Dead by Morning

by Dorothy Simpson

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I only ask because I don’t know if you realised … Your back door was unlocked when we arrived this evening.’

  This brought her head up with a jerk, eyes now alert and wide open with shock. ‘Was it? Oh God, I never thought to check … What a fool … He could still have been out there, after I got home. All I could think of was getting away from … getting out of the kitchen, ringing the police, getting somebody here, anybody …’ Her hands were clasping, unclasping, kneading each other in her agitation.

  There was a knock at the door. WPC Barnes opened it and went out, came back a moment later. ‘Mrs Broxton’s doctor is here, sir.’

  Just at the psychological moment, by the look of it. Thanet stood up. ‘Good. Bring him in.’

  The doctor was short, middle-aged, brisk. He nodded at Thanet then went straight to Mrs Broxton, took both her hands in his. ‘Vanessa, my dear, what a terrible business. How are you?’

  ‘Better for seeing you, Peter.’ She gave him a wan smile. ‘But I think the appropriate expression in the circumstances is, “As well as might be expected.”’

  ‘I’d better take a look at you.’ He glanced at Thanet, raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, we’ve finished here for the moment,’ said Thanet. Then, to Mrs Broxton, ‘WPC Barnes will stay here tonight, so if you need anything …’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. You’ve been very kind.’

  At the door Thanet turned. ‘Oh, just one small matter … We’d like to take a look at the room Mrs Master was using …’

  Vanessa Broxton waved a hand. ‘Please, whatever you need to do, just do it. Anything, anything at all …’

  ‘Thank you. If you could just tell us where it is?’

  ‘Up the stairs, turn left, then straight along the corridor. It’s the second door on the right. The children’s rooms are opposite and Henry’s door is open, so if you could be as quiet as possible …’

  ‘Of course.’

  Outside in the hall Perdita Master’s body was just being removed by two ambulancemen. Thanet watched them leave before going in search of the dead woman’s bedroom.

  ‘If the back door was unlocked it could have been an intruder, couldn’t it?’ said Lineham as they mounted the stairs.

  Thanet shrugged. ‘Or whoever killed her unlocked it to get out.’

  ‘You think it might have been the husband, and she let him in herself?’

  ‘Early days, Mike. Early days. Let’s not start speculating too soon.’

  ‘In any case, it’s odd that Mrs Broxton didn’t think to check that the back door was locked, before ringing us, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s quite feasible that she was too shaken to be thinking clearly.’

  On the galleried landing Thanet paused to look around. Above him massive honey-coloured oak beams lit to dramatic effect by strategically-placed spotlights rose in graceful curves, horizontals and diagonals. Below, the generously proportioned hall added a further dimension of light and space.

  Lineham was concentrating on more mundane matters. ‘But she’s not stupid. In the circumstances you’d think her first thought would be to make sure the house was secure. After all, as she says, for all she knew the murderer could still have been around.’

  Thanet shrugged. ‘You know as well as I do, Mike, that people don’t always think or act logically in situations of stress.’

  They turned left as instructed along a broad corridor. More ancient beams straddled the ceiling and at one point they had to duck to pass beneath. Ahead of them, on the left, a door ajar indicated that they were approaching Henry’s room and Thanet glanced at Lineham and put a finger to his lips. Henry had had enough traumas for one evening.

  The room which Perdita Master had so briefly occupied was pleasant and comfortable, with a green fitted carpet, cream-washed walls and sprigged floral curtains. Double doors on a fitted cupboard opened to reveal a neat washbasin built in to one half, hanging and shelf space for clothes in the other.

  She had brought very little with her: toilet things, several changes of underwear, another pair of cord trousers, cream this time, a couple of blouses, a pair of flat shoes. The most interesting item was a sketchbook on the bedside table. It was relatively new, the first pages taken up by sketches of flowers, grasses and trees. The last ten or twelve were a different matter. One was full of quick studies of two children, a small boy and a baby – Henry and Alice? – the last two of more detailed portraits of a man, drawn from several different angles.

  He showed them to Lineham.

  ‘Her husband?’ said Lineham.

  Thanet shook his head. ‘I know Master. That’s not him.’

  ‘Perhaps Mrs Broxton will know who he is.’

  They both stared at the sketches. The subject was in his late thirties or early forties, Thanet guessed, with straight hair worn rather too long for Thanet’s taste and a narrow, sensitive face. The eyes were deepset, depicted with a distant, somewhat contemplative expression, the mouth rather weak.

  ‘A lover?’ said Lineham.

  ‘Could be.’ Thanet was still looking at the drawings, admiring now the skill of the artist. ‘She was good, wasn’t she? I wonder if she was a professional.’

  ‘Mrs Broxton said Mrs Master was a trained nanny, before she got married.’

  ‘Before she got married. Exactly. I can’t quite see Giles Master allowing his wife to play nursemaid as a career.’

  Lineham raised his eyebrows. ‘“Allowing”? Like that, was it?’

  ‘Perhaps I’m judging him too harshly. Anyway, you’ll see for yourself soon, no doubt.’ Thanet tapped the sketchbook. ‘If she wasn’t a professional she was a very gifted amateur. If the other drawings are of Henry and Alice, then as these come afterwards we can only assume she must have done them since she got here yesterday.’

  He could imagine Perdita sitting propped up against those pillows, lamplight turning that mass of fair hair to spun gold, totally absorbed in her task and finding solace in it. He tried to put himself in her situation. The break-up of a marriage is always traumatic to both partners, regardless of which one is choosing to initiate it. Perdita would still have been shaken, emotionally bruised by the row with Giles and having so precipitately left her home. She was at a major turning point in her life, living in a kind of limbo. What more natural than in that state her thoughts would have turned to her lover, if she had one? He would have been her life-line to the future.

