The Killings at Badger's Drift(13)

‘Where is the dog now?’

‘Trace’s farm. You must have seen the place. End of the village - pale orange job. They’ve got half a dozen already so one more won’t notice. I’ve been to see him a couple of times but I shan’t go again. It’s too upsetting. He just comes trotting out hoping it’s Emily. She’d had him thirteen years.’

‘Didn’t you hear him bark? On the evening of her death?’

‘No, but he was very good like that . . . for a Jack Russell. As long as he knew the people, of course. With strangers it was different.’ She smiled at Barnaby, the significance of the last two remarks not registering. ‘And he slept in the kitchen, so with the sitting-room door closed he’d simply think she’d gone to bed.’

‘To return to Friday morning . . .’

‘That’s about it, really. Once the van had gone I switched off the electricity, took the dog lead from behind the kitchen door, locked up and off we went.’

‘I see. I shall have to keep the key now, I’m afraid. I’ll let you have a receipt in due course.’

‘Oh.’ He watched questions form in her mind and remain unasked. ‘Very well.’

‘You went straight to the farm then?’ continued Barnaby. ‘Not into the garden or shed at all?’

‘Well . . . I had to tell the bees.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You have to tell the bees when someone dies. Especially if it’s their owner. Otherwise they just clear off.’

Clear orf is right, observed Troy to himself. Clear orf her rocker. He flexed his fingers, deciding to omit this unlikely bit of potted folklore.

‘Really?’ said Barnaby.

‘Goodness yes. Known fact. I struck the hive three times with the key, said “Your mistress had died”, then left. Village people say you should tie something black around the hive as well but I didn’t bother. They’re a superstitious lot. Also I thought if I started messing about the bees might sting me.’

‘Thank you. Sergeant Troy will read your statement back now and ask you to sign it.’

When this had been done Miss Bellringer rose, saying, rather wistfully, ‘Is that all?’

‘After lunch I’d like you to show me where the orchid was found.’

‘Won’t you have something to eat with me?’ she asked, visibly perking up.

‘No thank you. I shall get a snack in the Black Boy.’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t do that! Mrs Sweeney’s food’s notorious.’

Barnaby smiled. ‘I expect I shall manage to survive.’

‘Ahhh . . . I understand. You’re in search of local colour. Background information.’

Using his handkerchief, Barnaby opened the door for her. As she turned to leave something caught her eye. ‘That’s funny.’

‘What is it?’

‘Emily’s fork’s missing. She always kept it on that shelf with her trowel and apron.’

‘Probably in the garden.’

‘Oh no. She was a creature of habit. Tools cleaned with newspaper and placed on her mat after use.’

‘No doubt it will turn up.’

‘Doesn’t really matter now, does it?’ She turned away. ‘See you around two o’clock then?’

After she had left, Barnaby posted Sergeant Troy outside the front door and sank into the chintz sofa in the still, orderly room and listened to the ticking of the clock. He faced the two armchairs, their cushions now plump and smooth. In one of them had someone sat with a glass of wine, smiling, talking, reassuring? Killing?

There was little doubt in the chief inspector’s mind. The hemlock in the kitchen was almost certainly a rather crude attempt to suggest that short-sighted Miss Simpson had picked a bunch in mistake for some parsley and so poisoned herself. A hurried afterthought once the news of the post mortem had travelled around the village.

He walked over to the piecrust table already covered in a thin film of dust and looked down at the books. The Shakespeare lay open on top of the pile. Julius Caesar, the noblest Roman of them all. Not to mention the most boring, thought Barnaby, remembering his struggles with the text over thirty years before. He had read no Shakespeare since, and a dutiful visit to an overly inventive production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in which Joyce had played Titania as an Edwardian suffragette, did nothing to make him regret the decision. He looked at the open pages, screwing up his eyes. He felt for his reading glasses, remembered they were in his other jacket and picked up the magnifying glass with his handkerchief.

Miss Simpson had almost reached the end of the play. Pindarus had brought the bad news to the battlefield. Barnaby read a few lines. None of it was in the slightest degree familiar. Then he saw something. A faint soft grey line in the margin. He took the book to the window and peered again. Someone had bracketed off three lines of a speech by Cassius. He read them aloud:This day I breathed first. Time is come round,