‘Then, when the children were about thirteen all the money went. He’d been speculating, raised a second mortgage, raised more against that and lost the lot. It killed Madelaine.’
‘Do you mean literally?’
‘I certainly do. Drove her car into the Thames at Flackwell Heath. She hadn’t been dead more than a couple of months before he married some chit of a girl he met in London and off they went to live in Canada.’
‘And the children.’
‘Well . . . that was the end of the private schools of course. They had to come and attend at Gessler Tye with the rest of the hoi polloi.’ Satisfaction rang in her voice. Troy gave an unconscious nod of approval.
‘And where did they live?’
‘Now of course the Traces come into the picture. Henry was one of the first people that Gerald Lacey turned to for money. And he loaned him a considerable amount. I think he felt afterwards that it would have been better if he hadn’t. If he’d tried to help Gerald sort his affairs out instead. At least that’s the impression I got from Mrs Trace - Bella, that is . . .’
Chief Inspector Barnaby tried to imagine the late Mrs Trace discussing her husband’s financial affairs with Mrs Rainbird, and failed. He wondered where she had really picked up the information.
‘Hence Holly Cottage.’
‘Oh?’
‘A gamekeeper lived in it originally. Henry offered it to the children and the nanny stayed to look after them. They gave her a terrible time, poor old soul. Thick as thieves when they were little, always leading her a dance. Then, when they were older, endless rows. Well you know what adolescents are. Not that my Denny ever gave me any trouble.’ Denny simpered into his vanilla slice. A fringe of cream, hardly in colour any different from his skin, graced his upper lip. ‘She used to come over here, Nanny Sharpe, just for a cup of tea and a bit of peace and quiet. Cat and dog wasn’t in it. Have you seen that mark on Michael’s face?’
‘We haven’t yet interviewed Mr Lacey.’
‘She gave him that . . . his sister. Threw an iron at him, apparently.’ She noticed his change of expression and sniffed. ‘Oh you can look, Mr Barnaby. Those pansy faces take everyone in but they don’t fool yours truly.’
Mrs Rainbird’s detachment, which he had so admired at the start of their interview, seemed to have temporarily deserted her. The fact that the son she obviously if somewhat unhealthily adored had been slighted in some way seemed still to rankle.
‘Did Mr Trace support the Laceys financially?’
‘Oh yes. The father didn’t leave a penny piece behind. And, as far as I know, Henry still is supporting Michael. Not that he’d get a word of thanks.’
‘Doesn’t Mr Lacey work, then?’
‘If you can call painting work.’
‘And is he successful? Does he sell much?’
‘No he doesn’t. And I’m not surprised. Ugly violent things. Lays the paint on with a shovel. Mind you there’s no shortage of models.’
‘No,’ chipped in Dennis. ‘That Lessiter girl’s always hanging round. Not that it’ll get her anywhere - frumpy old thing. Michael painted me once, you know.’ He bridled, all pallid petulance, in Troy’s direction.
‘And a hideous thing it was too.’
‘Oh I was pussycat of the month all right while he was doing the portrait,’ continued Dennis, ‘all a-taunto I was. Then - when he’d got what he wanted - he told me to sod off.’
‘Denny! Another iced sombrero, Mr Barnaby?’
‘Thank you, no. And is the nanny, Miss Sharpe, still here?’
‘Mrs Sharpe. No. She went to live in Saint Leonards as soon as they could look after themselves. Glad to get out of it. They were about seventeen then, I think. She didn’t even drop in to say goodbye. I must say I was a bit hurt. I got her address off the Traces and wrote a couple of times but she didn’t reply. I sent a card at Christmas, then gave up.’ Frustration surfaced again. It was plain she would have preferred an extended farewell drama full of awful revelations. As she launched into a vivid description of one of the more spectacular domestic confrontations at Holly Cottage, Barnaby, nodding attentively from time to time, stretched his legs by strolling to the patio doors at the end of the room.
Outside the lawn was clear and sharp as glass. More flowering trees and shrubs and a pretty gazebo at the far end. He wondered how Mr Rainbird had made his pile. There must have been plenty of it, what with the bungalow, and Denny’s partnership and silver Dinky toy. Not to mention the tea trolley.
He turned back to the conversation. He was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. Although it was a warm day the radiators were full on. He looked at Dennis, batting his almost colourless eyelashes at Sergeant Troy, and wondered if he felt the cold. He certainly didn’t have any flesh to spare for insulation.