A Medal For Murder by Frances Brody Read Free Book Online

back into my life?
    The constable stayed in the room with us, saying in a friendly voice, ‘Don’t mind me.’
    ‘We’re not under arrest are we?’ Meriel asked.
    ‘Oh no, miss. It’s just that statements will be required.’
    We sipped our drinks and waited, listening to the loud tick of the big round clock on the wall. With infinite slowness, the hands of the clock moved to midnight. Was that all? It seemed indecent to want to be out of there. But how much could there be to state in our ‘statements’? We would be unlikely to forget the horror of finding a body after just one night’s sleep, or wakefulness.
    Meriel leaned towards me, picking at a thread on her cape. ‘This is horrible. It’s like one of those German films where everything . . . oh you know.’
    That glimmer of fear I had noticed earlier returned, perhaps a fear of having been close to the dead. Straight away, she began to take deep breaths. After a moment, she said, more to herself than to me, ‘I made a good impression on Mr Wheatley.’
    ‘You did.’
    ‘He said to call him BW. Do you really think I made a good impression?’
    ‘Meriel, for heaven’s sake!’ I closed my eyes, momentarily not having the strength to find the right words, unable to tell whether this was crassness or insecurity. At least analysing Meriel took my thoughts from my own reaction. She escapes into the theatre, I told myself, in the way an inebriate drowns in the bottle.
    ‘Your face, Kate! I’m only trying to make conversation, to take our minds off things. Did I tell you he invited me to lunch tomorrow?’
    She had. ‘Yes.’
    ‘He plans to do an Ibsen and asked me which one. What do you think to that?’
    I was saved the need to answer by the sound of footsteps, and voices in the corridor.
    Our guarding sergeant snapped to attention as the door opened.‘Ladies.’ The man was dressed in a good, dark suit, spotless shirt and dark-green tie. There was something familiar about him, about the eyes, hazel flecked with green. His light-coloured hair held a neat side parting and was cut short. Late-night stubble covered his chin. He looked a little tired.
    ‘I’m Inspector Charles, of Scotland Yard.’ He stepped forward and shook each of our hands in turn as we offered our names.
    Everything about the moment felt unreal, as if it might dissolve and turn out to be as ephemeral as the drama played out on the stage only hours ago.
    Meriel held onto his hand. ‘Goodness, you must be the murder squad. You can’t have appeared from London.’
    He paused for a moment before he answered, as if deciding how much to say. ‘I would have been on the night train to London now. It’s not often I’m called North, but this will be my third investigation in Yorkshire recently. I hope it won’t become a habit.’
    He looked at me when he said this, and I realised he was the same man who had appeared on the scene at Bridgestead when I was working on behalf of Tabitha Braithwaite. That was my first professional case, just a few months ago. I had investigated the mysterious disappearance of Joshua Braithwaite, a millionaire mill owner, and Tabitha’s much-loved father.
    As I remembered, Inspector Charles had wanted me out of the way. I wondered afterwards whether he held me responsible for the local bobby being less than meticulous in securing the scene of crime.
    The inspector nodded to the sergeant who hovered behind him. ‘Sergeant, take Miss Jamieson’s statement, please. Keep it short.’ He then turned to me. ‘Mrs Shackleton?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘If you’ll come with me, please.’
    I followed him into the corridor and to a room where a fire had been lit. He drew chairs near the fire. ‘I’m sorry you were kept waiting.’
    I felt too numb to respond. At this rate, the young, pale-faced constable who sat at a table by the wall, notebook at the ready, would have little to write.
    ‘I appreciate that you kept the scene clear once you found the body. And thank you