Читать книгу Cold Light of Day - Emma Page - Страница 8

CHAPTER 4

In the front bedroom at Eastwood Detective Chief Inspector Kelsey stood with his back to the window, looking across at the bed. He was a big, solidly-built man with a freckled face and shrewd green eyes, and a head of thickly-springing carroty hair.

The photographer had gone. The doctor had finished his examination and gone back to Cannonbridge. The body lay with its face decently covered, waiting to be removed to the mortuary. Throughout the house the long and tedious search for fingerprints was under way, the scrutiny of the garden and surrounding area had begun; a door-to-door inquiry would shortly start in the village.

Kelsey passed a hand across his craggy features. One single blow to the heart, a sure and confident thrust by someone standing over Elliott.

The bedroom was very warm, much warmer than usual, according to Mrs Cutler; Elliott had probably turned up the central heating when he came in, shivering, running a temperature. And also according to Mrs Cutler, he had piled extra blankets on the bed.

By the time the police arrived at Eastwood Mrs Cutler had recovered to some extent from her initial shock. She had helped herself while waiting for the police to a couple of stiff brandies from the drinks cupboard in the dining room and was in a voluble and flushed state when Kelsey first spoke to her, alternating between bouts of tearfulness and shrewd, sharp-eyed observation.

‘Mr Elliott took two extra blankets from the linen chest in the second bedroom,’ she had told the Chief. She took him across the landing and showed him an oak chest with the lid thrown back, more blankets folded inside. ‘He didn’t bother to close the chest,’ she said. ‘He must have been feeling rotten.’ She had begun to sniff again; she took out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

Either the heat had after a while proved too much for Elliott and he had flung aside the bedclothes as he slept, or else his assailant had drawn aside the covers in order to raise the pyjama jacket and plunge in the knife. Leonard Picton had told them that when he entered the bedroom, the head and upper part of the body had been completely covered by the raincoat; he had also switched on the lights, he had found the room in total darkness. There was no sign of any struggle. It seemed very likely that Elliott had been deeply asleep when he was struck.

‘Difficult to say how long he’s been dead,’ the doctor had said. ‘The central heating, the extra bedclothes – it could have been any time in the twelve hours between, say, seven o’clock on Friday evening and seven on Saturday morning.’

Kelsey had asked Mrs Cutler about the raincoat. Had she ever seen it before? Did it belong to Mr Elliott? But she couldn’t be sure.

When the body had been removed Kelsey went in search of Mrs Cutler again. She had told them that a number of articles were missing from the house; various pieces of porcelain and glass taken from the open display shelves in the sitting room. He ran her to earth in the dining room where she sat at the table with her head lowered and her eyes closed, her hands linked in front of her on the polished top of the table. Leonard Picton was also in the room. He was standing by the window, staring out, his hands clasped behind his back.

Picton had earlier told Kelsey that neither he nor his wife had heard anything untoward from Eastwood during the evening or night of last Friday. They had gone to bed as usual around half past ten, hadn’t been awakened during the night by any unusual sounds. Neither of the Pictons had been able to offer any assistance about the raincoat or the knife. They had also said they had never seen or heard anything suspicious, no one hanging round the property, either recently or at any time during the eighteen months they had lived at Manor Cottage; nor had Elliott ever mentioned anything like that to them.

Picton turned now from the window and looked at the Chief with inquiry.

‘I think you’d better ring the college and tell them you won’t be in this morning,’ Kelsey said in answer to that look. ‘Something might crop up, we might want you. But there’s no need for you to stay here, you can get off next door. We’ll contact you if we need you.’

When he had gone Kelsey sat down opposite Mrs Cutler. ‘You’ve had a chance to look round further,’ he said. ‘Have you spotted anything else missing?’

She shook her head. ‘Not as far as I can see. But I’ve been thinking about that raincoat. There’s a wardrobe in the rear hall, there are some coats hanging up in it. I hardly ever go to that wardrobe but I think perhaps I might have seen a raincoat in there.’

Kelsey got to his feet. ‘We’ll take a look,’ he said.

The rear hall was a fair size with various doors opening out of it. Against one wall stood a mahogany wardrobe. Inside was a rail with several garments on hangers. An old tweed jacket, a fawn trench coat, a waistcoat of quilted nylon, a dark blue anorak. On the floor of the wardrobe was a pair of wellingtons, some black laced shoes, brown leather slip-ons. A shelf above the garments held a grey tweed hat and a pair of string-backed gloves.

‘Did Mr Elliott do any gardening himself?’ Kelsey asked.

