The Killings at Badger's Drift Read Online Free PDF Page B

not even sure he had the hat. ‘There’s nothing you can do, Miss Bellringer. I shall ask the police surgeon to have a look at the body. I shall need your permission for that -’
    ‘Of course, of course.’
    ‘If he sees no need to proceed further that will probably mean an end to the matter.’ He had expected her to be downcast at this remark but she nodded with vigorous approval.
    ‘Excellent. Brown’s is the undertaker. Kerridge Street. I’ll write a note.’ She did this quickly, using a broad-nibbed fountain pen filled with Indian ink, and heavy smooth cream paper. She handed him the envelope, saying, ‘I mustn’t keep you. You’ll let me know the outcome? And very well done, Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby.’ Barnaby covered his mouth with his hand and coughed. As they turned towards the door Miss Bellringer picked up one of the photographs in a barbola frame. ‘Here is Emily. She was eighteen then. We’d just started teaching.’
    Barnaby looked at the faded sepia print. It was a studio portrait. Lucy was standing next to a jardinière which held a potted palm. Emily sat on a stool. She was looking straight at the camera. Smooth fair hair coiled into a chignon, wide-apart eyes, her mouth firm. Her calf-length skirt and white blouse looked very crisp. Lucy was smiling broadly. Her bun of hair was lopsided and the hem of her skirt dipped slightly. One hand rested protectively on her friend’s shoulder.
    ‘What did you teach?’ Barnaby handed back the photograph.
    ‘My special subject was music. And Emily’s English. But we taught almost everything else of course. One did in those days.’ She accompanied him to the front door. ‘School’s gone now. Converted into flats. Full of horrible people from London.’
    ‘By the way’ - on the point of leaving Barnaby turned - ‘was your friend ever troubled by mice?’
    ‘Good heavens, no. The place was as clean as a whistle. Emily loathed mice. There were pellets everywhere. Good day to you, Chief Inspector.’

Chapter Three
    ‘I don’t suppose Doctor Bullard’s on the premises?’
    ‘Actually he is, sir,’ replied the desk sergeant. ‘Been giving evidence at an inquest this morning then he went over to Forensic.’
    From behind a glassed-in panel Policewoman Brierly called: ‘I saw him go across the yard for lunch.’
    The canteen lay at the end of a large quadrangle. Everyone at the station moaned endlessly about the food which, to the chief inspector’s tortured palate, seemed positively Lucullan. They should try eating chez Barnaby, he thought, loading up with shepherd’s pie, soggy chips and livid mushy peas. That’d soon shut them up. He added a mincemeat slice and looked round, spotting the doctor alone at a table by the window.
    ‘Hello, Tom,’ said Doctor Bullard. ‘What brings you to these desperate straits?’
    ‘What brings you?’ said Barnaby, sitting down and tucking in.
    ‘My wife’s at her Ikebana class.’
    ‘Ah. I wanted to talk about something, actually.’
    ‘Talk away,’ replied the doctor, pushing aside the wreckage from a devilled haddock and considering a castle pudding.
    ‘An old lady had a fall and was found dead the next morning by the postman. Not, sadly, all that unusual. But she saw something, probably in the woods near her house, the afternoon before that distressed her considerably. So much so that she rang the Samaritans to talk about it but before she could say much someone came to the door. And that’s all we know.’
    ‘So . . . ?’ Doctor Bullard shrugged. ‘Slightly more unusual.’
    ‘I’d like you to have a look at her.’
    ‘Who signed the death certificate?’
    ‘Lessiter. Badger’s Drift.’
    ‘Ohhh . . .’ George Bullard blew out his cheeks and placed the tips of his fingers together. ‘Well, it won’t be the first time I’ve trodden on his hand-made two-tones.’
    ‘What d’you think of him?’
    ‘Come on, Tom - you know better than that.’
    ‘Sorry.’
    ‘God, they