The Killings at Badger's Drift

Chapter One

‘There’s something very wrong here and I expect you to do something about it. Isn’t that what the police are for?’

Sergeant Troy observed his breathing, a trick he had picked up from a colleague at Police Training College who was heavily into T’ai Ch’i and other faddy Eastern pursuits. The routine came in very handy when dealing with abusive motorists, boot-deploying adolescents and, as now, with barmy old ladies.

‘Indeed we are, Miss ... er ...’ The sergeant pretended he had forgotten her name. Occasionally this simple manoeuvre caused people to wonder if their visit was really worth the bother and to drift off, thus saving unnecessary paperwork.

‘Bellringer.’

Chiming in, thought the sergeant, pleased at the speed of this connection and at his ability to keep a straight face. He continued, ‘But are you sure there’s anything here to investigate? Your friend was getting on in years, she had a fall and it was too much for her. It’s quite common, you know.’

‘Rubbish!’

She had the sort of voice that really got up his nose: clear, authoritative, upper upper middle class. I bet she’s ordered a few skivvies around in her time, he thought, the noun springing easily to mind. He and his wife enjoyed a good costume drama on the television.

‘She was as strong as an ox,’ Miss Bellringer stated firmly. ‘As an ox.’ There was a definite tremor on the repetition. Jesus, thought Sergeant Troy, surely the old bat wasn’t going to start snivelling. Mechanically he reached for the Kleenex under the counter and returned to his breathing.

Miss Bellringer ignored the tissues. Her left arm vanished into a vast tapestry bag, trawled around for a bit then reappeared, the hand gripping a round jewelled box. She opened this and shook a neat pile of ginger-coloured powder on to the back of her wrist. She sniffed this up each nostril, closing them alternately like an emergent seal. She replaced the box and let out a prodigious sneeze. Sergeant Troy grabbed resentfully at his papers. When the dust had settled Miss Bellringer cried, ‘I wish to see your superior.’

It would have given Sergeant Troy a great deal of pleasure to say that none of his superiors was on the premises. Unfortunately this was not the case. Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby had just returned from holiday and was catching up on some files in his office.

‘I won’t keep you a moment,’ said Troy, horrified to find the word madam lurking at the end of the sentence.

As he knocked on Barnaby’s door and entered, Troy kept his face expressionless and his ideas regarding Miss Bellringer’s degree of senility firmly to himself. The Chief could be very terse at times. He was a big, burly man with an air of calm paternalism which had seduced far sharper men than Gavin Troy into voicing opinions which had then been trounced to smithereens.

‘Well, Sergeant?’

‘There’s an old - elderly lady in reception, sir. A Miss Bellringer from Badger’s Drift. She insists on seeing someone in authority. I mean someone apart from myself.’

Barnaby lifted his head. He doesn’t look as if he’s had a holiday, thought Sergeant Troy. He looks tired. Not very well either. The thought did not displease him. The little bottle of tablets which Barnaby carried everywhere was on the desk next to a beaker of water.

‘What’s it about?’

‘Her friend has died and she’s not satisfied.’

‘Who would be?’

The sergeant rephrased his question. It was obviously going to be one of the Chief’s sarky days. ‘What I meant, sir, was that she’s convinced there’s something wrong. Not quite straightforward.’

Chief Inspector Barnaby looked down at his top file: a particularly unsavoury case of child molestation. It would be a pleasure to postpone reading it for a while. ‘All right. Show her in.’

Miss Bellringer settled herself in the chair that Sergeant Troy drew forward and rearranged her draperies. She was a wondrous sight, festooned rather than dressed. All her clothes had a dim but vibrant sheen as if they had once, long ago, been richly embroidered. She wore several very beautiful rings, the gems dulled by dirt. Her nails were dirty too. Her eyes moved all the time, glittering in a brown seamed face. She looked like a tattered eagle.

‘I’m Chief Inspector Barnaby. Can I help you?’

‘Well ...’ She eyed him doubtfully. ‘May I ask why you’re in mufti?’

‘In what? Oh’ - he followed her stern gaze. ‘I’m a detective. Plain clothes.’

‘Ah.’ Satisfied, she continued, ‘I want you to investigate a death. My friend Emily Simpson was eighty years old and because she was eighty a death certificate has automatically been issued. If she’d been half that age questions would have been asked. A post mortem carried out.’

‘Not necessarily, Miss Bellringer. That would depend on the circumstances.’

It had been years since Barnaby had heard such an accent. Not since his early days of going to the pictures. In the postwar years films had been full of clean-cut young Englishmen with straight up and down trousers, all sounding their As like Es.

‘Well the circumstances here are very strange indeed.’

They didn’t sound all that strange, thought Barnaby, picking up a notepad and pen. Apparently his visitor’s friend had been discovered, lying on a hearthrug, by the postman. He had needed a signature for a parcel and, not getting any reply to his knock (except the frantic barking of a dog) had peered through the sitting-room window.

‘He came straight to me ... he’s been our postman for years you see ... knew us both and I telephoned Doctor Lessiter -’

‘That’s your friend’s GP?’

‘He’s everyone’s GP, Inspector. Well, all the elderly in the village and those without transport. Otherwise it’s a four-mile trip into Causton. Well - I hurried over, taking my key, but in the event it wasn’t necessary because ...’ - Miss Bellringer lifted a compelling annunciatory finger - ‘and this is the first odd thing - the back door was unlocked.’

‘Was that unusual?’

‘Unheard of. There have been three burglaries in the village recently. Emily was most particular.’

‘Everyone has a lapse of memory sometimes,’ murmured Barnaby.

‘Not her. She had a fixed routine. Nine p.m. check time with the wireless, set her alarm for seven, put Benjy in his basket then lock the back door.’

‘And do you know if her alarm was set?’

‘No. I looked specially.’

‘Then surely that simply indicates that she died before nine p.m.’

‘No she didn’t. Died in the night. The doctor said.’

‘She may have died in the night,’ the inspector continued gently, ‘but lost consciousness several hours before.’

‘Now here’s the clincher,’ said Miss Bellringer, eagle bright, as if he had not spoken, ‘what about the ghost orchid?’

‘The ghost orchid,’ repeated Barnaby evenly, thirty years of dealing with the public standing him in ineffably good stead. Miss Bellringer explained about the contest.

‘And in the afternoon after my friend died I went for a walk in the woods. Silly really, because of course I simply got rather upset. I found myself half looking for the orchid then realized that it didn’t matter any more whether I found it or not. And this brought Emily’s death home to me in a way that seeing her ... lying there ... hadn’t.’ She looked across at the inspector, blinked several times and sniffed. ‘That must sound a bit peculiar.’

‘Not at all.’

‘And then I found it. But you see Emily had found it first.’ Responding to Barnaby’s raised eyebrows she continued, ‘We had a stick with a ribbon to mark the spot. Hers red, mine yellow. Now’ - Miss Bellringer leaned forward and Barnaby, so intense was her regard, only just stopped himself doing the same - ‘why did she not come and tell me?’

‘Perhaps she was saving it. As a surprise.’

‘No, no,’ she said, irritated by his apparent inability to grasp the situation, ‘you don’t understand. I’ve known Emily for nearly eighty years. She would have been overwhelmed by excitement. She would have come straight to me.’

‘She may already have felt ill and been anxious to get home.’

‘She has to pass my gate to get there. If she’d been ill she would have come in. I would have looked after her.’

‘Did you see her at all on that day?’

