They Died in the Spring

by Josephine Pullein-Thompson

  “Oh, I don’t think there’s much doubt about that, Mr. Barclay; I suppose it came as a great shock to you all?”

  “Yes, it still seems incredible.”

  “I take it, then, that you know of no reason for Colonel Barclay’s death? There’d been no quarrel; no one had threatened him or anything of that sort?”

  “No, it’s a complete mystery to me.”

  “I understand that it was Mrs. Barclay who first realized that something was amiss and organized the search party.”

  “Yes, that’s right; she telephoned me about nine,” Paul answered. “She told me father hadn’t come home to dinner and, as he was always a very punctual person, she was worried. She said he’d taken a gun and gone off across the fields and did I think there could have been an accident? I said . . .”

  Sims had just looked at his watch and realized that time was flying and that Monday was the night the Bretford drama group met for rehearsal. “Superintendent Gage be damned,” Molly had said, “you’ve got to be home by seven.”

  “You agreed to join the search party,” he interrupted Paul Barclay, “and Police-Constable Random, your brother-in-law Mr. Sinclair, Mr. Mullins, Mr. Trent and Mr. Harris composed the rest of the party.”

  “That’s right; we started from the village and we divided into couples so that one could stay with my father and the other fetch help if it was needed and . . .”

  “You and Mr. Kenneth Mullins found the body?”

  “Yes. Mullins is one of our tractor drivers. When we found the body, I sent him to fetch Random.”

  “Who, unfortunately, failed to appreciate the gravity of the situation,” said Sims. “Now, Mr. Barclay, I have Random’s report on the position of the body, but I understand that you had moved it before he arrived on the scene.”

  “Well, yes, I had. Rather naturally, I wanted to know whether my father was dead or alive, so Mullins gave me a hand and we turned him over on his back; that was all, for it was obvious then that he was dead.” Barclay went a shade paler at the memory.

  “According to Random, the gun was lying a little to the right of the body. Had you moved it?”

  “I had picked it up, yes. While Mullins was fetching Random, I tried to work out what could have happened, and the first thing that occurred to me was that the safety catch on the gun might be faulty. You see, my father was rather a stickler for safety precautions, so it seemed odd that he should have had an accident of that sort. Anyway, I broke the gun and found that both barrels had been fired and there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with the safety catch. Then I put the gun back where I had found it for Random to see; afterwards he took charge of it and the empty cartridge cases, for we realized there would have to be an inquest.”

  Sims sighed. “It’s all very difficult,” he complained. “In the general way one would expect to find something at the scene of the crime which would indicate the next step, but here we have virtually nothing to work on.”

  “Yes, I quite see that we shouldn’t have moved my father’s body or handled the gun,” said Barclay apologetically; “but of course at the time we had absolutely no idea he’d been murdered; the thought simply didn’t enter our heads; I mean, it isn’t exactly the sort of thing you expect, is it?”

  Sims looked at his watch again. “Well, Mr. Barclay,” he said, “there it is, but you appreciate that I’m working under difficulties. Now we’d better hear how you spent Saturday evening, and then I won’t detain you any longer.”

  “Oh Lord, what did I do? I hope I can remember.” Barclay’s voice sounded a little strained. “Let’s see, I was here to tea; I don’t quite know what time I left, but it was before my father went out. I mean, he was still here. I drove down to the village to see my sister and her husband, and then I went home to Shepherd’s Hill to dinner. Later, of course, I came back to look for my father.”

  “At what time did you leave your sister’s house?”

  “Well,” Barclay looked dubious, “I suppose I must have left here about five and then I must have spent rather more than an hour with Aubrey and Veronica before driving home. Then I put the car away, shut up the chickens and so on; I was indoors about seven-thirty, as far as I remember.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Barclay. Now I should like a few words with Mrs. Barclay senior, if that’s possible.”

  “Right you are, I’ll fetch her, but I may as well warn you, she refuses to believe that my father was murdered. Perhaps you’ll be able to convince her, I couldn’t.” He went out into the hall and called, “Ma.”

