A much larger room was next door, empty but for a small old-fashioned bed, two wicker chairs and a garden table. ‘I suppose this is where the nanny slept,’ offered Troy.
The third room, biggest of the three, clearly belonged to Michael Lacey. The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled, one of the pillows on the floor. There was some grey scummy coffee on a scarred bedside table next to a copy of Vasari’s Lives of the Artists, and a packet of Gitanes. The acrid smell of the cigarettes hung in the air, mingled with the smell of stale sweat. The only chair was decorated with a shirt and a grubby pair of Y fronts. Sergeant Troy, ‘clean from the skin out every day’ as his wife was wont to boast in their local laundrette, turned up his nose and sniffed.
‘A bit careless,’ he said as they re-entered the hall, ‘leaving the door unlocked.’
‘Oh I don’t know.’ Barnaby opened it a fraction and checked the view, then stepped out. ‘The only room where there might be anything worth pinching was secured.’
‘Great works of art d’you mean?’ jeered Troy as they walked back towards the hedge.
‘I was thinking of canvases - they cost a hell of a lot. So do paints. Or of course he might be doing a Keating.’
‘Come again, sir?’
‘Tom Keating. A very successful forger.’
‘Well whatever he’s doing he’s not successful. I’ve seen families on the Social living better. Didn’t even have a telly.’
‘And you can’t sink much lower than that.’
Troy looked at his chief suspiciously as they walked on but Barnaby’s expression remained bland. As they came to the junction of Church Lane and the Street several more police cars arrived. The crowd, now swelled by the return of the local work force, was being urged to move along or go home. Barnaby wondered how long it would be before the nationals got hold of the story. There was a rustle of speculation as the two men appeared, a rustle that became a loud hum as Barnaby and Troy turned into the Lessiters’ driveway. The fact that everyone in the village would shortly be questioned was, even if it had been known, supremely irrelevant. It was the Lessiters whom the police were visiting. The Lessiters who were, in some way as yet unrevealed, connected with the crime.
As Barnaby stood once again beneath the Madame le Coultre and looked through the window he, once again, saw Barbara Lessiter. This time far from looking afraid and shaken she had taken a combative stance. He could not see her face but her shoulders had a martial set and her hands were clenched into angry fists. He heard Lessiter shout, ‘You sang a different tune in bed last night.’
‘That was last night.’ She tossed her head as she yelled her rejoinder and Barnaby caught a glimpse of her tight angry profile. Troy raised sandy eyebrows, muttered, ‘Naughty naughty.’ He rang the bell.
Stepping into the sitting room was like stepping on to a battlefield. The whiff of the last two salvoes hung, still and trembling in the stifling air. Barnaby gave them a moment before ascertaining that they had both heard of Mrs Rainbird’s death.
‘Terrible business, terrible!’ cried Lessiter. ‘Head split open by an axe, I understand. I suppose he had some sort of fit . . . Dennis I mean. At least,’ he added with a scornful curl of his lip, ‘no one can accuse me this time of wrongly issuing a death certificate.’
Both the Lessiters looked at the policemen with interest, no doubt glad of a breather. However, the doctor did not wear his air of detached attention for long. Barnaby asked where he was between three and five that afternoon.
‘Me?’ He gasped at them, his rubicund complexion fading to a mere puce, ‘What on earth has this to do with me?’
‘Everyone is questioned in a murder case, darling.’ Barnaby was glad no one had ever called him darling like that. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ He moved to his writing desk. ‘Very well, Inspector. I . . . was visiting a private patient. I’ll be glad to write the name and address down for you.’ He scribbled something, tore off the sheet and was just crossing to Barnaby when his wife ran forward and snatched it out of his hand. ‘Barbara!’
She read the piece of paper then handed it to Barnaby. She seemed calm but her eyes glittered like diamond chippings.
‘And you, Mrs Lessiter?’
‘I was at my health club in Slough . . . the Abraxas if you want to check. I went for a salad lunch, a sauna and massage. I was there till around half three then I did some shopping. Got back here five-thirty.’
‘Thank you. Is Miss Lessiter at home? I’d like a word with her.’