Free The Burry Man's Day by Catriona McPherson Page B

were with him earlier in the day, sir, he said nothing about these misgivings?’
    ‘Not a word,’ said Cad. ‘That’s a curious thing now that you mention it, Inspector. Why would he not?’
    ‘Perhaps looking for an opening and not finding it?’ I suggested. This would be absolutely up my street, I was sure – spending an hour with a person I had to tell something to and funking it completely so that I had to summon twice as much courage, pay a special visit and blurt it out standing on the carpet twisting my hat.
    ‘No, that wasn’t it,’ said Cadwallader, ‘because I was joking about it with him. We were up on the roof, as I say, and we could see some of the people still picking the burdock seeds. They’re scarce this year, I believe, but there are some good big clumps of them on my land. They came to ask my permission and all that, and I was delighted to let them.’ A note, not quite petulant, had crept into Cadwallader’s voice. He must have felt such a rush of well-being to be up on his castle roof with his trusted servant watching peasants below picking at the bushes on his say-so. An age-old tradition carrying on thanks to his carpenter, his bushes and his magnanimity must have been more than many Americans ever dream of. How horridly awry it had all gone since. Poor Cad.
    ‘Anyway, I was joking with Dudgeon about it,’ he said. ‘Shouting down to them to be careful to get only the prickliest ones, and Dudgeon laughed and said there wasn’t much to choose between one burr and another and besides he was used to it.’
    ‘So at that point – when would this be, sir? – at that point he was intending to go ahead.’
    ‘Oh, definitely,’ said Cadwallader. ‘This was just before tea. Three o’clock or something. So whatever it was that made him change his mind happened between then and seven when he came back to tell me the thing was off.’
    This was a puzzle to be sure, but who could say whether it had anything to do with what had happened at the greasy pole? Inspector Cruickshank appeared to be thinking along similar lines to me, because he rolled the thought around for a minute or two, glancing at the constable to make sure the man was getting it all down in his notebook, then he seemed to shake it out of his head and he returned to business with an expressive sniff.
    ‘Well, we’ll see, we’ll see,’ he said. ‘Meantime, Mrs de Cassilis, would you be so kind as to pop along to Mrs Dudgeon’s house and explain.’ Buttercup nodded; the same hopelessness which meant she would rather die than do it also meant she had no idea how to wriggle out of it. Or so I thought.
    ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Dandy and I will go together.’ I did not even bother to protest.
    ‘We must take something,’ I said ten minutes later, standing in my petticoats in Buttercup’s bedroom, as we tried to divide what black clothes she had between us. ‘Oh, heavenly!’ I exclaimed, falling upon a figured silk tea dress in black with the merest hint of purple. Buttercup had already bagged the only black skirt in her collection that did not look like a coal sack.
    ‘Purple roses, Dandy, be serious,’ said Buttercup, rootling through dark blouses. I took the silk frock over to the window and looked at it in the light. The figuring was roses, I could see now, but I was not going to give it up without a struggle.
    ‘Purple is perfectly funereal,’ I said. ‘And it’s so deep as to be practically black upon black anyway, and in the twilight, and in a cottage -' There was a sharp rap at the door which made Buttercup jump and drop what she was holding, but which I recognized with long experience as Grant.
    She marched in, holding over one arm a black linen frock with bottle green ribbon-threading and carrying a bottle green small-brimmed hat and black kid shoes in the other hand. I did not recognize any of them.
    ‘Your mourning, madam,’ she said, depositing them on Buttercup’s bed and whisking the figured