by Frank Smith
‘Can you think of any reason why he would attack Mrs Bromley in her own room?’
Elizabeth Etherton shook her head. ‘Believe me, Chief Inspector, I’ve been wondering about that myself, and all I can think of is that it must have had something to do with Toni’s death. If Paul was the one who killed Toni, he may have thought Margaret had seen him out there, and thought she could be a threat to him.’
‘You say Mrs Bromley was still dressed when she was attacked. What happened to her clothes?’
‘I put them in a plastic bag and left them beside the laundry hamper in the dressing room. They were covered in blood, so I didn’t want them touching anything else. I hope that was all right?’
‘Perfectly all right,’ Paget assured her. ‘Just one more question, and I’ll let you go. You must be awfully tired. The scissors: do you happen to know if they are the ones Mrs Bromley normally uses when she is sewing or mending something?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve seen them many times. Why do you ask?’
‘It’s just that they seemed somewhat longer and thinner than I would have expected,’ said Paget.
‘That’s because they’re actually surgical scissors. Charles was going to throw them away – they don’t keep them very long in his line of work – so Margaret took them. She said they were much better than the ones she had.’
It was a very different Julian Bromley who came to the door of his room when Paget knocked. There was little sign of the arrogant young man they’d encountered earlier. Subdued and somewhat shaken, Paget thought, and certainly more cooperative.
‘To be honest,’ Julian said, ‘I was annoyed at first, because I was rehearsing for a part in a play, and I was just getting into it when I heard this scream. I tried to ignore it, but when it kept up, I went down the corridor to see what it was all about. And then I saw my uncle . . .’ He paused to catch his breath before continuing. ‘He was covered in blood and I could see it sort of bubbling out, and he was trying to talk, but stuff was running out of his mouth. And then there was Margaret being sick and gagging . . .’ Julian took a deep breath and blew out his cheeks. He looked as if he might be sick himself at any moment.
‘Thank God for Aunt Beth,’ he said, shaking his head in silent admiration. ‘I don’t know how she can cope with that sort of thing, but she was so calm. She told me to go and get Dad, then call an ambulance. So I did that, but when I went back, Dad said Paul was dead, and he told me to call you.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
Friday, September 16th
‘Mrs Bromley killed him? Are you sure?’ Chief Superintendent Morgan Brock’s bulbous eyes stared at Paget in disbelief. Cod’s eyes, Paget thought, not for the first time. That was what they used to call them when he was at school. Colourless, fish-like eyes that stared without expression.
‘That’s what Mr Bromley told me,’ said Paget. ‘According to him, Paul attacked her and she stabbed him with scissors in self-defence.’
‘He was there?’
‘No. He said that was what his wife told him, and Mrs Etherton said the same. They didn’t know any more than that, because Mrs Bromley was either hysterical or in shock or both when she said that, but I hope to clear that up when I bring her in for questioning this morning.’
Brock’s plump fingers drummed lightly on the arm of his chair. ‘For questioning,’ he repeated as if mulling the words over.
‘And probably charge her,’ Paget said. ‘There’s not much doubt that she killed him. As I said, both Mrs Etherton and Charles Bromley say she admitted that much herself.’
‘But it’s still hearsay, isn’t it?’ Brock shot back. ‘And there’s no telling what people will say when they’re in shock, so I suggest you tread very carefully before you prefer charges of any sort.’
‘That is standard procedure, sir,’ said Paget.
Brock scowled. ‘Better get out there and get on with it, then,’ he said. ‘Three murders . . . If the media get on to this, it will be a bloody circus, so tell the press officer that nothing is to be released to the media without my approval, and I want to be informed of any and all developments.’
‘Got a surprise for you,’ Ormside greeted him when Paget walked through the door. He and Tregalles had stopped in Hallows End on their way to the manor. ‘Got a positive result from Forensic on Gwyneth’s bike. Two clear prints from a metal piece under the saddle. The rest of the bike had been wiped clean.’ Ormside cocked his head on one side and looked at each of them in turn. ‘Like to guess whose they were?’
