Caroline Graham - The Killings at Badger's Drift

‘Yes?’ So quiet Barnaby’s voice. So still the room. Troy, pencil flying, felt they had forgotten he was there.

‘... Why that everyone would know it wasn’t an accident. All the others, except the farm boy were behind her, you see. And he was too far away. I thought what shall I do, what shall I do? I sat there and sat there. I thought of running away but then everyone would know it was me ... so I made myself go back. By that time of course it was all over. The ambulance had been and gone and Trevor Lessiter told me that Bella had had an accident. Tripped and fallen on her gun. I just couldn’t believe it. That anyone could be so lucky. I cried and cried with relief. I couldn’t stop. Everyone was very touched. Such sisterly concern.

‘When they’d all gone I made supper for myself and Henry. I didn’t lay the table. We sat by the fire. I had to coax him to eat. I’ve never known such happiness. I expect you think that’s wicked but it’s the truth. All I could think of was, I’ve got away with it, and I’ve got Henry. Then about half-past seven the phone rang.’ Her voice became dry, little more than a croak. ‘Excuse me ... I need a drink.’

‘Sergeant.’ Barnaby beckoned.

‘It’s all right.’ She poured from a decanter and added a quick spurt of soda. ‘Well, the call was from Iris. She said I was to go round. I told her what had happened to Bella and said I couldn’t leave Henry. She just said, “You’ll come now. Or would you like me to come to you?” She sounded very odd but even then I wasn’t really alarmed. I got Henry some pudding and went off to the bungalow.

‘She offered me some coffee, wouldn’t take no for an answer, and Dennis went off to the kitchen. We sat facing each other in her revolting lounge. She wouldn’t say what she wanted. She kept twinkling at me, saying how I’d be needed more than ever at Tye House. “Quite the chatelaine you’ll be, dear.” Then Dennis came in pushing the trolley. There was coffee and biscuits on the bottom tier and on the top ... the gun. No one said anything. It was horrible. They just kept looking at each other then at me, and beaming. As if I’d accomplished something extraordinary. As I suppose I had.

‘Then Dennis said he’d seen me shoot Bella and ditch the gun and run away and whilst they were both very anxious for my continuing happiness at Tye House they were sure I’d understand that poor people had to make their way in the world too and that they’d always known I was the sort of person to be generous to my friends. My plan had so obsessed me that I hadn’t given anyone else a thought, least of all Dennis Rainbird. But he was mad about Michael Lacey then. Was always following him about. I should have remembered that. Anyway’ - her shoulders sagged - ‘there’s not much else to tell, really. Since then they’ve cleaned me out. Henry gave me Bella’s jewellery - they’ve had the money from that. Then there were my own few bits and pieces and fifty thousand my mother left ... and you see’ - a wave of sorrow washed over her features - ‘it was all for nothing. He didn’t love me at all. He was just being kind. And then Katherine came along.’

As the silence lengthened and she didn’t speak again Barnaby said, ‘Is that the end of your statement, Miss Cadell?’

‘It is.’

‘And Mrs Rainbird’s death?’ Even as he spoke the chief inspector knew what her answer would be. He could see her, buoyed up in the belief that Henry cared and primed with a flask of vodka, firing at Bella then, immediately overcome with shock and horror, running all over the place and hurling the gun away. What he couldn’t see was that stout, foolish-faced woman wielding a knife again and again, wading through blood, steeped in blood. Coolly changing clothes, scrubbing the traces away. So it was without surprise that he heard her say, ‘I had nothing to do with that.’

Yet he still felt it was in order to ask further questions. After all she had no alibi for that afternoon and she had everything to gain by Mrs Rainbird’s death. He pointed out both these things.

‘I don’t see how I benefit by her death. I might’ve done eighteen months ago but they’ve both known for weeks that all the money was gone. And I told them that if I went down I’d make damn sure they went down with me. They knew I meant what I said all right.’

After she had listened to the statement being read back, and signed it, Troy positioned himself at the bedroom door whilst she packed. She came out carrying a small case and her handbag and wearing a shapeless raincoat. She looked much older. She had never been an attractive woman but a certain amount of vitality and a high colour had added some liveliness to her appearance. Now she looked drained, even her hair seemed greyer. As they reached the foot of the stairs a door opened and Barnaby felt his prisoner shrink closer to him.

‘Phyllis.’ Henry wheeled himself into the hall, with Katherine close behind. ‘What on earth’s wrong? What is happening?’

‘You’ll know soon enough.’ She wouldn’t look at him but hurried through the front door, Troy following. Barnaby closed the door and turned to the waiting pair.

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr Trace, but Miss Cadell has just confessed to the murder of your wife.’

‘It’s not possible!’ Katherine looked absolutely astounded.

Henry seemed bereft of speech entirely. Finally he said, ‘Are you sure? There must be some mistake. I can’t believe it.’

‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt.’ Barnaby re-opened the door. ‘We have taken her into custody. You may wish to contact her solicitor.’ Then he closed the door and walked after the others to the car.

Barnaby sat behind his desk in the incident room. He pushed the last of the Tranquillada’s files aside and concentrated on his coffee. A few minutes before he had learned from the hospital that there was no change in Mr Rainbird’s condition but that he continued comfortable. Barnaby doubted that. He doubted that very much indeed. Until the person who had killed his mother was caught Dennis Rainbird, once memory returned, would never feel comfortable again. Because Barnaby felt sure that whatever she knew he knew. And what now, unless madness had permanently addled his wits, was to stop him talking? Which was why there was a guard at the door of his hospital room as well as someone always by his bed.

Barnaby had in front of him the cutting on the Trace inquest. Now he knew the truth he read it again, remembering his earlier impression that there was something in there that hadn’t seemed quite right. He assumed that whatever it was would now stick out a mile, but he was wrong. Ah well ... it was no longer important.

All around him was activity. Muted, orderly but intense. Breathing space between telephone calls was slight. Fleet Street had picked up the news as had BBC television. Although no appeal had yet been made several members of the public, no doubt anxious to appear to be playing some part in such a dramatic event, had rung offering information and ideas.

Paper was piling up. Every little detail was put on an action form and those not already transcribed on to the rotary card system were circling round like homing pigeons. Forensic and other information was being recorded in the portable pod. A vast blown-up map of the village hung on the wall behind Barnaby’s head. One of the monitors showed a local television reporter interviewing Mrs Sweeney, and Mr Fenton, senior partner at Brown’s Funeral Emporium (‘Every solace in your hour of need’) had appeared for the opposition. The villagers were being questioned by the police as to their whereabouts between three and five p.m. All the normal procedures were being carried out. But whilst Barnaby was aware that everything that was being done must be done, his mind refused to expand to absorb all the minutiae of an official inquiry.