The Killings at Badger's Drift(12)

‘She loved her Shakespeare. Shakespeare and the Bible. Food for the mind and comfort for the soul.’ Julius Caesar lay open on top of the pile next to a magnifying glass. ‘She adored the theatre too. We used to go a lot when she could still drive. Topping times they were. Absolutely topping.’ She produced a large khaki and crimson silk handkerchief and blew her nose.

They went upstairs. Only one bedroom was furnished. A narrow, virginal bed, wallpaper sprigged with forget-me-nots, faded velvet curtains. All as sweet and innocent as a liberty bodice. The spare room was used for storage. There was a vacuum cleaner and a stack of boxes, also several carboys of home-made wine, some cloudy, some clear, one or two hiccuping quietly.

‘She was planning to bottle the honeysuckle this weekend. It’s a bit like a Sancerre, you know.’

They retreated down the narrow staircase and returned to the kitchen. Barnaby said, ‘There must be a bottle open somewhere. She drank something alcoholic before she died.’

‘You could try the cold larder.’ Miss Bellringer indicated a blue door at the end of the kitchen adding, a second too late, ‘Mind the step.’

He pitched forwards into semi-darkness. What light there was had a greenish tinge, being admitted through the leaves of a cherry laurel which was pressing against a largish window covered with wire mesh of the type used in an old-fashioned meat safe. It had a simple catch fastening which was broken. Barnaby took his handkerchief, seized the catch, pulled the window open and carefully closed it again. There was more than enough room for a reasonably slender person to climb in.

The larder had low stone shelves holding lots of bottles and jars. There was chutney and spiced apricots in tall jars and opaque whitish honey with flowered labels and last year’s date. A large bowl of luscious scarlet strawberries. And jams and jellies: liquid fruit, dark and translucent. She salted runner beans too, just like his mother had. Close to the door was a half-empty bottle of wine. Elderflower 1979.

Barnaby opened the back door and beckoned Troy, saying, ‘I need you to take a statement.’ They re-entered the sitting room and sat down, Miss Bellringer looking slightly apprehensive and very serious.

‘Now,’ began Barnaby, ‘I’d like you to -’

‘Just a moment, Chief Inspector. You haven’t said . . . you know . . . anything may be taken down and used in evidence . . . all that . . .’

‘This is just a witness statement, Miss Bellringer. It’s not necessary in this case, I assure you.’

That was the trouble with members of the public, thought Sergeant Troy. Watched a few so-called police dramas on the telly and thought they knew it all. Sitting out of his chief’s line of vision, he allowed his lip a slight curl.

‘If you could tell me what happened from when you first arrived.’

‘I came into the kitchen -’

‘Was the postman with you?’

‘No. After he’d spoken to me he went off on his rounds. I opened the back door and hurried in here and found her where I showed you.’

‘Did you touch the body at all?’

‘Yes. I didn’t move her but I . . . I held her hand for a moment.’

‘And did you touch anything else?’

‘Not then. Doctor Lessiter arrived and examined her . . . he moved her, of course. Then he rang the mortuary to ask for a car . . . well a van it was actually, to take her away. He explained about the death certificate and asked who would be handling the funeral arrangements. I said I would and while we were waiting for the van to arrive I’m afraid’ - she blushed regretfully at Barnaby - ‘I’m afraid I tidied up a bit.’

‘What exactly did that involve?’

‘There was a cup of cocoa on the telephone table. And an empty wine glass. Which struck me as a little odd.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Emily never drank alone. It was one of her foibles. I believe she thought it rather dissolute. But anyone could get her to bring a bottle out. The merest hint would suffice. She made wonderful wine. It was the only thing she was vain about . . .’ She covered her face with her hands for a long moment then said, ‘I’m so sorry . . .’

‘Don’t worry. Just carry on when you’re ready.’ Of course if it was murder they were talking about there would be only one glass. The other would have been carefully washed and replaced in the cupboard.

‘There was a milk pan in the kitchen,’ continued Miss Bellringer. ‘I washed everything up and put the things away. I knew how she’d feel, you see. Dirty pots and people coming into the living room. She was always most particular. I expect I’ve done the wrong thing.’ Guilt made her sound aggressive. When Barnaby did not reply she carried on, ‘Then I emptied the refrigerator. Some lamb and milk. A few bits and bobs. Half a tin of Benjy’s food. Actually I gave him that. He hadn’t had breakfast, you see.’