‘Paul’s,’ Tregalles said promptly, but Paget held back. It wasn’t like Ormside to play games; there had to be something special about these prints. ‘So, whose are they?’ he asked.
‘Mrs Etherton’s,’ the sergeant told him. ‘I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t expecting that.’
Tregalles was shaking his head. ‘Don’t believe it,’ he said flatly. ‘I can’t see her as a killer, can you, boss?’
‘Perhaps she’s not,’ Paget said, ‘but we will certainly have to ask her for an explanation.’
‘Forsythe couldn’t believe it either,’ Ormside said. ‘She’s on her way to the manor now to stir them up about coming in to make their formal statements, and she was all for asking Mrs Etherton herself, but I told her she’d better leave that to you.’
‘Glad you did,’ said Paget, ‘because I’d like to hear the explanation for myself.’
Ormside picked up a slip of paper and handed it to Tregalles. ‘Got a phone call this morning from a friend of yours in London,’ he said. ‘DS McLean rang to say they’ve been looking into Conroy’s credit card transactions, and they came across a payment made last Friday for the rental of a lock-up garage in Hackney. So they went in, and there was the car Conroy claimed had been stolen. One tail light was broken, and there were scratch marks and some damage to the rear bumper. It’s been turned over to Forensic, but McLean wants to know how you want to proceed when they’ve finished with it?’
‘Tell him I’ll call him back later today,’ Tregalles said. ‘That is if I get the chance and we don’t have any more murders,’ he added grimly.
Mary Lodge stood with arms folded at the window, watching the workmen tramp all over the kitchen garden as they set long poles as props against the leaning garden wall. Just one more thing to worry about, she thought disconsolately. Things were going from bad to worse, and she couldn’t see them getting any better. Charles – she called everyone in the house by their first names in her thoughts – had worked so hard to keep things going over the years; to get back to the way it used to be when the old lady was alive. But no matter how hard he’d tried, no matter how hard he worked, it was never enough.
‘Daydreaming, are we, Mrs Lodge? Nothing better to do?’ Startled, the housekeeper turned to face her employer. She hadn’t heard him come in. He looked tired and cross, and there was more than a hint of criticism in his voice. ‘Has anyone else had breakfast today, or am I the only one left out?’ he continued irritably.
The housekeeper bristled. ‘I had your breakfast ready for you more than an hour ago,’ she said tartly, ‘and I looked everywhere for you, but no one knew where you were, so it all went cold.
Charles grunted. ‘You couldn’t have tried very hard, or you’d have found me,’ he countered waspishly. ‘And I am very, very hungry, Mrs Lodge.’ He walked over to stand in front of the cooker as if expecting it to produce his breakfast.
Suddenly, all the pent up anger and frustration came rushing to the surface and spilled over. ‘Then perhaps you should get it yourself for a change,’ she snapped. Startled by her own temerity, a tremor of fear ran through her, but she’d started now and there was no going back.
‘I know this is a bad time,’ she said, trying to calm the tremor in her voice, ‘and I shouldn’t have said that, and I’m sorry about your brother, but I can’t go on like this, Mr Charles. I can’t be expected to run this house all by myself. With Gwyneth gone, and the police in the house again, I can’t do it. When
cook came this morning and saw all the police cars here again, and I told her what had happened, she said she wasn’t going to work in a house where people keep getting murdered, and she turned round and went back home. It’s the same with everyone in the village. No one’s willing to come out here, and as I said, I can’t cope on my own, and I don’t know where to turn.’
Charles turned to stare at her. He took a step toward her then stopped. He could feel the pressure that had been building ever since last night, pushing its way to the surface, and the housekeeper’s words became no more than muffled noises in his head. He wanted to throw back his head and scream at the world; he wanted to scream at the whole damned universe! He wanted to lash out at someone, anyone! He thrust his hands deep into his pockets for fear he would lash out at the woman in front of him.
He clamped his lips together, willing himself to remain calm. Would there never be an end to it? Never an end to the demands on him? All he’d ever wanted was a peaceful life; to be left alone to get on with what he liked to do, but there was always one more problem, always another hurdle, always another hill to climb, and he was sick of it. Toni was dead; Gwyneth was dead, and now Paul was dead. Police were crawling all over the place, and although it was barely nine o’clock in the morning, he’d just had a phone call from his bank manager, who had insisted – insisted, for God’s sake – that he come in today to discuss what he’d called ‘your rather dire financial situation.’
