But it was the face that had brought forth Troy’s cry of disbelief. It was the face of a maenad. Wet red lips were drawn back into a fierce smile: greedy, lustful and cruel. Her eyes glittered with an unholy satisfaction. Only her hair was recognizable and even that seemed to have a life of its own, twisting and turning like a nest of snakes. Barnaby felt that any minute she would spring out of the canvas and devour him.
Miss Bellringer repeated her question. Barnaby, aware that his reminiscences had left his face heavily flushed, replied, ‘It was a portrait of his sister which left little doubt as to the truth of their relationship.’ No wonder, he thought, the little single bed always looked so pristine and newly made. She probably hadn’t slept in it since Mrs Sharpe left. And now he knew why Katherine hadn’t moved into the vacant bedroom which was so much larger than her own.
‘How clever they have been. And to what a terrible end.’
‘Yes. Oddly enough my sergeant said something quite early on in the case which could have been a pointer if only I’d had the wit to see it. He noticed Mrs Lessiter never missed an opportunity to have a dig at Lacey and said, “It wouldn’t be the first time a married woman’s pretended to dislike her lover in public to put people off the scent.”’
‘They were certainly convincing.’
‘Mm. There was one episode that I had great difficulty with. Troy and I -’
‘I still don’t like that man.’
Barnaby smiled noncommittally and continued, ‘We were walking along the path to Holly Cottage and heard the Laceys in the midst of the most terrible row. Later, when I had decided they were guilty, I simply couldn’t fit this scene into my puzzle. Why continue to act out in private a charade that is purely for public consumption? It didn’t make sense. In fact I’m afraid overhearing them made me slower to reach my final conclusion than I would otherwise have been. And then, returning home from Saint Leonards, and noticing my sergeant’s constant attention to his driving mirror, I realized that the whole scene had been set up for my benefit. Because although we were behind a tall hedge and could not see them they would have had a very clear view of our approach in the mirror placed near the opening where the motorist turned round.’
There was a long pause, then Miss Bellringer said, ‘So ... that’s it then ... ? The final piece slips into place.’
Barnaby drained his glass and pressed the remaining delicious crumbs of cake into a neat ball. He thought it seemed much longer than two weeks since his companion had first sat in his office rootling in her capacious bag and fixing him with her glittering eye. What had she just said? The final piece? Yes, it must be. The vague feeling he had of one more loose end must simply be his natural inability to believe in life’s tidiness.
There was nothing more to say. He rose to his feet. Lucy got up too and held out her hand. ‘Well, goodbye, Chief Inspector. It’s been most stimulating working with you. How I shall settle down again to the normal dull routine I just don’t know.’
Barnaby shook hands and said, with absolute sincerity, ‘I can’t imagine anything being dull for long in your presence.’
As he walked towards the layby where he had parked the Orion he passed the churchyard, hesitated, then turned in. He made his way around the building through a gate in the box hedge to where the newest graves showed, rectangular strips of cold clay, in the lumpy greensward.
One was heaped with wreaths, the flowers still glowing and vibrant; on the other the tributes had been removed, leaving only a vase of dark red, sweetly scented roses. A plain stone was already in place. It read:
EMILY SIMPSON
A Dear Friend
1906-1987
Barnaby stood in the shade of the dark yew trees and listened to the kaah-kaah of the rooks for a long moment, then turned and walked quickly away.
Dinner was almost finished. Cully had provided assorted dips with crudités. Chicken chasseur. Broccoli. New potatoes. Watercress. A wedge of double Gloucester and lemon chiffon pie. And there was a little box of florentines to nibble with their coffee. Barnaby’s stomach, torn between disbelief and excitement, muttered gently. Cully poured the last drops from the second bottle of Côtes de Gascogne and lifted her glass.
‘Merde in your eye, folks.’
‘I was going to drink to Beatrice,’ replied Barnaby. His daughter was in the last week of rehearsals for Much Ado, happy to stay in Cambridge, even in the long vacation, if it meant getting her teeth into a good part.
Sartorially she seemed to have quietened down a bit whilst still looking definitely pantomimic. She wore a man’s tailored three-piece suit in grey and white chalk stripes dating from the early fifties and her hair, the colour of sloe gin, was cut in an Eton crop. There was a monocle pinned to her lapel. She looked aggressive, sexy and, because of her youth, rather touching. Barnaby thought she was softening up a bit. He had not discussed the dénouement of the Simpson case with Joyce, waiting until Cully was home, saving it for their first long meal together. And she had listened courteously, intent and thoughtful to the very end. Joyce now returned briefly to the subject.
‘I always thought that ... um ... that sort of thing ... you know ... only went on in ... well ... poorer families.’
‘Oh Ma, don’t be so mealy mouthed. If you mean working class why on earth don’t you say so? In any case not true. There are lots of examples, fact and fiction, of upper-class siblings having it off.’ Cully nibbled a florentine. ‘Just like poor Annabella.’
‘What?’ said Barnaby, placing his cup in his saucer with extreme care.
‘Pardon, dear, not what.’
‘Annabella. You know ... in Tis Pity.’
‘No, I don’t know. Enlighten me.’
‘Honestly, Dad ... I worked my guts out on that thing ... it was the first big part I had ... Tis Pity She’s a Whore ... at the ADC. You came up to see it and now you don’t even remember.’
Yes, he remembered now. A dark stage lit with sudden flares of light from torches. Rich brocades and painted faces swirling out of the shadows. Terrible images of blood and death. His daughter in a white gown drenched with blood; daggers plunged again and again into living flesh; a heart held aloft at knife point. Horror upon horror, scenes prefiguring the death and destruction he had so recently beheld at Tranquillada. And, over and above all, the tragic pitiful incestuous passion of Annabella and her brother Giovanni. Barnaby saw again the little piecrust table in Beehive Cottage with the pile of books. The Adventurous Gardener, Shakespeare, A Golden Treasury. And the copy of Jacobean plays.
Cully spoke dreamily, her husky voice brimming with untold sadness, ‘One soul, one flesh, one love, one heart, one all ...’
Barnaby gazed at her with fatherly pride and admiration. He picked up his cup again. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s about the size of it.’