Chapter Eleven

"That's very good, Joyce," said Betty, re-arranging the lilies in Joyce's vase and removing some wilting carnations. "What you have to do is look at it from a distance, like a work of art." She retreated halfway down the hall and peered at Joyce's offering. "Visualize it as a semi-sphere, dear."

"I'll never be as good as you, Betty," said Joyce, "there's such a lot you can do. Flower-arranging, singing – "

"Oh, you're thinking of Fleur," said Betty, inserting some more greenery into the vase. "She's very good – but, oh dear, her mother has such high expectations!"

"What about the latest murder?" asked Joyce, her eyes shining.

"Has there been another one, dear?" asked Betty, poking at some of the shorter-stemmed roses.

"Duncan Slofield! Tom was called round there yesterday afternoon. Fleur found him."

Betty Bootle continued poking at the display and said rather quietly "I really am worried about that girl's state of mind." She turned round to face Joyce. "I suppose you know she was adopted?"

"Adopted?"

Betty pulled up a chair and said "They keep it quiet. But Violet couldn't have children. Violet and I go back a long way."

"I did think there was rather an age difference," said Joyce.

"They were all adopted," said Betty. "Ellie was the first – and she's turned out rather well. Then they adopted Trixie, although she was older."

"Quite a handful, I should think."

"You never can tell when you don't know who the parents are," said Betty, going over to the sink in the corner and filling a fresh vase with water. "Years later, after Trixie had rejected them, they adopted Fleur. A sort of consolation prize."

"Oh, but Fleur is so clever!"

"Yes – " said Betty doubtfully and then sat down. "You see, Joyce, they are both highly-strung. Fleur and Violet. They are alike in that way. I really do wonder what these murders are going to do to their minds."

"Tom will sort it out," said Joyce.

"Tom – yes – he's going to pick you up, isn't he?"

"He should be here any minute." Joyce looked out of the window.

"It must be so exciting having a detective as one's husband!" said Betty.

"Exciting isn't the word," said Joyce. "He's never satisfied if there isn't a murder or two to solve."

At that moment they heard the solid clunk! of the car door as Tom got out of the black Jaguar and walked into the church hall. "Betty!" he said, "I hear you've been performing miracles!"

"Well, we aren't Constance Spry," said Betty modestly, "but we do our best."

"Betty's been telling me that all the Braithwaite girls were adopted," said Joyce excitedly.

"Really?" Tom turned to the miracle-worker. "What else do you know about the Braithwaites, Miss Bootle?"

"Oh, nothing much," said Betty, looking at her feet.

"Betty can teach flower-arranging – and singing!" said Joyce.

"Were you a music teacher?" asked Tom.

"I was all sorts of things," said Betty. "My main job when I was younger was as a midwife."

"A midwife? I bet you know a lot of family secrets, then?"

"It's all so different now. When I was working nobody ever asked about it. Now they all want to know everything."

"Indeed they do," said Tom as he escorted his wife outside.

. . .

. . .

. . .

"What do you mean, he can't see me?" stormed Barnaby.

"He's in Newmarket, sir."

"The home of horse racing. What is Jocelyn doing there?"

"I don't know, sir," said Jones, "but his secretary says he sends his regards."

"His regards!" Barnaby recalled the ancient solicitor who had made a fortune out of proving the wills of several wealthy Midsomer residents who had died unexpectedly. Must be over ninety by now, he thought. "What about his son?"

"Mr Jocelyn junior is abroad at the moment," said Jones. "But he will be happy to see you tomorrow afternoon."

Barnaby started to walk out of the office in disgust.

"There's another message, sir. Sir Richard Braithwaite has asked you to call at the Old Hall this evening."

"Is that it?" Barnaby turned round.

"He didn't say anything else, except that he had to talk to you in confidence."

"Well, thank you, Jones, I will talk to him in confidence - depending on what he says."

"Yes, sir."

"In the meantime, find out if there are any convents within a ten mile radius of Fletcher's Cross."

"Yes, sir."

"And while you're at it," continued Barnaby, "go to every butcher's shop in Causton and see if they have rented rooms upstairs. If they do, try to find Trixie Braithwaite."

"Yes, sir." Jones put his head in his hands.

. . .

. . .

. . .

"Ah, Inspector!" said Dickie as Tom was ushered into the sitting-room of the Old Hall later that evening. "Can I get you a gin and tonic?"

"Thank you, Sir Richard, but this is business."

"Yes – of course. The thing is, Barnaby, I played a game of croquet with Ernie Fish this afternoon. Beat me hollow, I'm afraid to say."

"Yes, sir?"

"Well – I noticed that one of the mallets is missing – or rather, Ernie noticed it. He pointed it out to me. There are four in a set, but today there are only three."

