Chapter Seven
Barnaby and Jones arrived at the Old Hall just as Fleur was having a screaming fit. "You don't understand fish, Mummy!" she yelled. "I hate you, I hate you!" and she raced upstairs as Mrs Beecham showed the detectives into the sitting-room.
"I'm so sorry about Fleur," said Violet, who looked amused. "It's her artistic temperament, you know. She thinks the blood in the pond will poison the fish. Will you stay for lunch? I think Mrs Beecham is giving us her excellent roast beef and Yorkshire pudding."
Ben looked at Tom hopefully, but Tom declined. "Thank you, Lady Braithwaite, another time perhaps. Do you happen to know where your daughter, Trixie, is?"
"Nobody ever knows where Trixie is," said Violet, sinking into the recently-steam-cleaned sofa. "She's a law unto herself. So gifted, too. I was certain that she'd make it into RADA and become a great actress. Such a waste of talent. We did everything for her. We bought her a mink coat for her eighteenth birthday, and a flat in Chelsea when she was twenty-one."
"Might she be there now?" asked Jones.
"Oh, no. We sold it when she took up with a painter somewhere in Essex. Lived in a caravan, I believe, like a gypsy. Anyway, I thought she was renting a room in Causton?"
"Do you have the address, Lady Braithwaite?"
"No. Over a butcher's shop, I thought."
"Telephone number?" asked Barnaby.
"Inspector, I don't think you understand. That daughter of mine broke all ties with us years ago. She's a self-willed little madam."
"Then – how did you invite her here?"
"I didn't. Ellie did it for me and made her promise to come. She listens to Ellie, sometimes. But Ellie never tells me where she is, either. At least she's turned out so well, it almost makes up for the black sheep in the family. We're very pleased with Ellie."
"Yesterday you said that you did not recognize the dead man," said Jones. "Does the name 'Mark – Slofield' mean anything to you?"
Both men watched her carefully as she hesitated a moment and then said "No. No, I don't know Mark Slofield."
"We have evidence, Lady Braithwaite, – " began Barnaby.
"Violet," she said quickly. "Do call me Violet."
"We have evidence, Violet, that Trixie was living with Mark Slofield until very recently."
"Well – she could have been – I don't know all her boyfriends. In fact I don't know any of her boyfriends and don't want to."
"Mark Slofield is the name of the man found dead in your pond yesterday."
Barnaby studied the matriarch's face, which showed only shock and horror.
"You don't tell me!" she said. "How dreadful!"
There was a mewing sound as the grey Siamese crept round the half-opened door. "Wishbone knows where Trixie is, don't you, Wishbone?" She picked up the animal and held it in her arms like a trophy. "Wishbone knows who killed that unfortunate man. He could help you, Inspector. If only cats could speak!"
"Lady Braithwaite," said Jones, who felt that the familiarity accorded to his superior did not extend to him, "can you tell us where your husband is?"
Violet laughed. "You'd better look for him up the road in the Horse and Groom," she said. "Mrs Beecham's roast is not to his taste."
They took their leave and exchanged notes. "She can't be telling the truth," said Jones, "and Ellie and David certainly aren't." He then told Barnaby about the phone call he had had from Ellie. "Half a million, that horse is worth, sir. It would be worth killing for that if you'd just lost your job and couldn't pay the bills."
"Could be," said Barnaby. "But it's all too neat and tidy. And anyway, he couldn't keep the horse and the money, could he? And where is Trixie?"
"Perhaps Ellie knows," suggested Jones. "She knew where Trixie was when her mother didn't – apparently."
"Perhaps she does. Now, I'm going to the Horse and Groom to see if I can catch Sir Richard, and you, Jones, I want you to go back to the station and check on Mark Slofield on the database. And any-one else, for that matter. And before you say anything, I know it's Sunday."
"Yes, sir," said Ben with resignation. "Enjoy your drink, sir."
