Lionel marched off, leaving them standing in the hall. Although they had not been asked either to wait or to make themselves at home, Barnaby and Troy sat on two small wrought-iron seats on either side of the large copper vase. The chairs were extremely uncomfortable.
Troy, straightaway bored, peered through the arrangement of beech leaves and tansies only to realise the chief was already in one of his ‘do not disturb’ moods.
But Barnaby’s thoughts were by no means as tranquil as his calm exterior would suggest. He was thinking of the coming meeting with Ann Lawrence. Third time lucky, he had confidently told himself during the journey over. At their first brief meeting he had not even known that the missing girl would be relevant to the Leathers murder case. On Saturday, Mrs Lawrence had been so full of dope, no interview had been possible. Now she had had all of Sunday and Monday to recover. When he’d spoken to her yesterday she had sounded calm and not at all apprehensive. He recalled her actual words: ‘Yes, Inspector. And I want to speak to you. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.’
He murmured the last sentence aloud and Troy quickly said, ‘Sir?’
‘She said, “I’m looking forward to it” - our meeting. What do you make of that?’
‘Got something on her mind. Wants to talk it over.’ Troy glanced at his watch. ‘She’ll miss all the fun if she don’t get her skates on. The place’ll be swarming with mothers any minute.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘I shan’t like it,’ said Troy. ‘It’s an aspect of life I could well do without.’
‘Be quiet.’ Barnaby was experiencing a slight feeling of sickness. The cold clutch of tension in the pit of his stomach. A moment of inexplicable and fearful recognition, like finding the lavatory chain swinging when you believed you were alone in the house. ‘Can you see anyone coming?’
Troy got up, stretched his legs and went over to the long window by the side of the front door. In the drive, striding with brisk determination towards the Rectory, were several women. They were not the stodgy matriarchs Troy had been expecting, tweed-wrapped and bluff-complexioned. Some wore bright trousers and jackets. One wore what looked like a green Homburg, a long purple mohair jumper and Fair Isle shooting stockings. See them coming? Ray Charles could see them coming.
Troy opened the door, stood to one side and let them swarm in. They didn’t hang about. Just legged it for the interior where they could be heard talking loudly to Lionel. Amidst this distant uproar was the clatter of china and teaspoons.
‘Get hold of Lawrence, Sergeant.’
Troy tried. Lionel was in the kitchen pretending to help and having his half-hearted, clumsy efforts laughed at with kindly indulgence. When it was understood that Ann was not present, the lady in the hat offered to make him some bacon and eggs. People were swarming all over the place. Someone said, ‘Ah, there you are’ to Sergeant Troy and asked if he would take a tray loaded with cups into the sitting room.
‘Mr Lawrence? Would you—’ Troy dodged back to let a sliced cherry cake past. ‘The chief inspector would like a word.’
‘What?’ shouted Lionel, taking the cling film off a plate of cucumber sandwiches and cramming two in his mouth.
‘In the hall, sir, if you would.’ Troy eased his way round the deal table and cupped his hand, gently but firmly, round Lionel’s nearest elbow. Wrong.
‘Have you ever come across the phrase “civil liberties”, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, Mr Lawrence.’
‘Well, if you don’t want a summons for assault, I suggest you take your hand away.’
Troy removed his hand. ‘And perhaps you are aware, sir, that refusing to assist the police in a murder inquiry is a punishable offence.’
‘There’s no question of that.’ Lionel, though still munching, moved briskly towards the exit. ‘Simply that every man is entitled to defend himself.’
They got into the hall just in time to bump into the chief striding out to find them.
‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Sorry, sir. It’s a bit hectic—’
‘In here.’ Barnaby turned into the first doorway to present itself. A small octagonal room with a few hard-back chairs, some piles of sheet music and hi-fi equipment and an old Bechstein grand. Troy drifted over to the piano, produced his notebook, just in case, and rested it on the rich, mottled walnut lid.
Nearby was a silver-framed photograph of a fierce old man in a dog collar. Though almost bald, grey hair sprouted profusely from his ears and nose and he sported a fine pair of Dundrearys. He glared at the camera. His dog, a piggy-eyed bull terrier, rolled back its leathery lip presumably to free the teeth for a good nip. They looked made for each other.