‘Saw her bringing Benjy back from his walk about two o’clock. And before you ask, they both looked as fit as fleas.’ She looked around the room in a lost yet hopeful manner, as the newly bereft sometimes do. Unable to accept the empty space, half expecting the dead person to reappear. ‘No’ - she focused her gaze firmly on the inspector, ‘something happened after she saw the orchid and before she returned to the village, to put the discovery out of her mind. And it must have been a pretty big something, believe you me.’

‘If what you say is true, are you suggesting that the shock killed her?’

‘I hadn’t really got as far as that.’ Miss Bellringer frowned. ‘But there is one more thing ...’ She rummaged furiously in her bag, crying, ‘What do you make of this?’ and handed him a scrap of paper on which was written: Causton 1234 Terry.

‘The Samaritans.’

‘Are they? Well, they may give succour but they certainly don’t give information. Couldn’t get a thing out of them. Said it was all confidential.’

‘Where did you find this?’

‘On her little table, tucked under the telephone. I can’t imagine why she would have rung them up.’

‘Presumably because she was worried or depressed and needed to talk to someone.’

‘To total strangers? Fiddlesticks!’ Hurt lay behind the snort of disbelief. ‘Anyway our generation didn’t get depressed. We soldiered on. Not like today. People want tranquillizers now if the milk goes off.’

Barnaby felt his innards twang aggressively and shifted in his chair. The brief flicker of interest her story had aroused died away. He felt irritated and impatient. ‘When did your friend actually die?’

‘Friday the seventeenth. Two days ago. I’ve been stewing about it ever since. Knew there wasn’t much to go on, y’see. Thought I’d probably be told I was talking a load of nonsense. Which of course I was.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Young man at the desk. Said at her age it was to be expected and hinted that I was wasting his valuable time. Not,’ she added caustically, ‘that he seemed to be doing very much.’

‘I see. No, all complaints and inquiries are investigated. Our opinion on their veracity is quite irrelevant. Who is the next of kin in this case?’

‘Well ... I am, I suppose. Neither of us had any near relations. Odd cousins and aunts long since popped off. She had a nephew somewhere in the Antipodes. And I’m her executor. We left everything to each other.’

Barnaby made a note of Miss Bellringer’s name and address then asked, ‘You’re in charge of the funeral arrangements?’

‘Yes. She’s being buried on Wednesday. That doesn’t leave us with much time.’ Suddenly they were in the realms of melodrama. ‘You know, I can’t help being reminded of The Case of the Vanishing Orchestra. The circumstances are really quite -’

‘You read detective fiction, Miss Bellringer?’

‘Avidly. They’re a mixed bunch, of course. My favourite is -’ She broke off and looked at him sharply. ‘Ah. I see what you’re thinking. But you’re quite wrong. It’s not my imagination.’

Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby rose and, after a preliminary flapping of garments, his companion did the same. ‘I shouldn’t worry about the funeral, Miss Bellringer. These things can always be postponed if it proves to be necessary.’

In the doorway she turned. ‘I knew her, you see, Emily.’ Her fingers tightened on the bone handles of her bag. ‘All this is totally out of character. Believe me, Chief Inspector, there is something very wrong here.’

After she had left Barnaby took two tablets and swished them down with some water. He leaned back in his chair and waited for them to work. It seemed to take longer and longer. Perhaps he should start taking three. He loosened his belt and returned to the child molester’s file. A photograph grinned up at him: a sunny-faced little man who had had three previous convictions, then been given a job as a primary school caretaker. He sighed, pushed the folder away and wondered about Emily Simpson.

It was his belief, forged by thirty years of looking and listening, that no one ever acted out of character. What most people thought of as character (the accumulation, or lack of, certain social, educational and material assets) was shallow stuff. Real character was revealed when these accretions were stripped away. It was the chief inspector’s belief that anyone was capable of anything. Strangely enough this did not depress him. He did not even regard it as a pessimistic point of view but rather as the only sensible one for a policeman to hold.

However, Miss Simpson had done several things on the last day of her life that someone who had known her closely since childhood had never known her do before. And that was odd. Odd and interesting. Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby had made a note of the Samaritans’ number and took hold of the phone. But first there was the little matter of Miss Bellringer’s reception to be dealt with.

He pressed the buzzer and said, ‘Send Sergeant Troy in here.’

Chapter Two

There was no joy from the Samaritans. Barnaby had not expected that there would be. Clam tight as usual. Which was why after a second, later telephone call he presented himself at their tiny terraced house behind Woolworth’s at seven p.m. looking worried.

An elderly man sat behind a desk with two telephones. The receiver of one was clapped to his ear. He covered the mouthpiece and whispered, ‘Please sit down’ to Barnaby, then continued listening, nodding gravely from time to time. Eventually he replaced the receiver and said, ‘You’re the person who rang hoping to see Terry?’

Barnaby, who had thought the elderly man might have been Terry, nodded. ‘That’s right. We talked on Friday.’

‘And you are ... ?’ He was turning back the pages of a log book.

‘I’d rather not give my name,’ said Barnaby truthfully.

The phone rang again, and almost simultaneously a middle-aged woman and a young girl came out of a room nearby. The couple shook hands. Barnaby turned to the woman who murmured ‘Good evening’ and left. The girl waited expectantly. The man at the desk smiled and made a sign bringing her and Barnaby together.

She was slim and pretty, with a fall of shiny, fair hair. She had on a neat checked dress and a necklace of little silver beads. Barnaby compared her to his own daughter who, on her last visit home, had been wearing shredded jeans, an old leather breastplate and her hair in a sequinned crest.

‘We can talk in here.’ The girl led him back into the room. There was a comfortable armchair, a banquette against the wall and a pine table with a jar of marguerites. Barnaby took the banquette. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘No thank you.’ He had entered the building with no plan, prepared to play it as it came. For all he knew Terry might have been a tough old pro like himself. Blessing his good fortune, he smiled gravely at her and produced his warrant card.

‘Oh! But we’re ... I can’t ... what do you want?’

‘I understand you were the person who spoke to Emily Simpson last Friday evening?’

‘I’m sorry.’ She sounded a bit firmer this time. ‘But we never discuss clients with anyone. Our service is completely confidential.’

‘I appreciate that of course,’ replied Barnaby, ‘but in the case of a death -’

‘A death! How dreadful ... I’d no idea she was suicidal. I’ve only been a volunteer for a few weeks ... I’m still training, you see ...’ The words tumbled out. ‘If only I’d known ... but the other two Sams were interviewing and on the other line and I thought I could handle it ... Miss Simpson I mean -’

‘Hold on, hold on.’ She looked younger by the minute and on the verge of tears. ‘As far as we know there’s no question of suicide. But there may be suspicious circumstances.’

‘Oh? What sort of circumstances?’

‘So I would like you to tell me, if you would, what you remember of the call.’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t do that. I’d have to check -’

‘I’ve spoken to your director Mr Wainwright and I can assure you that in this case the rules can be waived.’ He gave her a fatherly smile.

‘Well ... I don’t know ...’

‘You wouldn’t wish to obstruct a police inquiry?’ A hint of sternness entered the smile.

‘Of course not.’ She glanced at the slightly open door. Barnaby sat patiently, guessing that in a moment she would recall the helpful gesture with which the Samaritan at the desk had introduced them. Her face cleared. She said, ‘I do remember Miss Simpson’s call. We only had about three that evening ... but not word for word.’

‘That’s all right. As much as you can. Take your time.’

‘Well, she said something like “I’ve got to talk to someone. I don’t know what to do.” Of course an awful lot of people start off like that ... then I asked her if she’d like to give her name because you don’t have to and some clients would rather not, but she did. And I encouraged her, you know ... and waited.’ She added with rather touching self-importance, ‘A lot of our work is just sitting and waiting.’

