Caroline Graham - The Killings at Badger's Drift

‘But the clothes ... the cap and everything. And you said something about a rug. Do you know what happened to that?’

‘Oh yes ... the rug was rolled up by the back garden hedge. Michael collected it after he left the Lessiters’ and returned it to the pond. The clothes were simply taken away in the mushroom basket. It was a very large basket and, when I saw it in the kitchen, barely half full, so there was plenty of room to spare. She then walked down to Holly Cottage, hid the murder weapon, rather too successfully as things turned out, dumped the bloodstained clothing temporarily in the woods, and returned to Tye House.’

‘What does that mean? Your remark about the murder weapon?’

‘Well, we had a warrant to search the house. Now, if she had planted the knife in the kitchen drawer or in his bedroom we might not have entered the studio, a room that proved to be crucial, until later.’

‘Surely they thought you would search everywhere, Chief Inspector? As a matter of course?’

‘Normally yes, but Lacey made a bolt for it simply, as I realized later, to get us out of the house. And I’d had a quick look around the studio. It seemed perfectly in order. But as we drove away from the village Katherine saw the car. When her brother made a square around his face and shouted “I’ve been framed” I took this as a mere gesture of bravado. In fact it was a message that couldn’t have been clearer. What does a frame enclose but a painting? And why, when the cottage held so much that was valuable to him, namely all his work to date, did he leave the door open? Why did he pretend it was never locked? Because something in the studio had to be removed and if this was done when the place was locked up the culprit, as the only other person to have a key, would have to be Katherine. Unlocked, it could have been anyone.’

‘Yes ... I can see that. But what had to be removed? Was it a picture? Why was it so important?’

Barnaby drained his Teachers and sat back in his chair, wondering how best to word his reply. He saw the painting again, heard Troy cry - ‘But who is it?’ Felt once more the almost physical blow to his solar plexus that had struck as he gazed at the easel. He understood fully Troy’s bewilderment. For Katherine Lacey was practically unrecognizable. It was the most erotic nude he had ever seen. She was sprawled on the double bed and although there was something post-coital about the positioning of her limbs there was nothing relaxed or reflective in the work. It was riven with power. Her skin was pearly with sweat; her legs and arms throbbed with energy, seeming almost to move on the canvas. There was something rapacious about them. And something faintly sinister. Barnaby was reminded of a praying mantis, alluring and deadly. She looked bigger in every way than the woman he had known. Her neck was thick and powerful, her breasts large, her belly richly curved.

But it was the face that had brought forth Troy’s cry of disbelief. It was the face of a maenad. Wet red lips were drawn back into a fierce smile: greedy, lustful and cruel. Her eyes glittered with an unholy satisfaction. Only her hair was recognizable and even that seemed to have a life of its own, twisting and turning like a nest of snakes. Barnaby felt that any minute she would spring out of the canvas and devour him.

Miss Bellringer repeated her question. Barnaby, aware that his reminiscences had left his face heavily flushed, replied, ‘It was a portrait of his sister which left little doubt as to the truth of their relationship.’ No wonder, he thought, the little single bed always looked so pristine and newly made. She probably hadn’t slept in it since Mrs Sharpe left. And now he knew why Katherine hadn’t moved into the vacant bedroom which was so much larger than her own.

‘How clever they have been. And to what a terrible end.’

‘Yes. Oddly enough my sergeant said something quite early on in the case which could have been a pointer if only I’d had the wit to see it. He noticed Mrs Lessiter never missed an opportunity to have a dig at Lacey and said, “It wouldn’t be the first time a married woman’s pretended to dislike her lover in public to put people off the scent.”’

‘They were certainly convincing.’

‘Mm. There was one episode that I had great difficulty with. Troy and I -’

‘I still don’t like that man.’

Barnaby smiled noncommittally and continued, ‘We were walking along the path to Holly Cottage and heard the Laceys in the midst of the most terrible row. Later, when I had decided they were guilty, I simply couldn’t fit this scene into my puzzle. Why continue to act out in private a charade that is purely for public consumption? It didn’t make sense. In fact I’m afraid overhearing them made me slower to reach my final conclusion than I would otherwise have been. And then, returning home from Saint Leonards, and noticing my sergeant’s constant attention to his driving mirror, I realized that the whole scene had been set up for my benefit. Because although we were behind a tall hedge and could not see them they would have had a very clear view of our approach in the mirror placed near the opening where the motorist turned round.’

There was a long pause, then Miss Bellringer said, ‘So ... that’s it then ... ? The final piece slips into place.’

Barnaby drained his glass and pressed the remaining delicious crumbs of cake into a neat ball. He thought it seemed much longer than two weeks since his companion had first sat in his office rootling in her capacious bag and fixing him with her glittering eye. What had she just said? The final piece? Yes, it must be. The vague feeling he had of one more loose end must simply be his natural inability to believe in life’s tidiness.

There was nothing more to say. He rose to his feet. Lucy got up too and held out her hand. ‘Well, goodbye, Chief Inspector. It’s been most stimulating working with you. How I shall settle down again to the normal dull routine I just don’t know.’

Barnaby shook hands and said, with absolute sincerity, ‘I can’t imagine anything being dull for long in your presence.’

As he walked towards the layby where he had parked the Orion he passed the churchyard, hesitated, then turned in. He made his way around the building through a gate in the box hedge to where the newest graves showed, rectangular strips of cold clay, in the lumpy greensward.

One was heaped with wreaths, the flowers still glowing and vibrant; on the other the tributes had been removed, leaving only a vase of dark red, sweetly scented roses. A plain stone was already in place. It read:

EMILY SIMPSON

A Dear Friend

1906-1987

Barnaby stood in the shade of the dark yew trees and listened to the kaah-kaah of the rooks for a long moment, then turned and walked quickly away.

Dinner was almost finished. Cully had provided assorted dips with crudités. Chicken chasseur. Broccoli. New potatoes. Watercress. A wedge of double Gloucester and lemon chiffon pie. And there was a little box of florentines to nibble with their coffee. Barnaby’s stomach, torn between disbelief and excitement, muttered gently. Cully poured the last drops from the second bottle of Côtes de Gascogne and lifted her glass.

‘Merde in your eye, folks.’

‘I was going to drink to Beatrice,’ replied Barnaby. His daughter was in the last week of rehearsals for Much Ado , happy to stay in Cambridge, even in the long vacation, if it meant getting her teeth into a good part.

Sartorially she seemed to have quietened down a bit whilst still looking definitely pantomimic. She wore a man’s tailored three-piece suit in grey and white chalk stripes dating from the early fifties and her hair, the colour of sloe gin, was cut in an Eton crop. There was a monocle pinned to her lapel. She looked aggressive, sexy and, because of her youth, rather touching. Barnaby thought she was softening up a bit. He had not discussed the dénouement of the Simpson case with Joyce, waiting until Cully was home, saving it for their first long meal together. And she had listened courteously, intent and thoughtful to the very end. Joyce now returned briefly to the subject.