He didn’t add, noticed Troy, flipping open his pro-forma pad, that she taught his mum. Probably went to a private school. All right for some.
‘I actually saw her on the day she died,’ said Katherine, her voice quite untainted by the slightly salacious excitement that usually accompanies this sort of remark.
‘When was this?’ asked Barnaby, glancing at Troy who described an arc with his pencil to show awareness.
‘In the morning. I don’t remember the exact time I called at the cottage. She’d promised me some honey for the stall. She gave me some parsley wine as well. She was always very generous.’
‘And that was the last time you saw her?’ Katherine nodded. ‘To return to the afternoon . . . you left the hall around four . . . took the Peugeot . . . ?’
‘And drove over to Henry’s office. I picked him up, we came back here, had supper and spent the evening wrangling over -’
‘Discussing.’
‘- discussing’ - she screwed her head round and gave him a teasing look - ‘a new rosarium. I left about half-past ten.’
‘You don’t live here then, Miss Lacey?’
‘Not until next Saturday. We’re to be married then.’ She exchanged glances with the man in the wheelchair. Hers was simply fond but his was not only adoring but triumphant. The triumph of a collector who has spotted a rare and beautiful specimen and, against all the odds, captured it for himself. If you’ve got the money, thought Sergeant Troy, you can buy anything.
‘I live in a cottage on the edge of the beechwoods. Holly Cottage. It’s quite outside the village, really.’ A shadow darkened her eyes. She added so quietly that Barnaby could hardly hear, ‘With my brother Michael.’ He asked the exact location of the cottage and she described it, adding, ‘But you won’t find him there at the moment. He’s gone into Causton to buy some brushes.’ Even volunteering this hardly disturbing piece of information seemed to distress her and she folded her lips together tightly and frowned. Trace patted her head gently as if soothing a fretful animal.
‘Did you pass Miss Simpson’s house on your way home?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see anyone? Or hear or notice anything?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Was the light on? The curtains closed?’
‘I’m sorry - I just don’t remember.’
‘Thank you.’ Barnaby turned his attention to Henry Trace. He felt the questions here were a mere formality, yet not to have asked them would have appeared insensitive to say the least. Whilst Trace could perhaps have wheeled himself down to Miss Simpson’s cottage and poisoned her (in which case his fiancée was lying about their evening together) he could hardly have been frolicking in the woods that afternoon, even assuming any man on the point of marrying Katharine Lacey would have been mad enough to want to. There had been no wheel or tyre marks anywhere near the place. Barnaby assumed the paralysis was genuine. It was surely only in films that strong, healthy people spent years concealed under a rug in a wheelchair simply so that they could leap out at the crucial moment and commit the perfect crime.
‘Do you confirm Miss Lacey’s account of your movements together, Mr Trace?’ He heard the flick of paper from Troy’s corner.
‘Yes I do.’
‘And were other people about when you were in your office?’
‘Oh yes. Tractors are stored there. All the fertilizers. There’s a hopper . . . out-buildings. It’s a very busy part of the farm.’
‘How large is the farm?’
‘Five thousand acres.’
Sergeant Troy’s pencil stabbed savagely at his page. ‘And could you give me the name of your doctor?’
‘My doctor?’ Henry Trace gave Barnaby a bemused stare. Then the stare faded. He said, ‘Oh - I see.’ The grooves on his face deepened. He smiled, a smile totally without any mirth or pleasure. ‘Trevor Lessiter’s my GP. But you’d best have a word with Mr Hollingsworth, University College, London.’ He added bitterly, ‘He’ll be able to confirm that my paralysis is genuine.’
There was a cry of indignation from the girl at his feet and she stared at Barnaby angrily. Trace said, ‘It’s all right, darling. They have to ask these things.’ But she remained unmollified and continued to glare at the two policemen during the questioning of David Whiteley. Troy thought this made her look more beautiful than ever. The farm manager’s replies were brief. He said he had been working on the afternoon in question.
‘Where precisely was this?’
‘Three miles down the Gessler Tye road. I was repairing some fencing. There was a nasty accident a couple of days before and a considerable amount got smashed.’