Caroline Graham - The Killings at Badger's Drift

‘And what time did you leave the hall, Miss Cadell?’

‘Let’s see’ - she tapped her top lip with a tallow-coloured finger - ‘I was almost the last to go ... it must have been half-past four ... quarter to five.’

‘Did you leave with Miss Lacey?’

‘Katherine? Good gracious no. She left much earlier. Was hardly there at all, really.’ She caught the glance that Sergeant Troy turned on to Barnaby’s unresponsive profile. ‘Oh dear’ - she made an arch little moue of false regret - ‘I hope I haven’t said anything I shouldn’t?’

‘And did you go out at all after you’d returned home?’

‘No. I came straight up here when we’d finished dinner. Wrote a couple of letters, then as I have already stated, watched some television.’

As I have already stated, echoed Troy to himself, transcribing carefully. People often said things like that when they were talking to the police. Formal jargony sorts of remarks they’d never dream of making any other time. He listened as Miss Cadell proceeded to give details of all the programmes she’d watched, then, as if this in itself might be thought suspicious, added, ‘I only remember because it was Friday. The gardening programmes, you see?’

Barnaby did see. He watched them himself whenever he was home in time. He said, ‘Do you have staff living in here?’

‘No. We have a gardener and a boy. Between them they look after the grounds, clean the cars and do any maintenance. And there’s Mrs Quine. She comes about ten o’clock. Does the general cleaning, prepares any vegetables for dinner, cooks a light lunch, then goes about three. I cook in the evening and she will clear away and wash up when she comes the next day. I do hope Katherine will keep her on. She brings her little girl and not everyone will accept children. Oddly enough we shared her with poor Miss Simpson. She went there for an hour each morning before she came to us ...’

‘And will you continue to live here after the wedding, Miss Cadell?’

‘Good heavens, no.’ A strangled yelp which might have been a laugh. ‘A house cannot hold two mistresses. No, I’m being pensioned off. Henry has several cottages on the estate. Two have been ... I believe the term is knocked together. There’s a small garden. It’s ... very nice.’

Not as nice as being mistress of Tye House, thought Barnaby, picturing again the splendid vista previously seen through the orangery. Not nearly as nice.

‘Has Mr Trace been a widower long?’ There it was again. As clear and bright as a match struck in a darkened room. The flicker of fear. Phyllis Cadell looked away from him, studying the more nondescript of the two landscapes on the wall.

‘I don’t see how that can possibly have any relevance to Miss Simpson’s death.’

‘No. I beg your pardon.’ Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby waited. In his experience people (hardened criminals apart) who had something to hide and people who had nothing to hide had one thing in common. Faced by a policeman asking questions they could never remain silent for long. After a few moments Phyllis Cadell began to speak. The words tumbled out as if she couldn’t wait to be rid of them and done with the matter.

‘Bella died about a year ago. In September. A shooting accident. It was a terrible tragedy. She was only thirty-two. There was a full report in the local paper at the time.’

All that on one breath, thought Barnaby. And through lips the colour of milk. He said, ‘Is that when you came to run the house?’

‘Not at all. I moved here just after the wedding. Bella wasn’t really interested in the domestic side of things. Country pursuits were her forte. Riding, fishing. And looking after Henry, of course. They’d been married nearly five years when she died.’

‘Miss Lacey seems to be very young to be taking on so much?’ hinted Barnaby, but in vain. Her emotions were now as tenaciously confined as the swoop of her pouter-pigeon chest.

‘Oh I don’t know. I should think she’ll make a charming lady of the manor. And now’ - she got up - ‘if that’s all ... ?’

She led them briskly down the staircase to the front hall, then stopped suddenly between two old, once-gilded wooden figures. For a moment they all stood on the black-and-white-tiled floor like chess pieces, useful but impotent until nudged into play. Phyllis shifted from one foot to another (beleaguered queen) then spoke.

‘Umm ... you must have thought I looked quite startled to see you ... taken aback ... when you first arrived?’

Barnaby looked politely interested. Troy established eye contact with the taller of the two figures; a king with a soaring crown and traces of lapis lazuli still on his pupils.

‘The truth is ... I ... well it’s my car tax. You know how it is ...’ A nervous smile twitched into being, showing strong stained teeth. ‘One always means to make a note of these things ...’

‘Yes,’ agreed the chief inspector, ‘that is a sensible idea.’

As the door closed quickly behind them Troy said, ‘Pathetic.’ He could have meant the woman’s appearance, her position in the household or the awkward and obvious lie about the road tax. Barnaby could only agree on all three counts.

Katherine Lacey wandered slowly across the cobbled yard, watching the two policemen walk away. In spite of the heat of the day she felt cold. Benjy whined sadly from the shelter of the first silo. She crossed over and picked him up. He started to struggle in her arms. His fur slipped over his ribs as if there were no flesh at all to separate them.

‘Darling ... ?’ She heard the soft bump as Henry negotiated the kitchen step and wheeled himself towards her. She put the dog down. ‘Is something the matter?’

She strove to compose herself before turning to him. She didn’t reply, just shook her head, the bell of glossy dark hair swinging over her face.

‘Is it Benjy? You must give way on that you know, Kate. We’ve both tried everything we can. He’s simply not going to eat. Please ... let me call the vet ...’

‘Oh - just another day!’

‘He’s an old dog. He misses her too much. We can’t sit here and watch him starve.’

‘It’s not just that.’ She turned then, crouching clumsily by the chair. ‘It’s ... I can’t explain ... oh Henry ...’ She seized his hands: ‘I’ve just got the most terrible feelings ...’

‘What d’you mean?’ He smiled down at her, his tone indulgent. ‘What sort of feelings?’

‘I can’t say exactly ... just that things are going to go dreadfully wrong for us ... the wedding won’t happen ...’

‘I’ve never heard such nonsense.’

‘I knew you’d say that. But you don’t understand ...’ She broke off, studying his face. Kind, handsome, a shade complacent. And why shouldn’t it be? The Traces went back to Norman times. Effigies of Sir Robert Trayce and his wyffe Ismelda and her cat rested eternally in the cool of the thirteenth-century church. Traces had shed a modest amount of their landowning blood in the two world wars and returned to their squirearchical duties garlanded with honour. The words security of tenure were meaningless to them. They had never known anything else.

‘... You don’t understand,’ Katherine repeated. ‘Because you’ve never wanted anything you couldn’t have you can’t see that life isn’t always like that. I think these things that are happening ... Miss Simpson dying ... and now Benjy ... and Michael refusing to come on Saturday ... I think they’re omens ...’

Henry Trace laughed. ‘Beware the Ides of March.’

‘Don’t laugh.’

‘I’m sorry, darling, but there’s no one squeaking and gibbering in the streets that I can see.’

‘What?’

‘And as for Michael ... well ... he’s hardly an omen. You must’ve known for weeks that he’d probably refuse to give you away. You know what he’s like.’