‘Hello, Tom,’ said Doctor Bullard. ‘What brings you to these desperate straits?’
‘What brings you?’ said Barnaby, sitting down and tucking in.
‘My wife’s at her Ikebana class.’
‘Ah. I wanted to talk about something, actually.’
‘Talk away,’ replied the doctor, pushing aside the wreckage from a devilled haddock and considering a castle pudding.
‘An old lady had a fall and was found dead the next morning by the postman. Not, sadly, all that unusual. But she saw something, probably in the woods near her house, the afternoon before that distressed her considerably. So much so that she rang the Samaritans to talk about it but before she could say much someone came to the door. And that’s all we know.’
‘So ... ?’ Doctor Bullard shrugged. ‘Slightly more unusual.’
‘I’d like you to have a look at her.’
‘Who signed the death certificate?’
‘Lessiter. Badger’s Drift.’
‘Ohhh ...’ George Bullard blew out his cheeks and placed the tips of his fingers together. ‘Well, it won’t be the first time I’ve trodden on his hand-made two-tones.’
‘What d’you think of him?’
‘Come on, Tom - you know better than that.’
‘Sorry.’
‘God, they don’t call these castle puddings for nothing, do they? This one’s completely impregnable.’ He stabbed at it then added, ‘I can tell you what’s common knowledge. That he has a lot of private patients and a pretty upmarket lifestyle. A definitely scrumptious second wife and a very unscrumptious daughter who must be about the same age as my Karen. Nearly nineteen.’
‘Can you look at the body this afternoon?’
‘Mm. I’ve got a hospital call at three, though, so we’d have to go straight away.’
There were only two funeral parlours in Causton. Brown’s was thought to be the more select. The other was the Co-op. Brown’s front window was padded with crumpled satin in the very centre of which was an urn of shiny black basalt holding several lilies. Engraved on the urn was: Til the Dawn Breaks and Shadows Flee Away. Parked in a space adjacent to the building was a new silver Porsche 924, sparkling in the sunshine.
‘Beautiful.’ Doctor Bullard stroked it appreciatively. ‘Nought to sixty in nine seconds.’
Barnaby imagined himself jammed into one of the low seats. The red and black chequered upholstery seemed to him hideously unattractive. He realized that he would always be, philosophically as well as incrementally, a middle-of-the range-family-saloon man. ‘I’d no idea these fellows were so well paid,’ he said, pushing open the glass-panelled door.
‘No short time either,’ replied the doctor jovially. ‘The one thing you can always be sure people are going to do is pop off.’
The bell rang with subdued and appropriate gravity. It disturbed only one occupant: a young man, almost colourless in appearance, who flowed through some deep velvet curtains at the back of the room. He wore a black suit and had a pale skin, pale straight hair, pale hands and pale, hard-boiled lemony eyes, like acid drops. About to give them extreme unction, he took a second look and rearranged his expression. ‘Doctor Bullard isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. And you’re ... don’t tell me ... Mr Rainbird?’
‘Got it in one,’ the young man beamed. His eyes didn’t change. He seemed to beam through his skin. ‘Dennis the menace,’ he added, apparently serious. He turned inquiringly to the doctor’s companion.
‘This is Detective Inspector Barnaby. Causton CID.’
‘My ...’ Dennis Rainbird gave the chief inspector a slippy glance. ‘Well, you won’t find any naughtiness here. We’re all as good as gold.’
Barnaby handed over the note from Miss Bellringer. ‘We’d like to see the body of Emily Simpson, if you’d be so kind.’ He was watching the other man’s face as he spoke. There was an expression almost immediately suppressed, of unnaturally intense curiosity laced with excitement.
‘Toot sweet,’ cried Mr Rainbird, looking at the note then whisking off behind the curtains. ‘Always ready to help the force.’ He spoke as if it was an everyday occurrence.
They stood by the coffin. Barnaby gazed down at the gaunt, white-clad corpse. She looked very neat and dry as if all the vital juices had drained away not recently but years ago. Impossible to believe there had ever been a clear-eyed young girl with a smooth chignon.
‘Hundreds of wreaths back there. She was ever so popular,’ opined Mr Rainbird. ‘She taught my mum, you know. And all my aunties.’
‘Yes. Well, thank you.’ Barnaby received a bridling, slightly truculent glance which he calmly returned, then Mr Rainbird shrugged and melted away.
Doctor Bullard bent over Miss Simpson. He lifted the ringless hands, felt the skin beneath her feet, pulled the gown aside and pressed his hand on her ribcage. Rigor mortis had long passed and the thin chest gave under his thumbs. He frowned and felt some more.
‘Something wrong?’
‘Lungs are badly congested.’
‘He was treating her for bronchitis.’
‘Hm.’ Using both thumbs he pushed back her eyelids. ‘When did she die?’
‘Three days ago.’
‘You don’t know what he was giving her?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Look at this.’
Barnaby peered at the yellow dead eyeballs. The pupils were the size of a pinhead. ‘Struth. What do you think, then?’
‘I think you should have a word with the coroner.’
‘And ask for a PM?’
‘Yes.’ The two men exchanged a glance. ‘You don’t sound surprised.’
Barnaby realized he was not surprised. Perhaps Miss Bellringer’s confidence had not been misplaced after all. He said, ‘I’ll let him know what’s happened so far. Who do you think will do it?’
‘Eynton I expect. Our chap’s gone to Crete for a month.’
‘All right for some.’
‘Give me a call when the report comes back, would you? I’d be interested to hear what they find.’
It came back Thursday morning. Barnaby rang Doctor Bullard who turned up shortly before noon. He read the report. Barnaby watched his face with some amusement. It was, as they say, a picture. Bullard laid the report down.
‘Hemlock?’
‘Hemlock.’
The doctor shook his head. ‘Well, it’s certainly a collector’s item.’
‘It’s out of the ark, George. The Medicis. Shakespeare. That Greek chap.’
‘Socrates.’
‘That’s him. I mean these days it’s usually Valium or Mogadon washed down with half a pint of vodka.’
‘Or something handy from the garden shed.’
‘Quite. If you’re going to use coniine there must be far easier ways than boiling up a distillation of that stuff.’
‘Oh I don’t know,’ the doctor demurred. ‘It’s not usually available over the counter. You can’t just pop into Boot’s and buy a boxful.’
‘How does it work?’
‘Gradual paralysis. Plato describes the death of Socrates very movingly. Feet, legs, everything gradually going cold. He took it very well. A real Stoic.’
‘So whoever gave her the stuff - if someone gave her the stuff - had to sit there and watch her die.’
‘That’s about it. Poor old soul. Not a pretty thought.’
‘Murder never is.’
Doctor Bullard scanned the report again. ‘Apparently she hadn’t eaten for some time. That would speed up the process. No seeds in the stomach, which would argue a distillation.’