‘I understand.’

‘Then she said, “I’ve seen something. I feel I’ve got to tell someone about it.”’

Barnaby felt his concentration tighten. ‘And did she say what it was?’

Terry Bazely shook her head. ‘She did say it was unbelievable.’

Barnaby thought that didn’t signify. Elderly spinsters of both sexes were inclined to think the mildest spot of chicanery unbelievable if letters to the local press were anything to go by. They nearly always started: ‘I was absolutely amazed to see/hear/observe/experience ...’

‘But then someone came.’

‘What?’ He leaned forward.

‘She said she had to go - there was a knock at the door and I said we’d be here all night if she wanted to ring back, but she didn’t.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I checked in the book when I arrived.’

‘And she hung up before she answered the door?’

‘Yes.’

‘She didn’t say which door?’

‘No.’

‘Did you hear a dog bark?’

‘No.’

‘And that’s all you remember?’

She looked distressed, fretting her brows, afraid she had disappointed him. ‘I’m afraid so ... at least ...’ A long pause, then she said, ‘I’m sorry.’

Barnaby got up. ‘Well thank you Miss -’

‘Bazely. But I’m always called Terry. We only use Christian names here.’

‘Thank you. You’ve been extremely helpful.’

She opened the door for him. ‘There was something else ... I know there was.’

He thought there probably was. She didn’t look like the sort to make something up just to please. ‘It’ll probably pop into your mind when you’re at work or doing the washing up. Give me a ring if it does. Causton Central.’

‘Even if it doesn’t seem important?’

‘Especially if it doesn’t seem important. And’ - he closed the door - ‘you do understand that all this is completely confidential. Not to be discussed even with your colleagues?’

‘Oh.’ Doubt flooded back. She looked more worried than ever. ‘But ... I shall have to put your visit in the book.’

‘Just enter me,’ smiled Barnaby, opening the door again, ‘as an unnamed client worried about a death in the family.’

It was almost nine o’clock. Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby sat at the dining-room table facing a plateful of leathery strips, black and shiny as liquorice, surrounded by coils of yellowish green paste.

‘Your liver and greens are spoiled, dear,’ said Mrs Barnaby, implying that there had once been a time when they were not.

Tom Barnaby loved his wife. Joyce was kind and patient. She was a good listener. He always talked when he came home, usually about work, knowing her discretion was absolute. And she would look as interested and concerned at the end of half an hour as she had at the beginning. She was, at forty-six, ripely pretty and still enjoyed what she called, with a nudge in her voice, ‘a bit of a cuddle’. She had brought up their daughter with affectionate firmness, doing most of the things parents were supposed to do together by herself because of his job, and with never a word of complaint. The house was clean and comfortable and she carried out lots of boring chores in the garden willingly, leaving all the creative and interesting bits to him. She could act very well and sing like the lark ascending and did both, con brio, in the local amateur operatic and dramatic society. Her only flaw was that she could not cook.

No, thought Barnaby, as a particularly resilient bit of liquorice sprang up and hit the roof of his mouth. It was not just that she couldn’t cook, it was much, much more. There was between her and any fresh, frozen or tinned ingredient a sort of malign chemistry. They were born antagonists. He had observed her once making a tart. She didn’t just weigh and handle materials, she squared up to them, appearing to have some terrible foreknowledge that only an instant and combative readiness could bend them to her will. Her hand had closed over the shrinking pastry ball with a grip of iron.

When Cully was about thirteen she had persuaded her mother to go to cookery classes and, on the evening of the first lesson, she and her father had stood at the gate gripping each other’s hands, hardly able to believe their good fortune. Mrs Barnaby had set off carrying a basket of good things covered with a snowy cloth like a child in a fairy tale. She had come home three hours later with a small leather mat thickly studded with currants, crunchy as bits of coal. She had gone a few more times then given up - out of, she explained, kindness to the teacher. The poor woman, never before having experienced failure on such a monumental scale, had started to get terribly depressed.

Chief Inspector Barnaby rearranged his paste and strips and finished telling his wife about Miss Bellringer and Miss Simpson.

‘It’s an intriguing story, darling.’ Mrs Barnaby lowered her knitting, an exquisite puffball of silky creamy wool. ‘I wonder what she could have seen?’ Her husband shrugged. She was not deceived by the casualness of the gesture. ‘I suppose your next step will be to talk to the doctor?’

‘That’s right.’ Barnaby laid down his knife and fork. You could ask just so much from ordinarily tempered cutlery. ‘Probably after his evening surgery, so I might be late again. Don’t worry about keeping anything hot. I’ll eat out.’

‘You may go in now.’

Barnaby had turned up, at Doctor Lessiter’s suggestion, at eleven the following morning. He entered the consulting room to find the doctor seated behind his desk and as busy as a bee. All through their conversation his fingers were never still: fiddling with pencils, tidying a stack of pharmaceutical literature, pulling down his cuffs or just drumming away on his blotter. He glanced quickly at the chief inspector’s warrant card.

‘Well ... er ... Barnaby’ - he handed it back - ‘I can’t give you long.’ He didn’t invite the other man to sit down. The chief inspector explained the reason for his visit.

‘Don’t see any problem there. Elderly lady, bad fall, too much for her heart. A very common problem.’

‘I assume you attended Miss Simpson at some time during the two weeks before her death?’

‘Oh yes indeed. You can’t catch me out, Inspector. The death would have been reported otherwise. I know the law as well as you do.’

Leaving this unlikely possibility aside, Barnaby asked, ‘For what reason?’

‘She had a touch of bronchitis. Nothing serious.’

‘She didn’t die of bronchitis, surely?’

‘What are you implying?’

‘I’m not implying anything, Doctor Lessiter. I’m simply asking you a question.’

‘The cause of death, which occurred several hours before she was discovered, was heart failure. As I’ve already stated. The bruise was a large one. She must have fallen quite heavily. This sort of shock can be fatal.’

‘I can see that would be the natural deduction -’

‘Diagnosis.’

‘- and that you would not be looking for anything untoward. Perfectly natural under the circumstances. But if you could cast your mind back for a moment was there nothing which perhaps’ - he searched for the most tactful phrase - ‘didn’t quite fit?’

‘Nothing.’

But there had been a brief hesitation. And a note in the doctor’s voice that ran counter to the strong negative. Barnaby waited. Doctor Lessiter puffed out his cheeks. His head was as round as a turnip and his cheeks the colour of russet apples. His nose was reddish too and thin crimson threads fanned out over his eyeballs. Lurking behind the acceptable aroma of soap, antiseptic and strong mints the chief inspector thought he could detect a whiff of whisky. Doctor Lessiter’s hands took a break and rested on his pot belly. When he spoke his tone was judicial, implying that he had finally decided that Barnaby could be trusted.

‘Well ... there was something ... oh hardly worth mentioning, really. There was rather a funny smell.’

‘What sort of smell?’

‘Umm ... like mice.’

‘That’s not surprising in an old cottage. Especially if she didn’t have a cat.’

‘I didn’t say it was mice. I said it was like mice. That’s the nearest point of comparison I can make.’ Doctor Lessiter rose, a fraction unsteadily, to his feet. ‘And now you’ll have to excuse me. I have a very busy day ahead.’ He pressed the buzzer and moments later Barnaby found himself in the open air.

