The Killings at Badger's Drift by Caroline Graham Read Free Book Online Page A

expect that Barnaby had the disturbing feeling that he had stepped on to a perfect period stage set. Surely any minute now a maid would enter, pick up the heavy black Bakelite telephone and say, ‘I’m afraid her ladyship is not at home.’ Or a cream-flannelled juvenile would ask if there was anyone for tennis. Alternatively there was the crusty old colonel: ‘The body was lying just there, Inspector.’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘Just here.’ Miss Bellringer was standing in front of the empty fireplace.
    ‘Could you show me exactly?’
    ‘Do m’best.’ She frowned at the hearthrug then lay down, kicked aside the Burberry revealing a glimpse of eau-de-nil celanese knickers, and curved herself into a helpful comma. ‘Her head was about here - is that all right?’
    ‘Yes. Thank you.’ To himself Barnaby cursed the delay. No pictures. The corpse tidied neatly away. The scent stone cold.
    ‘Of course.’ Miss Bellringer got up very slowly. ‘Doctor Lessiter must have - oh thank you, Chief Inspector - must have moved her during the examination.’ She watched Barnaby walk over to the cabinets and take a closer look. Some of the plates were exceptionally beautiful, gleaming with the touch of gold.
    ‘Meissen in there’ - Miss Bellringer nodded to the left - ‘and the other’s Coalport. Although there’s a couple of pieces she brought home from France. We used to bicycle to the sales years ago. Picked up all sorts of snips.’
    Between the cabinets a little piecrust table held the telephone and a stack of books. Palgrave’s Golden Treasury , some Jacobean plays, The Adventurous Gardener and the Mermaid edition of Julius Caesar .
    ‘She loved her Shakespeare. Shakespeare and the Bible. Food for the mind and comfort for the soul.’ Julius Caesar lay open on top of the pile next to a magnifying glass. ‘She adored the theatre too. We used to go a lot when she could still drive. Topping times they were. Absolutely topping.’ She produced a large khaki and crimson silk handkerchief and blew her nose.
    They went upstairs. Only one bedroom was furnished. A narrow, virginal bed, wallpaper sprigged with forget-me-nots, faded velvet curtains. All as sweet and innocent as a liberty bodice. The spare room was used for storage. There was a vacuum cleaner and a stack of boxes, also several carboys of home-made wine, some cloudy, some clear, one or two hiccuping quietly.
    ‘She was planning to bottle the honeysuckle this weekend. It’s a bit like a Sancerre, you know.’
    They retreated down the narrow staircase and returned to the kitchen. Barnaby said, ‘There must be a bottle open somewhere. She drank something alcoholic before she died.’
    ‘You could try the cold larder.’ Miss Bellringer indicated a blue door at the end of the kitchen adding, a second too late, ‘Mind the step.’
    He pitched forwards into semi-darkness. What light there was had a greenish tinge, being admitted through the leaves of a cherry laurel which was pressing against a largish window covered with wire mesh of the type used in an old-fashioned meat safe. It had a simple catch fastening which was broken. Barnaby took his handkerchief, seized the catch, pulled the window open and carefully closed it again. There was more than enough room for a reasonably slender person to climb in.
    The larder had low stone shelves holding lots of bottles and jars. There was chutney and spiced apricots in tall jars and opaque whitish honey with flowered labels and last year’s date. A large bowl of luscious scarlet strawberries. And jams and jellies: liquid fruit, dark and translucent. She salted runner beans too, just like his mother had. Close to the door was a half-empty bottle of wine. Elderflower 1979.
    Barnaby opened the back door and beckoned Troy, saying, ‘I need you to take a statement.’ They re-entered the sitting room and sat down, Miss Bellringer looking slightly apprehensive and very serious.
    ‘Now,’ began Barnaby, ‘I’d like