CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rafferty had just got back from Harcombe police station when Llewellyn gave him the latest news: Anthony Melville-Briggs was dead.
It took him a few minutes’ to take it in. Apparently, the doctor had wrapped his car around a tree at Wivenhoe, his body pierced through the heart by one of the lower branches, taking with him any faint remaining chances of charging him with murder.
Llewellyn had been right when he'd quoted that old bod's words. How had it gone? Something about every guilty person being his own hangman? Well, Rafferty concluded sombrely, it certainly looked as if Sir Anthony had been his own executioner, whether or not his sins had included murder.
He supposed it fell to him to break the news to Lady Evelyn—he checked with Llewellyn that uniformed hadn’t already done so—they hadn’t, and he told Llewellyn to give them a bell and let them know he’d take on the task.
To Llewellyn's undisguised relief, Rafferty told him to remain at the office. Rafferty picked up WPC Green on his way out. They drove to the Hall. The butler let them in and after briefly stating they were there on official business, they followed his broad, black-clad figure into the winter parlour.
'Inspector.' Lady Evelyn seemed pleased to see him and he stared guiltily at her. 'What can I do for you? Have you come to see over the house? I'm sure I've got time, if you have.'
Rafferty shuffled his feet. 'No, Ma'am. Er—that is—' He broke off awkwardly. To fill in the gap while he remembered his carefully rehearsed words, he introduced his companion. Then, taking a deep breath, he said, 'I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, Ma'am.'
Lady Evelyn frowned. 'Bad news? What do you mean?'
'It's—your husband, Lady Evelyn. I'm sorry to have to tell you this. He's had an accident—it seems his car went out of control.'
'How—how bad?'
Rafferty shuffled his feet again.
'Please. Just—tell me.' Her voice was faint as she asked, 'Is he—is he dead, Inspector?'
'I'm afraid so, Ma'am.'
Lady Evelyn sank down slowly on to one of the chairs. Bleakly, her eyes rested on the array of family photographs on her desk and her lips tightened.
'It—it would have been very quick,' he told her in a desperate attempt at comfort. 'He wouldn't have suffered.'
'I see.' She shuddered slightly, briefly closed her eyes as if offering up a prayer for the repose of her husband’s soul, and then sat up straight in her chair. 'Thank you for coming to tell me. I understand how difficult it is to break such news.'
She seemed dazed, but apart from a faint white line around her tightened lips, she had taken the news with remarkable composure, much to Rafferty's relief. He had a quiet word with the butler who alerted the staff. The housekeeper took charge and she and one of the older female servants were soon plying their mistress with hot sweet tea. After quietly offering his condolences and having them as quietly accepted, Rafferty left the WPC behind with instructions that he'd send a car for her in a couple of hours and let himself out into the gathering dusk.
Dead Before Morning Page 35