The surgery was behind the house, a splendid Victorian villa. He walked down the long gravel drive and entered a narrow lane bordered by hawthorn and cow parsley. It was a lovely sunny day. He broke off a bit of hawthorn and chewed it as he walked. Bread and cheese they had called it when he was a lad. He remembered biting into the sweet green buds. It didn’t taste the same now. Bit late in the year, perhaps.

Badger’s Drift was in the shape of a letter T. The cross bar, called simply the Street, had a crescent of breeze-block council houses, a few private dwellings, the Black Boy pub, a phone box and a very large and beautiful Georgian house. This was painted a pale apricot colour and almost smothered on one side by a vast magnolia. Behind the house were several farm buildings and two huge silos. The post office was a two-up two-down, no doubt suitably fortified, called Izercummin, which doubled as the village shop.

Barnaby turned into the main leg of the T. Church Lane was not as long as the Street and ran very quickly into open country - miles and miles of wheat and barley bisected at one point by a rectangular blaze of rape. The church was thirteenth-century stone and flint, the church hall twentieth-century brick and corrugated iron.

As Barnaby strolled along he felt more and more strongly that he was being watched. A stranger in a small community is always an object of keen interest and he had seen more than one curtain twitch as he passed by. Now, although the lane behind him appeared to be deserted, he felt a spot of tension develop at the base of his neck. He turned. No one. Then he saw a rainbow of light bobbing near his feet and looked up. In the loft window of an opulent bungalow close to the Black Boy a prism of light flashed and a face turned quickly away.

Miss Bellringer lived in a small modern house at the end of the lane. Barnaby walked up the narrow path of pea shingle encroached by a tangle of luxurious vegetation. Rhododendrons, laurel, hypericum, roses all running amok in all directions. On the front door was an iron bull’s head and a notice in a clear plastic envelope which read KNOCK LOUDLY. He knocked loudly.

Immediately a voice yelled: ‘Don’t do that!’ There was a heavy bang as if a piece of furniture had fallen over, a shuffling sound, and Miss Bellringer opened the door. She said, ‘I’m sorry, it’s Wellington. Do come in.’

She led the way into a cluttered sitting room and started to pick up a pile of books from the floor. The chief inspector crouched to help. All the books were very heavy. ‘They will climb, you see. I don’t know who first put the idea about that cats are sure footed. They can never have owned one. He’s always knocking stuff about.’

Barnaby spotted Wellington, a solid cat the colour of iron filings, with four white socks, on top of a grand piano. The name seemed apt. He had a face like an old boot, squashed in, tuckered and rumpled. He watched them re-stacking the books. He looked secretive and ironical. A cat who was biding his time.

‘Please’ - Miss Bellringer waved an arm, just missing a group of photographs - ‘sit down.’

Barnaby removed a pile of sheet music, a painted terracotta duck and a tin of toffees from a wing chair and sat down.

‘Well, Chief Inspector ...’ She sat opposite him on a Victorian love seat and clasped her knees (she was wearing copper-coloured knickerbockers), ‘What’ve you found out?’

‘Well,’ echoed Barnaby, ‘there was certainly something troubling your friend.’

‘I knew it!’ She slapped a brocaded thigh, sending up a little puff of dust. ‘What did I tell you?’

‘Unfortunately there seems to be no way of discovering what it was.’

‘Tell me what happened.’

As Barnaby described his meeting with Terry Bazely he glanced around the room. It was large and crammed from floor to ceiling with books and ornaments, dried flowers and plants. Three of the shelves held old Penguin crime classics with the green and white covers. There was a huge primitive stone head in the fireplace, magnificent Quad and Linn high-fidelity equipment, and a Ben Nicholson, festooned with cobwebs, hanging near the french windows.

‘And what do we do now?’ She gazed at him, clear-eyed and expectant, sitting forward on the very edge of her seat, ready for anything.

Barnaby found he was resenting her confidence. She seemed to regard him in the light of a conjuror. But his feelings about the case (if case there proved to be) were vague and nebulous. He had no rabbit to produce. He was not even sure he had the hat. ‘There’s nothing you can do, Miss Bellringer. I shall ask the police surgeon to have a look at the body. I shall need your permission for that -’

‘Of course, of course.’

‘If he sees no need to proceed further that will probably mean an end to the matter.’ He had expected her to be downcast at this remark but she nodded with vigorous approval.

‘Excellent. Brown’s is the undertaker. Kerridge Street. I’ll write a note.’ She did this quickly, using a broad-nibbed fountain pen filled with Indian ink, and heavy smooth cream paper. She handed him the envelope, saying, ‘I mustn’t keep you. You’ll let me know the outcome? And very well done, Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby.’ Barnaby covered his mouth with his hand and coughed. As they turned towards the door Miss Bellringer picked up one of the photographs in a barbola frame. ‘Here is Emily. She was eighteen then. We’d just started teaching.’

Barnaby looked at the faded sepia print. It was a studio portrait. Lucy was standing next to a jardinière which held a potted palm. Emily sat on a stool. She was looking straight at the camera. Smooth fair hair coiled into a chignon, wide-apart eyes, her mouth firm. Her calf-length skirt and white blouse looked very crisp. Lucy was smiling broadly. Her bun of hair was lopsided and the hem of her skirt dipped slightly. One hand rested protectively on her friend’s shoulder.

‘What did you teach?’ Barnaby handed back the photograph.

‘My special subject was music. And Emily’s English. But we taught almost everything else of course. One did in those days.’ She accompanied him to the front door. ‘School’s gone now. Converted into flats. Full of horrible people from London.’

‘By the way’ - on the point of leaving Barnaby turned - ‘was your friend ever troubled by mice?’

‘Good heavens, no. The place was as clean as a whistle. Emily loathed mice. There were pellets everywhere. Good day to you, Chief Inspector.’

Chapter Three

‘I don’t suppose Doctor Bullard’s on the premises?’

‘Actually he is, sir,’ replied the desk sergeant. ‘Been giving evidence at an inquest this morning then he went over to Forensic.’

From behind a glassed-in panel Policewoman Brierly called: ‘I saw him go across the yard for lunch.’

The canteen lay at the end of a large quadrangle. Everyone at the station moaned endlessly about the food which, to the chief inspector’s tortured palate, seemed positively Lucullan. They should try eating chez Barnaby, he thought, loading up with shepherd’s pie, soggy chips and livid mushy peas. That’d soon shut them up. He added a mincemeat slice and looked round, spotting the doctor alone at a table by the window.

‘Hello, Tom,’ said Doctor Bullard. ‘What brings you to these desperate straits?’

‘What brings you?’ said Barnaby, sitting down and tucking in.

‘My wife’s at her Ikebana class.’

‘Ah. I wanted to talk about something, actually.’

‘Talk away,’ replied the doctor, pushing aside the wreckage from a devilled haddock and considering a castle pudding.

‘An old lady had a fall and was found dead the next morning by the postman. Not, sadly, all that unusual. But she saw something, probably in the woods near her house, the afternoon before that distressed her considerably. So much so that she rang the Samaritans to talk about it but before she could say much someone came to the door. And that’s all we know.’

‘So ... ?’ Doctor Bullard shrugged. ‘Slightly more unusual.’

‘I’d like you to have a look at her.’

‘Who signed the death certificate?’

‘Lessiter. Badger’s Drift.’

‘Ohhh ...’ George Bullard blew out his cheeks and placed the tips of his fingers together. ‘Well, it won’t be the first time I’ve trodden on his hand-made two-tones.’

‘What d’you think of him?’

‘Come on, Tom - you know better than that.’

‘Sorry.’

