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‘Yes. I rang Pathology about that just before you came. They say it’s soluble in alcohol, ether or chloroform.’

‘Not in water?’

‘No.’

‘That means, for it to look like a natural death, she must’ve drunk it?’

‘I should say so,’ agreed Barnaby. ‘Anything else would have been too risky. Even an eighty-year-old lady can put up quite a struggle if someone’s pushing a chloroformed pad over her face. Things might have got knocked about. Ornaments smashed. The dog would have kicked up a hell of a racket.’

‘This explains the engorgement of the lungs.’ Doctor Bullard tapped the paper. ‘A bit excessive even for a bronchitic. Of course we shouldn’t be hard on old Lessiter. It’d be an unusual doctor who checked for symptoms of coniine poisoning in what looks like a perfectly straightfoward, if unexpected, death. All the same,’ he grinned, ‘I wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall when you tell him.’

Chapter Four

‘There’s no need to drive as if you’re auditioning for The Sweeney, Sergeant.’

‘Sorry, sir.’ Troy slowed down sulkily. What on earth was the point of being in the force with all the dreary forms and typing and gormless people endlessly asking you gormless questions if you couldn’t occasionally put your foot down, start the siren and drive like the clappers. And he was still smarting after the criticism (totally unwarranted in his opinion) that had been dished out a couple of days ago. He knew the rules as well as anyone, but how many officers followed up and investigated every single piddling thing that came their way? Just his luck the old bag had dropped him in it. And now here they were running around in ever-decreasing circles just because some other old bag had snuffed it. The only pleasurable thing about the whole affair was that Detective Chief Inspector frigging Barnaby was going to come out looking an even bigger fool than when he went in. Happily ignorant of the contents of the post-mortem report, Troy turned into Church Lane and parked outside number thirteen.

Barnaby found Miss Bellringer chopping up fish in her untidy kitchen. Wellington sat on top of the fridge watching the knife rise and fall, his punchball face suffused with satisfaction.

‘He won’t eat tins,’ said Miss Bellringer, reasonably enough. Then, ‘I understand there’s been a post mortem.’

Barnaby could not conceal a look of surprise. He had been brought up in a village not much larger than Badger’s Drift and knew how efficient the grapevine could be, but he was impressed at the speed with which this item of news had been disseminated. Proceeding in the first instance, he supposed, from the undertakers. ‘That’s right. There’s an inquest tomorrow. Would you be prepared to identify Miss Simpson?’

‘But’ - she turned pale, resting her knife on the board - ‘why?’

‘After a post mortem it’s necessary.’

‘But ... can’t you do that?’

‘I’m afraid not. I didn’t know her, you see.’ He paused. ‘I could ask Mr Rainbird.’

‘No, don’t do that. Horrible little wart.’ An even longer pause. ‘All right - if someone has to I’d rather it was me.’ Wellington made a protesting ‘mmr’ and she started chopping again.

‘Then the coroner will issue a certificate and your friend can be buried.’

‘Thank God. Poor Emily.’ She banged the plate down on the floor and opened a carton of cream. She poured some into a stone dish and set that down as well. ‘This cat’s arteries must be well and truly furred up by now. Fur inside and out. Ha!’ She gave Wellington an affectionate nudge with her boot. ‘But he does love it so.’

‘You said you had the key to Miss Simpson’s cottage.’

‘That’s right. Do you want to look round?’

‘Just briefly. There’ll be a more thorough investigation tomorrow.’

‘Ohh ... does that mean ... ?’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t really go into that at the moment.’

‘Of course. You’re quite right to chide, Chief Inspector.’

She pressed a finger to her lips. ‘ “Silent was the flock.” Do you admire Keats?’

‘If we could go as soon as possible?’

She took a Burberry cape from a hook behind the door and flapped her way into it. They made their way down to the front gate, Miss Bellringer kicking aside a supplicant cotoneaster. ‘We used to have an excellent relationship, these plants and myself. I left them alone and they left me alone. Now everything’s getting out of hand. Look at all that fluffy stuff. I thought a shrubbery was supposed to be ideal for people who didn’t care for gardening.’

‘They need an occasional cutting back,’ advised the chief inspector, whose herbaceous borders were the envy of Arbury Crescent.

Sergeant Troy watched them cross the road - the tall man in the light grey summer jacket and trousers and the shabby ancient frolicking alongside looking like an old English sheepdog caught up in a canvas sack. Not, Troy thought, that clothes were anything to go by. He remembered his mum cleaning for old Lady Preddicott who always looked as if she dressed in Oxfam rejects. And he remembered wearing her grandson’s castoffs: ludicrously expensive clothes from the White House and Harrod’s when all he longed for was jeans and a Batman T-shirt.

Two children and a woman with a shopping trolley stopped opposite the car and stared at him. He leaned back, relaxed yet keen eyed, holding the steering wheel with a negligent hand. Riding shotgun. Then Barnaby turned and beckoned. Pink with annoyance Troy scrambled out of the Rover, checked the lock and hurried after the others.

Beehive Cottage was just a few yards further up the lane on the opposite side from Miss Bellringer’s house. It was perfection. The sort of house that turns up on This England calendars and tourist posters. The exile’s dream of home.

The house was neatly and imaginatively thatched, with a second roof, like a scalloped apron, over the first. The windows had leaded panes. A herringbone brick path crumbling with age and edged with lavender and santolina curved around to the back door. Here were hollyhocks and pinks, delphiniums, thyme and mignonette. An immaculate lawn stretched away from a flagstoned area. At the bottom of the lawn, half hidden by a huge viburnum bodnantense, were two beehives. Barnaby, after his first shock of pleasure, stood for a long moment in silent appreciation. The garden settled round him as gardens will. Indifferent and harmonious; consolingly beautiful.

‘What a wonderful scent.’ He approached a nearby rose bush.

‘That was her favourite. Don’t know what it’s called.’

‘It’s a Papa Meilland.’ Barnaby bent his head and inhaled the incomparable fragrance. Sergeant Troy studied the sky. Miss Bellringer produced a large iron key and opened the door. Telling Troy to stay where he was, Barnaby followed her into the house.

The first thing they saw when they entered the kitchen was a wooden shelf which held a sacking apron neatly folded, a clean trowel and a kneeling mat. Miss Bellringer turned quickly away into the centre of the room then cried: ‘Phroo ... what a ghastly smell.’ She moved towards the sink.

Barnaby cried: ‘Don’t touch anything, please.’

‘Oh.’ She stood stock still like a child playing statues. ‘Because of dabs, you mean?’

There was certainly an overpoweringly musty odour in the air. The chief inspector looked around. Everything was beautifully clean and tidy. There was a jam jar of parsley on top of the fridge. A vegetable rack holding a few potatoes, and a couple of apples in a cloisonné bowl.

‘Have you been back here since the body was removed?’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t bear it without her.’

‘Did you notice the smell before?’

‘No. But my olfactory equipment isn’t too lively. Emily was always grumbling about it. Urging me to sniff this or sniff that. Complete waste of time.’