arms.
¦
Though the Barratts had denied any possible connection Malcolm might have had with Gloria Hathaway, the ever patient Inspector Cowgill needed to check. He stood for a few seconds looking up at the Barratts’ house, and reflected – not for the first time – that houses with trouble brewing inside them had a certain closed-up look. This house had looked like that on his previous visits, but now it did not. The windows were open and the friction was blowing out in the cold January wind. A light was on in the attic room, which he knew was Malcolm’s study. Mrs Barratt had given him permission to look around up there and, apart from a secret cache of body-building literature, he had found nothing. He walked quickly up the drive and knocked loudly. The door opened straight away – Rachel must have seen him – and he was ushered into the sitting room.
“I’ll just call Malcolm,” she said, and asked if he would like a coffee.
“No thanks,” he said.
“Mustn’t accept bribes?” said Malcolm, coming through the door with his charming smile.
The inspector’s hackles rose. “Not at all, Professor Barratt,” he said. “Just don’t drink coffee, that’s all. But I’d love a cup of tea, if it’s not too much trouble, Mrs Barratt,” he added with extreme politeness.
Most of the conversation between them covered old ground. Where had he been at the time of the crime? How well did he know Gloria Hathaway? That sort of thing. Then the inspector asked if he could have a detailed account of his movements while he’d been away, and Malcolm said he didn’t see how that could be relevant?
“We never know what’s relevant, sir,” said the inspector icily. “But the more background information we have the more likely it is that we shall come up with an answer to this tragic business.”
Malcolm glanced at Rachel, who took the hint and left the room. “It was a teaching assignment,” he said. “Visiting professor, and all that. I’d suggested taking Rachel, sure that she would refuse and we had that almighty row, and I’m afraid I stormed out in a temper. Came to my senses, of course. Everything all right now.”
“And where was this…er…assignment?” said Inspector Cowgill.
“I see you get my drift,” said Malcolm confidingly. “Well, yes, it was A.N. Other, as they say. Didn’t work out, and we parted with no hard feelings. Just a brief fling, really. I’m not proud of it, of course, but no harm done. Edinburgh, the Grampian Hotel. They’ll corroborate.”
Inspector Cowgill remembered Rachel, drunk and shattered, her pride gone, a broken woman. He recalled her pathetic attempt to cope on her own, propped up by alcohol, and felt a considerable dislike for this vain, confident man before him.
“Well, thank you sir,” he said. “That will be all for now…except, oh yes, I wonder if you have a Barbour jacket?”
Malcolm was taken aback. “Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” he said.
“Might I see it, sir?”
“Of course, I’ll call Rachel.”
Inspector Cowgill made no comment, but the fact that it had a recent cleaner’s ticket pinned to the lining, in the middle of the muckiest, wettest season of the year, when expensive cleaning would be an utter waste of time, seemed odd to the inspector, and he made one or two notes. “Well, I’ll be off now,” he said. “Don’t worry, Mrs Barratt, I’ll see myself out,” and he was gone.
Malcolm was taut with anger. “Why the bloody hell did you send it to the cleaners?” he said.
“It had that mark on the sleeve, you know…you said…” said Rachel, beginning to tremble.
“I didn’t ask you to!”
“But I often send your clothes without…” faltered Rachel in a cracked voice. Malcolm sighed. “Oh well, I don’t suppose it matters,” he said, deflating. “Don’t let’s spoil it all now. We’ll go down to the pub and have a curry.” He had made a big effort, he felt, but the coolness was there again and he didn’t know what else to do for the moment.
