food, refused one of Mrs Sweeney’s home-made pies and settled for a ploughman’s and a half of bitter. He was sure that curiosity as to the reason for his presence would soon produce some comment or other. However he was unprepared for the rapidity with which the nub of the matter was reached. He had hardly taken a sip of his beer (warmish and soapy) before one of the youths said, ‘You’re the fuzz ’ent you?’
Barnaby cut off a piece of cheese and made a movement of the head that could have meant anything.
Mrs Sweeney said, ‘Is it about poor Miss Simpson?’
‘Did you know the lady?’ asked Barnaby.
‘Ohhh . . . everyone knew Miss Simpson.’
The fumes in the corner cleared slightly and a rattlesnakish clatter could be heard. My God, thought Barnaby, the poor old chap must be on his last legs. Then he realized that the sound was caused by a collapsing wall of dominoes. ‘She used to teach me in English,’ the old man stated.
‘That’s right, Jake, she did,’ agreed Mrs Sweeney, adding, in a whispered aside to Barnaby, ‘and he can’t read nor write to this day.’
‘She was well liked in the village then?’
‘Oh yes. Not like some I could mention.’
‘What d’you want to know about her for?’ said one of the youths.
‘Yeah,’ the other chipped in. ‘She been up to something?’
‘We’re just making a few inquiries.’
‘Do you know what I reckon?’ said the first one again. He wore a T-shirt reading ‘Don’t Drink and Drive You Might Get Caught’. Beneath it a wodge of fat, leprously white and hairy, hung over his commando belt. ‘I reckon she was a godmother. Gorra vice ring going over there. Slipping it in the honey.’ They both guffawed. The girl tittered.
‘That’s not funny, Keith,’ Mrs Sweeney said angrily. ‘If that’s the best you can find to say you can go and drink somewhere else.’
Barnaby listened for another half hour as more people came and went, but the verdict on Miss Simpson didn’t change much. Very kind. Patient with the children. Ever so generous if there was a stall. Jam. Honey. Jars of fruit. Did lovely flowers for the church. That poor Miss Bellringer. Whatever will she do now? And what about Benjy? They pine, you know. And he’s getting on. She’ll be greatly missed. Sadly missed.
Even when it was shorn of the eulogistic flavour deemed obligatory in all statements about the recently dead, Barnaby was still left with the picture of a singularly nice human being. Mrs Sweeney’s final remark seemed to sum it up neatly.
‘Not an enemy in the world.’
The air was green and fresh as they entered the wood, yet within minutes Barnaby felt a change. As the trees closed tightly over their heads the ripeness of the vegetation all around and underfoot assailed his nostrils with a rich and rotten scent.
Miss Bellringer was leading the way. She was carrying a shooting stick and keeping close to the chief inspector, as he had requested.
‘It was just over there I think, by those hellebores. Yes - there it is.’
‘Wait.’ Barnaby took her arm. ‘If you could stay here, please. The less trampling about the better.’
‘I understand.’ She sounded disappointed but stayed obediently where she was, opening her shooting stick and perching on the canvas strap. She called, ‘More to the left’ and ‘Getting warmer’ and ‘Hotsy totsy’ as he walked carefully around the patch of little green flowers. Then, when she saw him bob down, ‘Perfect isn’t it?’
Barnaby studied the orchid and the little stick with the red ribbon. Inanimate, the marker still seemed more alive than the ash-pale plant. There was something very touching about the neatly tied bow. He got up and looked round. As far as he could see the leaf mould in the immediate area, although scuffed about, probably by rabbits and other small creatures, revealed no more serious disturbance.
To the left of him was a tightly latticed screen of branches. Treading carefully, he
Barnaby cut off a piece of cheese and made a movement of the head that could have meant anything.
Mrs Sweeney said, ‘Is it about poor Miss Simpson?’
‘Did you know the lady?’ asked Barnaby.
‘Ohhh . . . everyone knew Miss Simpson.’
The fumes in the corner cleared slightly and a rattlesnakish clatter could be heard. My God, thought Barnaby, the poor old chap must be on his last legs. Then he realized that the sound was caused by a collapsing wall of dominoes. ‘She used to teach me in English,’ the old man stated.
‘That’s right, Jake, she did,’ agreed Mrs Sweeney, adding, in a whispered aside to Barnaby, ‘and he can’t read nor write to this day.’
‘She was well liked in the village then?’
‘Oh yes. Not like some I could mention.’
‘What d’you want to know about her for?’ said one of the youths.
‘Yeah,’ the other chipped in. ‘She been up to something?’
‘We’re just making a few inquiries.’
‘Do you know what I reckon?’ said the first one again. He wore a T-shirt reading ‘Don’t Drink and Drive You Might Get Caught’. Beneath it a wodge of fat, leprously white and hairy, hung over his commando belt. ‘I reckon she was a godmother. Gorra vice ring going over there. Slipping it in the honey.’ They both guffawed. The girl tittered.
‘That’s not funny, Keith,’ Mrs Sweeney said angrily. ‘If that’s the best you can find to say you can go and drink somewhere else.’
Barnaby listened for another half hour as more people came and went, but the verdict on Miss Simpson didn’t change much. Very kind. Patient with the children. Ever so generous if there was a stall. Jam. Honey. Jars of fruit. Did lovely flowers for the church. That poor Miss Bellringer. Whatever will she do now? And what about Benjy? They pine, you know. And he’s getting on. She’ll be greatly missed. Sadly missed.
Even when it was shorn of the eulogistic flavour deemed obligatory in all statements about the recently dead, Barnaby was still left with the picture of a singularly nice human being. Mrs Sweeney’s final remark seemed to sum it up neatly.
‘Not an enemy in the world.’
The air was green and fresh as they entered the wood, yet within minutes Barnaby felt a change. As the trees closed tightly over their heads the ripeness of the vegetation all around and underfoot assailed his nostrils with a rich and rotten scent.
Miss Bellringer was leading the way. She was carrying a shooting stick and keeping close to the chief inspector, as he had requested.
‘It was just over there I think, by those hellebores. Yes - there it is.’
‘Wait.’ Barnaby took her arm. ‘If you could stay here, please. The less trampling about the better.’
‘I understand.’ She sounded disappointed but stayed obediently where she was, opening her shooting stick and perching on the canvas strap. She called, ‘More to the left’ and ‘Getting warmer’ and ‘Hotsy totsy’ as he walked carefully around the patch of little green flowers. Then, when she saw him bob down, ‘Perfect isn’t it?’
Barnaby studied the orchid and the little stick with the red ribbon. Inanimate, the marker still seemed more alive than the ash-pale plant. There was something very touching about the neatly tied bow. He got up and looked round. As far as he could see the leaf mould in the immediate area, although scuffed about, probably by rabbits and other small creatures, revealed no more serious disturbance.
To the left of him was a tightly latticed screen of branches. Treading carefully, he
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