They Died in the Spring

by Josephine Pullein-Thompson

  “No, the Colonel was most particular about the fences.”

  “What did you do when Colonel Barclay had gone out?” asked Flecker.

  “I fed the dogs and then I prepared the vegetables and put everything ready for dinner.”

  “And then?”

  Mary Barclay looked as though she was going to object to this cross-examination, but then she changed her mind and answered quite meekly. “I went upstairs and tidied myself a little, then I sat down to some sewing. I put the wireless on; I’d missed the news and I didn’t want the sports news, but I found some music on the Light Programme and there I sat until twenty minutes to eight, when I went into the kitchen to put the vegetables on and heat the soup.”

  “You didn’t go out at all, not even to shut up chickens?”

  “No, we’ve no livestock at the house apart from the dogs and cats.”

  “No one came to see you?”

  “No.”

  “Or delivered anything?”

  “Hardly, on a Saturday night.”

  “What about telephoning? Did you ring anyone or did anyone ring you?”

  “Oh yes, now, I did have a telephone call. Mrs. Garfield, an old friend of mine who lives in Bretford, rang me; it must have been somewhere about six, I think, because it was she, I believe, who made me miss the news.”

  Browning took down Mrs. Garfield’s address and then Flecker went on with his questions. “What time did you begin to worry,” he asked, “about the Colonel’s late return?”

  “Not until eight. It was quite probable that he’d called to see our daughter or the Rector or stopped at the Carpenter’s Arms for a drink and chat, but it wasn’t like him to be even a few moments late for dinner without letting me know. At eight-thirty I telephoned my daughter and then Rawlings at the Carpenter’s Arms, but neither of them had seen anything of the Colonel. When there was still no sign of him at nine o’clock, I became really worried; I telephoned my son and told him to arrange a search party.”

  “And you know of no reason why anyone should murder Colonel Barclay?” asked Flecker.

  “None whatsoever,” answered Mary Barclay firmly. “In fact, now that Miss Schmidt has been found, I should have thought that it was obviously the work of one of these maniacs they allow to wander in and out of mental homes with no consideration for ordinary people. I don’t agree with this modern idea that criminals and madmen must be allowed to roam about doing just as they please and we must all put up with being coshed on the head; it’s the normal people who are important, not the mad ones.”

  “I’m with you there, madam,” said Browning. “They may not be able to help themselves, but in the public interest they should be put away where they can’t do any harm. The chief inspector wouldn’t agree with us though, he’s all for penal reform.”

  “The chief inspector is obsessed with the thought of ‘There but for the grace of God go I,’” said Flecker. “What sort of girl was Miss Schmidt, Mrs. Barclay?”

  “I didn’t care for her,” answered Mary Barclay frankly. “She was rather a greasy young woman, if you know what I mean. But she seemed to suit my daughter; they muddled along doing the work between them. Things aren’t what they were. If you have a properly trained nanny she expects a cook, and who can afford that nowadays? Of course the children’s manners suffer; they’re not brought up as they used to be, no one has the time, but such as she was, Hilda seemed satisfactory.”

  Flecker scuffled in his envelopes, and then asked his question about the five one-pound notes, but Mary Barclay had heard nothing of a present, tip or cash payment.

  “What about letters?” asked Flecker. “Have you heard anything about a threatening letter or had he had any that seemed to annoy or disturb him in any way?”

  “I’ve never heard anything about a threatening letter, but from time to time the Colonel had letters which annoyed him; usually it was something like the corn merchant’s account—imported feeding stuffs are very expensive.”

  “But not the sort of letter he would crumple up in a dudgeon and throw into the waste-paper basket?”

  “No. He always opened his post at breakfast, but then he would take it to his writing bureau in the drawing room, so I’m afraid I wouldn’t know what he threw away.”

  “Who put the letters on the breakfast table?”

  “Lately that’s been another of my tasks.”

  “And for the last day or two before the Colonel’s death, did you notice any odd or unusual letters?”

