style="font-size:15px;"> ‘Certain. When I talked to Rose on the phone she was very angry we had to cry off arriving last evening and insisted on first thing today. Poor girl, she probably had a fatted calf roasting or something.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. It was a shame.’
Ellie put on her indignant look.
‘Shame! That fat sadist Dalziel doesn’t know the meaning of the word.’
‘It wasn’t his fault. It’s this string of break-ins we’ve been brought in on. The phone rang just as I was leaving.’
‘So you said,’ grunted Ellie. ‘Bloody queer time for a burglary. I bet Dalziel did it.’
‘The break-in happened some time earlier in the week,’ explained Pascoe patiently. ‘It was only discovered yesterday when the people got back from holiday.’
‘Serves them right for coming back early. They should have stayed away for the week-end. Then we could have enjoyed all ours too.’
‘I hope we will,’ said Pascoe, smiling fondly at her. ‘It’ll be good to see them all again.’
‘Yes, I think it will be. Especially for you,’ said Ellie thoughtfully. ‘You’ve been cut off too long.’
‘Perhaps so. I didn’t do all the cutting, mind. Anyway, cutting’s the wrong image. They were always there. Like securely invested capital! I’ve never doubted that one day I would see them all again.’
‘It took an accident to bring me to light again,’ admonished Ellie.
‘There is a something power which shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we may,’ proclaimed Pascoe solemnly. ‘Colin’s not the only one who can quote.’
‘Here’s to it,’ said Ellie, relaxing in the window-warmed light of the now completely triumphant sun.
We arrived at Thornton Lacey at eight-fifty. I noted the exact time as I looked at my watch to see how close to our forecast time of arrival we were. I suggested to Miss Soper that we should wait for half an hour before proceeding to Brookside Cottage, but after discussion we decided against this. Thus it must have been two or three minutes before nine o’clock when we reached the cottage. The curtains were all drawn and we received no reply to our knocks.
‘We should have waited,’ said Pascoe smugly.
‘Nonsense. If they got so pie-eyed last night that they can’t hear us knocking, they weren’t to be ready for nine-thirty either.’
The professional part of his mind felt there was some flaw either of logic or syntax in this statement, but this week-end he was very firmly and very consciously off duty. So he grinned and stepped back from the doorway, craning his neck to spot any signs of activity behind the bedroom curtains.
It was a lovely cottage, just stopping this side of biscuit-tin sentimentality. Tudor, he told himself, half-timbered, doubtless full of wattle-and-daub whatever that was (those were?). A not very successful attempt had been made to train a rambling rose around the doorway. Above the thatched roof a flock of television aerials parted the morning breeze and serenely sang their triumph over charm and Tudory.
‘Colin’s quite ruthless,’ said Ellie, following his gaze. ‘If you modernize, modernize. He doesn’t see any virtue in pretending that a pair of farm-labourers’ cottages was once a desirable sixteenth-century residence.’
‘Nor in keeping farming hours, it seems,’ said Pascoe, banging once more on the door and rattling the worn brass handle.
‘Though perhaps,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘they do preserve some old country customs, such as never locking your door.’
He pressed the door-handle right down and pushed. The hinges creaked most satisfactorily as the heavy oak door slowly swung open.
Now it was Ellie’s turn to show reluctance.
‘We can’t just appear at the foot of the bed,’ she protested, hanging back.
‘Well I’m not going to go and get a warrant,’ answered Pascoe. ‘At least we can find the wherewithal to make coffee and a lot of noise. Come on!’
The front door opened directly into a nicely proportioned lounge, with furnishings which, though comfortable looking, were antiquated rather than antique. Two or three whisky tumblers stood on a low table in the middle of the room; they were still half full. An empty bottle of Teacher’s stood beside them. A Churchillian cigar had been allowed to burn out in a large cut-glass ashtray. Ellie sniffed the air distastefully.
‘What a fug! I was right – they must have been having themselves a quiet little ball last night.’
She began drawing curtains back prior to opening a window. Pascoe too was sniffing gently, a faintly puzzled look on his face. He crossed the room to the door in the farthermost wall. It was ajar and he pushed it fully open and stepped through into the next room. It was clearly the dining-room. The round, highly polished mahogany table still bore the debris of a meal.
But it wasn’t the table which held his attention.
White-faced he turned to stop Ellie from following him. She had moved to the rear window now and was just drawing the curtains there.
‘Ellie,’ he said.
She froze, her hand on the window-latch, staring incredulously through the pane.
A thin, single-noted scream forced its way from the back of her throat.
Two men were lying on the dining-room floor in the positions indicated in the police photograph ‘A1’. They had both received severe gunshot wounds, and had been bleeding copiously. The nature of the wounds and the strong cordite smell I had noticed in the air led me to assume the wounds had been caused by a shotgun fired at close range. The man lying beside the dining-table (position ‘X’ on the photograph) I recognized as Timothy Mansfield of Grover Court, London, NW2. The other man I was not able to recognize immediately as he had received the greater part of the gun-blast in the neck and lower face, but later I was able to confirm he was Charles Rushworth of the same address. I turned to prevent Miss Soper from following me into the room, but she was clearly disturbed by something she could see from the rear window. I looked out into the garden at the back of the house and saw the figure of a woman lying at the base of the sundial in the centre of the lawn (photograph ‘C3’) I could not recognize her from the window as her face was pressed to the grass. There had been a great deal of bleeding from the head.
‘It’s Rose,’ said Ellie, not believing herself. ‘There’s been an accident.’
She made for the dining-room, seeking a way into the garden. Pascoe caught her by the shoulders.
‘Telephone,’ he said, his voice low, his mind racing. From the dining-room a narrow flight of stairs ran to the next floor. His ears were alert for any slight sound of movement above.
‘Yes,’ said Ellie. ‘Doctor. No, ambulance is better, there was a hospital sign, do you remember?’
There was a telephone on the floor beside one of the two armchairs. She bent over it.
‘No,’ said
