There was a cry of indignation from the girl at his feet and she stared at Barnaby angrily. Trace said, ‘It’s all right, darling. They have to ask these things.’ But she remained unmollified and continued to glare at the two policemen during the questioning of David Whiteley. Troy thought this made her look more beautiful than ever. The farm manager’s replies were brief. He said he had been working on the afternoon in question.
‘Where precisely was this?’
‘Three miles down the Gessler Tye road. I was repairing some fencing. There was a nasty accident a couple of days before and a considerable amount got smashed.’
Barnaby nodded. ‘And when you were through there?’
‘I drove into Causton to order some more netting. And then went home.’
‘I see. You didn’t return to the farm office?’
‘No. It was nearly six by then. I don’t have to clock on and off, you know. I’m not a hired hand.’ He strove to sound amused but there was a flick of temper in his voice.
‘And home is ... ?’
‘Witchetts. The house with the green shutters opposite the pub. Goes with the job.’
‘And in the evening?’
‘I showered. Had a drink. Watched a little television. Then went to the Bear at Gessler for a meal and some company.’
‘What time was that?’
‘About half eight I suppose.’
‘You’re not married, Mr Whiteley?’
‘Mind your own business!’
‘David!’ cried Henry Trace. ‘There’s no need -’
‘I’m sorry but I really don’t see how the hell whether I’m married or not is relevant to an inquiry into the death of an old woman I barely knew in the first place.’ He closed his mouth stubbornly, folded his arms and crossed his legs. A moment later he uncrossed them. Then crossed them the other way again. Barnaby, looking completely incurious, sat placidly in his armchair. Henry and Katherine looked rather embarrassed. Troy eyed Whiteley’s straining calves and biceps caustically. He knew the type. Fancied himself as a stud. Probably couldn’t even get it up without half a dozen beers and a soft porn video. The silence lengthened. Then David Whiteley heaved an exaggerated sigh.
‘Well yes, if you must know I am married, but we’ve been living apart for the past three years. Since shortly before I came to work here, in fact. She’s a domestic science teacher and lives in Slough. And, just to save you ferreting out every little genealogical detail, we have a nine-year-old son. His name is James Laurence Whiteley and last time I saw him he was just over four feet tall and weighed in at around five stone. He was into Depeche Mode, BMX and computer games and played a mean game of basketball. Of course that was some considerable time ago. It’s probably all different now.’ Sarcasm and anger failed in the last remark. His voice, thick with emotion, broke off suddenly.
‘Thank you, Mr Whiteley.’ Barnaby waited a few moments then continued, ‘To return to the evening of the seventeenth. Can you tell me when you left the Bear?’
Whiteley took a long deep breath before replying. ‘Roughly half an hour before closing time. They might remember. I’m a regular there.’
‘And you drove straight home?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could you give me the make and registration of your car?’
‘It’s a Citroën estate. ETX 373V.’
‘Fine.’ Barnaby rose. ‘You’ve been very cooperative. I believe, Miss Lacey, you mentioned there was someone else living here?’
‘Well yes,’ Henry Trace said, ‘there’s Phyllis. But isn’t she down at her new place?’
‘No.’ Katherine rose to her feet. ‘I heard her come in half an hour ago. I’ll show you the way.’ She pointed her words in the general direction of Barnaby but without looking at him. As she took the first step away Henry caught her hand.
‘Come straight back.’
‘Of course I will.’ She bent her head and kissed the corner of his mouth. It was a chaste kiss, but the look she got in return was far from chaste. They made a charming picture, thought Barnaby. Trace with his distinguished severe profile, the girl fresh and lovely bending over him, both posed against a fall of grey watered-silk curtains. Perhaps it was this final rather theatrical touch that gave Barnaby the feeling that the charming scene was in some way unnatural. It seemed so contrivedly perfect; brimming with false pathos like a sentimental Victorian greeting card or an illustration from Dickens. He couldn’t quite explain this perception. It was not that he believed either of them was playing a part. He shifted his gaze to include David Whiteley. Perhaps his presence had been father to the thought. Perhaps it was simply that the girl was with the wrong man. That youth should call to youth. Barnaby watched Whiteley watching the girl. His glance was far from chaste as well. Barnaby thought that Henry Trace would be a very unusual man if, when his fiancée and his farm manager were both out of his sight, he didn’t occasionally wonder ... A collector will naturally expect a covetous attitude on the part of other collectors. Especially with regard to his prize specimen.
Katherine led them up a tall curved staircase and down yet another corridor, this one sporting little highly polished half-moon tables holding vases of flowers, snuffboxes and miniatures.
‘What is the lady’s full name?’
‘Phyllis Cadell.’
‘Miss?’
‘Very much so.’ The squeeze of lemon in her voice intrigued and pleased Barnaby. Too much sweetness and light could cloy after a while, in his opinion. Rather a short while too. He liked what he called ‘a bit of edge’. He wondered what Phyllis Cadell’s exact position in the household was and if it would change after the marriage. Surely any new wife would want to take the reins into her own hands. And, with a disabled husband, she would need to be exceptionally capable. He looked at Miss Lacey’s slightly sunburned hand as she knocked at the door. It looked stronger than her rather flower-like appearance would lead you to expect.
‘Oh Phyllis - I’m sorry to disturb you ...’
Barnaby followed her into the room. He saw a rather plump, middle-aged woman with a slab-like face, gooseberry-green eyes and dull brown hair done in a youthful style with a fronded fringe and hard tight little curls. Atop her long pale face it looked foolish, like a wig on a horse. She was sitting in front of a large flickering television set, a box of fudge on her knees.
‘... it’s the police.’
The woman jumped. Cubes of fudge went flying everywhere. She crouched, concealing her face, but not before Barnaby had seen fear leaping to life behind her eyes. Katherine bent down too. It was assorted fudge: three shades of brown (vanilla, mocha, chocolate), and some squares were studded with walnuts and cherries.
‘You won’t be able to eat these now, Phyllis -’
‘I can pick up a few sweets, thank you. Leave me alone.’ She was cramming fluffy cubes anyoldhow into the box. She still didn’t look at the two men.
‘You’ll show Chief Inspector Barnaby out then, will you?’ Receiving no reply Katherine turned to leave, saying just before she closed the door, ‘It’s about Miss Simpson.’
At this remark Barnaby noticed the colour rush back into the older woman’s cheeks but unevenly, leaving the skin mottled, as if she had been roasting her face by the fire. She gushed at them, ‘Of course, poor Emily. Why didn’t I think? Sit down ... sit down both of you.’
Barnaby selected a fawn fireside chair and looked around him. A very different atmosphere from the drawing room downstairs. Not uncomfortably furnished yet quite lacking in individuality. There were no ornaments or photographs and hardly any books. A few copies of The Lady, a couple of insipid prints and a dying plant on the windowsill. Apart from the television set it could have been any dentist’s waiting room.