Faithful unto Death

by Caroline Graham

“Always having trouble on the line. Or so she told me.”

  Barnaby said, “What was your impression of Mrs. Hollingsworth?”

  “A pampered jade,” declared Mrs. Boast, slipping once more into Shakespeak.

  Several people had by then come into the shop and one of them was waiting to pay. Barnaby left it there, knowing that, should a full investigation be set in motion, house to house would also be putting questions.

  Outside Nightingales the SOCO van shimmered in the heat. The honest burghers of Fawcett Green, though now restrained by barriers, showed no signs of resentment. Rather, there was an air about the place of a good day out. People were standing around or sitting on the grass verges chatting amongst themselves, savouring, with unselfconscious jollity, the presence of death. A family group, complete with dog, devoured sandwiches and sucked drinks through straws. The woman’s hair had been elaborately waved and she wore a lot of make-up, possibly anticipating television cameras.

  Perrot, just back from a short lunch break and full of his wife’s delicious home cooking, opened the gates. Barnaby and Troy eased their way through, the latter contenting himself this time with a couple of sotto voce squawks. The constable remained aloof, gazing coldly into the middle distance until addressed by the Chief Inspector.

  “In the house, Perrot. Ask the man on the front door to take over here.”

  “Sir.”

  They found Aubrey Marine at the kitchen table surrounded by stained mugs and plates, an overflowing pedal bin and a cardboard Baked Beans box, also crammed with debris. On the dirty ceramic hob stood a frying pan smelling of rancid fat and a burnt saucepan. The sink was stacked with dirty cutlery. Flies were everywhere. Barnaby was reminded of the set for the Causton amateur dramatic society’s last production, The Caretaker, which his wife had, very successfully, directed.

  “What on earth’s that smell?”

  “Whisky. The sink reeks of it.”

  “Did you find the pill bottles?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about the capsule casings?”

  “Zilch. We’ve been through all this lot and the wheelie bin. Might turn them up in the long grass.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe he put them down the toilet.” Troy looked about him, metaphorically holding his nose.

  “It’s possible,” said Aubrey. “But they weigh nothing. I think we’d have found at least one or two still floating.”

  “I’m going aloft. Have a look round down here, Sergeant. Check out that bureau with the glass front and the desk. See if you can lay your hands on a phone bill.”

  “Right, guv.”

  Barnaby entered the hall where Perrot waited awkward, uncertain, anxious to please. Together they climbed the stairs. Barnaby paused on the bend to admire a print of “Peupliers au bord de I’epte.” Framed in transparent Perspex, its serene beauty charmed the eye and soothed the heart. What do you want, the Chief Inspector entertained himself by musing, if you don’t want Monet?

  On the landing he asked Perrot to check the three smaller bedrooms.

  “What am I looking for, sir?”

  “Anything that might shed light on Mrs. Hollingsworth’s disappearance or her husband’s death. Surely I don’t have to draw you a picture?”

  “No, sir.”

  The master bedroom was directly facing Barnaby. He opened the door and found himself facing another theatrical backdrop, cleaner and vastly more frivolous than the kitchen. Perfect, in fact, for the Merry Widow.

  A king-sized bed was surrounded by cloudy draperies which had been gathered up and fastened into a gilded metal crown attached to the ceiling. The ivory headboard was enlivened by pastoral scenes in delicate pastel shades. Nymphs and shepherds cavorted in meadows of spring flowers beneath the eye of their Olympian overlords. Centaurs lapped from a rippling stream.

  A wedding photograph stood on the bedside table. Barnaby picked it up to study it more closely. There was that about the groom that the Chief Inspector recognised. His son-in-law, Nicholas, had shown just such a combination of emotions on his nuptial day. Pride, deep satisfaction, elation even. The look of the hunter-gatherer who has not only come across a species thought to be extinct but has brought back a specimen for all the world to wonder at. Yet the strain showed. The wonder of being chosen was clearly grazed over by anxiety, for would not every man be seeking such a rare prize? Poor Nico. He was still hanging on in there but Barnaby sometimes wondered for how much longer. He turned his attention to Hollingsworth’s bride who looked traditionally radiant.