  ‘Mrs Broxton said that Mr Master was very jealous and possessive, sir. That Mrs Master had a “hell of a time” with him. If it was only on Saturday night that he discovered she had a lover …’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Looks as though this could turn out to be pretty straightforward, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Mr Master next, then?’

  ‘Yes. Someone will have to break the news to him anyway. Looks as though in this case it had better be us.’ This was one task which, like every policeman, Thanet hated above all others. ‘Better take a look at her handbag before we go.’

  On a demure little easy chair covered with the same sprigged material as the curtains lay a bulky brown leather shoulder bag. Lineham emptied its contents on to the bed and sat down beside them.

  Thanet continued to study the drawings. He would know this face again when they met it. And if this were Perdita’s lover, here was a second person about to receive a crushing blow. Thanet wondered if the man were married, had a wife and family …

  ‘Doesn’t look as though there’s anything of any significance here, sir. Just the usual stuff.’ Lineham was putting things back into Perdita’s bag.

  ‘Right. Let’s go, then.’ Thanet tucked the sketchbook under his arm. If Vanessa Broxton was still around he wanted to show her the portraits. But in case she wasn’t, first of all …

  Outside in the corridor he paused outside Henry’s room. Silence. With a gesture to Lineham to remain
where he was Thanet pushed the door open a little wider and tiptoed in. A nightlight in the shape of a red-spotted mushroom with a rabbit perched on top illuminated the cot. Henry was sound asleep, flat on his back with arms outflung in the careless abandon of childhood. One glance was enough to tell Thanet that this was indeed the small boy in the sketches. Perdita had been very talented, there was no doubt about that.

  He returned to the corridor. ‘The drawings are of Henry,’ he whispered to Lineham.

  On the galleried landing they met Mrs Broxton’s doctor and WPC Barnes coming from the opposite direction. Presumably the Broxtons’ bedroom was on the first floor of the far oast.

  ‘Would it be possible to have a quick word with Mrs Broxton?’ said Thanet.

  The doctor shook his head. ‘Sorry, she shouldn’t be disturbed again tonight. I’ve given her a sedative. Constable Barnes has kindly agreed to listen out for the children.’

  Thanet gave a resigned nod. Too bad. Identification of the man in the sketches would have to wait until morning.

  Downstairs Bentley had just returned from interviewing the neighbour.

  ‘Any luck?’ asked Thanet.

  ‘She’s a Mrs Barnes, sir. A widow. Says she was putting the cat out at about 8.30 this evening and heard some kind of commotion over here – someone hammering on the front door and a man shouting, she says. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but after a few minutes the shouting stopped. She went back indoors then and just happened to go upstairs.’ Bentley grinned. ‘The landing window overlooks the drive of this house, so I’d guess she went up deliberately, to see what was going on. Unfortunately, she’s got arthritis in both hips, so it took her some time to get there and by the time she did all she saw was a car driving away.’

  ‘Any description of the car?’

  Bentley shook his head. ‘Nothing of any use. Big and dark in colour, that’s all. And it was too dark for her to see who was driving, or how many people were in it. One interesting point, though. She did say she was aware of an unusual number of cars around this evening. She noticed because it’s usually pretty quiet at night here.’

  ‘What did she mean by “around”? Did she mean driving past her house, or coming into the drive of this one?’

  ‘She couldn’t be sure. Her sitting room is on the front corner nearest to the drive of the Oast, so it would have been difficult to tell.’

  ‘And what did she mean by an unusual number?’

  Bentley shrugged. ‘She couldn’t be very specific. When I pressed her she said between four and six.’

  ‘Close together, or spaced out?’

  ‘Between the incident we spoke of and the time the police cars started arriving.’

  ‘Between 8.30 and, say, 10, then … Could mean anything or nothing.’

  ‘She said she’d wondered if there was one of those supper safaris – you know, when a group of people have the first course at one house, the main course at another and the dessert at a third. They tend to go in for that sort of thing around here, apparently.’

  ‘Remember to ask the men to check that, when you’re doing house-to-house enquiries in the morning.’ Thanet glanced at his watch. Ten past twelve. ‘It’s too late to start tonight. Lineham and I are going now to break the news to Mrs Master’s husband, and I’d like you to do the same with her stepfather.’

  A shadow flitted across Bentley’s round, normally placid face. ‘Right, sir.’

  Thanet left Lineham to check the number of the Harrows’ house and also the Masters’ address in the telephone directory, while he went to see how the forensic team was getting on in the kitchen.

  Five minutes later they were on their way.

  Buy Doomed to Die Now!

  About the Author

  Dorothy Simpson was born and brought up in South Wales, and went to Bristol University, where she read modern languages before moving to Kent, the background of the Thanet novels. After spending several years bringing up three children, she trained as a marriage guidance counsellor and subsequently worked as one for thirteen years, before writing her first novel. She says, “You may think that marriage guidance counsellor to crime writer is rather a peculiar career move, but although I didn’t realise it at the time, of course, the training I received was the best possible preparation for writing detective novels. Murder mysteries are all about relationships which go disastrously wrong and the insights I gained into what makes people tick, into their interaction and motivations, have been absolutely invaluable to DI Thanet, my series character, as have the interviewing skills I acquired during my years of counselling.”

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1989 by Dorothy Simpson

  Cover design by Michel Vrana

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-4558-2

  This edition published in 2017 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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  New York, NY 10038

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