A Capital Crime by Laura Wilson Read Free Book Online

heavy – into the yard. ‘You don’t mind if we cut the cord?’ he asked Mrs Backhouse.
    Frowning, shaking her head, she said, ‘No. I told you, it’s not mine.’
    Stratton took out his pocket knife and, his torch held steady between his teeth, cut the sash cord. As soon as it was loosened, one end of the green cloth raised itself up and, with jerky acceleration as of some ghastly mechanical toy, a pair of female feet and legs slid out onto the cement of the yard.
    There was a sharp indrawn breath from Edna Backhouse, then silence, thick as a fog. After a long moment during which no-one moved, spoke or even seemed to breathe, Ballard’s voice came from inside the washhouse. ‘That’s not all, sir. There’s a baby.’

Chapter Seven
    Diana’s high heels echoed on the stone floor as she walked into the hall of Hambeyn House, startling a pair of wood pigeons so that they flapped upwards and away through the broken window at the top of the main staircase. The lower windows – those that had retained their glass – were opaque with dirt, and their decorative plasterwork surrounds were yellowing and crumbly like stale cake icing.
    Shivering, she pulled the collar of her fur coat close around her neck and skirted the evidence of the birds’ occupancy – by the look of things, there had been more than just two pigeons – to stand at the bottom of the staircase. The curved iron banister looked like the ribs of a dinosaur and, halfway up, a thin ray of winter sunlight illuminated an obscenity scrawled across the khakipainted wall – left there, presumably, by a departing soldier. The words, Diana thought, were indicative of the fact that her childhood home, and what it symbolised, were obsolete in the new, post-war world.
    Sitting in the train on the way up to Gloucestershire, the burst of confidence she’d felt on leaving Guy had ebbed away, and, in an attempt to lift her spirits, she’d convinced herself that somebody – a school, a nursing home, even an asylum – would want to buy the place. This hope had been all but demolished when the driver of the station taxi, hearing her destination, had looked aghast and said, ‘You sure, miss?’ Even so, she hadn’t expected it to lookquite so derelict. The house was a wreck, and she’d heard enough tales of woe from the owners of other properties requisitioned by the forces to know that whatever compensation she might be awarded would be too little to do much about it. Besides, it seemed to her that it was already too late.
    It was hard to believe she’d ever lived here. The place was like an abandoned stage set for a play so long out of fashion that it was impossible to imagine how anyone could have enjoyed it. Not daring to go up the stairs, she recrossed the hall and walked down the corridor to the dining room, where she found more khaki and grey paint, loose – and in some places, missing – floorboards and heaps of rubbish in the once magnificent fireplaces. Gingerly, she made her way over to the windows and stood looking out over the terrace. Weeds had sprung up between the flagstones, and piles of cigarette ends in the bowls of the long-disused ornamental fountains had combined with rainwater to create a few inches of brownish nicotine soup. The lawn beyond was rutted with tyre tracks and the flowerbeds claimed by banks of nettles.
    Hambeyn House was dead. Nothing – not repairs or fresh paint, even supposing these could be got, nor the joyful barking of dogs or even the laughter of children – could bring it back to life. At least, thought Diana, I don’t feel sentimental about it. Being a lonely only child – her sole sibling, a boy, had not survived babyhood – with a distant father, an aloof mother and a series of nannies with cold, perfunctory hands had seen to that. She dredged her memory for anything that would kindle a spark of feeling, but nothing came. At least, she thought, turning away from the window, there are no death duties, because