  “He always had a great many,” answered Mary Barclay thoughtfully. “Most of them were to do with the committees he served on; they came in long envelopes with a typewritten address. He had one or two in a very uneducated hand lately, but that wasn’t really unusual; it might easily have been a farm worker applying for a job. Some of them are very intelligent and others can scarcely sign their names.”

  “Had he advertised for a farm labourer lately?”

  “No, I don’t think so; he hadn’t mentioned it to me.”

  “Did he ever burn letters?”

  “Yes, sometimes. He had a theory that the dustbin men let letters blow about the village. Sometimes he burned the contents of the waste-paper basket in the boiler.”

  “And what about this Mr. Harris at Well Cottage? Did Colonel Barclay discuss his behaviour with you at all?”

  “No, what I knew about that business I learned from my son.”

  “Did he think the Colonel was behaving reasonably?”

  “Not altogether. I think he felt that it was reasonable to sell off the cottage, but he thought that Harris should have been given longer notice—something like that. But then my son doesn’t like to antagonize anyone; he goes too far the other way.”

  “Can you shoot?”

  “No, in my young days women weren’t encouraged to. Not that I ever felt the smallest inclination to try.”

  “Well, thank you very much,” said Flecker, getting to his feet. Browning opened the door and three dogs, two roan and white springer spaniels and a black labrador, came bursting in. They flung themselves with wagging tails and welcoming mien upon the detectives. Browning made encouraging noises and Flecker, patting whatever portion of squirming dog presented itself, observed, “Well, these chaps don’t seem to have tired of their mankind-loving chore.”

  “They’re my husband’s dogs,” explained Mary Barclay. “They’re feeling rather lost.”

  Flecker straightened up and looked at her. “Are they trained gun dogs?” he asked.

  “Yes, there’s a very good man over at Highfield—a Captain Carstairs, the Colonel always sent his dogs to him.”

  “But if Colonel Barclay was going shooting on Saturday evening, why didn’t he take a dog with him?”

  Mary Barclay looked surprised. “Yes, I never thought of that,” she said. “It does seem strange.”

  “There was probably a reason,” said Flecker thoughtfully. “Oh yes, of course, you were just going to feed them, that was why.” He seemed disappointed.

  “No, that wouldn’t have made any difference. I should just have put the dinners on one side until they came back. He often did take them out after tea in the summer. I can’t understand it; he always took the dogs.” She stood with a perplexed expression on her face.

  “Don’t worry,” Flecker told her; “that’s our job, but if any other oddities occur to you, let us know. Inspector Miller will always pass on a message. Now, might we see your daughter-in-law?”

  In her last year at school, blue-eyed Jean Barclay’s appearance had been the envy of all her contemporaries. Her lithe figure, high-coloured complexion, and naturally curly hair had set her apart from her pale-faced, red-nosed, straight-haired, puppy-fat-afflicted companions, but release had brought them make-up and hair-do’s and foundation garments and poise and turned the tables, for Jean, content with her looks, had left them alone. Marriage and the passing of a decade had failed to change her, the girl who bounced into the dining-room might easily have been c
aptain of hockey, save for a few lines and a slightly weather-beaten look.

  “Into the lions’ den,” she said, and giggled self-consciously.

  Flecker introduced himself and Browning.

  “I hope we’re not bothering you at a terribly inconvenient time,” he said, “because I expect you’re very busy.”

  “Things have been a bit chaotic,” admitted Jean, “but they’re more or less under control now. The horse is done, the dogs, both ours and visiting, are fed, the supper’s under way. I can’t resort to baked beans on toast with my mother-in-law in the house.”

  “Why not?” asked Flecker. “They’re the height of culinary achievement so far as I’m concerned, and the sole alternative to bacon and eggs.”

  “You’ll end up with a duodenal,” grumbled Browning.

  “It isn’t cooking that gives you ulcers, it’s fussing,” Jean Barclay told him. “Bothering about every speck of dust or worrying about bills, that sort of thing. I don’t know why people do it; life’s too short.”

  “Business,” said Flecker firmly. “First of all, Mrs. Barclay, had you heard that there were rabbits about again?”

