Scene-of-crime continued. Fingerprint details. The marked passage in the volume of Shakespeare, a 6B pencil which had not been found. The afternoon wore on. The postman was called, as was Miss Lucy Bellringer. She assured the court that on the morning of her friend’s death the larder window was undamaged and the hemlock not in the house. And that, as regards the 6B pencil, Miss Simpson would never have defaced her beloved Shakespeare. ‘She never put a mark in any of her books. They were far too precious to her.’
Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby described Miss Bellringer’s first visit and his meeting with Terry Bazely at which there was an even stronger buzz of interest. He glanced around the court as he mentioned Annabella but saw only a few puzzled looks. No flicker of recognition. As he sat down he glanced at the jury. Their seriousness now was not assumed. They were totally engrossed, looking intently at the coroner. One woman had gone very white. An usher crossed to her and murmured something but she shook her head, edging further forward in her seat.
The coroner started his summing up, concluding with directions to the jury which were unmistakable. They conferred together only for a moment before giving their verdict, which was that Emily Simpson had been murdered by a person or persons unknown.
Immediately the reporter from the Echo, perhaps influenced by too much film noir, flung on his brand-new white trench coat, pushed back an invisible eye shield and raced from the courtroom. Everyone else left more slowly - talking, questioning, looking at each other with a mixture of excitement and dismay like a bunch of critics at a prestigious first night whose worst hopes have just been confirmed.
Barnaby watched Barbara Lessiter leave on the arm of her husband. She had sat, apparently placid, through the whole proceedings, but he had noticed her hands moving. He walked now to the end of the row which held her seat and looked along the floor. Just in front of her chair was a little pyramid of shredded tissues. He remembered the letter which she had so quickly thrust out of sight the other morning, and regretted the veil. He would have liked to have seen the expression on her face when the verdict had been announced.
Almost everyone had now gone. But on a bench, some distance away, a solitary figure sat bowed, head low. He crossed the space and sat down.
‘Miss Bellringer . . . ?’ She looked at him. Her skin was ashen, her fine eyes dull. ‘Are you all right?’ When she did not reply he said quietly, ‘Surely you understood where our investigations were leading?’
‘Of course . . . that is . . . I suppose I did.’ Her ebullience was quite gone. She looked very old. ‘But I hadn’t put it into words to myself. Why is it so much worse now that it’s been put into words?’ She looked at him inquiringly as if he would know. There was a long pause.
Barnaby said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Such wickedness.’ A flash of anger raked her face and left a spark in her eyes. ‘After a lifetime of caring for other people. She was a wonderful teacher, you know. Better than I’ve ever been. And of course she knew them, whoever it was. That’s the terrible thing. She must have welcomed them in.’ Silently Barnaby agreed. ‘Well, they must be caught,’ she continued, her voice strengthening by the minute. ‘Right - what are your instructions, Chief Inspector? What shall I do next?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. We—’
‘Oh but I must do something. I can talk to people, can’t I? Find out if anyone noticed anything, anything at all on the day she died. And what about this mysterious Annabella? Perhaps I can discover who she is.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Bellringer—’
‘But I’ve got to help. Surely, Chief Inspector, you can see why?’
‘Of course I understand your—’
‘Poirot,’ she interrupted wistfully, ‘had his Hastings, you know.’
‘And I, Miss Bellringer, have all the resources of a modern police force at my disposal. It’s a different world.’
‘They can’t be everywhere at once. And in any case I’m sure’ - she laid a gloved hand on his arm - ‘they can’t all be as intelligent as you.’
‘Please be sensible,’ said Barnaby, resisting as well as he could such blatant flattery. ‘I’m sure your friend would not wish to put your life at risk.’
She removed her hand. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘In a community as small as Badger’s Drift everyone will know what you’re about. Someone who has killed once and who thinks he can protect himself by killing a second time will not hesitate to do so. And don’t forget’ - he turned and they walked together towards the exit - ‘that if Miss Simpson knew the murderer very well, so do you.’