"Can you show me one of these mallets, sir?"

"Of course. Follow me." Dickie led the way outside and to a small wooden shed below the croquet-lawn and above the pond. "Here." He extracted a mallet and passed it to Tom, who noted the perfectly circular head and long handle. He weighed it in his hand and judged it to be about three pounds.

"Was nothing else taken, Sir Richard?"

"No. Not so far as I know. Most of the stuff in this shed is complete junk."

"And it was gone by – when?"

"Before two-thirty this afternoon. That's when Fish called round."

Barnaby examined the rusting metal clasp on the door. "Do you not lock this, sir?"

"Hardly worth it," said Dickie.

As they walked back towards the house Tom asked "Why did you call me round to tell me this in confidence?"

"Because of the ladies," said Dickie. "They are very upset by these murders and I don't want them distressed any more by policemen in uniform crawling all over the place."

"How very considerate of you, Sir Richard," said Barnaby. "I take it your wife is still resting upstairs?"

"She is." The two men stopped outside the open French doors of the sitting-room. "To tell you the truth, Barnaby, and I'd be grateful if you would keep this to yourself, my wife is slightly neurotic. She's been like that ever since – well, since Trixie walked out on us."

"Trixie, to whom she did not give birth."

Dickie looked at Barnaby and then at the ground. "Ah. You know about that."

"Why don't you tell me in your own words, Sir Richard?"

Dickie walked into the sitting-room and across to the drinks cabinet, where he poured himself a large gin and tonic. "Violet was desperate to have children. We tried and tried but nothing happened. At last we went to a doctor, a fertility expert in Harley Street. It was her tubes, nothing to do with me." He took a gulp of gin and tonic. "Violet was in tears almost every day. So we adopted. Both Ellie and Trixie had unknown parents and had been placed in a Catholic orphanage near Fletcher's Cross."

"Do you have the address, sir?"

"It closed down years ago. Anyway, we lavished love on them and brought them up the same. Look how Trixie has repaid us."

"Trixie. And you have no idea where she is now?"

"None at all." Dickie took another slurp of gin and tonic.

"What about Fleur, sir?"

"That was later. Violet got broody again after Trixie disappointed us so badly. So we got another one. I really think she would have gone round the bend if it hadn't been for Fleur."

"And did she come from the same orphanage, sir?"

Before Dickie could answer, Mrs Beecham opened the door and announced "The Reverend Henry Chatsworth-Brooke is here to see you, sir."

"Dickie, I hope I'm not intruding," said Henry, entering. He stopped short on seeing Tom in the room. "Inspector Barnaby, isn't it? How fortunate that you are here!"

"Indeed, sir?"

"It was just that – it's probably nothing at all, hardly worth mentioning. But you remember the Open Day?"

"I do."

"It was such a lovely day – bright sunshine, I mean. So spoiled by that poor, unfortunate man… we did pray for him yesterday, didn't we, Dickie?"

"Of course we did," said Dickie.

"Getting back to what you were going to tell us...?" put in Barnaby.

"Oh, yes. Well, as soon as I had lunch I told my wife 'Priscilla,' I said, 'I am going to gather wild flowers for the glory of our Lord.' And so I did. What do you think of that?"

Neither of his listeners made any comment.

"I went out and picked some wild flowers for Betty. She always appreciates wild flowers for the altar. All along here, and up past the church hall, and even beyond the vicarage, grow the most beautiful wild flowers, to the glory of God."

Dickie coughed, remembering the bunch of oxeye daisies that Henry had presented to Miss Bootle on Saturday afternoon. "How does that concern the Inspector?" he asked.

"Oh, not at all, not at all," said Henry. "It's just that I happened to notice somebody in the lane, right by your side-gate, Dickie, that's all."

"Who was it?" asked Dickie.

"I couldn't see the face. I was some way away, near the church hall, but it struck me as odd that this person - and I cannot be absolutely positive as to the sex, Inspector - appeared to be waiting by the side-gate."

"But surely you must have come past this person in order to come into the Old Hall?" suggested Barnaby.

"That was later, Inspector. I'm afraid I was tempted to go further round the corner - away from the church hall – to pick some particularly glorious specimens. And then I looked at my watch, because I didn't want to arrive early at Dickie's do. It was ten past one – that was it, because I went home to pass the time. I offered to help Priscilla with the washing-up. But I think I was the first to arrive, wasn't I, Dickie?"

"You were, Henry," said Dickie.

"And when you came past the side-gate…?" asked Tom.

"By that time – and it must have been just before two o'clock – he, or she, had gone. It really is of no consequence. I just thought I ought to mention it."