Cold Light of Day

She made a determined movement of her head. She would soon see if her guess was right. She walked across to the garage to find out if his car was gone. The upper sections of the garage doors were glazed. She pressed her forehead against the glass and peered in. The car was there – so he must still be in the house.

She turned away from the garage, frowning. A feeling of bafflement, a stir of disquiet, rose inside her. She stood for a moment thinking what to do next. It wasn’t very likely that any of the other doors to Eastwood would be open but she might as well try them, just in case.

There were three other doors to the house, two side doors and the front door. She walked round the back to the side door that faced towards Manor Cottage but she had no luck there. Then she tried the front door, again without success. She stepped back and surveyed the house. The downstairs curtains were drawn back, and the upstairs curtains too – except for the main bedroom, Mr Elliott’s bedroom; those were still closed.

But if he was still in the house why didn’t he answer her ring? A horrible feeling began to build up inside her head, her heart began to bump and lurch.

She went unsteadily round the side of the house towards the last remaining door. She tried the handle, though now without any hope that it would yield. Then she turned her head and her gaze fell on a window to the left of the door, a little further along; a kitchen window. She stood arrested, staring at it. It was a casement window composed of a number of small panes, and was normally secured from the inside by a lever-type handle. One of the panes had been neatly removed so that it was now possible for a hand to be slipped inside and the lever operated.

Her heart pounded violently, she began to feel very unwell. She went close up to the window and peered into the kitchen; it seemed much as usual. She stood staring in, trying to decide what to do, then she suddenly turned and set off down the drive towards Manor Cottage.

She was out of breath by the time she reached the front door. She stood for a moment with her head lowered and her hand pressed to her side, trying to recover herself before raising the knocker. Before she had time to get her breath back the door swung suddenly open to reveal Emily Picton gazing out at her with sharp interest.

‘Is your father in?’ Mrs Cutler managed to say.

‘Yes.’ Emily maintained her unsmiling stare.

‘Would you fetch him?’ Mrs Cutler said. She was getting her breath back now, thank heavens.

Emily didn’t move. ‘Why do you want him?’ she asked.

Mrs Cutler felt like giving her a good slap. ‘If you would just fetch your father,’ she said. Too clever by half, that young lady, so sharp she’d cut herself one of these days, and that certainly wouldn’t grieve Mrs Cutler.

‘What is it, dear?’ The voice of Mrs Picton floated into the hall from the direction of the kitchen. Emily all but closed the front door, then she turned and ran back along the passage. The rude little madam, Mrs Cutler thought with heat. She slid the door a little further open and put her ear against the aperture. She could hear a low-pitched exchange of voices and then the sound of Emily running up the stairs, followed by a pause, and then Emily and her father coming down.

At last the door was thrown open and Mr Picton was standing on the threshold with Emily beside him. ‘You needn’t concern yourself with this,’ he said sharply to Emily and she took herself reluctantly off. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to Mrs Cutler. ‘Is there something I can do for you?’ She began telling him in a garbled rush – for she suddenly felt shaky and tearful – about the window, the curtains, the car, how she couldn’t get in, couldn’t make Mr Elliott answer.

‘I’d better come along and see,’ he said as soon as he got the gist of it. ‘Just hang on a moment.’ He vanished inside and came hurrying back again a few moments later. ‘Don’t agitate yourself,’ he said as they went off together down the path to the gate. ‘There’s probably some perfectly simple explanation.’

She couldn’t keep up with his pace. ‘You’d better go on and leave me,’ she said after a minute or two. ‘I’ll follow on.’ He gave a nod and set off at a run. He flung open the gate of Eastwood and ran up the drive.

As she followed him through the gate she heard a sound from the cottage. She glanced over and saw the lower sash of a bedroom window being raised, a window overlooking the Eastwood drive. Emily put her head out and gave her a level, unabashed stare, then she turned her head and craned out after her father’s speeding figure.

Mrs Cutler followed Mr Picton as quickly as she could but she had to keep stopping to relieve an unpleasant feeling of tightness across her chest. She saw Mr Picton go round the side of the house towards the broken window. As she reached the house the front door opened and Mr Picton stood on the step. He was very pale.

‘What is it?’ she cried.

He gave her a long look. ‘I’m afraid it’s pretty bad.’

‘What is it?’ she cried again. ‘What’s happened?’

He drew a long breath. ‘He’s in the house, upstairs. I’m afraid he’s dead.’

She gave a sharp cry and put a hand up to her head. Then all at once she made a rush at the steps, pushing past him into the house.

He clutched at her arm. ‘Don’t go up,’ he said urgently. But she shook off his grasp and made for the stairs. ‘Don’t touch anything!’ he called after her. ‘I’m phoning the police.’ She turned along the landing towards the front bedroom. Downstairs in the hall she could hear Mr Picton dialling.

The bedroom door was open and the lights were on. She stood on the threshold, staring in, looking across at the bed. She felt as if at any moment she would faint clean away but she forced herself to stand there and look. Downstairs she could hear Mr Picton’s voice, rapid and urgent.

The bedclothes had been pulled back and something had been thrown down across them, a dark coat or raincoat; that too had been thrown back.

