‘I’m transcribing a mass of papers I came by at a sale in Aylesbury. A lot of recipes - or “receipts” as they were called then - plus notes on running a Tudor household, animal husbandry, herbal medicines . . .’ Laura hesitated then stopped at the realisation that this fiction was no longer necessary. Would never be necessary again.
‘Another Diary of an Edwardian Lady perhaps?’ She shrugged. ‘Did you all leave together yesterday evening?’
‘Except for Rex, which was a bit odd.’
‘In what way, Mrs Hutton?’ asked Troy. He smiled, but without calculation, for he could see, even in this light, that she was indeed not only too old for him but consumed by an utterly private wretchedness in which any flirtatious gesture would be grotesquely ill placed.
‘He usually dashes straight off. Sometimes before the rest of us. Worries about his dog.’
Troy nodded understandingly. He loved dogs and had a magnificent young German Shepherd, brindled cream and grey, an ex-police dog wounded during a stake-out and consequently of no further use to the Force. He asked Mrs Hutton if she had gone straight home after the meeting and she said yes.
‘And you got home when?’ asked Barnaby.
‘Just before half past ten. I only live a short distance away.’
‘And you didn’t go out again?’ She shook her head. ‘Mr Hadleigh . . . would you say he was popular in the village?’
‘I’ve really no idea. I’m not involved in parish-pump matters.’
‘He was a widower I understand?’
‘That’s right - a grieving widower.’ Her harsh voice cracked. Barnaby saw her hands clench into fists as she fought for control. She stared hard at the computer screen. ‘I have to be in Gerrards Cross in half an hour to look at some furniture. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave now.’
‘More to that than meets the eye,’ said Troy, never one to mint a new phrase when an old one still had mileage. ‘My mum’s mad on that Edwardian Diary stuff. Every Christmas, every birthday, that’s all she’s on about. Tea towel, chopping board, egg cups, tea cosy - she’s got the lot. The family’s getting desperate. Soon there’ll only be the book left.’
‘That is desperate,’ said Barnaby.
‘Lunch then, chief?’
‘God, yes please.’
It was nearly three and the station canteen was half empty. Barnaby, mindful of his five-hundred-calorie allowance, took a lean beef and salad sandwich with slimmer’s mayonnaise to a separate table, unable to bear the sight of his sergeant’s robust scoffing.
Afterwards they drove back to Midsomer Worthy, beating the four o’clock bus by five minutes. It was almost dark when they parked once more outside the gates of Borodino. The bus stopped a few yards away and several people got off. Some crossed the Green, others disappeared in the opposite direction. Only three people advanced towards the policemen - a young girl with a child in a pushchair and an immensely tall, very thin elderly man who loped along in a slack, disjointed manner, long legs quite out of concordance, each apparently quite unaware of the other’s existence. He was festooned with shopping, most prominently an old-fashioned string bag stuffed with bloody parcels wrapped in newspaper. He also carried several books encircled by a tightly buckled belt, the strap of which was looped through his braces. His silver hair was in constant movement, flowing softly around his head like a shining puffball. As he came closer they could see that he was smiling, happily but inwardly, in an appreciative, reminiscent sort of way. As he opened the gate Barnaby got out of the car and crossed towards him.
‘Mr St John?’
‘Yes.’ He looked from one to the other. The smile became hopeful and interested. ‘Hullo.’
‘We’re police officers.’ Barnaby proffered his wallet. ‘Could we have a word, sir?’
‘Good heavens. Come in, come in.’
They were all on the path when Rex, turning to close the gate, spotted the portable pod. ‘Just look at that. Honoria will be quite enraged. She hates the gypsies. I myself feel one should live and let live. Is that why you’re here?’
Barnaby replied with a simple negative. He felt bad news could keep until they were at least inside the house. Rex produced a large, iron key from beneath a well-worn doormat and slid it into the equally large keyhole. A ceramic plate, painted with the words CAVE CANEM, was screwed to the door. As he opened it, and just before he stepped inside, Rex shouted, ‘Stand back’ over his shoulder.
As they entered there was a tremendous series of deep, thunderous barks and a shuddering bump as of a great weight hitting the floor overhead. Then a heavy pounding and a huge grey beast appeared, tumbling and rolling down the stairs before galloping to where Rex stood and rearing up on its back legs to embrace him.