‘God, they don’t call these castle puddings for nothing, do they? This one’s completely impregnable.’ He stabbed at it then added, ‘I can tell you what’s common knowledge. That he has a lot of private patients and a pretty upmarket lifestyle. A definitely scrumptious second wife and a very unscrumptious daughter who must be about the same age as my Karen. Nearly nineteen.’

‘Can you look at the body this afternoon?’

‘Mm. I’ve got a hospital call at three, though, so we’d have to go straight away.’

There were only two funeral parlours in Causton. Brown’s was thought to be the more select. The other was the Co-op. Brown’s front window was padded with crumpled satin in the very centre of which was an urn of shiny black basalt holding several lilies. Engraved on the urn was: Til the Dawn Breaks and Shadows Flee Away. Parked in a space adjacent to the building was a new silver Porsche 924, sparkling in the sunshine.

‘Beautiful.’ Doctor Bullard stroked it appreciatively. ‘Nought to sixty in nine seconds.’

Barnaby imagined himself jammed into one of the low seats. The red and black chequered upholstery seemed to him hideously unattractive. He realized that he would always be, philosophically as well as incrementally, a middle-of-the range-family-saloon man. ‘I’d no idea these fellows were so well paid,’ he said, pushing open the glass-panelled door.

‘No short time either,’ replied the doctor jovially. ‘The one thing you can always be sure people are going to do is pop off.’

The bell rang with subdued and appropriate gravity. It disturbed only one occupant: a young man, almost colourless in appearance, who flowed through some deep velvet curtains at the back of the room. He wore a black suit and had a pale skin, pale straight hair, pale hands and pale, hard-boiled lemony eyes, like acid drops. About to give them extreme unction, he took a second look and rearranged his expression. ‘Doctor Bullard isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. And you’re ... don’t tell me ... Mr Rainbird?’

‘Got it in one,’ the young man beamed. His eyes didn’t change. He seemed to beam through his skin. ‘Dennis the menace,’ he added, apparently serious. He turned inquiringly to the doctor’s companion.

‘This is Detective Inspector Barnaby. Causton CID.’

‘My ...’ Dennis Rainbird gave the chief inspector a slippy glance. ‘Well, you won’t find any naughtiness here. We’re all as good as gold.’

Barnaby handed over the note from Miss Bellringer. ‘We’d like to see the body of Emily Simpson, if you’d be so kind.’ He was watching the other man’s face as he spoke. There was an expression almost immediately suppressed, of unnaturally intense curiosity laced with excitement.

‘Toot sweet,’ cried Mr Rainbird, looking at the note then whisking off behind the curtains. ‘Always ready to help the force.’ He spoke as if it was an everyday occurrence.

They stood by the coffin. Barnaby gazed down at the gaunt, white-clad corpse. She looked very neat and dry as if all the vital juices had drained away not recently but years ago. Impossible to believe there had ever been a clear-eyed young girl with a smooth chignon.

‘Hundreds of wreaths back there. She was ever so popular,’ opined Mr Rainbird. ‘She taught my mum, you know. And all my aunties.’

‘Yes. Well, thank you.’ Barnaby received a bridling, slightly truculent glance which he calmly returned, then Mr Rainbird shrugged and melted away.

Doctor Bullard bent over Miss Simpson. He lifted the ringless hands, felt the skin beneath her feet, pulled the gown aside and pressed his hand on her ribcage. Rigor mortis had long passed and the thin chest gave under his thumbs. He frowned and felt some more.

‘Something wrong?’

‘Lungs are badly congested.’

‘He was treating her for bronchitis.’

‘Hm.’ Using both thumbs he pushed back her eyelids. ‘When did she die?’

‘Three days ago.’

‘You don’t know what he was giving her?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Look at this.’

Barnaby peered at the yellow dead eyeballs. The pupils were the size of a pinhead. ‘Struth. What do you think, then?’

‘I think you should have a word with the coroner.’

‘And ask for a PM?’

‘Yes.’ The two men exchanged a glance. ‘You don’t sound surprised.’

Barnaby realized he was not surprised. Perhaps Miss Bellringer’s confidence had not been misplaced after all. He said, ‘I’ll let him know what’s happened so far. Who do you think will do it?’

‘Eynton I expect. Our chap’s gone to Crete for a month.’

‘All right for some.’

‘Give me a call when the report comes back, would you? I’d be interested to hear what they find.’

It came back Thursday morning. Barnaby rang Doctor Bullard who turned up shortly before noon. He read the report. Barnaby watched his face with some amusement. It was, as they say, a picture. Bullard laid the report down.

‘Hemlock?’

‘Hemlock.’

The doctor shook his head. ‘Well, it’s certainly a collector’s item.’

‘It’s out of the ark, George. The Medicis. Shakespeare. That Greek chap.’

‘Socrates.’

‘That’s him. I mean these days it’s usually Valium or Mogadon washed down with half a pint of vodka.’

‘Or something handy from the garden shed.’

‘Quite. If you’re going to use coniine there must be far easier ways than boiling up a distillation of that stuff.’

‘Oh I don’t know,’ the doctor demurred. ‘It’s not usually available over the counter. You can’t just pop into Boot’s and buy a boxful.’

‘How does it work?’

‘Gradual paralysis. Plato describes the death of Socrates very movingly. Feet, legs, everything gradually going cold. He took it very well. A real Stoic.’

‘So whoever gave her the stuff - if someone gave her the stuff - had to sit there and watch her die.’

‘That’s about it. Poor old soul. Not a pretty thought.’

‘Murder never is.’

Doctor Bullard scanned the report again. ‘Apparently she hadn’t eaten for some time. That would speed up the process. No seeds in the stomach, which would argue a distillation.’

‘Yes. I rang Pathology about that just before you came. They say it’s soluble in alcohol, ether or chloroform.’

‘Not in water?’

‘No.’

‘That means, for it to look like a natural death, she must’ve drunk it?’

‘I should say so,’ agreed Barnaby. ‘Anything else would have been too risky. Even an eighty-year-old lady can put up quite a struggle if someone’s pushing a chloroformed pad over her face. Things might have got knocked about. Ornaments smashed. The dog would have kicked up a hell of a racket.’

‘This explains the engorgement of the lungs.’ Doctor Bullard tapped the paper. ‘A bit excessive even for a bronchitic. Of course we shouldn’t be hard on old Lessiter. It’d be an unusual doctor who checked for symptoms of coniine poisoning in what looks like a perfectly straightfoward, if unexpected, death. All the same,’ he grinned, ‘I wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall when you tell him.’

Chapter Four

‘There’s no need to drive as if you’re auditioning for The Sweeney, Sergeant.’

‘Sorry, sir.’ Troy slowed down sulkily. What on earth was the point of being in the force with all the dreary forms and typing and gormless people endlessly asking you gormless questions if you couldn’t occasionally put your foot down, start the siren and drive like the clappers. And he was still smarting after the criticism (totally unwarranted in his opinion) that had been dished out a couple of days ago. He knew the rules as well as anyone, but how many officers followed up and investigated every single piddling thing that came their way? Just his luck the old bag had dropped him in it. And now here they were running around in ever-decreasing circles just because some other old bag had snuffed it. The only pleasurable thing about the whole affair was that Detective Chief Inspector frigging Barnaby was going to come out looking an even bigger fool than when he went in. Happily ignorant of the contents of the post-mortem report, Troy turned into Church Lane and parked outside number thirteen.

Barnaby found Miss Bellringer chopping up fish in her untidy kitchen. Wellington sat on top of the fridge watching the knife rise and fall, his punchball face suffused with satisfaction.