  Despite the fact that she was shabbily dressed in an old grey skirt and a grey cardigan that had been darned, and had a black smear across her face, Sims found Mary Barclay intimidating. She thought him a poor-looking specimen and attempted to seize the initiative from the start. “Good afternoon,” she said, looking from Finch to Sims. “I hope that you don’t subscribe to this ridiculous theory that Colonel Barclay was murdered?”

  “Well, Mrs. Barclay,” answered Sims, forcing a smile, “I’m approaching the matter with an open mind, but my orders are to investigate the Colonel’s death as if it were murder. So, of course, I shall carry them out. Then if it turns out to have been an accident after all, well, there’ll be no harm done, will there?”

  “No, I suppose not, though it seems a ridiculous waste of time.”

  “Well, now, Mrs. Barclay, assuming that the unlikely had occurred and that Colonel Barclay was murdered, would you be able to throw any light on the matter? Can you think of anyone at all who had quarrelled with the colonel, anyone who bore him a grudge or who might have profited by his death?”

  “No, if it wasn’t an accident it must have been the work of these maniacs who are allowed to wander about.”

  Sims shook his head regretfully. “I don’t think we shall find that it was the work of a maniac,” he said. “But, looking back, did Colonel Barclay seem much as usual on Saturday?”

  “Yes, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary; he seemed in very good spirits.”

  “There’d been no difference of opinion within the family circle?”

  “No—well, nothing of importance. There’d been a good deal of discussion about the village cricket field, and an argument as to whether deep-litter poultry paid or not, but nothing serious.”

  “And the Colonel’s will, is that in order?”

  “Oh yes, I believe so. The arrangement was that our daughter, Veronica, would have her cottage and Paul the farms, and everything else would be mine for life. Then, when that was divided, Veronica would have the larger share.”

  “And the family knew all about this?”

  “Yes, it was arranged when my husband and son went into partnership over the farms.”

  “I see. Well now, Mrs. Barclay, perhaps you would tell me what you can remember of the Colonel’s movements on Saturday, prior to his going shooting?”

  “He was out all morning, somewhere about the farm, I think. After lunch he wrote some letters and then he settled down with The Times; later on I noticed that he had dropped off. My son came to tea, I expect he told you that. He left soon after five and about twenty minutes later my husband said that he was going to see if there was any truth in the rumour that the rabbits were back—they all died out, you know, with that horrible myxomatosis. That was the last time I saw my husband . . .” There was a tremor in Mary Barclay’s voice and for a moment or two she avoided the Inspector’s eye. Sims looked anxiously at his watch and then Paul Barclay’s head appeared round the door.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but Inspector Miller from Crossley is on the telephone.”

  “Take it, Finch, will you?” asked Sims. “Perhaps there’s been a helpful development of some sort.” He was almost praying that this would be no new complication to keep him out; it was nearly six now and the trip back to Bretford couldn’t really be done in much less than forty minutes. He got to his feet, wound on his scarf and buttoned up his raincoat. “Well, thank you, Mrs. Bar
clay,” he said, “and I understand that you’ll be at your son’s house should I need any further information?”

  “Yes,” agreed Mary Barclay, “I shall stay at Shepherd’s Hill for a few days.”

  “A young German woman, Miss Hilda Schmidt, reported missing, sir,” said Finch, coming to the drawing-room door. “Inspector Miller thought it might have some bearing on our case, seeing that she works as a home help for Mrs. Sinclair and she was last seen about five o’clock on Saturday.”

  “Are they dealing with the matter through the usual channels?” asked Sims, as he glanced at his watch.

  “Yes, he said they were making the usual enquiries but it seemed to him that he’d better turn it over to us.”

  “Passing the buck, eh?” observed Sims with forced humour. “Well, I think we’ll let the usual channels take care of it for a day or two; these foreign girls disappear and reappear with great frequency and we’ve got our hands full already.”

  “My daughter seemed rather worried when she telephoned me this morning,” said Mary Barclay. “She expected Hilda back at breakfast time; apparently the girl has friends in London and when she goes up to see them at the weekend she always comes back first thing Monday morning.”

