Caroline Graham - The Killings at Badger's Drift

‘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.’