‘He won’t eat tins,’ said Miss Bellringer, reasonably enough. Then, ‘I understand there’s been a post mortem.’

Barnaby could not conceal a look of surprise. He had been brought up in a village not much larger than Badger’s Drift and knew how efficient the grapevine could be, but he was impressed at the speed with which this item of news had been disseminated. Proceeding in the first instance, he supposed, from the undertakers. ‘That’s right. There’s an inquest tomorrow. Would you be prepared to identify Miss Simpson?’

‘But’ - she turned pale, resting her knife on the board - ‘why?’

‘After a post mortem it’s necessary.’

‘But ... can’t you do that?’

‘I’m afraid not. I didn’t know her, you see.’ He paused. ‘I could ask Mr Rainbird.’

‘No, don’t do that. Horrible little wart.’ An even longer pause. ‘All right - if someone has to I’d rather it was me.’ Wellington made a protesting ‘mmr’ and she started chopping again.

‘Then the coroner will issue a certificate and your friend can be buried.’

‘Thank God. Poor Emily.’ She banged the plate down on the floor and opened a carton of cream. She poured some into a stone dish and set that down as well. ‘This cat’s arteries must be well and truly furred up by now. Fur inside and out. Ha!’ She gave Wellington an affectionate nudge with her boot. ‘But he does love it so.’

‘You said you had the key to Miss Simpson’s cottage.’

‘That’s right. Do you want to look round?’

‘Just briefly. There’ll be a more thorough investigation tomorrow.’

‘Ohh ... does that mean ... ?’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t really go into that at the moment.’

‘Of course. You’re quite right to chide, Chief Inspector.’

She pressed a finger to her lips. ‘ “Silent was the flock.” Do you admire Keats?’

‘If we could go as soon as possible?’

She took a Burberry cape from a hook behind the door and flapped her way into it. They made their way down to the front gate, Miss Bellringer kicking aside a supplicant cotoneaster. ‘We used to have an excellent relationship, these plants and myself. I left them alone and they left me alone. Now everything’s getting out of hand. Look at all that fluffy stuff. I thought a shrubbery was supposed to be ideal for people who didn’t care for gardening.’

‘They need an occasional cutting back,’ advised the chief inspector, whose herbaceous borders were the envy of Arbury Crescent.

Sergeant Troy watched them cross the road - the tall man in the light grey summer jacket and trousers and the shabby ancient frolicking alongside looking like an old English sheepdog caught up in a canvas sack. Not, Troy thought, that clothes were anything to go by. He remembered his mum cleaning for old Lady Preddicott who always looked as if she dressed in Oxfam rejects. And he remembered wearing her grandson’s castoffs: ludicrously expensive clothes from the White House and Harrod’s when all he longed for was jeans and a Batman T-shirt.

Two children and a woman with a shopping trolley stopped opposite the car and stared at him. He leaned back, relaxed yet keen eyed, holding the steering wheel with a negligent hand. Riding shotgun. Then Barnaby turned and beckoned. Pink with annoyance Troy scrambled out of the Rover, checked the lock and hurried after the others.

Beehive Cottage was just a few yards further up the lane on the opposite side from Miss Bellringer’s house. It was perfection. The sort of house that turns up on This England calendars and tourist posters. The exile’s dream of home.

The house was neatly and imaginatively thatched, with a second roof, like a scalloped apron, over the first. The windows had leaded panes. A herringbone brick path crumbling with age and edged with lavender and santolina curved around to the back door. Here were hollyhocks and pinks, delphiniums, thyme and mignonette. An immaculate lawn stretched away from a flagstoned area. At the bottom of the lawn, half hidden by a huge viburnum bodnantense, were two beehives. Barnaby, after his first shock of pleasure, stood for a long moment in silent appreciation. The garden settled round him as gardens will. Indifferent and harmonious; consolingly beautiful.

‘What a wonderful scent.’ He approached a nearby rose bush.

‘That was her favourite. Don’t know what it’s called.’

‘It’s a Papa Meilland.’ Barnaby bent his head and inhaled the incomparable fragrance. Sergeant Troy studied the sky. Miss Bellringer produced a large iron key and opened the door. Telling Troy to stay where he was, Barnaby followed her into the house.

The first thing they saw when they entered the kitchen was a wooden shelf which held a sacking apron neatly folded, a clean trowel and a kneeling mat. Miss Bellringer turned quickly away into the centre of the room then cried: ‘Phroo ... what a ghastly smell.’ She moved towards the sink.

Barnaby cried: ‘Don’t touch anything, please.’

‘Oh.’ She stood stock still like a child playing statues. ‘Because of dabs, you mean?’

There was certainly an overpoweringly musty odour in the air. The chief inspector looked around. Everything was beautifully clean and tidy. There was a jam jar of parsley on top of the fridge. A vegetable rack holding a few potatoes, and a couple of apples in a cloisonné bowl.

‘Have you been back here since the body was removed?’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t bear it without her.’

‘Did you notice the smell before?’

‘No. But my olfactory equipment isn’t too lively. Emily was always grumbling about it. Urging me to sniff this or sniff that. Complete waste of time.’

‘But you would have noticed, surely, if it had been as strong as this?’

‘I suppose so.’ She started to move unhappily about, frowning with distress. ‘Good grief.’

‘What is it?’

‘Here’s the explanation. Who on earth could have brought it in?’ She indicated the jar on the fridge. Barnaby approached and smelt it. The mousey odour made him want to sneeze.

He said: ‘Isn’t it parsley?’

‘My dear man - it’s hemlock.’

‘What?’

‘There’s a fieldful of it down by the old railway lines.’

‘It looks like parsley. Do you think your friend mistook -’

‘Good heavens, no. Emily had a lovely little parsley patch. Next to the walnut tree. Grew three sorts. You can forget that idea. Anyway - it wasn’t here the morning she died.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Pretty sure, yes. I didn’t go round taking an inventory, you understand.’

‘And the cottage has been locked up since?’

‘It has. And’ - she anticipated his next question - ‘I have the only spare key. The front door was kept bolted on the inside. It opens directly on to the lane. Emily never used it. Don’t you realize what this means, Chief Inspector?’ She seized his arm excitedly. ‘We’ve found our first clue!’

‘Is this the sitting room?’ Barnaby moved away, ducking his head.

‘Yes.’ She followed him. ‘There are just these two rooms downstairs.’

‘Was this door open the morning she was found?’

‘No. Closed.’

A grandfather clock ticked slumbrously in the corner. There was a small inglenook fireplace and beams decorated with brasses, a chintz-covered three-piece suite, a Queen Anne table and two diamond-paned cabinets full of plates and figurines. One wall was solidly packed with books.

The interior of the cottage was so precisely what the exterior led one to expect that Barnaby had the disturbing feeling that he had stepped on to a perfect period stage set. Surely any minute now a maid would enter, pick up the heavy black Bakelite telephone and say, ‘I’m afraid her ladyship is not at home.’ Or a cream-flannelled juvenile would ask if there was anyone for tennis. Alternatively there was the crusty old colonel: ‘The body was lying just there, Inspector.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Just here.’ Miss Bellringer was standing in front of the empty fireplace.

‘Could you show me exactly?’

‘Do m’best.’ She frowned at the hearthrug then lay down, kicked aside the Burberry revealing a glimpse of eau-de-nil celanese knickers, and curved herself into a helpful comma. ‘Her head was about here - is that all right?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ To himself Barnaby cursed the delay. No pictures. The corpse tidied neatly away. The scent stone cold.