  “In fact she’s not twenty-four hours overdue yet?” observed Sims. “Oh, well, I don’t think we need worry our heads about that. Anyway, Mrs. Barclay, I’m just going round there now, I’ve a couple of questions to ask Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, so I’ll point out to her that the big city has caused many a young woman to kick over the traces.”

  “Yes,” agreed Mary Barclay, “and Hilda was just that sort.”

  “I don’t want to spend more than a few minutes here,” Sims confided to Finch as they drove up the gravel track at the side of the green and stopped outside the Old Forge. “It’s the wife’s night out.” But, as he looked at his watch, he admitted to himself that he was never going to make Bretford by seven. It was Molly’s own fault, he thought querulously; if she hadn’t been so bitchy to old Mrs. Parker they’d have had a baby-sitter. How could he be expected to do his job properly when all the time he was dreading getting home and finding Molly in one of her raging tempers?

  Aubrey Sinclair, who commuted from Crossley, leaving home at eight-fifteen every morning, was not yet back, but Veronica opened the door to the detectives. She had just put the children to bed and from upstairs came a mournful wailing, occasionally drowned by screams of fury; Sims, whose explanation that they were police officers coincided with one of the screams, had to raise his voice to be heard.

  “Oh, well, do come in,” said Veronica, trying ineffectually to clear a path through the toy-strewn hall. “Do sit down,” she said, ushering them into the sitting-room. “I’m afraid everything’s in a terrible muddle,” she added as she collected apple cores and a squashed sponge cake from the table. “You see, not having Hilda—Miss Schmidt—makes everything dreadfully difficult. I suppose you haven’t any news of her yet?”

  “Well, no, Mrs. Sinclair, but it’s early days yet to expect information; these investigations take time. But I wouldn’t worry, it’s a fairly frequent occurrence for a girl to lose herself in London, you know, and they’re not always too pleased when we catch up with them.”

  “You don’t think Hilda’s disappearance has anything to do with my father’s death, then?”

  “I think it’s far too early to assume that it has.”

  “I don’t agree with you,” Veronica said vehemently. “I have a horrible feeling that something has happened to her.”

  Sims looked at his watch. “Well, Mrs. Sinclair, I’m afraid that we can’t take ‘feelings’ into account in police work, and if we worried our heads over every young woman who disappeared for a few days we’d never get our other work done.”

  “But you don’t know Hilda,” objected Veronica. “If she’d wanted to stay she’d have telephoned; she’s very reliable in that sort of way, that’s why I’m so worried.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Mrs. Sinclair, but I simply cannot spare the time to discuss this matter further.” Desperation made Sims speak sharply. “I can only assure you that it is being dealt with through the usual channels. Now, I’ve one or two questions to ask you about Colonel Barclay: first of all, do you know of any incident which might have led to his death? Have you heard of a quarrel, someone bearing him a grudge, anything of that sort—”

  “No,” said Veronica, unhelpful now that she had been crushed.

  “And prior to his death, did your father seem in his usual state of mind?”

  “Yes, I think so, but I hadn’t seen him for several days.”

  “Did you see him on Saturday?”

  “No.” Veronica shook her head.

  “I understand that your brother, Mr. Paul Barclay, came to see you in the course of Saturday afternoon.”

  “Yes, Paul came over.”

  “For how long did he stay?”

  “Oh dear.” Veronica’s brown eyes looked troubled as she searched her memory. “Well, he was still here when Mrs. Willis came about the stuff for the jumble sale. I think he went when I was putting the babies to bed; that would be about six.”

  “And your husband?” asked Sims. “Was he at home that evening?”

  “Yes, Aubrey was here all evening. You see, when Hilda’s out we have to baby-sit and what with Simon’s turn being upset, William teething and Lucy howling in sisterly sympathy, we were kept busy.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair. Well, I expect I shall be along sometime to see your husband,” said Sims, and hurried for the door.

  Outside on the green the wind was blowing in gale-force gusts, but at least the roads would be dry, thought Sims. Not that there was any hope now of reaching Bretford by seven, but if he got Finch to drop him off at home, Molly wouldn’t be so very late for her meeting.

