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.
