Troy was impressed. He’d seen some dogs. Thought he had a dog and a half himself. But this one was really something. It had the size and bulk of a rough-haired, bantam-weight donkey. A generous length of rosy-pink felt unrolled itself from the animal’s mouth and, after first courteously sloshing all over Rex’s face and clothing, came to rest on its real objective, the string bag.
‘It’s the bones.’ Rex looked apologetic. ‘I’ll have to give him one otherwise we’ll have no peace.’
Troy nodded understandingly. Barnaby did not. As has been previously explained he had no interest in animals unless they were arranged in tender, nicely sauced portions around the edge of a dinner plate.
Rex opened a door, deeply scored with scratches, on their left and indicated that they should enter before he disappeared, the dog, drooling and snorting, at his heels.
Barnaby sat down on an elderly leather chaise-longue which prickled even through his overcoat. Troy, interested immediately in the contents of the room, wandered round. Three walls were lined with open shelves containing model figures of soldiers standing to attention or displaying their skill with musket and cannon. Little trays overflowed with badges and buttons. On the fourth wall were glass cases of medals, two gas masks and recruiting posters from the First and Second World Wars. Barnaby faced an angry-looking man with a walrus moustache who pointed a stern finger over the command: Kitchener Wants You! Hanging over the back of a chair was a short braided cape and pill-box hat. The hat had a narrow leather chin strap.
On a table covered with green baize, which took up most of the room, a battle was in progress. A phalanx of dark-skinned soldiers wearing tasselled hats and strange robes advanced in waves of historical caricature towards a large grey wall, pushing heavy cannon from the mouths of which depended tiny balls of fluffed-out cotton wool. Everything was rather dusty.
Rex entered holding a bottle of Tizer and three plastic tumblers stacked inside each other. He kicked the door to behind him, saying, ‘Best shut the noise out.’
And indeed the noise was formidable. Great crunchings and splinterings accompanied all the while by mumbling growls. A sort of canine fee-fi-fo-fum. With his free hand Rex let down the flap of an ugly, dark-stained bureau. Inside was an assortment of snack food; crisps, chocolate bars, cheesy biscuits, boiled sweets. There was even a jar of pickled onions. He poured out the Tizer and handed it round.
‘Now,’ he indicated his schoolboy hoard with a trembly, liver-spotted hand. ‘What can I offer you?’
‘Nothing, thank you,’ said the chief inspector.
‘There’s a fine selection here.’ He waved it into focus again. ‘Sweet or savoury. Ice cream if you prefer. A fridge full. Strawberry or vanilla. I’m afraid the macadamia brittle’s run out.’
‘No, honestly.’
‘Or I’ve got some posh nuts.’ This offer also being refused Rex made his way to a worn, old armchair, pausing briefly to adjust the folds of the cape and the tilt of the little round hat.
‘These are Montcalm’s. He wears them at the onset of every fresh manoeuvre. In his role as regimental mascot you know.’
The minds of both policemen boggled.
Rex waved at the table. ‘The Siege of Constantinople. A thrilling confrontation though, of course, with dreadful odds. The end of the Byzantine empire. Only four thousand dead but fifty thousand sold into slavery. Ahh . . .’ he included both men in his sweet, pacific smile, ‘they knew how to do it in those glory days. I ask you, where’s the fun in just pressing a button? Well,’ he lowered himself, slowly and with considerable care, into his seat, ‘I expect you’re waiting to tell me why you’re here.’
Barnaby told him why they were there. Sitting in the room of pantomimic warfare and toy soldiers and explosions made of cotton wool, he described Gerald Hadleigh’s real, true death in plain language.
The effect on Rex St John was extraordinary. He stared blankly at the wall for a long moment, his mouth agape, then flung his hands over his ears as if it were possible to shut out what he had already heard. His head shook violently to and fro and he shouted, ‘It isn’t true, it isn’t true . . .’ He was shaking like a leaf in the wind.
Barnaby crossed the room and touched the old man on the shoulder. ‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘I did it. Oh God - it was me—’
‘Just a moment, Mr St John.’ Barnaby removed his hand. Troy got quickly to his feet. ‘Are you confessing to the murder of Gerald Hadleigh? If so it is my duty to warn you that anything—’
‘It was my fault. He asked me to protect him and I let him down.’ Rex’s fingers were twisted around each other like a lattice of freckled twigs. ‘What have I done? Gerald . . . ohh . . .’