‘I’m afraid I have bad news, Mrs Leathers,’ began Barnaby. ‘Dr Mahoney has positively identified the man found dead yesterday in Carter’s Wood as your husband.’
‘We sort of expected that. Didn’t we, Mum?’ Pauline had drawn up a raffia stool and sat close to her mother, holding her hand.
‘Yes. We’re coming to terms with it a bit now.’ Mrs Leathers moved quickly on. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Not at the moment, thank you.’
‘How exactly did he die, my dad?’
‘I’m afraid he was deliberately killed, Mrs Grantham. This is a murder investigation.’
‘They were saying that on the Green.’ Pauline spoke to her mother. ‘I couldn’t believe it.’
‘Do you have any idea at all who might have been responsible?’
Barnaby addressed his question to both women, looking from one to the other, drawing them into a circle of intimacy. His voice was low and calm. He looked and sounded both sympathetic and genuinely interested. It was this ability, which the DCI was able to draw on anytime and anywhere, that Sergeant Troy envied most. Troy aped Barnaby’s manner sometimes but people saw straight through him and never responded in the same way. He sensed he was not trusted.
‘It can’t have been anyone Charlie knew,’ insisted Mrs Leathers.
Troy thought this hardly worth making a note of. From what he’d heard of the miserable sod, there was every chance it was someone he knew. In fact almost anyone he knew. But this was hardly the time to point this out and naturally the chief did not do so.
‘But why would he be attacked by a complete stranger?’ Pauline asked her mother. ‘It’s not as if he was carrying lots of money. And what was he doing in the wood in the first place?’
‘Walking Candy,’ said Mrs Leathers.
‘In the pitch-dark? At that hour?’
‘Did he say why he was going out so much later than usual, Mrs Leathers?’
‘It wasn’t that much later. Around ten instead of half nine. When he never come back I assumed he’d settled down in the Red Lion.’
‘Too right,’ said Pauline bitterly. ‘Spending the housekeeping he’d never give you.’
‘Did he say he might be meeting someone?’ Then, when Mrs Leathers shook her head, ‘Or behave in some way differently in the days leading up to his death? Did he do anything out of the ordinary?’
‘No.’ She hesitated for a moment then added, ‘Just went to work as usual.’
‘Where was that?’
‘Mostly at the Old Rectory, where I work myself. And he put in an hour or two at the Fainlights’ over the road.’
There was nothing else she could add and the policemen, having discovered where the Fainlights lived, prepared to leave. Barnaby said again how much he regretted being the bearer of such sad news. Sergeant Troy paused at the door.
‘How’s the dog, Mrs Leathers?’
‘Hanging on.’ Mrs Leathers’ face was now awash with the sorrow so markedly absent when they had been discussing her husband. ‘Mr Bailey says it’s a bit early to predict the outcome.’
Troy knew what that meant. That’s what the vet had said to him when his German Shepherd had eaten some poisoned meat put out for rats. He said, ‘I’m really sorry.’
After the police had gone, Pauline asked what it was her mum wasn’t telling them.
‘What do you mean?’ Mrs Leathers sounded quite indignant.
‘You were going to say something when they asked if Dad did anything strange before he died. Then you didn’t.’
‘If you were any sharper you’d cut yourself.’
‘Come on, Mum.’
‘It weren’t nothing relevant.’ Mrs Leathers hesitated, recalling her husband’s furious red-faced shouting when she had intruded into the front room. ‘They’d’ve just laughed.’
‘Tell me.’
‘He was making a sort of ... scrapbook.’
‘A scrapbook? Dad?’
At the sight of the Old Rectory, Barnaby was instantly entranced, for it was a truly harmonious and beautiful house. Tall narrow windows (Holland blinds at half-mast), an exquisite fanlight and elegant mouldings over the front door. Not in good repair, though. The mellow rose-gold brickwork, supported by a rambling Virginia creeper, was porous and fretted and in bad need of repointing. The paintwork was dirty and quite a bit of it had peeled off. The guttering was broken in several places and the attractive wrought-iron double gates were rusty.
Troy was reminded of a setting for one of the telly costume dramas his mum was so keen on. He could just see a pony and trap wheeling up the drive guided by a coach-man in a tall hat, shiny boots and tight trousers. A servant would run from the house to let the little coach step down. Then a pretty girl, all flirty curls and ribbons, wearing a dress covering her ankles but showing plenty of—
‘Are we going to stand here all bloody day?’
‘Sorry, sir.’
Troy tugged at the griffin’s head bell pull - the old-fashioned sort on a wire. As he let go, he briefly wondered what would happen if he didn’t let go. Would the wire just keep on coming? Could he walk away winding it round and round his arm? Would it bring the house down? He had a quiet chuckle at the exuberance of this notion.
‘And wipe that smirk off your face.’
‘Sir.’
‘No one in,’ said the DCI who was not a patient man.
‘They’re in,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘They’re waiting for us to go round the back.’
‘What?’
‘Tradesmen and deliveries.’ Troy’s lip curled as it always did when reckoning the bourgeoisie. ‘Yes, sir, no, sir. Three bags full.’
‘Rubbish. It’s just the local vicar as was. Lionel Lawrence.’
‘You know him then?’
‘I know a bit about him. He married the chief constable twenty-odd years ago.’
‘Blimey,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘They kept that quiet down the Masons’ lodge.’ He raised his arm to give a good bang on the knocker but Barnaby stayed his hand.
‘Someone’s coming.’
Ann Lawrence opened the door. Barnaby took in a faded blue dress and grey hair so clumsily pinned up it was falling down. Her skin was almost translucent and the eyes so pale it was impossible to guess at their colour. The chief inspector thought he had never seen anyone so washed out. He wondered if she was ill. Perhaps seriously anaemic.
‘Mrs Lawrence?’
‘Yes.’ There was an air about her as of someone awaiting a blow. She seemed almost to be holding her breath. Her glance moved anxiously between the two men. ‘Who are you?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby. Causton CID. And this is Sergeant Troy.’ As Barnaby held up his warrant card, Ann Lawrence made an involuntary little sound then covered her mouth with her hand. Such colour as there was drained from her face.
‘Might we have a word with you? And your husband, if he’s here.’
‘What about? What do you want?’ She made an obvious effort to collect herself, realising perhaps how strange her behaviour might appear. ‘I’m so sorry. Come in, please.’ She stood back, swinging the heavy door wide. ‘Lionel’s in his study. I’ll take you.’
The way led through a black and white tiled hall. A great star lantern hung down over the stairwell on a heavy looped chain. A copper jug, crammed with beech leaves and achillea and dried tansies, stood on an oval table next to a little stack of outgoing mail.
The study was a quiet, peaceful room overlooking the back of the house. Curtains of faded amber silk, so old as to be almost threadbare. Bowls of hyacinths, books and newspapers. A fire crackled with the sweet smell of applewood.
Lionel Lawrence got up eagerly when they were announced, hurrying round from behind his desk to shake Barnaby’s hand.