‘Of course.’ Miss Bellringer got up very slowly. ‘Doctor Lessiter must have - oh thank you, Chief Inspector - must have moved her during the examination.’ She watched Barnaby walk over to the cabinets and take a closer look. Some of the plates were exceptionally beautiful, gleaming with the touch of gold.

‘Meissen in there’ - Miss Bellringer nodded to the left - ‘and the other’s Coalport. Although there’s a couple of pieces she brought home from France. We used to bicycle to the sales years ago. Picked up all sorts of snips.’

Between the cabinets a little piecrust table held the telephone and a stack of books. Palgrave’s Golden Treasury, some Jacobean plays, The Adventurous Gardener and the Mermaid edition of Julius Caesar.

‘She loved her Shakespeare. Shakespeare and the Bible. Food for the mind and comfort for the soul.’ Julius Caesar lay open on top of the pile next to a magnifying glass. ‘She adored the theatre too. We used to go a lot when she could still drive. Topping times they were. Absolutely topping.’ She produced a large khaki and crimson silk handkerchief and blew her nose.

They went upstairs. Only one bedroom was furnished. A narrow, virginal bed, wallpaper sprigged with forget-me-nots, faded velvet curtains. All as sweet and innocent as a liberty bodice. The spare room was used for storage. There was a vacuum cleaner and a stack of boxes, also several carboys of home-made wine, some cloudy, some clear, one or two hiccuping quietly.

‘She was planning to bottle the honeysuckle this weekend. It’s a bit like a Sancerre, you know.’

They retreated down the narrow staircase and returned to the kitchen. Barnaby said, ‘There must be a bottle open somewhere. She drank something alcoholic before she died.’

‘You could try the cold larder.’ Miss Bellringer indicated a blue door at the end of the kitchen adding, a second too late, ‘Mind the step.’

He pitched forwards into semi-darkness. What light there was had a greenish tinge, being admitted through the leaves of a cherry laurel which was pressing against a largish window covered with wire mesh of the type used in an old-fashioned meat safe. It had a simple catch fastening which was broken. Barnaby took his handkerchief, seized the catch, pulled the window open and carefully closed it again. There was more than enough room for a reasonably slender person to climb in.

The larder had low stone shelves holding lots of bottles and jars. There was chutney and spiced apricots in tall jars and opaque whitish honey with flowered labels and last year’s date. A large bowl of luscious scarlet strawberries. And jams and jellies: liquid fruit, dark and translucent. She salted runner beans too, just like his mother had. Close to the door was a half-empty bottle of wine. Elderflower 1979.

Barnaby opened the back door and beckoned Troy, saying, ‘I need you to take a statement.’ They re-entered the sitting room and sat down, Miss Bellringer looking slightly apprehensive and very serious.

‘Now,’ began Barnaby, ‘I’d like you to -’

‘Just a moment, Chief Inspector. You haven’t said ... you know ... anything may be taken down and used in evidence ... all that ...’

‘This is just a witness statement, Miss Bellringer. It’s not necessary in this case, I assure you.’

That was the trouble with members of the public, thought Sergeant Troy. Watched a few so-called police dramas on the telly and thought they knew it all. Sitting out of his chief’s line of vision, he allowed his lip a slight curl.

‘If you could tell me what happened from when you first arrived.’

‘I came into the kitchen -’

‘Was the postman with you?’

‘No. After he’d spoken to me he went off on his rounds. I opened the back door and hurried in here and found her where I showed you.’

‘Did you touch the body at all?’

‘Yes. I didn’t move her but I ... I held her hand for a moment.’

‘And did you touch anything else?’

‘Not then. Doctor Lessiter arrived and examined her ... he moved her, of course. Then he rang the mortuary to ask for a car ... well a van it was actually, to take her away. He explained about the death certificate and asked who would be handling the funeral arrangements. I said I would and while we were waiting for the van to arrive I’m afraid’ - she blushed regretfully at Barnaby - ‘I’m afraid I tidied up a bit.’

‘What exactly did that involve?’

‘There was a cup of cocoa on the telephone table. And an empty wine glass. Which struck me as a little odd.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Emily never drank alone. It was one of her foibles. I believe she thought it rather dissolute. But anyone could get her to bring a bottle out. The merest hint would suffice. She made wonderful wine. It was the only thing she was vain about ...’ She covered her face with her hands for a long moment then said, ‘I’m so sorry ...’

‘Don’t worry. Just carry on when you’re ready.’ Of course if it was murder they were talking about there would be only one glass. The other would have been carefully washed and replaced in the cupboard.

‘There was a milk pan in the kitchen,’ continued Miss Bellringer. ‘I washed everything up and put the things away. I knew how she’d feel, you see. Dirty pots and people coming into the living room. She was always most particular. I expect I’ve done the wrong thing.’ Guilt made her sound aggressive. When Barnaby did not reply she carried on, ‘Then I emptied the refrigerator. Some lamb and milk. A few bits and bobs. Half a tin of Benjy’s food. Actually I gave him that. He hadn’t had breakfast, you see.’

‘Where is the dog now?’

‘Trace’s farm. You must have seen the place. End of the village - pale orange job. They’ve got half a dozen already so one more won’t notice. I’ve been to see him a couple of times but I shan’t go again. It’s too upsetting. He just comes trotting out hoping it’s Emily. She’d had him thirteen years.’

‘Didn’t you hear him bark? On the evening of her death?’

‘No, but he was very good like that ... for a Jack Russell. As long as he knew the people, of course. With strangers it was different.’ She smiled at Barnaby, the significance of the last two remarks not registering. ‘And he slept in the kitchen, so with the sitting-room door closed he’d simply think she’d gone to bed.’

‘To return to Friday morning ...’

‘That’s about it, really. Once the van had gone I switched off the electricity, took the dog lead from behind the kitchen door, locked up and off we went.’

‘I see. I shall have to keep the key now, I’m afraid. I’ll let you have a receipt in due course.’

‘Oh.’ He watched questions form in her mind and remain unasked. ‘Very well.’

‘You went straight to the farm then?’ continued Barnaby. ‘Not into the garden or shed at all?’

‘Well ... I had to tell the bees.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You have to tell the bees when someone dies. Especially if it’s their owner. Otherwise they just clear off.’

Clear orf is right, observed Troy to himself. Clear orf her rocker. He flexed his fingers, deciding to omit this unlikely bit of potted folklore.

‘Really?’ said Barnaby.

‘Goodness yes. Known fact. I struck the hive three times with the key, said “Your mistress had died”, then left. Village people say you should tie something black around the hive as well but I didn’t bother. They’re a superstitious lot. Also I thought if I started messing about the bees might sting me.’

‘Thank you. Sergeant Troy will read your statement back now and ask you to sign it.’

When this had been done Miss Bellringer rose, saying, rather wistfully, ‘Is that all?’

‘After lunch I’d like you to show me where the orchid was found.’

‘Won’t you have something to eat with me?’ she asked, visibly perking up.

‘No thank you. I shall get a snack in the Black Boy.’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t do that! Mrs Sweeney’s food’s notorious.’

Barnaby smiled. ‘I expect I shall manage to survive.’

‘Ahhh ... I understand. You’re in search of local colour. Background information.’

Using his handkerchief, Barnaby opened the door for her. As she turned to leave something caught her eye. ‘That’s funny.’

‘What is it?’

‘Emily’s fork’s missing. She always kept it on that shelf with her trowel and apron.’

‘Probably in the garden.’

‘Oh no. She was a creature of habit. Tools cleaned with newspaper and placed on her mat after use.’

‘No doubt it will turn up.’

