Written in Blood (15 page)

‘How your meeting went, for instance.’

‘The meeting? But what has that to do with . . .’ She appeared not to be able to say his name.

‘Did you notice anything different about Mr Hadleigh at all?’

‘Yes. He barely spoke to anyone, which was unlike him. He was never a garrulous man, but he enjoyed talking about writing. I expected him to seize the opportunity to ask lots of questions.’

‘Did you get the impression that this withdrawal was in any way connected with the visiting speaker?’

‘No, not really. Although . . . it’s strange you should say that. Because when Max Jennings’ name first came up he—’

‘You mean Mr Hadleigh?’

‘Yes, he was very put out. He actually dropped his coffee. You can still see the stain.’

‘He was opposed to the idea?’

‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that. He just seemed to think it was a waste of time. We’re always asking well-known authors to come and talk to us and they never do. But in the end he agreed to ask.’

‘Why was it down to him, Mrs Hutton?’ asked Sergeant Troy.

‘He was the group’s secretary.’

‘A lonely business, writing,’ said the chief inspector, as people always do who’ve never done it. ‘What’s your line exactly?’

‘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.

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 . . .’

Barnaby carried one of the wooden dining chairs up closer to the armchair, sat down and said, ‘I think you’d better tell us all about it. And take your time, there’s no hurry. No hurry at all.’

But Rex started talking straight away. It was as if he couldn’t wait to get rid of the terrible words in his mouth. They tumbled out, like the evil spirits in Pandora’s box, telling the story. How Gerald had begged not to be left alone with Max Jennings. How Rex had promised to stay till the man had left and been tricked into leaving. How he’d gone home, come back and hung around in the rain. Felt afraid, believed himself to be observed and returned home again. By the time he had finished he was crying.

‘Try and calm down a bit, sir. It’s early days to take all this on your shoulders. For all we know Mr Jennings may have nothing to do with the matter at all.’

‘Oh but surely . . .’ Rex produced a large khaki square decorated with a bear and a ragged staff, the insignia of the Royal Warwickshires, and rubbed his eyes.

‘This conversation you’ve just described with Mr Hadleigh, when did it take place?’

‘Yesterday morning. He was very embarrassed. I got the impression he’d put it off till the last moment.’

‘Did he give you any idea why he didn’t want to be left alone with Jennings?’

‘Not really. Just that they’d known each other several years ago and there had been some sort of upset. “A certain amount of unpleasantness” was how Gerald put it. He admitted he’d written the invitation in such a way as to discourage a visit.’

‘So why write at all?’ asked Troy.

‘Brian got all Bolshie when Gerald demurred and said he’d do it himself. I suppose he - Gerald I mean - thought at least this way matters remained in his own hands.’

‘Do you remember who first suggested asking Mr Jennings?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Did you get the feeling that Hadleigh was actually afraid of such a meeting?’

Rex frowned so deeply he seemed to be in pain. ‘It’s tempting, isn’t it, to be wise after the event? But, to be honest, although he seemed apprehensive, I wouldn’t have put it as strongly as “afraid”.’

‘And he didn’t appear to be so during the course of the evening?’

‘Not really. Quiet and very withdrawn. I must say Max was a most affable and friendly person. Of course he may have said things, unkind things I mean, that only Gerald would have understood the meaning of.’

‘You’ve described what happened when you left the house. What makes you so sure it was Jennings who bolted the door?’

‘Because Gerald couldn’t possibly have reached it in time. He was at the far end of the hall.’

‘And then you went home?’

‘Yes,’ whispered Rex, hanging his flossy head.

‘What time was that?’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t notice. But I do know what time I went back. Twelve five ack emma. That was when I saw Brian - Mr Clapton.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Coming back from the village.’

‘You sure about that, Mr St John?’ asked Sergeant Troy. ‘That he was coming back from that direction and not from a walk round the Green?’

‘Quite sure. Then I went round the back of the house—’