Barnaby recalled the scene, superimposing Lacey’s face on his mind’s eye. Amazement first. Then panic. And something else. They had looked at each other for a moment just before Lacey had been bundled into the back of the car and Barnaby had been aware of a third emotion behind the eyes. Unexpected and out of place. What was it? Barnaby found himself sweating as he struggled to recall precisely those few seconds, so fleeting and imprecise.
And then he had it. The third emotion was relief. Now, holding on to this new realization, he replayed the scene for a second time. Lacey running; Lacey getting caught almost certainly before he needed to have done; Lacey relieved. And when exactly had he started running? Not, as would have been expected, when the knife was produced. But minutes later, when Barnaby was about to turn back into the studio. That must be it. They had found something in Holly Cottage. But they had not found what Lacey was afraid they would find.
Barnaby got out of the car and crossed the road. His mouth was dry and he could feel his heart thumping in his breast. As he walked he recalled the studio. Neat. Professional. Trestle tables. Brushes and paints. Nothing out of the ordinary, but as he hurried down the dirt track he became more and more convinced that his sudden perception was correct.
Holly Cottage, no longer basking in the sun, looked cold and grey once more. Barnaby opened the front door, calling ‘Miss Lacey’ up the stairs. He thought it unlikely that she had slept there last night but, just in case, did not want to alarm her. There was no reply. He stepped through the doorless opening into the studio.
Everything looked exactly the same. He picked up all the jars, tubes and tins; opened and sniffed. They seemed to contain nothing unorthodox. The brushes were just brushes. There were lots of paperbacks and art catalogues in a corner cupboard. He opened them and shook the pages. No incriminating letter fell to the floor. There was a jar of clean spirit, one paint-muddied, and a few rags, some clean and neatly folded, some stained and crumpled. The windowsill was bare. Barnaby turned his attention to the paintings.
He wasn’t sure what he expected. Iris Rainbird had called them ugly, violent things. Barnaby was aware that this remark had started an ignoble hope in his own breast, once he had met the man, that Lacey had no talent. A hope now rudely shattered.
The first canvas he picked up was the portrait of Dennis Rainbird, and it was stunning. The paint glistened as if still fresh. A combination of grey and yellow ochre reminded Barnaby of a newly turned lump of sticky clay. Close to, the painting looked unfinished, almost crude, but put upon the windowsill a few feet away it leapt into instant complicated life. Dennis was wearing an open-necked shirt the outline of which, like his hands, was blurred, fading into a shadowy background. The bones at the base of his throat showed through the fine skin clear and fragile like those of a small bird. The planes of his face were thick yellow slabs of paint which miraculously managed to suggest the subtle living tissue of real flesh with all its tides and secrets. The mouth was very tightly controlled and the gaze turned inwards reflecting the sitter’s personal thoughts. His eyes showed loneliness and sorrow. The painter had understood and realized on canvas much more than Dennis Rainbird’s physical appearance. He had exposed the man’s secret heart. No wonder his mother had hated it.
Another portrait. An old woman holding a bunch of violets. Her eyes were sunken in a withered brown face. Her expression held all the gravity of the old yet her lips smiled with youthful lightness and grace. The violets retained a faint rime of silver where dew still clung to them. There were some abstracts and several landscapes and Barnaby, quite against his will, felt a rush of admiration as he turned these face outwards. No wonder Lacey didn’t give a damn for his surroundings with all this going on in his head.
Cornfields with poppies, a bank carpeted with wild flowers, two which could have been Miss Simpson’s garden. All a million miles removed from the careful discreet naturalism aimed for by Barnaby’s own art club. Here were brazen skies arched over endless almost colourless beaches; buildings shimmering in heat; gardens engorged with vivid plants and flowers, everything bathed in golden light. He propped them against the wainscot and the sunshine seemed to spill out of the canvases, forming lustrous puddles on the wooden floor.
The abstracts were very large and plain. Thick white paint and, in one corner, an imploding star. Galactic rings of ever-deepening colour shrank to a kernel of tar-black flame. Next to these was a portfolio. Barnaby opened it and pulled out a sheaf of drawings. Sketches of Judy Lessiter, quickly done but full of animation. Seeing these brought Barnaby back to the moment and to why he was there.
He looked closely at all the paintings again. There seemed to be nothing revelatory about them. Nothing to indicate why they should be sealed away behind locked doors. Stepping back, he collided with the easel. It tipped to one side and the old shirt covering it fell off. Barnaby righted the easel and replaced the cloth. It made a squarish shape supported by the two cross bars. But it was a different shape from the one he had seen yesterday. Less solid. He was quite sure that yesterday there had been a largish canvas on that easel. Which meant that, between that time and now, someone had entered the cottage and taken it away.
‘Get Lacey up here.’
‘Yes, sir,’ cried Sergeant Troy italically, leaving the incident room at a brisk trot and clattering down to the basement. ‘Come on you.’ He unlocked the cell door and jerked a thumb in Lacey’s direction. ‘Get off your backside. The chief inspector wants a word.’ He watched the prisoner pick up his jacket. ‘And you needn’t bother with that,’ he continued, ‘you’re not going anywhere.’
Michael Lacey ignored the sergeant, pushing past and hurrying up the stone steps. Troy caught up with him and resentfully tried to regain the dominant position. He had been brought up to date by Policewoman Brierley as to the main dramatic disaster of the night but as yet knew nothing of Lacey’s alibi, and his confidence was absolute. ‘Just bloody well watch it, that’s all.’
The prisoner sat down in front of Barnaby’s desk without being asked and looked around with interest at the equipment and activity. At the bank of telephones, wheels of cards and television screens.
‘So this is where it all goes on. Most impressive.’ He gave Barnaby a smile, perky and sardonic. ‘I shall sleep more easily in my bed tonight. I assume that’s where I shall be sleeping?’
‘Well, Mr Lacey, your alibi has certainly been confirmed.’
The man got up. ‘So I’m free to go?’
‘Just a moment.’ He sat down again. ‘I returned to the cottage this morning to continue my search.’ No reaction. No fear. No alarm. Not even nervousness. Sod his hide, thought Barnaby. ‘I believe at the time when you were detained there was quite a large canvas, covered with a cloth, on the easel in your studio.’
‘I doubt it. I was just starting on a portrait of Judy Lessiter, as you know. I never work on two things at the same time.’
‘Nevertheless that was my impression.’
‘Then your impression was incorrect, Chief Inspector. Did you enjoy looking round? What did you think of it all?’ Then, before Barnaby could reply he continued, ‘I’ll tell you, shall I? You don’t know anything about art but you know what you like.’
Stung by this patronizing assumption that he was nothing more than a flat-footed clodhopping philistine, Barnaby retorted, ‘On the contrary. I know quite a lot about art and I think you have a most remarkable talent.’
He watched Lacey as he spoke. Watched his face change. All the pugnacity and superciliousness faded. A look of the most intense pleasure spread across his face. He said, ‘Yes, I have, haven’t I?’ But there was no arrogance in his voice. Just happiness laced with the merest thread of uncertainty.