  “No,” Jean answered without hesitation. “I haven’t seen any since that beastly myxomatosis.” She shuddered. “I’m not squeamish, but the sights one saw; hacking round the lanes was a misery; you couldn’t keep dismounting to finish them off.”

  “Germ warfare with a vengeance,” said Flecker.

  “Yes, exactly. And now it’s died down, they’ve banned spreading it, but the poor wretched animals that have become resistant to it have got to be gassed.”

  “What Hitler did to the Jews we do to the rabbits,” remarked Flecker. “Can any policy of extermination be justified? I don’t know.”

  “It was them or us,” said Browning. “Spreading myxomatosis wasn’t a very nice idea, but gassing’s humane enough.”

  “Life to be sure is nothing much to lose, but then it’s simpler for rabbits; they don’t get bogged down with ethics and morals and guilt complexes; probably it’s a greater loss to them,” observed Flecker.

  Jean giggled. “I’d like to see a rabbit with a guilt complex. It sounds like Beatrix Potter.”

  “What sort of girl was Miss Schmidt?” asked Flecker, who felt that they had strayed far enough.

  “Hilda? Oh, she was all right. I wouldn’t want a foreign girl myself; it’s such a bore having them around all the time. I manage with a daily twice a week, but Veronica’s got three infants, I see her point.”

  “This partnership between your husband and father-in-law must have been a bit of a strain at times,” said Flecker, feeling rather ashamed of his tactics, “but I suppose your husband could always have contracted out?”

  “Father could be a bit trying,” admitted Jean, “but Paul’s a very accommodating sort of person and since they each ran one farm, things have been much easier.”

  “On Saturday you rode in some hunter trials,” said Flecker, turning out his pockets in search of an envelope. “What did you do when you got back?”

  “Oh, you want my movements?” She looked pleased and self-important. “I haven’t got an alibi for the time of the murder, though,” she added with a giggle.

  “What was the time of the murder?” asked Flecker.

  “About a minute past six when Daphne Mullins heard the shot,” Jean answered. “The whole village knows that.”

  “Well, go on,” said Flecker. “Let’s have your ‘movements’.”

  “First of all I unboxed the horse, that’s obvious. Paul put the trailer away and I rubbed Tavvy down. His real name is Traveller’s Joy, but it’s a bit of a mouthful. Anyway, I rubbed him down and rugged him up and watered him. Then I gave him his feed and filled his hay-net and came indoors. Paul had already gone, so I changed into slacks and had a nice peaceful tea with the newspaper propped against the teapot. After tea, I decided that the tack could stay dirty until Sunday, but I peeled the spuds for supper and then I cleaned the bath; rather on the spur of the moment, it was looking pretty frightful. And then I went back to the newspapers and Horse and Hound kept me busy until Paul came in.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Oh, about half-past seven, I believe.”

  “Why didn’t you go out to tea with your in-laws?” asked Flecker.

  “Well, does anybody if they can get out of it?” Jean giggled. “Besides, Paul wanted to see his father; it was a sort of business meeting really and no one would have wanted me shoving my oar in.”

  “I see. And what did you talk about at supper?”

  “Talk about?” Jean seemed surprised. “Gosh, I don’t know. Oh, the Barclays and the farm and the village, I suppose. Oh yes, and Aubrey’s indoor ivy. The children bust up his first lot, but Paul said that he’d got two new plants and you could hardly see out of the sitting-room window.”

  “You didn’t shut up the chickens on Saturday night?”

  “No, it was a bit mean of me, but I felt fagged out and I knew that Paul would look at the first house on his way in.”

  “I suppose it is rather a lengthy chore at the end of the day,” said Flecker.

  “No, actually it doesn’t take long. We collect the eggs at feeding time so it’s only a matter of slamming the hatches. But it’s one of those jobs you dread on a cold winter’s night and so you spend twenty minutes leaning against the Rayburn and wishing you hadn’t got to do it and then, when at last you brace yourself to go, it only takes ten minutes and isn’t half as cold as you thought.”

  “Can you shoot?” asked Flecker.

  “Well, yes, after a fashion. I mean, I can let a gun off, but I don’t usually hit anything. Paul taught me when we were engaged.”

