‘Well . . . I went straight upstairs . . . so . . . I wouldn’t have seen him.’
‘I see. And the evening?’
‘Oh I’ve nothing to change there. I just went for a walk, as I’ve already said.’
‘Down the lane, past the fields for about half a mile, then back?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you didn’t stop anywhere or call on anyone?’ He added quickly before she could speak, ‘Please think very carefully before you answer.’
She stared at him. He looked serious, encouraging and, somehow, faintly knowledgeable. He could see she was wondering about the close re-questioning. ‘Well . . . I’m not sure I remember . . . exactly . . .’ She swallowed and chewed her bottom lip.
‘I know how difficult it must be to change a story, but if you need to now’s the time to do it. I must remind you that withholding information that may assist a police inquiry is a very serious matter.’
‘Oh but I’m not! Nothing that would help, that is . . .’
‘I think you should let me be the judge of that.’
‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath. She stopped leaning on the sink and stood upright looking taut and fearful, like someone preparing for a high dive. ‘I have . . . that is I’m friendly with Michael Lacey. At Holly Cottage. I hadn’t heard from him for a few days and . . . well, he said he wanted to paint me so I thought I’d . . . drop in . . . you know, to see when he wanted to start.’ Barnaby listened sympathetically. In trying to sound casual she had simply underlined her desperation. ‘So I walked up to the house but when I got there . . . I could see through the window that he was working—’
‘Which window was that?’
‘The front window by the porch.’
‘He doesn’t usually use that room, surely?’
‘Sometimes - in the evening. To get the last of the light.’
‘Ah, I see. Carry on.’
‘He gets very angry if he’s disturbed when he’s painting. He says it’s very hard to get back into the feel of it again. So I thought I’d better not . . . well . . . I just crept away.’
‘You think he didn’t know you were there?’
‘Oh I’m sure he didn’t. I was very quiet.’ She paused a moment then, looking at Barnaby for the first time, burst out, ‘You mustn’t believe what people say about Michael. They hate him here because he doesn’t care about things they all care about . . . petty, boring things. He’s a free spirit! As long as he can paint and walk in the woods and look at the sky . . . and he’s been so unhappy. Katherine’s so bourgeois - she only cares about material things - and now once the wedding’s over he’ll be all alone . . .’ There was a clarion note of hope in the last few words. For a moment her eyes shone so brilliantly that her rather stodgy face was transformed. Barnaby saw for the first time why Michael Lacey might have asked her to sit for him. He glanced at the clock over the kitchen door. Judy, as if already regretting her passionate declamation, presented her back to them and turned on both the taps. She stood watching the water bouncing off the gleaming metal, hearing the two sets of footsteps move to the door and cross the hall. She reduced the water to a thin colourless stream. The front door closed. She switched the taps off.
Her hands trembled and she gripped the edge of the sink to still them. Talking about Michael always had this effect on her. Describing her abortive visit, her lack of courage and her humiliating retreat on tiptoe, had made her feel quite sick. But it had put the record straight, that was the main thing. She was glad about that. Especially after her silly attempt to be clever about her movements in the afternoon. Then she realized that her recent confession had brought about a secondary benefit. If Miss Simpson’s death had been due to foul play (and why else would there be all this questioning?) she had given Michael an alibi. He may well not care about this one way or the other but the fact could not be denied. She hugged this small service to her heart. Perhaps he would never know but it was something she could keep in reserve to be offered up if the right moment ever came.
She heard the click of the phone. It must be Barbara. Judy had been standing so very still and quiet for the past few minutes that her stepmother might have assumed she was in her room. Or in the garden. Because there was something so soft, almost furtive about that click. Judy crept on slippered feet across the vinyl tiles, step by careful step. Barnaby had left the door a little ajar and Judy stood looking through the crack.
Barbara had her back to the kitchen and was shielding the mouthpiece with her hand. Nevertheless her hoarse whisper made every word clearly audible.