The Killings at Badger's Drift (17 page)

‘Yes. I often do these days,’ he smiled at Barnaby. ‘She was certainly here when I woke.’ As he was speaking two black and gold vans - ‘Lazenby et cie’ - crunched over the gravel and through the main gate.

‘It’s the caterers,’ cried Katherine. ‘I’d better go—’

‘Actually, Miss Lacey, I did want a further word . . .’

‘Oh.’ She looked at her fiancé uncertainly.

‘Don’t worry - I’ll go.’ Henry Trace pushed himself away, making for the wooden ramp by the terrace steps. Katherine followed him slowly, Barnaby by her side, Troy bringing up a salivatory rear.

‘I wonder,’ said Barnaby, ‘if you remember the day Mrs Trace died?’

‘Bella? Of course I do.’ She looked at him curiously. ‘It’s not the kind of thing one forgets in a hurry. It was terrible.’

‘I understand that you were not a member of the party?’

‘No. I stayed here, preparing the tea. Usually Phyllis helped but on that day she went out with the shoot.’

‘That was unusual, was it?’

‘Very.’

‘So the first you knew about the tragedy . . . ?’

‘Was when Michael came racing in, grabbed the phone and shouted down it for an ambulance.’

‘I see. Would you say . . .’ - he hesitated, picking the words over carefully in his mind - ‘that Mr and Mrs Trace were happy?’

‘Well . . . yes . . . they always seemed so to me. Although of course outsiders never really know, do they? They were both very kind to Michael and myself. And Henry was absolutely distraught when she died.’

Barnaby turned and looked back over the line of poplars and wooded ground beyond. ‘Was it over there the accident happened?’

Katherine followed his gaze. ‘Oh no . . . in the beechwoods that lie behind Holly Cottage.’

‘I see. Well, thank you again.’

They had reached the terraced steps by now and walked up them together. As they crossed the yard Benjy made a sound from the doorstep and staggered to his feet. Katherine turned away from the sight.

‘Oh, why won’t he eat!’ she burst out passionately to the two men. ‘I bought him everything - lovely meat, biscuits. He’s got his own basket and blanket and dish - everything he had over there . . .’

‘They pine, I’m afraid,’ said Barnaby.

‘But you’d think they’d want to stay alive, however sad they are.’

‘He’s a pretty old dog, miss,’ said Troy sympathetically. ‘I think he’s just tired. He’s had enough.’

‘Are you through with Katherine, Chief Inspector? I really need her over here.’

‘Well - that’s that,’ sighed Barnaby a few moments later as they drove away. ‘I suppose it was too much to hope that Katherine Lacey and the Lessiter girl would have been wandering up and down Church Lane at the same time last Friday night.’

‘But . . . you do believe her, sir?’ asked Troy, still a little dazed by the rainbow lustre of the Lacey smile. ‘About the letter?’

‘Oh yes. I’ll get it followed up of course but I’ve no doubt that she posted it when and where she says. If she’s innocent there’d be no point in making up such a story. And if she’s guilty she’d make doubly sure anything we could check on was genuine.’

‘
Guilty
.’ Troy unwisely took his eyes off the road to give Barnaby an incredulous glance and missed the opening to the Lessiters’ drive.

‘You really must give up this physiognomy, Troy. It can only hinder your career. She’s got more to lose than any of them.’

‘But the dog, sir. The dog didn’t bark.’

‘Yes, the dog’s a problem, I admit.’

Or perhaps the dog wasn’t a problem, he thought as Troy reversed and drove up to the Lessiters’ front door. Perhaps the dog meant he could score a line through Katherine Lacey once and for all. One down, six to go. Or seven if he kept a really open mind and included the seemingly impossible Henry Trace. What about if he had fallen hopelessly in love with Katherine when his wife was still alive and had hired someone to lurk in the undergrowth and pop Bella off? Barnaby dragged his attention back to the present and reminded himself yet again that he had no reason to suppose that Mrs Trace’s death was anything but an accident. And that he was in fact now engaged in investigating something quite different.

 

The doctor’s surgery still had fifteen minutes to run, which suited the chief inspector very well. Judy Lessiter opened the main door, looking even less attractive than she had the previous day. She had a frowsty air, like that of a small animal emerging after a long period of hibernation.

