Cold Light of Day. Emma Page
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‘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.
‘I don’t know all the ins and outs of it,’ Mrs Cutler said. ‘It was one morning just after Mr Elliott had left the house. I was shaking my dusters outside. Mr Picton was down by the gate, I couldn’t help hearing what he was shouting—’
‘Shouting?’
‘Yes, quite loudly.’
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