‘I can’t say exactly ... just that things are going to go dreadfully wrong for us ... the wedding won’t happen ...’
‘I’ve never heard such nonsense.’
‘I knew you’d say that. But you don’t understand ...’ She broke off, studying his face. Kind, handsome, a shade complacent. And why shouldn’t it be? The Traces went back to Norman times. Effigies of Sir Robert Trayce and his wyffe Ismelda and her cat rested eternally in the cool of the thirteenth-century church. Traces had shed a modest amount of their landowning blood in the two world wars and returned to their squirearchical duties garlanded with honour. The words security of tenure were meaningless to them. They had never known anything else.
‘... You don’t understand,’ Katherine repeated. ‘Because you’ve never wanted anything you couldn’t have you can’t see that life isn’t always like that. I think these things that are happening ... Miss Simpson dying ... and now Benjy ... and Michael refusing to come on Saturday ... I think they’re omens ...’
Henry Trace laughed. ‘Beware the Ides of March.’
‘Don’t laugh.’
‘I’m sorry, darling, but there’s no one squeaking and gibbering in the streets that I can see.’
‘What?’
‘And as for Michael ... well ... he’s hardly an omen. You must’ve known for weeks that he’d probably refuse to give you away. You know what he’s like.’
‘But I thought ... on my wedding day ...’
‘Do you want me to talk to him?’
‘It won’t make any difference. You’d think after all you’d done for us it would -’
‘Hush. You mustn’t talk like that. I’ve done nothing.’ As she got up, leaning on the arms of his chair, he said, ‘Poor little knees, all dented from the cobbles.’ He lifted the hem of her dress and touched the dimpled flesh tenderly. ‘Dear little knees ... Henry make them better.’
At a window above their heads Phyllis Cadell turned abruptly away. She switched on the television set and slumped into the nearest armchair. Voices filled the room. On the screen a couple, mad with ecstatic greed, were struggling to embrace a mountain of consumer durables whilst an audience, hardly less ecstatic, screamed abuse and encouragement. Wearing a fixed insane grin, the woman slipped, dislodged a can and brought the whole pyramid crashing to the ground. Phyllis pressed her remote control and got a besotted duo in love with each other’s breakfast cereal. Button three activated a bucolic scene showing an elderly couple saturated with contentment reading their golden wedding telegrams, surrounded by their loving family. Button four brought an old black and white movie. Two men were holding a third by the arms while Sterling Haydon battered him to bits. A left to the jaw, then a right. Smack. Crunch. Then two to the belly, breath sucked in, an agonizing whistle. Then a knee to the groin and a punch in the kidneys.
Phyllis settled back. She seized the box of fudge and started cramming the gritty, fluff-embellished cubes into her mouth. She packed them in fiercely and without a break as if making an assault on her jaws. Tears poured down her cheeks.
Chapter Four
‘I expect the wedding’ll be a posh do. Marquees and all that?’ Troy looked to the horizon as he spoke, casting a green eye on Henry Trace’s assets. Miles and miles and miles of waving money.
‘No doubt.’ Barnaby turned left as they walked away from Tye House, making for the terraced cottages. Troy, not wishing to receive another put-down, did not ask why his chief was going in for a bit of mundane door-to-door. But in the event Barnaby chose to enlighten him.
‘That bungalow’ - he nodded towards the end of the terrace - ‘is what interests me. There’s someone there keeping a very sharp eye on things. I’m interested to hear what the neighbours have to say.’
‘I see, sir,’ was all Troy could think of in reply, but he felt warm with satisfaction on receipt of this small confidence.
The first cottage was empty, the occupants, as a very old lady next door informed them, being outsiders from London who hadn’t been down for at least a month. And the man in the last cottage was out till six every weekday teaching in Amersham. Troy took his name for the evening checkers. The old lady was taciturn about her own affairs, simply saying she hadn’t been out at all on the day in question. Then she jerked her head over the neat box hedge at cottage number three.
‘You want to ask her where she was on Friday. She’d poison her grandmother for a haporth o’ nuts.’ Next door a window slammed.
‘And the bungalow ... ?’
‘Don’t know nothing about them.’ She shut the door firmly.
‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’ said Troy as they walked down the path. ‘A tiny place like this and she doesn’t know anything about the people two doors down.’
‘It is indeed,’ replied Barnaby, arriving at the next cottage, lifting a grimacing pixie by the legs and letting go smartly.
An even older lady appeared and gave them roughly the same spiel, the only difference being that here the blood money came out as two pennorth o’ cheese. Then she laid a freckled bunch of weightless bones on the chief inspector’s sleeve. ‘Listen, young man,’ she said, suddenly appearing to him much the nicer of the two old ladies, ‘if you want to know what’s going on - or what’s coming off either’ - she gave a dry chuckle, shockingly lewd through withered lips - ‘you have a word with Mrs Rainbird next house down. She can tell you what’s in your hankie after you’ve blown your nose in the pitch dark behind locked doors. Spends all her time up in the loft with a pair of binoculars. Says she’s a ornyowzit. Camouflage.’ She repeated the word, tapping him on the lapel. ‘In my young day you hung over the gate and gossiped in the open. I don’t know what the world’s coming to and that’s a fact.’ She then confided that Mrs Rainbird had a son in the box and casket trade. ‘And a slimy little wart he is an’ all. They reckon he keeps his knickers in the fridge.’
Sergeant Troy snorted and turned it into a cough. Barnaby, having met Mr Rainbird, could only assume that they were right. He thanked the old lady and withdrew.
The bungalow was called Tranquillada. Barnaby thought this suggested a slightly relaxed version of the Spanish Inquisition. The name suspended from the neck of a large ceramic stork killing time on one leg by the front door. There was quite a large garden, beautifully kept and full of ornamental shrubs and roses. The silver Porsche was parked in the drive. Sergeant Troy chose the bell rather than the knocker and got a brief shrill earful of the dawn chorus. Dennis Rainbird appeared.
‘Well hullo again.’ He seemed delighted to see Barnaby. ‘And you’ve brought a friend.’ He gave Troy a radiant smile which bounced off the sergeant’s stony countenance like a ping-pong ball off a concrete slab. ‘Come in, come in. Mother,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘it’s the constabulary.’ He prounced it constabewlery.
‘Oh but I was expecting them.’ A gentle fluting from some distance away.
The bungalow seemed much larger than the outside suggested and Dennis led them past several open doors before reaching the lounge. A kitchen that gleamed, a bedroom (all white and gold) that glittered and a second bedroom adorned with lots of red suede and shining brass.
‘I’m in the lounge, Denny,’ carolled the voice. It managed to sound every vowel the word possessed, then generously tossed in another O for good measure. As they entered Mrs Rainbird rose from her downy cushions as if from a nest.
She was very, very fat. She spread outwards and towered upwards. At least a quarter of her height seemed to be accounted for by her hair, which was a rigid pagoda-like structure: a landscape of peaks and waves, whorls and curls ending in a sharp point like an inverted ice-cream cone. It was the colour of butterscotch instant whip. She wore a great deal of makeup in excitable colours and a lilac caftan, rather short, revealing bolstery legs and tiny feet. The chief inspector fielded her welcoming glance, direct and sharp as a lancet, and introduced himself.