The Killings at Badger's Drift(9)

They stood by the coffin. Barnaby gazed down at the gaunt, white-clad corpse. She looked very neat and dry as if all the vital juices had drained away not recently but years ago. Impossible to believe there had ever been a clear-eyed young girl with a smooth chignon.

‘Hundreds of wreaths back there. She was ever so popular,’ opined Mr Rainbird. ‘She taught my mum, you know. And all my aunties.’

‘Yes. Well, thank you.’ Barnaby received a bridling, slightly truculent glance which he calmly returned, then Mr Rainbird shrugged and melted away.

Doctor Bullard bent over Miss Simpson. He lifted the ringless hands, felt the skin beneath her feet, pulled the gown aside and pressed his hand on her ribcage. Rigor mortis had long passed and the thin chest gave under his thumbs. He frowned and felt some more.

‘Something wrong?’

‘Lungs are badly congested.’

‘He was treating her for bronchitis.’

‘Hm.’ Using both thumbs he pushed back her eyelids. ‘When did she die?’

‘Three days ago.’

‘You don’t know what he was giving her?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Look at this.’

Barnaby peered at the yellow dead eyeballs. The pupils were the size of a pinhead. ‘Struth. What do you think, then?’

‘I think you should have a word with the coroner.’

‘And ask for a PM?’

‘Yes.’ The two men exchanged a glance. ‘You don’t sound surprised.’

Barnaby realized he was not surprised. Perhaps Miss Bellringer’s confidence had not been misplaced after all. He said, ‘I’ll let him know what’s happened so far. Who do you think will do it?’

‘Eynton I expect. Our chap’s gone to Crete for a month.’

‘All right for some.’

‘Give me a call when the report comes back, would you? I’d be interested to hear what they find.’





It came back Thursday morning. Barnaby rang Doctor Bullard who turned up shortly before noon. He read the report. Barnaby watched his face with some amusement. It was, as they say, a picture. Bullard laid the report down.

‘Hemlock?’

‘Hemlock.’

The doctor shook his head. ‘Well, it’s certainly a collector’s item.’

‘It’s out of the ark, George. The Medicis. Shakespeare. That Greek chap.’

‘Socrates.’

‘That’s him. I mean these days it’s usually Valium or Mogadon washed down with half a pint of vodka.’

‘Or something handy from the garden shed.’

‘Quite. If you’re going to use coniine there must be far easier ways than boiling up a distillation of that stuff.’

‘Oh I don’t know,’ the doctor demurred. ‘It’s not usually available over the counter. You can’t just pop into Boot’s and buy a boxful.’

‘How does it work?’

‘Gradual paralysis. Plato describes the death of Socrates very movingly. Feet, legs, everything gradually going cold. He took it very well. A real Stoic.’

‘So whoever gave her the stuff - if someone gave her the stuff - had to sit there and watch her die.’

‘That’s about it. Poor old soul. Not a pretty thought.’

‘Murder never is.’

Doctor Bullard scanned the report again. ‘Apparently she hadn’t eaten for some time. That would speed up the process. No seeds in the stomach, which would argue a distillation.’

‘Yes. I rang Pathology about that just before you came. They say it’s soluble in alcohol, ether or chloroform.’

‘Not in water?’

‘No.’

‘That means, for it to look like a natural death, she must’ve drunk it?’

‘I should say so,’ agreed Barnaby. ‘Anything else would have been too risky. Even an eighty-year-old lady can put up quite a struggle if someone’s pushing a chloroformed pad over her face. Things might have got knocked about. Ornaments smashed. The dog would have kicked up a hell of a racket.’

‘This explains the engorgement of the lungs.’ Doctor Bullard tapped the paper. ‘A bit excessive even for a bronchitic. Of course we shouldn’t be hard on old Lessiter. It’d be an unusual doctor who checked for symptoms of coniine poisoning in what looks like a perfectly straightfoward, if unexpected, death. All the same,’ he grinned, ‘I wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall when you tell him.’





Chapter Four

‘There’s no need to drive as if you’re auditioning for The Sweeney, Sergeant.’

‘Sorry, sir.’ Troy slowed down sulkily. What on earth was the point of being in the force with all the dreary forms and typing and gormless people endlessly asking you gormless questions if you couldn’t occasionally put your foot down, start the siren and drive like the clappers. And he was still smarting after the criticism (totally unwarranted in his opinion) that had been dished out a couple of days ago. He knew the rules as well as anyone, but how many officers followed up and investigated every single piddling thing that came their way? Just his luck the old bag had dropped him in it. And now here they were running around in ever-decreasing circles just because some other old bag had snuffed it. The only pleasurable thing about the whole affair was that Detective Chief Inspector frigging Barnaby was going to come out looking an even bigger fool than when he went in. Happily ignorant of the contents of the post-mortem report, Troy turned into Church Lane and parked outside number thirteen.