The Killings at Badger's Drift(32)

‘Mm.’ He laid his cheek briefly against her knees. ‘I usually get home about five-thirty but that night -’

‘If you wouldn’t mind, Mr Rainbird. We’ll take those details in a moment.’

‘I can hardly wait.’ Dennis bit his lower lip, pink with delight at being the recipient of such masterful instructions. He smiled at Sergeant Troy, a smile as sweet and sickly as the vanilla slice he was consuming. ‘I don’t think the sergeant likes his marron Lyonnaise, Mother.’

‘Press him to a frangipane, then. Yes’ - she turned her attention back to Barnaby - ‘I was definitely concerned. In fact I’d almost decided to visit her after supper but then we got involved in a game of Monopoly and I felt it could wait till morning. She had a telephone after all and Miss Bellringer was close by. So we didn’t go out at all, did we, pet?’

‘No. Little home birds we.’

‘And who won all of Park Lane?’

‘Me, me! And a big chunk of Piccadilly.’

‘I saw Katherine Lacey again, though. Around eight o’clock time.’

‘Really? Wasn’t that a little late to be pursuing your hobby, Mrs Rainbird? What on earth is on the wing at that hour?’

‘Owls, Mr Barnaby.’ A very sharp look.

‘Ah.’

‘Denizens of the night.’

‘Quite so.’

‘We had taken a little break from the game, Denny was making some coffee and I just happened to glance out of the window.’

‘I see. Did you notice where Miss Lacey went?’

She leaned forward dramatically and, as she still had her hand on her son’s shoulder, so did he. What a macabre double act they were, thought Barnaby. He was unaccountably reminded of the Joe Orton play his wife had been in last month. They would have fitted a treat into that.

‘She was turning into Church Lane.’

‘Do you think she was calling on someone?’

‘I couldn’t see. The road curves sharply to the right almost immediately. She’d got one of the beagles with her. And a letter in her hand.’

‘So she may have been simply going to the post box?’ Mrs Rainbird lifted an eyebrow like a crayoned new moon. It said that if he believed that he’d believe anything. ‘And did you see her return?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ Her voice thickened with chagrin. ‘Mrs Pauncefoot rang. Wanted some more Lilium regale for the judges’ platform. If only I’d known’ - she punched her palm with her fist - ‘I would have kept watch.’

Her expression was far more than just peevish. She seemed to seethe with frustration at this reminder of an opportunity missed. She obviously couldn’t bear not to know what was going on between everyone, everywhere, all the time. Charting the flayt of a waxwing my backside, thought Barnaby, and turned to question her son.

‘At work all afternoon, which my partner will confirm, left around quarter to five, drove straight home and stayed there.’

‘I didn’t realize you were a partner in the business, Mr Rainbird.’

‘Mother bought me in on my twenty-first. I’d been there three years by then and just knew I wasn’t ever going to want to do anything else.’ He hugged his knees boyishly. ‘I absolutely adore it. You understand?’

Barnaby tried to look as if he understood. In fact he was not overly concerned with the Rainbirds’ alibis. What he was after at Tranquillada was something much more useful. Background information on the village inhabitants. And gossip. If he had summed up Iris Rainbird correctly both should be forthcoming once the correct opening gambits had been played.

He said, ‘I’m sure you’ll appreciate, Mrs Rainbird, in a case like this how grateful we are to have someone as alert . . . as observant as yourself to call on. To fill the gaps as it were.’ The pagoda inclined graciously. ‘Tell me . . . Miss Lacey and her brother . . . have they lived in the village long?’

‘All their lives. Although not always in Holly Cottage. Their parents had a large farmhouse just a little way out on the Gessler Tye road. No land to speak of, just an acre of garden. Oh very upper class they were then. Old family nanny, the children at Bedales, ponies and cars and off to France every five minutes. And shooting and hunting in the holidays. Thought themselves real gentry. They weren’t, of course. No breeding at all.’ Sergeant Troy, his pencil at rest, recognized the concealed resentment in this remark immediately, without knowing why. ‘People liked Madelaine but he was an appalling man. Drank a lot and drove like a maniac. Violent too. They say he used to ill treat her. Quite heartless -’

‘Just like his son.’ Dennis spoke impulsively, his sallow cheeks flushed. This time there was no mistaking the warning grip on his shoulder. He added, stammering, ‘Well . . . so I’ve heard.’