‘You say the place where they grow is quite near Holly Cottage. Did you happen to call in at all?’
‘Yes I did. I thought Michael might have -’ She broke off, catching Henry’s eye. ‘Anyway it was a waste of time because he wasn’t there.’
‘Was this before or after you did the picking?’
‘After.’
‘Between four and half past in other words?’
‘I suppose so.’ She did not mention her later visit and the spectacular row and, as the timing made it irrelevant to his present inquiry, Barnaby saw no need to mention it either. He had no doubt that it would not meet with her fiancé’s approval.
‘And you were here when Miss Lacey returned, Mr Trace?’
‘Yes. I was with Sam ... he’s the boy who does bits and pieces of maintenance and helps with the garden. I was unpacking Katherine’s roses, he was mixing peat and bonemeal, preparing the ground. We made some tea. Kate rang the cottage to see if Phyllis would like to join us but she wanted to carry on doing her curtains and unpacking stuff.’
Barnaby asked, ‘Has Miss Cadell moved out for good then, sir?’
‘Not quite. She’ll be sleeping here tonight. For the last time, I believe.’ Barnaby was hard put to disentangle the mixture of emotions in Trace’s voice. Relief, satisfaction and more than a little worry.
‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough to direct us to the cottage?’ asked the chief inspector.
‘It’s a bit difficult to describe,’ said Katherine, ‘I’ll take you there.’
As they left the house Barnaby said, ‘I’ll leave Miss Cadell to you, Sergeant. You know what I’m looking for. And then you can try Holly Cottage again. I’ll be in the pod when you’re finished.’ He watched them go off across the lawn towards the grove of poplars, the girl’s shoulders bowed slightly, her dark hair stirred by the evening breeze. Troy walked a little closer to her than was necessary to deliver the animated stream of chatter that his lively profile suggested. Every now and again he pulled down his black leather blouson and smoothed his hair. Barnaby made his way back to the pod.
Here all was activity. A certain amount of simple forensic work had already been done. The exhibition officer had logged a fair bit of detail. All the blood came from Mrs Rainbird. There were filaments under her nails, not yet analysed, which suggested the murderer had worn a stocking or tights over the face. Soap in the bathroom was marbled with streaks of blood, indicating that a shower had been taken. Barnaby got on to the station and briefed Inspector Moffat to handle communications for the case. As he did so a TV pantechnicon drew up outside and a uniformed scene-of-crime officer entered the pod.
‘Oh - you’re back, sir. A message from a Mrs Quine. Said to tell you that she saw a Michael Lacey in the spinney approaching the bungalow and acting in a highly suspicious manner -’
‘Actually we also saw Mr Lacey in the spinney acting in a fairly ordinary manner. But thank you. Has the body been taken away?’
‘They’re just bringing it out now, sir,’ the man replied unnecessarily. You could have heard the gasps and murmurs half a mile away.
‘Are you on to the outbuildings?’
‘Not yet, sir. Just starting on the kitchen.’
‘Right.’
Barnaby left the pod, set the newshounds (the two original plus five more and a television team) on to Inspector Moffat and returned to his car to wait for Troy. He took an armful of Mrs Rainbird’s folders, sentimentally pink and blue, and one of the notebooks, locked himself in the back seat and started to read.
He flipped first through the notebook. Each page was pretty much like the one he had already read. People identified only by initials and, occasionally, sporting a red star. No one seemed to be doing anything out of the ordinary. Walking, talking, visiting, using the phone box. Every one skewered by the omniscient beam from Mrs Rainbird’s powerful optics.
Barnaby put the notebook aside and started on the files. He realized immediately that his previous supposition when first checking out the loft had been the correct one. Mrs Rainbird appeared to have a fresh and not unreasonable approach to her profession. Barnaby hesitated to use the word Marxian to describe such an individualistic, anti-social business as blackmail, but there was no doubt that the woman’s demands were nothing if not sensible. People paid what they could. From each according to his abilities.
One man had delivered over (Barnaby checked back) the last ten years eggs and vegetables twice weekly. Someone else regular loads of wood. A few months before these offerings had ceased and Mrs Rainbird had drawn a neat line underneath and written ‘Deceased’. Poor old devil, thought the chief inspector, wondering what peccadillo the old man had been guilty of. Probably nothing too terrible. Ideas of right and wrong in a small village, particularly among the older inhabitants, often seemed archaic to more modern minds. He opened another file. Two pounds a week for three years, then nothing. Perhaps the victim had decamped. Driven out of the place as the only way to avoid payment. He read on. Fifty pounds a month. One pound a week. A regular servicing of Denny’s Porsche. Ironing done, shrubs supplied. Who would have thought in a village of some three hundred souls there would have been so much ‘sin’ about?
But of course there was also Brown’s. And Dennis with his slimy ways, driving round Causton visiting the bereaved and offering oleaginous comfort. People talked unrestrainedly in times of grief and gossiped at funerals. Rich pickings there. Between them he and his mother must have covered a pretty wide area.
Barnaby picked up the last pink folder, casually, with no sense of premonition. No idea that this would be the chamber with the bullet. Spin number six.
No need to wonder now, he thought, looking at the long column of figures, where the silver car came from or the partnership in the funeral parlour. Number 117C had paid out thousands. Even before he looked at the date of the first payment he knew what he would find. Not many crimes could command that sort of blood money. In fact perhaps only one. He felt a surge of emotion too strong to be called satisfaction. He felt on top of the world. He had not been able to let the shooting of Bella Trace alone. Without the slightest shred of evidence, indeed with all those present insisting that only an accident could have occurred, Barnaby had carried the incident around with him for a week whilst it plucked at the edges of his mind like a child with a story to tell. And now here he was, vindicated. A gentle tapping on the window of the car broke into his reverie.
‘Ah, Troy.’ He got out and slammed the door. ‘Did you see Miss Cadell?’
‘Yes. She’s been at this new place all day, she told me. Then I tried Holly Cottage again like you said but it’s still empty.’ He hurried alongside Barnaby. ‘Seems to have an endless supply of cottages, Mr Trace. Takes some people all their lives to buy -’
‘Show me where Phyllis Cadell’s house is, would you?’
‘Oh, she’s not there now, Chief. She left when I did. Eating with the Traces.’
‘Right.’ Barnaby crossed the road. ‘How did she seem?’
‘Well, she didn’t know of course, about the murder. After I told her she went a bit funny. She laughed a lot but it sounded ... oh I don’t know ... I think she’d been drinking, actually.’
Phyllis Cadell was standing by the window in the room where they had first met. She turned as they entered and as soon as Barnaby saw her face he knew his suspicions were correct. He stepped forward.
‘Phyllis Cadell. I arrest you on suspicion of the murder of -’
‘Oh no!’ She turned from him and ran to the far end of the room. ‘Not now ... not now!’ Then she covered her face with her hands and started to shriek.