The Farnden Arms stood at a crossroads in the village, where a narrow lane intersected the long main street about halfway down. The pub had been built three hundred and fifty years ago as a staging post on the main route to the west. It was large for a village pub, with a big yard with stabling at the back, but no horses, carts or carriages called there now for a rest on their long journey. The stables were converted into garages and, tacked on to the end, built in ugly pink brick, were the pub toilets. The new landlord – Don Cutt, late of the Standing Arms, Round Ringford – had put up new signs; a highwayman for the men’s toilet, a simpering, crinolined lady for the ladies. This had caused some ribaldry in the pub and Malcolm Barratt had made a serious request for reinstatement of the old toilets. “Those new things are right out of character,” he’d said to Don Cutt, who had made a silent vow to keep things exactly as he wanted them. Some of the older inhabitants of the village had been delighted with the new signs, and one old boy had told him a story of the legendary Ditchford Dick, a local highwayman who’d led a life of successful crime, but ended his days swinging from the gibbet on Fletching Hill.
“Morning, Professor,” said Don, with professional bonhomie. “And Mrs Barratt. Nice to see you back, sir. What can I get you?”
“Pint of Old Hookie for me, and a gin and tonic for Rachel,” said Malcolm, perching on a bar stool and holding another out for Rachel.
“Um, no,” she said. “I think I’ll just have an apple juice today, thanks.”
Don Cutt smiled kindly at her, and said, “Fine. Apple juice coming up. The Old Hookie’ll be a minute or so – just put on a new barrel.”
Malcolm took up the menu and glanced down it. “How’s the new caterer doing?” he said. Bronwen had grown tired and too old, she said, to cope with pub food any more, and they’d got in this Indian bloke, who filled the place with foreign smells that were nevertheless very appetising, and the new dishes were going well. They chose curries and went to sit down in the corner.
They were halfway through, at ease with each other again, when Dallas Baer walked in. “Malcolm!” he said. “Welcome back, old son!” Greetings were exchanged, and Dallas walked over to them carrying his half-pint.
“Join us?” said Malcolm, but Dallas shook his head. “Got to get back to the wife. She’s not been well, but you wouldn’t have heard about that. A nasty fall. Well on the road to recovery now, though. Thanks all the same,” he added, and downed his beer in a couple of swallows. “Where’ve you been, then, you old reprobate?” he said. “Thought I caught sight of you one day when I was up in Edinburgh – ”
Rachel turned swiftly to Malcolm. “But I thought you said – ”
“Must’ve been someone else,” said Malcolm smoothly. “Sure you won’t have the other half?”
Don Gutt had his hand ready on the pump, but Dallas shook his head. “No,” he said. “Have to get back. Evangeline is much better, but doesn’t like being left alone for long.”
“Very understandable,” said Rachel acidly, and added, “Give her my love. I’ll be round to see her later with another book. She read the last one in three days, poor soul. Just as well the gallery’s closed anyway at present, isn’t it, so Evangeline can have a really good rest?” Her voice was not friendly. She’d heard rumours around the village. Did she fall or was she pushed? She had dismissed these as typical gossip, but after her own recent experiences she was tempted to lump all men into the same guilty heap. Men…who needs them? I do, she admitted, and fought a winning battle against the craving for a nice cool glass of white wine.
? Murder on Monday ?
Twenty-Two
“Morning, Lois!” Malcolm’s voice came as no surprise to Lois as she let herself into the Barratts’ kitchen. A call from Janice Britton had given her the news of his return. Janice was wary of the new arrangement but had been told by Hunter Cowgill himself to cooperate with Lois. Janice had explained to Lois that she’d seen Malcolm in the shop, looking as full of himself as usual, with Rachel tagging along behind him with a meek expression on her foolish face. Janice had sounded annoyed, as if Rachel was letting down the whole of womankind, and Lois had momentarily agreed. Then afterwards, once she had thought about it, her sympathies moved to Rachel. After all, Rachel had the girls to bring up and no job of her own. It was easy for Janice to be judgemental when she was single with no children and a good career in front of her. “Ah, you’re back, Professor Barratt,” said Lois coldly. Malcolm had just come in from the garden, back in countryman mode, wearing his Barbour and a tweed hat which made him look like an actor playing the part.