  *

  When Jean Barclay had let the detectives out into the night, which had grown suddenly and mysteriously warmer, she hurried to the kitchen. Mary Barclay was at the sink and, caught in the act of rewashing the spring greens, she took the offensive.

  “I found a snail floating about in them,” she said. “Really, I can’t fancy my food unless I know that it’s been properly washed.”

  “Full of vitamins; after all, the French eat them,” said Paul, trying to introduce a jovial note.

  Jean bent to open the oven. “The joint’s done,” Mary Barclay told her. “I’ve turned the oven down.”

  “Are you sure, Mother?” asked Jean, in a voice full of disbelief. “Paul likes it rather well done.”

  “It’s extravagant to cook meat to nothing, you lose the goodness and it doesn’t go nearly as far. There, I’ve washed the greens for you. Now, I always like to cook them in a very little water and plenty of salt.”

  Jean looked desperately at her husband. “What about a drink?” she asked.

  “Yes, come on, Mother, we all need reviving; let’s go into the other room.”

  “What did you think of the detectives?” asked Jean, when they were sitting round the wood fire with glasses in their hands. “I was rather disappointed. The Chief Inspector was quite nice, but so ordinary. He didn’t have piercing eyes or make rapid deductions or anything. He just talked about baked beans and rabbits and chickens, though he did ask me if I could shoot.”

  “He talked to me about rabbits and chicken,” said Paul, a worried frown upon his face. “I wonder what he’s getting at. Still, one thing, he doesn’t keep moaning about our having destroyed the evidence like Inspector Sims.”

  “I cannot understand them,” Mrs. Barclay spoke with asperity. “The time they waste asking us the most trivial questions when it’s perfectly obvious that we’re none of us homicidal maniacs. Why don’t they go and look for a maniac in the back streets of Crossley, where that class of person lives?”

  “Because they don’t think Father and Hilda were killed by a maniac,” Paul told her. “They think the murderer is a member of the family or someone in the village, and they’re trying to find out which of us have motives. And I’ve the best motive,” he said, suddenly allowing his dejection
to show itself; “and, if they find out about that row I had with Father, I shall be for it.”

  “Really, Paul, you’re simply dramatizing yourself,” Mary Barclay said sharply. “What do you know about police work? As for that quarrel with your father, it was a family matter and there’s not the slightest need to mention it to the police . . .”

  *

  Browning had driven to Winmore End without daring to break the thoughtful silence which surrounded his chief, but as the car stopped outside the Old Forge, Flecker came to life. “Well, has the worm turned?” he asked. “Is that most accommodating Mr. Paul Barclay our man? Or do you see Mrs. B senior in the character of Lady Macbeth?”

  “What, that nice old lady go round shooting and clubbing people?” said Browning indignantly. “Now I was just thinking that she was a proper old-fashioned sort—a real lady of the manor; you don’t meet many of them nowadays.”

  “You pillar of the establishment!” said Flecker, climbing out of the car. “I bet she leads her daughter-in-law a life.”

  The Old Forge, a rough conversion of two cottages and the forge itself, was a long, white-washed building with an uneven tiled roof and blue paintwork; there was a charm about its simplicity that had been apparent even in the headlights of the car.

  “Too rambling for you,” said Flecker to Browning, as they waited on the doorstep. “You like the picture-postcard type.”

  “A prefab is all I shall get,” said Browning gloomily, “unless they do something about police pay.”

  *

  Veronica Sinclair opened the door and stood, looking unco-operative, harassed and very tired. Her raven-dark, collar-length hair was tangled, her nose shone, her slim figure was shapeless in an old tweed skirt, one of her husband’s jerseys and an unbecoming pinafore.

  “More police,” she said tonelessly, when Flecker explained their presence. “And it’s just like the Bretfordshire police to send for Scotland Yard now that Hilda’s dead as well as my father and it’s too late. They wouldn’t even try to find her before, they only mumbled about the usual channels and went on taking up all the wretched housewives who’d just left their cars for a minute on the wrong side of the High Street. My husband’s not back yet,” she added, as though his absence was an unassailable obstacle to letting the police in.