  The vicar, he decided, had been spot on. Simone Hollingsworth really was astonishingly pretty, if a trifle artificial looking for his own taste. Smiling brilliantly from beneath a tumbling froth of veiling, she looked rather like one of those skilfully lacquered creatures who swan around the cosmetic sections of department stores spraying unwary women—and men too if they weren’t sharp about it—with perfumed atomisers.

  Barnaby took the picture to the window for better light and stood silently appreciating the rosy, glistening mouth. Nearly always the two halves of a top lip are imperfectly matched but here was absolute symmetry even to the perfect cupid’s bow. The bottom lip was fuller than he would have expected, giving an impression of sensual generosity. She had wide set greyish-green eyes with long curling lashes and warm, blushing apricot cheeks. Looking more closely, he realised the shape of her mouth had been very skilfully realised by a pencil and he thought he could discern, beneath its lush contours, a narrower and rather less seductive outline. Her hair, curling round ears as delicate and translucent as little shells, was so fair as to be almost white.

  She was holding a spray of ivory rosebuds bound with silver ribbons and wore not only a wedding ring but an extremely large diamond solitaire. No wonder she looked bloody radiant. As quickly as he came to this conclusion so Barnaby chided himself for such chauvinistic cynicism. Lucky the family were not present to read his mind. Cully would have really sharpened her claws on that one.

  The Chief Inspector was no great believer in physiognomy and so drew no conclusions regarding Mrs. Hollingsworth’s character from such external comeliness. He had come across too much vicious behaviour by human beings who might have modelled for Boticelli. And acts of great charity and kindness from those who could have climbed out of a pit dug by Hieronymus Bosch.

  He put the picture back and wandered into the bathroom. More schlock. False marble floor and starry ceiling, coppercoloured mirror glass walls—the whole place shimmered in bronze light. There was a vast triangular forget-me-not blue bath with high arched golden taps, the handles made to resemble multi-petalled chrysanthemums. Every possible flat surface in the room was covered with jars and bottles and tubes and aerosols. As Constable Perrot had surmised, she couldn’t have taken even a single pot of cream, for there was not an empty space anywhere.

  Barnaby opened a drawer in the appropriately named vanity unit. Rows and rows of neatly arranged lipsticks. Annoyed with himself for time-wasting, he surrendered to a compulsion and counted them. Seventy-three. Dear God, seventy-three. He recalled Joyce’s modest collection and no longer wondered what Simone Hollingsworth did all day. Just laboratory testing this lot could prove a lifetime’s occupation.

  There were around a dozen boxes of perfume. One had the lid open and the atomiser had been taken out and was standing by the washbasin. Barnaby thought it likely this meant she had been wearing the perfume, called Joy, when she left the house. He took a tissue and sprayed it. The scent was very rich and flowery, quite beautiful in fact. The Chief Inspector thought he might get some for his wife’s birthday which was in three weeks’ time and slipped the tissue into his pocket.

  He drifted out again, crossing into the white and gold fitted wardrobes that ran all down the facing wall, sliding the nearest open. Troy came in, sniffing the air.

  “Bet you can’t get that at Superdrug.”

  “Any luck with the phone bill?”

  “No, chief. Sor
ry.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We’ll contact British Tel.”

  “In relation to what?”

  “Think about it.”

  Troy had a go this time but was quickly defeated. His introspection was not of a constructive or perceptive nature. It involved kick-starting a few hardy old perennials, whirling them vigorously around like salad in a basket and letting them settle.

  Resigned to passing on this one, he joined his chief who was now opening another section. The ball bearings rumbled sweetly. Soft falls of velvet and lace, drifts of sparkling georgette, neat outlines of wool and linen and tweed were conjured, concealed, revealed again. Systematically Barnaby checked all the pockets. The clothes were so tightly packed you could not have slid a cat’s whisker between any of them let alone a Gold Card from Harvey Nicks.

  “Wouldn’t mind a slice of that with my bedtime cocoa,” said Sergeant Troy who had also clocked the wedding picture. Then, receiving no response to this jaunty lubricity, “Do we know if she went off with that gobstopper on her finger?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Might explain why nothing else is missing. That’d keep her going till the end of the century.”