‘Yes.’

‘We’d like a word with your father—’

‘Surgery round the side.’ She started to close the door. Barnaby moved forward. ‘And with you also, please.’

She stared at him sullenly for a moment then shrugged and led them into the kitchen. She turned to face them, leaning against the sink.

‘Miss Lessiter, you told me earlier that you were in the library during the afternoon of the seventeenth.’

‘No I didn’t.’

‘I’m sorry but I checked your statement before coming here.’

‘I said I was at work. I don’t stand behind a counter stamping books. Part of my job is to visit schools, technical colleges . . . liaise with administrators, check if there are any projects that may mean ordering special books. On Friday afternoon I was at Gessler Tye primary school.’

‘I must say I feel that you have deliberately attempted to mislead us in this matter.’

‘That’s your problem,’ she said rudely.

‘So if you would go through your movements again?’

‘I take sandwiches for lunch. I ate them then—’

‘This is in the library at Pinner?’

‘Yes. Made some coffee. Drove to the school, arriving about two, and stayed till they finished around three forty-five. ’

‘And you then returned to the library?’

‘No. It hardly seemed worth it. I drove straight here . . . stopping off at the village shop for some cigarettes.’

Jammy, thought Sergeant Troy, always convinced that everyone but himself, jobwise, was getting away with murder.

‘Your father will vouch for your time of arrival?’

‘My father?’ She looked puzzled, then wary.

‘He was here all afternoon, I understand.’

There was a pause while she looked from Barnaby to Sergeant Troy and back again. ‘Is it a trick?’

‘What?’

‘I mean . . . are you trying to catch me out?’

‘I don’t understand you, Miss Lessiter. Your father has stated that he was at home all afternoon. I’m merely asking if he can corroborate your time of arrival.’

‘Well . . . I went straight upstairs . . . so . . . I wouldn’t have seen him.’

‘I see. And the evening?’

‘Oh I’ve nothing to change there. I just went for a walk, as I’ve already said.’

‘Down the lane, past the fields for about half a mile, then back?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you didn’t stop anywhere or call on anyone?’ He added quickly before she could speak, ‘Please think very carefully before you answer.’

She stared at him. He looked serious, encouraging and, somehow, faintly knowledgeable. He could see she was wondering about the close re-questioning. ‘Well . . . I’m not sure I remember . . . exactly . . .’ She swallowed and chewed her bottom lip.

‘I know how difficult it must be to change a story, but if you need to now’s the time to do it. I must remind you that withholding information that may assist a police inquiry is a very serious matter.’

‘Oh but I’m not! Nothing that would help, that is . . .’

‘I think you should let me be the judge of that.’

‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath. She stopped leaning on the sink and stood upright looking taut and fearful, like someone preparing for a high dive. ‘I have . . . that is I’m friendly with Michael Lacey. At Holly Cottage. I hadn’t heard from him for a few days and . . . well, he said he wanted to paint me so I thought I’d . . . drop in . . . you know, to see when he wanted to start.’ Barnaby listened sympathetically. In trying to sound casual she had simply underlined her desperation. ‘So I walked up to the house but when I got there . . . I could see through the window that he was working—’

‘Which window was that?’

‘The front window by the porch.’

‘He doesn’t usually use that room, surely?’

‘Sometimes - in the evening. To get the last of the light.’

‘Ah, I see. Carry on.’

‘He gets very angry if he’s disturbed when he’s painting. He says it’s very hard to get back into the feel of it again. So I thought I’d better not . . . well . . . I just crept away.’

‘You think he didn’t know you were there?’

‘Oh I’m sure he didn’t. I was very quiet.’ She paused a moment then, looking at Barnaby for the first time, burst out, ‘You mustn’t believe what people say about Michael. They hate him here because he doesn’t care about things they all care about . . . petty, boring things. He’s a free spirit! As long as he can paint and walk in the woods and look at the sky . . . and he’s been so unhappy. Katherine’s so bourgeois - she only cares about material things - and now once the wedding’s over he’ll be all alone . . .’ There was a clarion note of hope in the last few words. For a moment her eyes shone so brilliantly that her rather stodgy face was transformed. Barnaby saw for the first time why Michael Lacey might have asked her to sit for him. He glanced at the clock over the kitchen door. Judy, as if already regretting her passionate declamation, presented her back to them and turned on both the taps. She stood watching the water bouncing off the gleaming metal, hearing the two sets of footsteps move to the door and cross the hall. She reduced the water to a thin colourless stream. The front door closed. She switched the taps off.