  Veronica shut the door behind the detectives and then picked her way across the toy-strewn hall to the telephone. Lifting the receiver, she dialled the number of Crossley police station and asked for news of Hilda.

  Chapter Three

  On Tuesday morning Detective-Inspector Sims was a dismal companion. A conference with his superiors, white-haired, urbanely condescending Detective-Superintendent Gage and the Chief Constable, George Dobson, in one of his notorious plain-speaking moods, had added resentment to a state of nervous exhaustion. He was suffering from the aftermath of a night made hideous by Molly Sims’ tantrums—she had arrived at rehearsal twenty minutes late and found an ambitious understudy making the most of her absence.

  Detective-Sergeant Finch, having received no answer to his pleasantry on the weather and three querulous observations on his driving before they were out of Brentford, drove the rest of the way to Winmore End in silence.

  It wasn’t fair to complain of lack of progress, thought Sims fretfully; he’d only been on the case half a day and, with every scrap of evidence destroyed by the search party, it could hardly be called plain sailing. Of course he knew what they were getting at; they expected him to stay on the job until nine or ten at night, but how could he with Molly kicking up such a rumpus? She’d be to blame if he never got any further, he thought rancorously.

  Finch drove through Winmore End, past The Paddocks and then turned off to the left. They jolted along the stony, rutted surface of Clint’s Lane until they reached the Barclay’s home farm and there they climbed out of the car reluctantly and faced the biting wind. With one accord they hurried for the shelter of the farm buildings and looked about them in the comparative warmth of the yard; the place seemed deserted. “Better take a walk round,” said Sims.

  The cow byre, cold, wet and institutional-looking, was empty; beyond it, half a dozen calves penned in an open shed slowed the tempo of their munching and observed the detectives with large blank liquid eyes; everywhere the pungent odour of pig warred with the warm sweet smell of meadow hay. Then they heard metallic sounds coming from beyond the barn and, making their way through, they came upon an implement shed, and
a young man in a boiler suit working on the engine of a tractor. As Sims approached, he looked up, revealing curly hair, a flat, ingenuous face and three long furrowed lines across his brow, which gave him a perpetually puzzled expression. “If you’re selling anything, mate,” he called in friendly tones, “this ain’t the time for it. We’ve ’ad a murder and we’re all at sixes and sevens.”

  “I know. I am the police officer in charge of the case.”

  “Cor, a copper, are you? Funny thing now, I’d never ’ave taken you for a copper.” He straightened up, pushed his cap further to the back of his head and looked at Sims with interest. “No,” he said again, “I’d never ’ave taken you for a copper. Now a traveller, yes. ’E’s selling seeds or cattle drenches or fertilizers, that’s what went through my ’ead, and we don’t want none at the moment, not with the colonel dead.”

  “Well, never mind about that,” said Sims shortly. “I’m here to see a Mr. Kenneth Mullins.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place, any ’ow. Ken Mullins, that’s me.”

  “Good. Well now, Mr. Mullins, I understand that you were with Mr. Paul Barclay when he found Colonel Barclay’s body?”

  “That’s right, ’orrible sight it was,” Mullins said, recollecting with relish. “There was a great ’ole in ’is stomach, Mr. Paul was a terrible colour when ’e saw it. Sort of green, ’e went. Fair turned ’im up, you could see. It didn’t worry me, though,” he added complacently. “Nothing upsets me.”

  “I understand that Mr. Barclay moved the body,” said Sims.

  “That’s right. The Colonel was lying there on ’is face, you see. ‘’Ere, give us a ’and,’ Mr. Paul says to me and turned ’im over; then ye could see ’e’d ’ad ’is chips . . .”

  “And Mr. Barclay sent you to find Police-Constable Random?” asked Sims.

  “Well, ’e stood there a minute or two—green as grass, ’e was—and then ’e said, ‘God, ’e’s dead!’ a couple of times and then ’e seemed to come to. ‘Go and find the others,’ ’e said to me, ‘quick as you can—’”