  “Check these handbags, would you? Then the shoes. There might be something in one of the toes.”

  “Won’t be a sec.” Troy disappeared into the bathroom. He used the toilet calling out over the flush, “I’ve always wanted to have it off in a jacuzzi.”

  Barnaby worked his way through the first of two chests of drawers. Cashmere sweaters all in pastel shades, filmy underwear and scarves, a Paisley shawl. There were also dozens of unsealed packets containing prettily flowered leggings, pale tights and stockings with black or cream lace tops. Nowhere could he find clean, used hosiery. Perhaps she never wore anything twice. There was a leather jewel case full of quite dazzling costume jewellery but minus the rock of ages.

  “Maureen says,” Troy came back in, “you can come off in one of those if you sit in the right place for long enough.” He sounded both dubious and miffed. There seemed to be more and more things women were doing without the need of male assistance. Pretty soon, he decided, we’ll need a preservation order to stop us dying out from lack of use.

  Mrs. Hollingsworth had a positively Marcosian relish for footwear. Troy slid his fingers inside strappy numbers with slender heels, brightly coloured slip-ons in glove-soft leather, court shoes, suede flatties with thin gilt chains looped across the tongues, pearly evening sandals sparkling with rhinestones. There were some Filo sneakers but no serious walking boots or Wellingtons. Presumably, though living in the heart of the country, Mrs. Hollingsworth was not much of a one for getting close to nature. He started on the bags.

  Barnaby, standing by the bed which was neatly and cleanly made, wondered why Hollingsworth had not been sleeping in it. Perhaps he had rejected the idea for superstitious reasons fearing such a surrender might seem to be bowing his head to the fates. Acknowledgement not only of the fact of her leaving but that she would never return. Perhaps he’d wanted to stay close to the telephone. Perhaps he’d simply been too drunk to climb the stairs.

  “Well,” said Sergeant Troy, snapping the final clasp, “nobody could say he kept her short.”

  Barnaby could not agree. Recapping on what he had heard so far about Simone—the aimless wanderings about the village, her vague, brief membership of this group or that, shallow time-filling conversations in place of real friendship and the harsh treatment meted out possibly because she had attempted to fly a little further afield—it seemed to the Chief Inspector that she had been kept short of the one quality above all others that made life worth living. Namely freedom.

  “Be turning up any minute now, once she knows he’s snuffed it.”

  “Why d’you say that?”

  “Rich widow. She’ll want to collect.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Course I’m right. Stands to reason.” The most unreasonable things stood to reason with Sergeant Troy, provided they supported his prejudices.

  Outside on the landing, Perrot cleared his throat then knocked as if Barnaby had been in his office at the station.

  “Find anything, Constable?”

  “Nothing relevant, sir. Mr. Hollingsworth’s clothes, shirts and so on. I checked all the pockets and turn-ups. Two piles of fashion magazines but no notes or bits of paper concealed although one magazine had a page torn out. Several suitcases and lightweight travel bags, all empty. Sheets and duvet covers, blankets, towels, pillowcases—”

  “Yes, yes, all right, Perrot. It’s not the first day of Harrods’ sale.”

  “No, sir.”

  By now everyone was on the landing. Troy led the way down the stairs, running lightly on the balls of his feet, slyly savouring the contrast between his own slender athleticism and Perrot’s barrel-chested, oaken-thighed stolidity. Not to mention that bulky pachyderm bringing up the rear.

  As the two policemen made their way towards Gray Patterson’s place, Barnaby mentally ran over his conversation with Penstemon’s accountant and the description of the magistrates’ hearing in the Causton Echo, a cutting of which had been sent to his office.

  A man more sinned against than sinning, by all accounts, Hollingsworth’s former colleague. Betrayed, swindled out of a great deal of money then sacked. Was it likely that a brisk punch-up would satisfy Patterson’s quite justified rage? And what was the truth about the relationship that “went back a long way?”