‘No, he left all that to Jessup. Jessup comes here three full days a week.’

‘Can you say positively if the raincoat came from this wardrobe?’

She screwed up her face, staring in at the garments, then she reluctantly shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t say.’ She put a hand up to her face. ‘It seems to me now I might have seen it hanging up at the back of the kitchen door.’ She shook her head again. ‘But there again, I can’t be sure.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Kelsey said. ‘You’ve been a great help to us.’ He closed the wardrobe door. As far as size went, the raincoat could certainly have belonged to the dead man. An ordinary enough garment, quite good quality, nothing special; charcoal grey, a straight unbelted style with raglan shoulders, a dark green plaid lining, a manufacturer’s label inside the front lap, a well-known make.

He stood rubbing his big fleshy nose. It was possible that Elliott had still felt cold after he’d gone back to bed with the extra blankets. He couldn’t be bothered to go into the other bedroom again, he just got out of bed and snatched up the raincoat – the first coat he laid hands on – from the wardrobe or the back of the door. He threw it down on the bed and jumped back under the covers.

He was probably pretty woozy by that time. A bottle of whisky, half empty, stood on the bedside table. Beside it was a beaker and a bottle of lemon juice, one-third full. An electric kettle stood on a metal tray on the floor by the bed.

Elliott’s wristwatch, his keys and wallet, were in a small drawer of the dressing table; they appeared undisturbed. The intruder – assuming for the moment that it was a burglar – could have approached the bedside table, looking for these things. Elliott could have stirred or groaned in his sleep, could have muttered something; the intruder might have struck out at him in panic, thinking he was waking up.

Mrs Cutler wasn’t able to be much more definite about the knife. She thought it was a ham knife but she couldn’t say with any certainty if it belonged to the house. It could be one of the knives from the kitchen drawer. She took the Chief into the kitchen and opened the cutlery drawer. Inside were various knives, none of them very new-looking, some with blades worn from long use and much sharpening over the years.

‘Nearly all the stuff here at Eastwood came from his father’s house,’ she said. ‘There’s some more cutlery in the sideboard in the dining room. That’s better quality, it doesn’t get used very often, Mr Elliott didn’t do any entertaining here.’ She rarely had occasion to look into the sideboard drawer and had only the vaguest idea about what might be in it. She certainly wouldn’t expect to be able to identify any particular piece.

Kelsey followed her into the dining room and looked in the drawer. Everything neatly arranged, of good quality, keen and serviceable. Two of the knives, a breadknife and carving knife, were of a design closely resembling the knife that had killed Elliott, but there was nothing uncommon about the pattern, half the houses in Cannonbridge probably had similar knives.

But Mrs Cutler had no doubts about the murderer. A burglar, of course. ‘I told Mr Elliott he was chancing it,’ she said, ‘keeping all that valuable stuff out on show. The lady at one place where I used to work, she kept everything locked away, she said it was asking for trouble, keeping it out. But Mr Elliott just laughed when I told him.’ She looked up at the Chief with a faintly bleary eye. ‘He said life was too short to worry about burglars.’ She suddenly began to cry, loudly and without restraint. Kelsey made no attempt to stop her. At last her shoulders grew still and she began to draw long sighing breaths; she took out a handkerchief and dabbed fiercely at her eyes and cheeks.

‘I think you’d better make some good strong coffee,’ Kelsey suggested.

‘Yes, I will,’ she said at once. ‘If you don’t mind condensed milk. I always keep a tin in the fridge for myself. Mr Elliott drank his coffee black.’ She seemed glad of a reason for more normal activity and went bustling off to the kitchen with Kelsey following.

While she busied herself he stood reading through the list of missing articles she had dictated. So far the search had failed to discover any trace of them in the house or grounds. She had been able to give a detailed description of each piece. ‘I’ve dusted them often enough,’ she said. ‘If I can’t describe them, nobody can.’ Birds and animals, figurines and groups, Derby, Meissen, Royal Worcester; some Coalport vases, Nailsea and Bristol glass. ‘Mr Elliott knew I appreciated his things,’ she said. ‘He told me what they were, more than once. It was all family stuff, it came to him from his mother.’ Worth a bob or two, Kelsey pondered.

By no means all the objets d’art on show had been taken, about two-thirds still remained. What had gone appeared to be about as much as could be fitted, say, into a sack, no more than a man might comfortably manage on his own; Kelsey had seen no sign that the crime had been the work of more than one intruder.