And now here was Mrs Lodge whining about the bloody housework!
Inside his pockets, his hands turned into fists. He could feel the pressure building. Stone-faced and angry, he rounded on her. ‘That,’ he said viciously, ‘is your problem, Mrs Lodge. In case you hadn’t noticed, I have more than enough of my own, so you can either sort it out yourself or . . .’
He clamped his lips together, cutting off whatever he’d been about to say. But his face was white and his eyes glittered dangerously as he took a step toward her, and suddenly she was frightened. ‘I’m sorry . . . I’m . . .’ she began in a quavering voice as she backed away, but before she could say more, Charles had turned on his heel and left the kitchen.
Mrs Lodge stared after him. She was trembling so hard she had to reach for a chair for support. She sank onto the hard wooden seat, still shaking as the tears spilled down her face.
There were a couple of vans and a small flatbed lorry in the stable yard when Molly drove in, and she could see workmen working with props or poles in the kitchen garden. A sudden gust of wind caught the door as she got out, almost tearing it from her grasp. Strange weather, she thought as she closed it firmly. Only moments ago the sky had been clear and there hadn’t been a breath of wind. But then, strange was becoming the norm throughout the world these days. The wind continued to blow as she made her way up the driveway to the side door of the house.
She rang the bell. A few leaves skittered before the wind, another signal perhaps that summer was coming to an end. She waited a few more seconds, then rang the bell again. Still no response. She turned the handle and went inside. After what had happened here last night, the house would be in turmoil, and Mrs Lodge could be anywhere.
Molly walked along the passageway to the kitchen. The smell of paint still lingered, but the hats and coats and boots and shoes were all back in their regular place, as was a wooden bench beneath them. She opened the wash-house door and looked inside. No sign of Mrs Lodge in there. Molly continued on to the kitchen and opened the door.
Mrs Lodge sat at the table, head buried in her hands, crying quietly. ‘Mrs Lodge . . .? Molly spoke quietly to avoid startling the woman. ‘Whatever is the matter?’ She moved swiftly to the housekeeper’s side and put her arm around her thin shoulders. ‘Tell me what’s wrong?’
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘They’re here,’ Elizabeth Etherton said quietly. ‘Paget and his sergeant,’ she elaborated. ‘I suppose that means there will be yet another round of questions.’ She moved away from the window to avoid being seen by the detectives as they got out of the car. ‘I just hope they don’t expect to question Margaret, considering the state she’s in. I know Charles said she needed a good night’s rest, but I really think he overdid it with the sleeping pills last night. I mean look at her, Steven; she’s barely conscious.’ Beth walked over to the bed where Margaret Bromley sat hunched over, arms wrapped around her dawn-up knees, head buried in her arms. ‘How do you feel now?’ she asked softly. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’
Margaret lifted her head. Her face was pale and bathed in sweat, her eyes were dull, and her hair hung in ragged strands around her face. She’d slept solidly for more than eight hours, but she looked as if she hadn’t slept at all. She stared blankly at Beth, then dropped her head again. Beth left the bedside to flop into a chair. Steven Lockwood sat facing her, hunched over, hands clasped in front of him, and elbows on his knees.
‘I don’t think she even knew who I was just then,’ she said wearily. ‘I wish Charles . . .’ She shrugged, too tired to finish the sentence.
‘I know what you mean,’ he said tightly. ‘I know he believes he’s doing it for the best, but I am her doctor. I should have been here last night when Charles rang. Unfortunately, it was after midnight when I got home, so I went straight to bed. I came over as soon as I checked my messages this morning. Not that I’ve been able to actually do anything for her,’ he continued wistfully, ‘but at least I’m here now, and I think it’s time you got some rest yourself. You could use Toni’s room.’