Mr Elliott lay on his right side, facing away from her, his head bent down towards his chest, his left arm over his face, the hand resting on the pillow. She could see the back of his head, the thick dark hair.

The jacket of his pyjamas had been raised, exposing his back. Sticking out from between his shoulder-blades was the long handle of a knife.

CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_a6d54c59-29d8-5163-aca6-753256d78ea8)

In the front bedroom at Eastwood Detective Chief Inspector Kelsey stood with his back to the window, looking across at the bed. He was a big, solidly-built man with a freckled face and shrewd green eyes, and a head of thickly-springing carroty hair.

The photographer had gone. The doctor had finished his examination and gone back to Cannonbridge. The body lay with its face decently covered, waiting to be removed to the mortuary. Throughout the house the long and tedious search for fingerprints was under way, the scrutiny of the garden and surrounding area had begun; a door-to-door inquiry would shortly start in the village.

Kelsey passed a hand across his craggy features. One single blow to the heart, a sure and confident thrust by someone standing over Elliott.

The bedroom was very warm, much warmer than usual, according to Mrs Cutler; Elliott had probably turned up the central heating when he came in, shivering, running a temperature. And also according to Mrs Cutler, he had piled extra blankets on the bed.

By the time the police arrived at Eastwood Mrs Cutler had recovered to some extent from her initial shock. She had helped herself while waiting for the police to a couple of stiff brandies from the drinks cupboard in the dining room and was in a voluble and flushed state when Kelsey first spoke to her, alternating between bouts of tearfulness and shrewd, sharp-eyed observation.

‘Mr Elliott took two extra blankets from the linen chest in the second bedroom,’ she had told the Chief. She took him across the landing and showed him an oak chest with the lid thrown back, more blankets folded inside. ‘He didn’t bother to close the chest,’ she said. ‘He must have been feeling rotten.’ She had begun to sniff again; she took out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

Either the heat had after a while proved too much for Elliott and he had flung aside the bedclothes as he slept, or else his assailant had drawn aside the covers in order to raise the pyjama jacket and plunge in the knife. Leonard Picton had told them that when he entered the bedroom, the head and upper part of the body had been completely covered by the raincoat; he had also switched on the lights, he had found the room in total darkness. There was no sign of any struggle. It seemed very likely that Elliott had been deeply asleep when he was struck.

‘Difficult to say how long he’s been dead,’ the doctor had said. ‘The central heating, the extra bedclothes – it could have been any time in the twelve hours between, say, seven o’clock on Friday evening and seven on Saturday morning.’

Kelsey had asked Mrs Cutler about the raincoat. Had she ever seen it before? Did it belong to Mr Elliott? But she couldn’t be sure.

When the body had been removed Kelsey went in search of Mrs Cutler again. She had told them that a number of articles were missing from the house; various pieces of porcelain and glass taken from the open display shelves in the sitting room. He ran her to earth in the dining room where she sat at the table with her head lowered and her eyes closed, her hands linked in front of her on the polished top of the table. Leonard Picton was also in the room. He was standing by the window, staring out, his hands clasped behind his back.

Picton had earlier told Kelsey that neither he nor his wife had heard anything untoward from Eastwood during the evening or night of last Friday. They had gone to bed as usual around half past ten, hadn’t been awakened during the night by any unusual sounds. Neither of the Pictons had been able to offer any assistance about the raincoat or the knife. They had also said they had never seen or heard anything suspicious, no one hanging round the property, either recently or at any time during the eighteen months they had lived at Manor Cottage; nor had Elliott ever mentioned anything like that to them.

Picton turned now from the window and looked at the Chief with inquiry.

‘I think you’d better ring the college and tell them you won’t be in this morning,’ Kelsey said in answer to that look. ‘Something might crop up, we might want you. But there’s no need for you to stay here, you can get off next door. We’ll contact you if we need you.’

When he had gone Kelsey sat down opposite Mrs Cutler. ‘You’ve had a chance to look round further,’ he said. ‘Have you spotted anything else missing?’

She shook her head. ‘Not as far as I can see. But I’ve been thinking about that raincoat. There’s a wardrobe in the rear hall, there are some coats hanging up in it. I hardly ever go to that wardrobe but I think perhaps I might have seen a raincoat in there.’

Kelsey got to his feet. ‘We’ll take a look,’ he said.

The rear hall was a fair size with various doors opening out of it. Against one wall stood a mahogany wardrobe. Inside was a rail with several garments on hangers. An old tweed jacket, a fawn trench coat, a waistcoat of quilted nylon, a dark blue anorak. On the floor of the wardrobe was a pair of wellingtons, some black laced shoes, brown leather slip-ons. A shelf above the garments held a grey tweed hat and a pair of string-backed gloves.

‘Did Mr Elliott do any gardening himself?’ Kelsey asked.

‘No, he left all that to Jessup. Jessup comes here three full days a week.’

‘Can you say positively if the raincoat came from this wardrobe?’

She screwed up her face, staring in at the garments, then she reluctantly shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t say.’ She put a hand up to her face. ‘It seems to me now I might have seen it hanging up at the back of the kitchen door.’ She shook her head again. ‘But there again, I can’t be sure.’