As Mrs Cutler reached down beakers from an open drawer, the phone rang in the hall. Cannonbridge station again, Kelsey thought; he remained where he was. In the hall a constable lifted the receiver and a minute or two later came looking for the Chief. ‘It’s a Miss Tapsell,’ he said. ‘Mr Elliott’s secretary. She’s ringing from the Cannonbridge office to see why Mr Elliott hasn’t come in to work. She sounds very anxious.’

‘What did you tell her?’ Kelsey asked.

‘Nothing. I just asked her to hang on for a moment.’

Kelsey went along to the hall. He never liked breaking news of this kind over the phone; every sort of consideration was against it. But there was no escaping it now. He picked up the receiver.

Miss Tapsell began to speak at once, firing a rapid string of questions, her voice high and brittle with anxiety.

Kelsey declared his identity and allowed a moment or two to pass so that she might begin to grasp the gravity of what she was about to hear before he told her that Elliott was dead.

She found it difficult to take in; she was deeply shocked, appalled. Then for another minute or two she was clearly under the impression that Elliott had died as a result of the feverish cold that had sent him home early on Friday. Kelsey began gently to disabuse her of the idea. He didn’t go into details of the crime but indicated that there appeared to have been a break-in and that Elliott had met a violent end. After a few moments of horrified silence she said in a high, incredulous tone, ‘You can’t mean he’s been murdered?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Kelsey said. She began to cry, harshly and jerkily.

‘We’ll be along to the Cannonbridge office as soon as we can get away from here,’ Kelsey told her. ‘It’ll be some time a little later on this morning. You’d better say something to the staff. We’ll have to talk to everyone.’

She stopped crying. ‘Mr Elliott’s brother,’ she said. ‘Mr Howard Elliott, over at the Wychford branch, does he know what’s happened?’

‘Not yet.’ Kelsey intended to get over to Wychford as soon as possible to break the news to the brother – or, more accurately, the half-brother – in person.

‘He’ll be ringing through here,’ Miss Tapsell said with dismay. ‘He phones this office a lot. I’m surprised he hasn’t been on already this morning.’ Her voice rose, shrill with anxiety. ‘What shall I tell him?’

Kelsey accepted at once that he wouldn’t now be able to leave it till he got to Wychford. A great pity, but it couldn’t be helped. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell him myself. I’ll ring him now.’ He had never had any dealings with Howard Elliott, had never even spoken to him, but he had seen him years ago with his father at various functions, when Howard had worked at the Cannonbridge office. He remembered him as a quiet, unobtrusive young man, standing very much in his father’s shadow.

He put through the call right away. Howard was in his office, dealing with the morning post. Again Kelsey had to go through the tricky business of breaking the news by degrees while at the same time trying to assess reactions, a tone of voice.

There was certainly nothing dramatic about Howard’s response, no horrified exclamations, no rapid outflow of shocked questions. ‘Dead?’ he echoed in a tone of detached incredulity. ‘How did he die?’ Kelsey answered his questions, which were brief and matter-of-fact, on the same lines as he had answered Miss Tapsell.

Howard said he would leave at once for Eastwood but Kelsey told him there was nothing to be gained by that. ‘If you stay where you are,’ he said, ‘we’ll be with you later on this morning, after we’ve been into the Cannonbridge office. It could be around midday.’

‘I don’t know if you’re aware,’ Howard said in an impersonal tone as if talking to a client, ‘that there’s a third office, over in Martleigh.’ No, Kelsey hadn’t been aware of its existence. ‘It’s a small branch,’ Howard added. ‘It’s been open a year or so. The manager is away on sick leave at present; he’s been away some weeks now. Stephen Roche is running the branch until he gets back. He’s the number two over there, he was at the Cannonbridge branch before he went to Martleigh.’

‘Perhaps you’d have a word with Roche yourself on the phone,’ Kelsey said. ‘Explain what’s happened.’ He couldn’t see much chance of getting over to Martleigh today. ‘Tell him we’ll be over there some time tomorrow.’

He went back to the kitchen and Mrs Cutler poured his coffee. He began to drink it, staring ahead in silence. Howard Elliott was certainly a cool customer, but so was his father. Kelsey had had some slight acquaintance with old Matthew Elliott, an impressive-looking man of considerable presence, a fine head and strongly-marked features, handsome into old age. Kelsey knew something of the history of the firm, the scandal years ago, the divorce, the family feud, all eagerly mulled over by the local gossips. He had seen Matthew’s second wife some-times with her husband; a beautiful woman with a warm, friendly smile.