But Beth was shaking her head. ‘I did get some sleep,’ she said. ‘Charles was here most of the time.’ She smiled wanly, ‘Hovering, of course, and checking Margaret’s pulse and breathing from time to time even though she was dead to the world. I tried to get him to go and get some sleep himself, but he insisted on staying. What you can do, Steven, is make sure that the police don’t take Margaret away this morning. I don’t see how they can, considering the state she’s in, but they may just try, so I’m counting on you, as her doctor, to warn them off.’
Beth pushed herself upright. ‘I think I’ll make a cup of tea and see if I can get her to drink it,’ she said. ‘Would you like a cup?’
‘Still here, then?’ said Paget, stating the obvious as he got out of the car. ‘You’ve had a long night.’ He was speaking to Geoff Kirkpatrick, who was stripping off his coveralls. The other two members of the team were doing the same. ‘Charlie paying overtime, now, is he?’
Kirkpatrick snorted. ‘That’ll be the day,’ he said. ‘No, it’s just that we were so close to wrapping it up that it seemed better to stay on and finish it rather than have another shift take over for a couple of hours. We’ve finished with the room. I did tell Mr Bromley.’
‘Any surprises? Any conclusions?’
Kirkpatrick shrugged. ‘Assuming that Mr Bromley told me the truth, and it was his wife who stabbed his brother – in self-defence, of course; he made that very clear – we found nothing to suggest an alternative. That’s not to say there couldn’t be one, of course, but the victim fell where he was stabbed; there were fibres matching Mrs Bromley’s dress, as well as bits of skin, under his fingernails, and there were smears of blood on the carpet between the body and the bed to where Mrs Bromley crawled and lost her dinner. Blood types and regurgitated stomach contents will have to be analyzed and matched, of course, as will the fingerprints we found, but I’d say it’s pretty straightforward. It will all be in my report.’
He rolled up his coveralls and stuffed them in a bag. ‘And now I’m off to bed,’ he said, ‘so I’ll leave you to it, Chief Inspector. Good luck.’
A uniformed WPC opened the door as they mounted the steps, and said, ‘Good morning, sir,’ to Paget. ‘Could I have a word, sir?’
‘Of course, Constable,’ he said. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘No problem, sir, it’s just that now SOCO’s gone, I’m here all by myself and I’m wondering if you still need me? I was supposed to be on traffic today. I did call in, but they tol
d me it was up to you, sir.’
‘Is there anything you need to tell me before you go?’ he asked. ‘Anything changed? Anyone leave?’
‘No one left, sir, but a Dr Lockwood came in just after seven this morning. He went upstairs to see to Mrs Bromley, and he’s still there as far as I know.’
‘Right, then, thank you, Constable,’ Paget said. ‘Do you need a lift in?’
The young woman shook her head. ‘We’ve got an unmarked car patrolling the Clunbridge Road not too far from here,’ she said, ‘so I’ll call him on my mobile and get him to pick me up. I’ll wait outside for him.’
Paget was about to lead the way upstairs when a door on the far side of the entrance hall opened, and Charles Bromley appeared. He crossed the floor and stopped in front of Paget. ‘If you’ve come to arrest my wife, you’re wasting your time,’ he said belligerently. The muscles in his face were set, the lines so deeply etched they could have been carved in stone. He looked older, Paget thought. Much older.
‘Noted,’ Paget told him, ‘but we are here to get a statement from Mrs Bromley, and if she confirms what you told us last night, then I’m afraid she will be taken into custody and charged. And we will need you to come down to Hallows End to make a formal statement as well.’
Charles shook his head. ‘Margaret is in no condition to be questioned,’ he said flatly. ‘Lockwood is with her; he’ll tell you. As for a statement from me, that will have to wait till another time. So, if that is all, Chief Inspector, I have to go.’ He nodded in the direction of the open door and scowled. ‘It’s that damned east wind,’ he said, lowering his voice as if sharing a confidence. ‘Gets under the tarp on the roof of the chapel every time. It’s done it before, and I can’t take any chances, because an east wind quite often brings rain, so I’m going to see what I can do for now, then get the workers back to fix it properly. After that, I have an appointment in town, so whatever you may need from me will have to wait.’ With a curt nod, he walked to the door and left the house.