‘Doesn’t really matter now, does it?’ She turned away. ‘See you around two o’clock then?’

After she had left, Barnaby posted Sergeant Troy outside the front door and sank into the chintz sofa in the still, orderly room and listened to the ticking of the clock. He faced the two armchairs, their cushions now plump and smooth. In one of them had someone sat with a glass of wine, smiling, talking, reassuring? Killing?

There was little doubt in the chief inspector’s mind. The hemlock in the kitchen was almost certainly a rather crude attempt to suggest that short-sighted Miss Simpson had picked a bunch in mistake for some parsley and so poisoned herself. A hurried afterthought once the news of the post mortem had travelled around the village.

He walked over to the piecrust table already covered in a thin film of dust and looked down at the books. The Shakespeare lay open on top of the pile. Julius Caesar, the noblest Roman of them all. Not to mention the most boring, thought Barnaby, remembering his struggles with the text over thirty years before. He had read no Shakespeare since, and a dutiful visit to an overly inventive production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in which Joyce had played Titania as an Edwardian suffragette, did nothing to make him regret the decision. He looked at the open pages, screwing up his eyes. He felt for his reading glasses, remembered they were in his other jacket and picked up the magnifying glass with his handkerchief.

Miss Simpson had almost reached the end of the play. Pindarus had brought the bad news to the battlefield. Barnaby read a few lines. None of it was in the slightest degree familiar. Then he saw something. A faint soft grey line in the margin. He took the book to the window and peered again. Someone had bracketed off three lines of a speech by Cassius. He read them aloud:

This day I breathed first. Time is come round,

And where I did begin there shall I end;

My life is run his compass.

Chapter Five

All conversation ceased as Barnaby entered the Black Boy. Not that that was saying much. There was an old gaffer in the corner, only partly visible through drifts of noxious smoke; two youths with their feet on the bar rail; a girl playing the fruit machine. Mrs Sweeney, grey-haired and untypically flatchested, had an air of being at bay rather than at home behind the counter.

Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby asked about food, refused one of Mrs Sweeney’s home-made pies and settled for a ploughman’s and a half of bitter. He was sure that curiosity as to the reason for his presence would soon produce some comment or other. However he was unprepared for the rapidity with which the nub of the matter was reached. He had hardly taken a sip of his beer (warmish and soapy) before one of the youths said, ‘You’re the fuzz ’ent you?’

Barnaby cut off a piece of cheese and made a movement of the head that could have meant anything.

Mrs Sweeney said, ‘Is it about poor Miss Simpson?’

‘Did you know the lady?’ asked Barnaby.

‘Ohhh ... everyone knew Miss Simpson.’

The fumes in the corner cleared slightly and a rattlesnakish clatter could be heard. My God, thought Barnaby, the poor old chap must be on his last legs. Then he realized that the sound was caused by a collapsing wall of dominoes. ‘She used to teach me in English,’ the old man stated.

‘That’s right, Jake, she did,’ agreed Mrs Sweeney, adding, in a whispered aside to Barnaby, ‘and he can’t read nor write to this day.’

‘She was well liked in the village then?’

‘Oh yes. Not like some I could mention.’

‘What d’you want to know about her for?’ said one of the youths.

‘Yeah,’ the other chipped in. ‘She been up to something?’

‘We’re just making a few inquiries.’

‘Do you know what I reckon?’ said the first one again. He wore a T-shirt reading ‘Don’t Drink and Drive You Might Get Caught’. Beneath it a wodge of fat, leprously white and hairy, hung over his commando belt. ‘I reckon she was a godmother. Gorra vice ring going over there. Slipping it in the honey.’ They both guffawed. The girl tittered.

‘That’s not funny, Keith,’ Mrs Sweeney said angrily. ‘If that’s the best you can find to say you can go and drink somewhere else.’

Barnaby listened for another half hour as more people came and went, but the verdict on Miss Simpson didn’t change much. Very kind. Patient with the children. Ever so generous if there was a stall. Jam. Honey. Jars of fruit. Did lovely flowers for the church. That poor Miss Bellringer. Whatever will she do now? And what about Benjy? They pine, you know. And he’s getting on. She’ll be greatly missed. Sadly missed.

Even when it was shorn of the eulogistic flavour deemed obligatory in all statements about the recently dead, Barnaby was still left with the picture of a singularly nice human being. Mrs Sweeney’s final remark seemed to sum it up neatly.

‘Not an enemy in the world.’

The air was green and fresh as they entered the wood, yet within minutes Barnaby felt a change. As the trees closed tightly over their heads the ripeness of the vegetation all around and underfoot assailed his nostrils with a rich and rotten scent.

Miss Bellringer was leading the way. She was carrying a shooting stick and keeping close to the chief inspector, as he had requested.

‘It was just over there I think, by those hellebores. Yes - there it is.’

‘Wait.’ Barnaby took her arm. ‘If you could stay here, please. The less trampling about the better.’

‘I understand.’ She sounded disappointed but stayed obediently where she was, opening her shooting stick and perching on the canvas strap. She called, ‘More to the left’ and ‘Getting warmer’ and ‘Hotsy totsy’ as he walked carefully around the patch of little green flowers. Then, when she saw him bob down, ‘Perfect isn’t it?’

Barnaby studied the orchid and the little stick with the red ribbon. Inanimate, the marker still seemed more alive than the ash-pale plant. There was something very touching about the neatly tied bow. He got up and looked round. As far as he could see the leaf mould in the immediate area, although scuffed about, probably by rabbits and other small creatures, revealed no more serious disturbance.

To the left of him was a tightly latticed screen of branches. Treading carefully, he looked at the ground. There were two quite deep indentations indicating that someone had been standing there for some considerable time. He noted where the broader part of the shoe had pressed, stood parallel and looked through the branches.

He was facing a hollow. Quite a large piece of the ground was flattened: bluebell leaves and bracken bent backwards and crushed. He walked around the screen and approached the rim of the hollow, where he crouched and studied the ground more closely, being careful not to step on the squashed area, which was quite extensive. Someone or something had certainly been threshing about a bit. On his way back to Miss Bellringer he saw on the ground an impression not clearly defined enough to be called an outline, as if a log or something heavy had briefly lain there.

‘Thank you for showing me.’ It was good to break out of the oppressive crowding trees into an open field. Lapwings wheeled overhead in a sky full of light and sun. ‘Would you like to be taken to the inquest, Miss Bellringer?’

‘Oh no. We have an excellent village taxi. I shall be quite all right.’

As they approached Beehive Cottage they saw that Sergeant Troy, watching watchfully, was now surrounded by a small but appreciative audience. Barnaby bade Miss Bellringer goodbye and crossed the road. He was immediately accosted by the youngest of the group.

‘Woss he doing standing around like a wally?’

‘Is he the police?’

‘You’re the police aren’t you?’

‘Why ain’t he got a uniform on?’

‘Now, son.’ The words were chopped off individually through Troy’s gritted teeth. ‘Why don’t you just move along? There’s nothing to see here.’ The suggestion sounded stale and had a mechanical ring. The group stayed put.

‘I’ll send someone to relieve you, Troy.’

‘I’m off duty in half an hour.’

‘You were, Sergeant, you were. Someone should be here by five.’ A teenage girl with a toddler and a baby in a push-chair joined the group. Barnaby grinned. ‘You should have a full house by then.’

The proceedings at the coroner’s court the following day took no time at all. The remains of Emily Simpson had been identified, a short time previously, by her friend Lucy Bellringer, and were released for burial. The pathologist’s report was read and the inquest adjourned to a later date pending further police inquiries.