Caroline Graham - The Killings at Badger's Drift

‘Just like his son.’ Dennis spoke impulsively, his sallow cheeks flushed. This time there was no mistaking the warning grip on his shoulder. He added, stammering, ‘Well ... so I’ve heard.’

‘Then, when the children were about thirteen all the money went. He’d been speculating, raised a second mortgage, raised more against that and lost the lot. It killed Madelaine.’

‘Do you mean literally?’

‘I certainly do. Drove her car into the Thames at Flackwell Heath. She hadn’t been dead more than a couple of months before he married some chit of a girl he met in London and off they went to live in Canada.’

‘And the children.’

‘Well ... that was the end of the private schools of course. They had to come and attend at Gessler Tye with the rest of the hoi polloi.’ Satisfaction rang in her voice. Troy gave an unconscious nod of approval.

‘And where did they live?’

‘Now of course the Traces come into the picture. Henry was one of the first people that Gerald Lacey turned to for money. And he loaned him a considerable amount. I think he felt afterwards that it would have been better if he hadn’t. If he’d tried to help Gerald sort his affairs out instead. At least that’s the impression I got from Mrs Trace - Bella, that is ...’

Chief Inspector Barnaby tried to imagine the late Mrs Trace discussing her husband’s financial affairs with Mrs Rainbird, and failed. He wondered where she had really picked up the information.

‘Hence Holly Cottage.’

‘Oh?’

‘A gamekeeper lived in it originally. Henry offered it to the children and the nanny stayed to look after them. They gave her a terrible time, poor old soul. Thick as thieves when they were little, always leading her a dance. Then, when they were older, endless rows. Well you know what adolescents are. Not that my Denny ever gave me any trouble.’ Denny simpered into his vanilla slice. A fringe of cream, hardly in colour any different from his skin, graced his upper lip. ‘She used to come over here, Nanny Sharpe, just for a cup of tea and a bit of peace and quiet. Cat and dog wasn’t in it. Have you seen that mark on Michael’s face?’

‘We haven’t yet interviewed Mr Lacey.’

‘She gave him that ... his sister. Threw an iron at him, apparently.’ She noticed his change of expression and sniffed. ‘Oh you can look, Mr Barnaby. Those pansy faces take everyone in but they don’t fool yours truly.’

Mrs Rainbird’s detachment, which he had so admired at the start of their interview, seemed to have temporarily deserted her. The fact that the son she obviously if somewhat unhealthily adored had been slighted in some way seemed still to rankle.

‘Did Mr Trace support the Laceys financially?’

‘Oh yes. The father didn’t leave a penny piece behind. And, as far as I know, Henry still is supporting Michael. Not that he’d get a word of thanks.’

‘Doesn’t Mr Lacey work, then?’

‘If you can call painting work.’

‘And is he successful? Does he sell much?’

‘No he doesn’t. And I’m not surprised. Ugly violent things. Lays the paint on with a shovel. Mind you there’s no shortage of models.’

‘No,’ chipped in Dennis. ‘That Lessiter girl’s always hanging round. Not that it’ll get her anywhere - frumpy old thing. Michael painted me once, you know.’ He bridled, all pallid petulance, in Troy’s direction.

‘And a hideous thing it was too.’

‘Oh I was pussycat of the month all right while he was doing the portrait,’ continued Dennis, ‘all a-taunto I was. Then - when he’d got what he wanted - he told me to sod off.’

‘Denny! Another iced sombrero, Mr Barnaby?’

‘Thank you, no. And is the nanny, Miss Sharpe, still here?’

‘Mrs Sharpe. No. She went to live in Saint Leonards as soon as they could look after themselves. Glad to get out of it. They were about seventeen then, I think. She didn’t even drop in to say goodbye. I must say I was a bit hurt. I got her address off the Traces and wrote a couple of times but she didn’t reply. I sent a card at Christmas, then gave up.’ Frustration surfaced again. It was plain she would have preferred an extended farewell drama full of awful revelations. As she launched into a vivid description of one of the more spectacular domestic confrontations at Holly Cottage, Barnaby, nodding attentively from time to time, stretched his legs by strolling to the patio doors at the end of the room.

Outside the lawn was clear and sharp as glass. More flowering trees and shrubs and a pretty gazebo at the far end. He wondered how Mr Rainbird had made his pile. There must have been plenty of it, what with the bungalow, and Denny’s partnership and silver Dinky toy. Not to mention the tea trolley.

He turned back to the conversation. He was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. Although it was a warm day the radiators were full on. He looked at Dennis, batting his almost colourless eyelashes at Sergeant Troy, and wondered if he felt the cold. He certainly didn’t have any flesh to spare for insulation.

The room really was unbearably oppressive. It was crammed full of voluptuous showy furniture. And there were cabinets of china, mostly Capo di Monte, and shelves of dolls dressed in differing national costumes, plus several original deeply awful paintings. The one nearest to Barnaby showed a cocker spaniel in - he peered disbelievingly closer - floods of tears. The whole shebang was what his daughter would have called twentieth-century grotesque.

‘Thank you so much, Mrs Rainbird.’ He stemmed the tide, courteous but firm.

‘Not at all, Mr Barnaby.’ She flung a dazzling arc in his direction. He could not avoid shaking hands. It was like seizing a lump of dough. ‘What are we here for if not to help each other?’

As the two policemen walked down the drive Sergeant Troy said, ‘Men like that ought to be castrated.’ When Barnaby did not reply he tacked an ameliatory ‘sir’ on the end, adding, ‘as for his mother ... nothing but a spiteful old gasbag.’

‘Mrs Rainbird and folks like her are a godsend in any investigation, Troy. Just don’t mistake gossip for facts. And when they give you what they say are facts, always check them thoroughly. And don’t come to early conclusions. An open mind, Sergeant, an open mind.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They made their way to Burnham Crescent and council house number seven, the home of Mrs Quine.

As Barnaby and Troy passed through the space in the sour and dusty hedge flanked with rotten gate posts, Mrs Rainbird and her son closed the door of Tranquillada and turned to each other, alight with excitement.

‘Did you get it?’

‘Mummy - I did.’

‘Ohhh ... where ... where?’

‘Wait a minute. You haven’t said ...’

‘You’re a good boy. Now - show me.’

‘No.’ His face, an unpleasant orange colour beneath the hall lantern, became closed and stubborn. ‘That wasn’t properly. You’ve got to do it properly.’

‘You’re a goodboy,’ she crooned, kissing him full on the mouth. Her breath was very sweet, a soft explosion of violet cachous and cream and rich vanilla. ‘Mummysbestboy.’ Her fingers slipped into his shirt, caressing the bony wings of his shoulder blades. ‘Bestestonlyboy.’

He licked her ear with its dropping cluster of rhinestones. ‘Mmmm.’ His breathing quickened. ‘Clever Denny.’

‘Now’ - she took his hand, leading him down the corridor towards the french windows and the garden - ‘show me ...’

‘I want to play some more.’

‘Later we’ll play.’

‘All sorts of things?’

‘Everything. Come on ... where is it?’

They stepped out on to the lawn. Behind the gazebo was a large dark pile of something dripping wet, the water seeping out on to the bright green grass in concentric rings. Dennis led his mother up to it proudly. Hand in hand they gazed down. Mrs Rainbird’s eyes shone.