  Barnaby looked forward to having these questions answered and had no doubt that, once he met the man, a whole new whatever was the collective noun of questions would arise. He whiled away the next few minutes trying to think of what that noun might be. A poser, a quiz, a snoop. A speculation, a viva. A nosey. A grill . . .

  Number 17, the Street, was situated on the outskirts of the village several yards from its nearest neighbour and almost totally concealed from passers-by behind a belt of blue piceas. A green painted board declared that the property was To Let. The place itself was a low, whitewashed, double-fronted building in the style that estate agents and people who know little of real country living call “farmhouse.”

  As soon as Barnaby opened the gate a black and white Border collie rushed towards them. Plainly confused about what constituted guard duties, it was not only barking loudly but vigorously wagging its tail.

  It jumped up at Troy who, torn between his love of dogs and a passion for immaculate attire, demonstrated both by clicking his tongue at the animal and asking its name, then brushing the knees of his trousers with his handkerchief. By this time the collie was dancing away over a large expanse of roughly mown, extremely weedy grass, looking back occasionally to make sure they were following.

  By a far hedge a man was tossing clippings into an old oil drum. Barnaby hoped, in this burning drought, he was not going to attempt to set fire to the stuff. One spark and half the village would go up.

  Patterson stuck his fork in the ground and came forward to meet them. The vociferous dog, having delivered her charges safely, was now looking back and forth between the visitors and her master, nudging his attention towards this successful feat.

  Patterson said, “Shut up, Bess.”

  Barnaby presented his warrant card. Troy bent down, patted the dog’s sharp, intelligent face and said, “Good girl.”

  “I’ve been expecting you. Verity rang. From the office.”

  Barnaby’s imagination, lazily working from a received scenario, had conjured a well-built, bellicose type. Gray Patterson was slender and quite tall. His shoulders curved slightly forwards. A donnish stoop, decided the Chief Inspector, before remembering the man had spent probably the last twenty years crouched over a keyboard. He had red-gold hair, curly and tight against his head, greenish-grey eyes and a clear skin, still scarcely tanned in spite of his outdoor labours.

  “Let’s get away from all this rubbish.”

  He ploughed through a heap of conifer branches, kicking them aside, and
waved his visitors in the direction of a couple of shabby deckchairs. Barnaby, already picturing the vast, ungainly struggle when he tried to extricate himself, declined the offer. Troy folded himself into the striped canvas sling with a single movement of great elegance.

  Staring severely at his subordinate, the Chief Inspector lumbered over to an ancient wooden stool which lay on its side under an apple tree. He righted it and sat down in the shade. Patterson perched on the rim of an old water-wheel. Bess immediately ran to his side and lay down, half hidden by a drift of moon daisies, panting in the heat.

  “You lot are playing all this very close.”

  “Is that right, Mr. Patterson?”

  “No one seems to know whether Alan topped himself, swallowed the stuff by accident or was done in.”

  “We’re simply making a few inquiries at this stage.” Smoothly Barnaby sidestepped the invitation to reveal all. “I understand you knew Mr. Hollingsworth quite well.”

  “Not as well as I thought, obviously.”

  “You refer to the trouble at Penstemon?”

  “What else?”

  “Perhaps you’d like to give me your version of what happened, sir?” said the Chief Inspector.

  “I doubt it’ll vary much from what you’ve heard already.”

  In this Patterson was not quite correct. Although the running order of events and the events themselves departed hardly at all from Burbage’s account, having the background fleshed out added a slightly different gloss. For a start there were an awful lot of “I’s” and “my’s” scattered through the narrative.

  “Am I to understand,” asked Barnaby, “that this project was not a joint effort between yourself and Mr. Hollingsworth?”

  “It certainly wasn’t. I had the idea and I did all the groundwork. Alan’s input was minimal. Naturally the work was financially backed by the company and I was drawing a decent salary. On the other hand, if Celandine took off, the business stood to do very well. And I’d been promised fifty per cent of any money the program brought in.”

  “In writing, sir?”

  “Hah!” It was a savage shout. Bess, alert and concerned, pricked up her soft, black and white triangular ears. “I’d known him for ten years and worked with him for nearly that long. It never occurred to me such a thing would be necessary.”