“I mean, if I’d wanted to screw a marble statue I’d’ve got a job in the British Museum.”
Barnaby opened all the windows.
“Eventually I said to her, don’t wake up if it’s too much trouble.”
“And did she?”
“Hard to tell. She don’t give much away, Maureen.”
The Chief Inspector, pausing only to reflect that whatever his sergeant’s sword did in his hand it certainly wasn’t sleep, turned his thoughts to the Brockleys’ only child.
Until now Brenda had hardly impinged on his consciousness. With both a dead body and a missing person on his plate, he had more than enough to be going on with. The fact that her parents had received a reassuring phone call also mitigated against any sort of concerned action. But, over forty-eight hours later, she had still not returned. And however resolutely they insisted on a complete lack of involvement in Alan and Simone Hollingsworth’s affairs, there was no denying that the Brockleys lived virtually on the couple’s doorstep. Could Brenda have seen or heard something that might have put her at risk? The more he thought along these lines, the less easy Barnaby became in his mind.
Troy was still droning on. As they were on the point of entering Fawcett Green, Barnaby tuned back in. This time the subject under the hammer was Mrs. Milburn, Troy’s mother-in-law.
“Lethal, that woman. She’s got a donor card saying on no account use any of this person’s organs after her death. They are bloody toxic.”
“Rubbish.”
“I’ve seen it. Got a skull and crossbones on.”
Troy parked on the pub forecourt at ten minutes to eleven. Barnaby had an appointment on the hour with Dr. Jennings. Troy was detailed to chase up the address and telephone number of the mobile hairdresser, Becky Latimer. And also Sarah Lawson, the other person mentioned during Mrs. Molfrey’s earlier visit to Causton police station. The two men would meet up at Nightingales.
Already the lane was choked with people, as was the small field which backed on to the Hollingsworths’ rear garden. An exasperated Perrot, rosy with ill temper, guilt and apprehension as to how this blatant example of his inability to keep any sort of control might persuade the force to deal with him, was trying to clear a way through for a muddy Landrover. The driver leaned pointlessly on his horn, underscoring the hysterical barking of his two golden retrievers. No sooner had the vehicle squeezed by than the passage closed up again.
Barnaby missed most of this, needing to cut through the churchyard to find the doctor’s house. Troy decided, before going to the post office, to have a little fun at Perrot’s expense. He pushed through the crowd largely by exercising sharp elbows and brute determination.
“I should move this lot along, Polly.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Where’s the barrier?”
“On its way.”
“Here.” Troy jerked his head indicating a wish for intimacy.
Perrot, his heart in his boots and his stomach twisted into knots of anxiety, moved closer.
“Just thought you might like to know the PM results. Died about ten minutes before me and the chief got to him. Close as that. Sad, ain’t it?”
He strode on, leaving the ashen-faced policeman staring, in utter devastation, after him.
In the churchyard, having world enough and time, Barnaby dawdled, read the gravestones scabbed with green and yellow lichen, admired equally a simply inscribed slab and a grand mausoleum enclosed by ornate railings. One unadorned plot had a glass jar of wild flowers jammed into the ground; another green granite chippings and an empty metal vase. Grand monument or homemade wooden cross, what did it ultimately matter? Passing show. And all for the benefit and comfort of the bereft. The lonely bones beneath couldn’t give a damn. In the elms around and about, rooks croaked and cawed their aggressive hearts out.
The Reverend Bream appeared, closing the vestry door behind him and making his way down the path with a swish of armazine. Although walking with his hands demurely clasped across his richly curved front and his eyes cast down, Barnaby sensed something rather worldly about the vicar. His face was highly coloured and surrounded by a lot of crisply waving chestnut hair just long enough to touch his collar. He could have stepped straight out of one of those bibulous nineteenth-century paintings featuring two jolly cardinals.
“Hullo,” said the Reverend Bream. He smiled, revealing a lot of glistening white teeth. “Are you part of our excellent constabulary?”
“That’s right, sir. Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby.”
“To do with Nightingales, is it?” Then, when Barnaby nodded. “A sad business. Poor Alan.”
“Did you know the Hollingsworths at all?”
“Simone slightly. She was in my bell-ringing team. The only time I spoke to her husband was the day she disappeared. She didn’t turn up for practice so I popped round to see if things were all right.”
“Look,” Barnaby indicated a rustic bench, “d’you think we might sit down?”
“Well, I’m just off to Hellions Wychwood for a christening.”
“It won’t take a moment. Or we could meet later.”
“Oh, I expect it’ll be all right.” The vicar glanced at his watch. “I’m usually fifteen minutes early and they’re bound to be late. People always are at weddings and christenings. Never at funerals. Can’t wait to see them off and get back to the booze.”
“Did you know Mrs. Hollingsworth well?” asked the Chief Inspector when they were sitting down.
“Not really. She came to a few meetings, missed a couple, wandered half-heartedly back. Just looking for something to do, I think.”
“You didn’t meet or talk for any reason? Apart from bell-ringing?”
“Good heavens no.” He laughed then glanced briefly upwards as though asking post-clearance on this innocent exclamation. “Neither of the Hollingsworths were churchgoers. But then who is these days? Till it comes to needing a setting for the bridal video.”
The Reverend Bream did not speak in acid tones. He seemed cheerfully resigned to the scale of his neglect. Perhaps, as his high complexion indicated, he found solace in the occasional cup of claret. A little wine for his stomach’s sake. Barnaby warmed to him.
“What did you think of her?”
“Simone? A bit dim—no, sorry. That’s unkind. A better word, I think, would be guileless. And rather gullible. One got the impression that she would believe anything you said. Sweet-natured, as far as it’s possible to judge. Tiny, just about five feet, I’d say, and very slender. Little hands and feet. Fair-haired with a lovely skin. Astonishingly pretty.”
Another novelist. They were everywhere. Barnaby asked if the vicar remembered what time he had called at the house.
“Around six, directly we’d finished. I knocked several times, persisting because Alan’s car was there. Eventually he opened the door looking quite dreadful.”
“You mean ill?” The Chief Inspector recalled Perrot’s mention of a goodbye message on Hollingsworth’s answerphone. This sounded as if he had already discovered it.
“Wildly distressed is how I’d put it. Almost incoherent. I stepped inside—uninvited but there are times when good manners must take a back seat. Asked if there was anything I could do. If Mrs. Hollingsworth was all right. He said she’d gone to look after her mother who’d had a stroke. Almost before he’d finished speaking I found myself back on the doorstep.”
“You didn’t call again?”
“There seemed little point when he so obviously hadn’t wanted me there in the first place. I told Evadne and she got the village support system going—to poor effect, I’m afraid. I feel quite ashamed now. If perhaps I’d been more persistent—”