‘Not necessarily, Miss Bellringer. That would depend on the circumstances.’
It had been years since Barnaby had heard such an accent. Not since his early days of going to the pictures. In the postwar years films had been full of clean-cut young Englishmen with straight up and down trousers, all sounding their As like Es.
‘Well the circumstances here are very strange indeed.’
They didn’t sound all that strange, thought Barnaby, picking up a notepad and pen. Apparently his visitor’s friend had been discovered, lying on a hearthrug, by the postman. He had needed a signature for a parcel and, not getting any reply to his knock (except the frantic barking of a dog) had peered through the sitting-room window.
‘He came straight to me . . . he’s been our postman for years you see . . . knew us both and I telephoned Doctor Lessiter -’
‘That’s your friend’s GP?’
‘He’s everyone’s GP, Inspector. Well, all the elderly in the village and those without transport. Otherwise it’s a four-mile trip into Causton. Well - I hurried over, taking my key, but in the event it wasn’t necessary because . . .’ - Miss Bellringer lifted a compelling annunciatory finger - ‘and this is the first odd thing - the back door was unlocked.’
‘Was that unusual?’
‘Unheard of. There have been three burglaries in the village recently. Emily was most particular.’
‘Everyone has a lapse of memory sometimes,’ murmured Barnaby.
‘Not her. She had a fixed routine. Nine p.m. check time with the wireless, set her alarm for seven, put Benjy in his basket then lock the back door.’
‘And do you know if her alarm was set?’
‘No. I looked specially.’
‘Then surely that simply indicates that she died before nine p.m.’
‘No she didn’t. Died in the night. The doctor said.’
‘She may have died in the night,’ the inspector continued gently, ‘but lost consciousness several hours before.’
‘Now here’s the clincher,’ said Miss Bellringer, eagle bright, as if he had not spoken, ‘what about the ghost orchid?’
‘The ghost orchid,’ repeated Barnaby evenly, thirty years of dealing with the public standing him in ineffably good stead. Miss Bellringer explained about the contest.
‘And in the afternoon after my friend died I went for a walk in the woods. Silly really, because of course I simply got rather upset. I found myself half looking for the orchid then realized that it didn’t matter any more whether I found it or not. And this brought Emily’s death home to me in a way that seeing her . . . lying there . . . hadn’t.’ She looked across at the inspector, blinked several times and sniffed. ‘That must sound a bit peculiar.’
‘Not at all.’
‘And then I found it. But you see Emily had found it first.’ Responding to Barnaby’s raised eyebrows she continued, ‘We had a stick with a ribbon to mark the spot. Hers red, mine yellow. Now’ - Miss Bellringer leaned forward and Barnaby, so intense was her regard, only just stopped himself doing the same - ‘why did she not come and tell me?’
‘Perhaps she was saving it. As a surprise.’
‘No, no,’ she said, irritated by his apparent inability to grasp the situation, ‘you don’t understand. I’ve known Emily for nearly eighty years. She would have been overwhelmed by excitement. She would have come straight to me.’
‘She may already have felt ill and been anxious to get home.’
‘She has to pass my gate to get there. If she’d been ill she would have come in. I would have looked after her.’
‘Did you see her at all on that day?’
‘Saw her bringing Benjy back from his walk about two o’clock. And before you ask, they both looked as fit as fleas.’ She looked around the room in a lost yet hopeful manner, as the newly bereft sometimes do. Unable to accept the empty space, half expecting the dead person to reappear. ‘No’ - she focused her gaze firmly on the inspector, ‘something happened after she saw the orchid and before she returned to the village, to put the discovery out of her mind. And it must have been a pretty big something, believe you me.’
‘If what you say is true, are you suggesting that the shock killed her?’
‘I hadn’t really got as far as that.’ Miss Bellringer frowned. ‘But there is one more thing . . .’ She rummaged furiously in her bag, crying, ‘What do you make of this?’ and handed him a scrap of paper on which was written: Causton 1234 Terry.
‘The Samaritans.’
‘Are they? Well, they may give succour but they certainly don’t give information. Couldn’t get a thing out of them. Said it was all confidential.’