The Killings at Badger's Drift(7)

Immediately a voice yelled: ‘Don’t do that!’ There was a heavy bang as if a piece of furniture had fallen over, a shuffling sound, and Miss Bellringer opened the door. She said, ‘I’m sorry, it’s Wellington. Do come in.’

She led the way into a cluttered sitting room and started to pick up a pile of books from the floor. The chief inspector crouched to help. All the books were very heavy. ‘They will climb, you see. I don’t know who first put the idea about that cats are sure footed. They can never have owned one. He’s always knocking stuff about.’

Barnaby spotted Wellington, a solid cat the colour of iron filings, with four white socks, on top of a grand piano. The name seemed apt. He had a face like an old boot, squashed in, tuckered and rumpled. He watched them re-stacking the books. He looked secretive and ironical. A cat who was biding his time.

‘Please’ - Miss Bellringer waved an arm, just missing a group of photographs - ‘sit down.’

Barnaby removed a pile of sheet music, a painted terracotta duck and a tin of toffees from a wing chair and sat down.

‘Well, Chief Inspector . . .’ She sat opposite him on a Victorian love seat and clasped her knees (she was wearing copper-coloured knickerbockers), ‘What’ve you found out?’

‘Well,’ echoed Barnaby, ‘there was certainly something troubling your friend.’

‘I knew it!’ She slapped a brocaded thigh, sending up a little puff of dust. ‘What did I tell you?’

‘Unfortunately there seems to be no way of discovering what it was.’

‘Tell me what happened.’

As Barnaby described his meeting with Terry Bazely he glanced around the room. It was large and crammed from floor to ceiling with books and ornaments, dried flowers and plants. Three of the shelves held old Penguin crime classics with the green and white covers. There was a huge primitive stone head in the fireplace, magnificent Quad and Linn high-fidelity equipment, and a Ben Nicholson, festooned with cobwebs, hanging near the french windows.

‘And what do we do now?’ She gazed at him, clear-eyed and expectant, sitting forward on the very edge of her seat, ready for anything.

Barnaby found he was resenting her confidence. She seemed to regard him in the light of a conjuror. But his feelings about the case (if case there proved to be) were vague and nebulous. He had no rabbit to produce. He was not even sure he had the hat. ‘There’s nothing you can do, Miss Bellringer. I shall ask the police surgeon to have a look at the body. I shall need your permission for that -’

‘Of course, of course.’

‘If he sees no need to proceed further that will probably mean an end to the matter.’ He had expected her to be downcast at this remark but she nodded with vigorous approval.

‘Excellent. Brown’s is the undertaker. Kerridge Street. I’ll write a note.’ She did this quickly, using a broad-nibbed fountain pen filled with Indian ink, and heavy smooth cream paper. She handed him the envelope, saying, ‘I mustn’t keep you. You’ll let me know the outcome? And very well done, Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby.’ Barnaby covered his mouth with his hand and coughed. As they turned towards the door Miss Bellringer picked up one of the photographs in a barbola frame. ‘Here is Emily. She was eighteen then. We’d just started teaching.’

Barnaby looked at the faded sepia print. It was a studio portrait. Lucy was standing next to a jardinière which held a potted palm. Emily sat on a stool. She was looking straight at the camera. Smooth fair hair coiled into a chignon, wide-apart eyes, her mouth firm. Her calf-length skirt and white blouse looked very crisp. Lucy was smiling broadly. Her bun of hair was lopsided and the hem of her skirt dipped slightly. One hand rested protectively on her friend’s shoulder.

‘What did you teach?’ Barnaby handed back the photograph.

‘My special subject was music. And Emily’s English. But we taught almost everything else of course. One did in those days.’ She accompanied him to the front door. ‘School’s gone now. Converted into flats. Full of horrible people from London.’

‘By the way’ - on the point of leaving Barnaby turned - ‘was your friend ever troubled by mice?’

‘Good heavens, no. The place was as clean as a whistle. Emily loathed mice. There were pellets everywhere. Good day to you, Chief Inspector.’





Chapter Three

‘I don’t suppose Doctor Bullard’s on the premises?’

‘Actually he is, sir,’ replied the desk sergeant. ‘Been giving evidence at an inquest this morning then he went over to Forensic.’