am married, but we’ve been living apart for the past three years. Since shortly before I came to work here, in fact. She’s a domestic science teacher and lives in Slough. And, just to save you ferreting out every little genealogical detail, we have a nine-year-old son. His name is James Laurence Whiteley and last time I saw him he was just over four feet tall and weighed in at around five stone. He was into Depeche Mode, BMX and computer games and played a mean game of basketball. Of course that was some considerable time ago. It’s probably all different now.’ Sarcasm and anger failed in the last remark. His voice, thick with emotion, broke off suddenly.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Whiteley.’ Barnaby waited a few moments then continued, ‘To return to the evening of the seventeenth. Can you tell me when you left the Bear?’

  Whiteley took a long deep breath before replying. ‘Roughly half an hour before closing time. They might remember. I’m a regular there.’

  ‘And you drove straight home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could you give me the make and registration of your car?’

  ‘It’s a Citroën estate. ETX 373V.’

  ‘Fine.’ Barnaby rose. ‘You’ve been very cooperative. I believe, Miss Lacey, you mentioned there was someone else living here?’

  ‘Well yes,’ Henry Trace said, ‘there’s Phyllis. But isn’t she down at her new place?’

  ‘No.’ Katherine rose to her feet. ‘I heard her come in half an hour ago. I’ll show you the way.’ She pointed her words in the general direction of Barnaby but without looking at him. As she took the first step away Henry caught her hand.

  ‘Come straight back.’

  ‘Of course I will.’ She bent her head and kissed the corner of his mouth. It was a chaste kiss, but the look she got in return was far from chaste. They made a charming picture, thought Barnaby. Trace with his distinguished severe profile, the girl fresh and lovely bending over him, both posed against a fall of grey watered-silk curtains. Perhaps it was this final rather theatrical touch that gave Barnaby the feeling that the charming scene was in some way unnatural. It seemed so contrivedly perfect; brimming with false pathos like a sentimental Victorian greeting card or an illustration from Dickens. He couldn’t quite explain this perception. It was not that he believed either of them was playing a part. He shifted his gaze to include David Whiteley. Perhaps his presence had been father to the thought. Perhaps it was simply that the girl was with the wrong man. That youth should call to youth. Barnaby watched Whiteley watching the girl. His glance was far from chaste as well. Barnaby thought that Henry Trace would be a very unusual man if, when
his fiancée and his farm manager were both out of his sight, he didn’t occasionally wonder . . . A collector will naturally expect a covetous attitude on the part of other collectors. Especially with regard to his prize specimen.

  Katherine led them up a tall curved staircase and down yet another corridor, this one sporting little highly polished half-moon tables holding vases of flowers, snuffboxes and miniatures.

  ‘What is the lady’s full name?’

  ‘Phyllis Cadell.’

  ‘Miss?’

  ‘Very much so.’ The squeeze of lemon in her voice intrigued and pleased Barnaby. Too much sweetness and light could cloy after a while, in his opinion. Rather a short while too. He liked what he called ‘a bit of edge’. He wondered what Phyllis Cadell’s exact position in the household was and if it would change after the marriage. Surely any new wife would want to take the reins into her own hands. And, with a disabled husband, she would need to be exceptionally capable. He looked at Miss Lacey’s slightly sunburned hand as she knocked at the door. It looked stronger than her rather flower-like appearance would lead you to expect.

  ‘Oh Phyllis - I’m sorry to disturb you . . .’

  Barnaby followed her into the room. He saw a rather plump, middle-aged woman with a slab-like face, gooseberry-green eyes and dull brown hair done in a youthful style with a fronded fringe and hard tight little curls. Atop her long pale face it looked foolish, like a wig on a horse. She was sitting in front of a large flickering television set, a box of fudge on her knees.

  ‘. . . it’s the police.’

  The woman jumped. Cubes of fudge went flying everywhere. She crouched, concealing her face, but not before Barnaby had seen fear leaping to life behind her eyes. Katherine bent down too. It was assorted fudge: three shades of brown (vanilla, mocha, chocolate), and some squares were studded with walnuts and cherries.