Her hands trembled and she gripped the edge of the sink to still them. Talking about Michael always had this effect on her. Describing her abortive visit, her lack of courage and her humiliating retreat on tiptoe, had made her feel quite sick. But it had put the record straight, that was the main thing. She was glad about that. Especially after her silly attempt to be clever about her movements in the afternoon. Then she realized that her recent confession had brought about a secondary benefit. If Miss Simpson’s death had been due to foul play (and why else would there be all this questioning?) she had given Michael an alibi. He may well not care about this one way or the other but the fact could not be denied. She hugged this small service to her heart. Perhaps he would never know but it was something she could keep in reserve to be offered up if the right moment ever came.

She heard the click of the phone. It must be Barbara. Judy had been standing so very still and quiet for the past few minutes that her stepmother might have assumed she was in her room. Or in the garden. Because there was something so soft, almost furtive about that click. Judy crept on slippered feet across the vinyl tiles, step by careful step. Barnaby had left the door a little ajar and Judy stood looking through the crack.

Barbara had her back to the kitchen and was shielding the mouthpiece with her hand. Nevertheless her hoarse whisper made every word clearly audible.

‘Darling, I’m sorry but I had to ring. Didn’t you get my note? . . . What d’you mean there’s nothing you can do? You’ve got to help me.
You’ve got to
. . . You must have some money . . . I’ve done that. I’ve sold everything that I thought he wouldn’t notice, even my coat . . . No, it was being stored for the winter . . . How the hell do I know what I’ll say? . . . Three thousand and it cost him ten so I’m still nearly a thousand short. For God’s sake - I’m only in this mess because of you . . . You bastard, it wasn’t me who said I was counting the hours - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. Darling? I’m sorry - don’t hang up! Please - you
must
help. It’ll be the end of everything here if he finds out. You don’t know what my life was like before. I’ll never go back to that. I’ll - hullo, hullo . . . ?’

Feverishly she clicked at the receiver rest. She stood for a moment, her shoulders drooping in despair, then she slammed down the phone and ran back upstairs.

Judy stepped back from her narrow secret observation post and smiled.

 

The surgery was empty. As they entered, a woman, her skin the colour of clay, came out of the consulting room and stood looking around in dazed disbelief. The receptionist hurried out from her cubicle but the woman pushed past her and the two men, almost running from the room. Doctor Lessiter’s buzzer sounded and a moment later they were shown in. He was replacing a file in a big wooden cupboard. ‘Horrible part of the job,’ he said, sounding brisk and unconcerned, ‘there’s no way to break bad news is there?’

‘Indeed there isn’t, Doctor Lessiter.’ Barnaby could not have wished for a neater opening. ‘I favour the straightforward approach myself. Could you tell me what you were doing on the afternoon of Friday the seventeenth of this month?’

‘I’ve already told you.’ He sat behind his desk and got on with a bit of knuckle cracking. ‘What an inefficient lot you are, to be sure. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.’

‘You stated that you were watching the Test match on television.’

‘That’s right.’

‘All afternoon?’

‘Absolutely.’ He pulled a final finger. The crack sounded very loud in the quiet room. Suddenly the silence seemed to thicken; change character. The doctor was staring at his fingers with some surprise as if he had never seen them before. He looked at Barnaby’s grave features, at Troy and back to Barnaby again. ‘Yes. Absolutely . . . that’s right.’ But the certainty had gone. It was no longer a statement of fact. He had the air of a man who knows he’s been rumbled but doesn’t yet know how.

‘The light stopped play at eleven that morning. For the day.’

‘Oh . . . well . . . maybe it was Thursday I watched. Yes, actually it was. I remember now—’

‘You have your rounds on Thursday. Or so you declared in your previous statement.’