Their eyes met as they had done so often in her dreams. But in real life it was all very different. His glance was dark and unfriendly, almost a glare, and struck her like an arrow. He made a forceful movement with his free hand and, for one terrible moment, Brenda thought he was threatening her with his fist. Then he flung the spade down with a great clatter on the patio slabs and strode back into the house.
Brenda was devastated. What must he think? What must any person think going about their business, with every reason to presume themselves unobserved, only to discover they were being spied on? No wonder he was angry. Brenda felt shattered, as if they had had a lover’s quarrel.
She closed her book, replaced the cap on her chunky pen and blew her nose loudly. It would do no good to cry. Nor was their any point in abandoning herself to morbid self-scrutiny. Quarrels were made to be mended. And it would be up to her to find a way to do it.
“I had to get all worked up to come.” Mrs. Molfrey tossed back her shoulder-length blonde ringlets with such vigour that her hat nearly fell off. “I hope I have not been misinformed as to your rank and station.”
Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby tried to hold in place the mask of courteous inquiry invariably assumed when presented with an unsolicited visit from a member of the public but it was hard, very hard indeed, not to stare.
An excessively raddled old lady sat facing him. She appeared lost inside a voluminous girlish dress with puffed sleeves. It was made from what appeared to be furnishing fabric: glazed chintz, patterned with blowsy cabbage roses. She also wore white lace gloves and rather muddy, elastic-sided shoes with holes punched into the ivory leather. Her face was so thickly layered with pink and white cosmetics that when severely frowning or expressing emotion with any degree of vivacity motes of it became detached and drifted in the air like perfumed dandruff. Her eyelids were the harsh and dazzling blue once called Electric. If Mary Pickford were still alive, thought Barnaby, this must be pretty much what she would look like.
“They tried to palm me off in your front office with a constable. In his shirt sleeves.” Mrs. Molfrey lowered eyelashes so black and stiffly curled they could have been coated with pitch. “But I insisted on speaking to someone of the highest authority.”
Sergeant Troy had passed through reception during Mrs. Molfrey’s argumentative discourse. Sussing the situation, he had popped her in the lift, whisked her up to the third floor and left her on Barnaby’s Welcome mat. Whether his bag carrier had been motivated by sportish malice or the suspicion that an entertaining diversion was required, the Chief Inspector had yet to discover.
“So what seems to be the problem, Mrs. Molfrey?” asked Barnaby aware, as soon as the words were out, that he had assumed an avuncular, almost condescending manner. Attempting equilibrium he added, more formally, “How can I help you?”
“It is I who can help you,” replied Mrs. Molfrey, tugging off her left glove. “My neighbour has disappeared. I thought you would want to know.”
“His name?”
“Her name. He’s still on the spot. And thereby, if you ask me, hangs a very long tale.”
Barnaby, who had anticipated that what Mrs. Molfrey had to say would be as dotty and uncoordinated as her appearance was pleased to be proved wrong. Even if elaborately presented and quirkily phrased, her meaning seemed crystal clear.
“It’s Simone Hollingsworth,” began Mrs. Molfrey. She paused for a few moments, frowning severely at an anti-theft poster and dislodging a few more flakes of pastel pargeting. “Aren’t you going to write it down?”
“Not at the moment, Mrs. Molfrey. Please continue.”
“She vanished last Thursday. Into thin air, as the saying is, though I’ve never understood why. Surely if a person is to be concealed the air would have to be extremely thick. Rather like the old pea-soupers.”
“If you could—”
“Don’t chip in, there’s a good fellow. When I’ve finished I’ll give some sort of signal. Wave my handkerchief. Or shout.”
Barnaby closed his eyes.
“I became suspicious the very first evening. I remember it precisely and I’ll tell you why. The sunset, from which I usually derive considerable refreshment, was a great disappointment. A dreadful common colour, like tinned salmon. Cubby was feeding my onions—renowned, I might add, for their splendour—and I was rootling around with my little hoe anticipating a word or two with Simone. She would usually come out around that time to call her cat and we would exchange pleasantries, the latest bit of village gossip from her side of the fence whereas I would discuss the progress of my plants, curse all winged and crawling predators and inveigh against the weather, the way keen gardeners do.”
Barnaby nodded. He, too, was a keen gardener and had been known to inveigh against the weather in his time in a manner so robust it caused his wife to slam the French windows with such vigour the panes rattled.
“But who should emerge instead but Alan—that is Mr. Hollingsworth—calling ‘Nelson, Nelson’ as if he had ever cared tuppence for the poor creature and rattling a box of crunchy stuff.” Mrs. Molfrey leaned forwards. “And that’s not all.”
These last few words had a throbbing undertow bordering on the melodramatic. Barnaby recognised the note; he had heard it many times. It nearly always indicated a possibly genuine concern for the welfare of a fellow human plus an inability to believe that that welfare was not at risk, usually for the most lurid and sinister of reasons.
“I had already discovered three more disturbing pieces to this mysterious jigsaw. On the afternoon of the day Mrs. Hollingsworth vanished, Sarah Lawson, our artist in residence so to speak, had been invited to tea. Half an hour later Maison Becky also turned up on her flying bicycle plus all the coiffure folderols for a pre-arranged hair appointment. But Simone had taken the twelve-thirty omnibus to Causton without letting either of them know!”
Mrs. Molfrey, who had ticked off these peaks of high drama on gnarled fingers tipped with brilliant vermilion nails, now concluded, “Nothing could be more out of character.”
The process wherein a slightly unusual or vaguely inexplicable occurrence was fancifully expanded into an event of Grand Guignol-like style and content was also very familiar. Barnaby controlled his impatience.
“But if you find all that baffling,” Mrs. Molfrey paused and looked at the Chief Inspector in such keen and collusive anticipation that he did not have the heart to disappoint her. An expression of mild curiosity briefly possessed his craggy features. “Wait till you hear le mot juste.” She leaned forward, severely mangling, in her excitement, a large raffia bag on her knees. “Questioned by the vicar, who was naturally concerned at finding himself one campanologist short for the funeral, Alan Hollingsworth said his wife had gone to visit her mother. Hah!”
Uncertain whether this was a forceful expression of disbelief or the shout that signalled he was now free to chip in, Barnaby cleared his throat and, when no reprimand was forthcoming, said, “Was this something out of the ordinary then, Mrs. Molfrey?”
“You could say that. She’s been dead for seven years.”
“Then it was plainly an excuse made up on the spur of the moment,” said the Chief Inspector. “People don’t always tell the truth about their personal affairs. Why should they?”
“I do,” said Mrs. Molfrey with the simplicity of a child.
There was no answer to this and Barnaby wisely did not attempt one.