‘Do you happen to know if Howard is married?’ he asked Mrs Cutler.

‘Yes, he is.’ She had met his wife. Mrs Elliott had called in at Eastwood once or twice while Mrs Cutler was working in the house, to leave a message or return a book. ‘She’s a very smartly dressed young woman, quite a bit younger than her husband.’

‘What about Gavin Elliott? Did he have any particular lady friends? Any fiancée?’

She shook her head. ‘He never mentioned anyone.’

‘But he did have women friends?’

She moved her shoulders. ‘I suppose so, a good-looking young man like that. But he didn’t talk to me about them. I wouldn’t have wanted him to, none of my business. I’m not interested in other people’s private lives.’

Indeed? Kelsey thought. In his experience cleaning ladies harboured a more than ordinary degree of interest in the doings of their employers, and most particularly in their private lives. He looked reflectively at Mrs Cutler; she returned his gaze stolidly. ‘There’d be a lot less trouble in the world if we all minded our own business,’ she said with challenge.

‘I dare say you’re right,’ Kelsey said equably. ‘You said Mr Elliott didn’t do any entertaining here?’

‘That’s right. He ate out most of the time. He wasn’t one of these young men that like cooking. He might grill a chop or boil an egg, but that was about all. If he wanted to entertain he took people to a restaurant. The Caprice, he used to mention that.’ She didn’t know if he’d belonged to any clubs, she couldn’t recollect his ever mentioning any.

‘Did he take any part in village life?’

She shook her head with assurance. ‘No, not at all. He’d give a donation if they called round collecting for the church or the school, he’d buy raffle tickets, anything like that, he was always very pleasant in his manner. But he didn’t go to church, or any of the dances or whist-drives. He never bothered with that sort of thing.’ She moved her head. ‘I’m not a joiner-in myself, only leads to gossip and scandal-mongering, a waste of time all round.’

‘Do you know if he was friendly with anyone in the village? Any local family, perhaps?’

‘I don’t think so, I’m sure I’d have known if he was.’

‘Do you know of any particular men friends?’

She pondered, then shook her head. ‘I can’t say as I do.’ She looked up at him with a hint of irritation. ‘I wouldn’t expect to know that sort of thing, I came here to clean. Most of the time I was here Mr Elliott was out at work, we didn’t stand round chatting.’

‘No, of course not,’ Kelsey said amiably. ‘But sometimes a remark gets passed, there’s a letter or a phone call, something is said, quite casually.’ She made no response but stood waiting for his next question. ‘Do you know if he ever got any letters that seemed to disturb him? Any phone calls? Did he ever mention any kind of trouble? Not just recently but at any time?’ Again she shook her head.

She had never seen anyone hanging about the property. Mr Elliott had never mentioned seeing anyone dubious near the place.

Kelsey glanced at his watch. Better collect Sergeant Lambert and get off to Cannonbridge, after he’d had another word with the officer supervising the search. He went out through the kitchen door into the garden. The wind had slackened but the sky was still clouded over.

With the officer beside him he glanced over the little pile of objects that had so far been assembled. Nothing that seemed of particular interest: the usual miscellany of potsherds, bits of rubbish blown in from the road, pieces of old gardening tools, that might be expected in any sizable rural garden.

He found Detective Sergeant Lambert standing by the side door, looking at the broken window which had been neatly and cleanly cut. ‘You can fetch the car up,’ Kelsey said. ‘I’ll just have a word with Mrs Cutler, then she can get off home.’

She was still in the kitchen, putting away the coffee things. ‘No need for you to stay any longer,’ he told her. ‘If we need you we’ll call in at your cottage.’

She glanced uncertainly about. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll be coming back here any more.’ She looked as if she might burst into tears again. ‘I’d better collect my bits and pieces.’

‘I should take it easy for a day or two,’ Kelsey said. ‘You could get a bad reaction. See your doctor if you think it’s at all necessary. You’ve had a very nasty shock, it’s bound to take it out of you. I should get to bed early tonight, get a good night’s sleep.’

‘Little did I think,’ she said, ‘when I got on my bike this morning – ’ She drew a series of little sniffling breaths. ‘If Mr Picton hadn’t been there, I don’t know what I’d have done.’ She looked up at Kelsey. ‘He was ever so good about it all, ever so kind, considering.’

There was a tiny pause. ‘Considering what?’ Kelsey said gently.

She moved a hand. ‘Him and Mr Elliott. That row they had.’

There was another little pause. ‘What row was that?’ Kelsey said in the same soft tone.