An Air That Kills by Andrew Taylor Read Free Book Online Page B

attack, I’m afraid. Philip’s had to plug the gap. He’s been working very hard, poor lamb.’
    The doorbell rang.
    The two women heard Philip’s footsteps cross the hall, the door opening and the sound of men’s voices. The sitting-room door opened. Philip, still with his glass in his hand, ushered in a slim, dark-haired man.
    â€˜This is Inspector Thornhill, dear,’ Philip said. ‘Inspector, this is my wife, Mrs Wemyss-Brown, and this is Miss Francis, a friend of ours from London.’
    â€˜It’s very kind of you to see me at such short notice,’ Thornhill said to Charlotte. ‘Especially at this time of day.’
    â€˜Not at all, Inspector. It’s never too late to help the police, after all.’
    â€˜Would you like a drink?’ Philip asked.
    â€˜Thank you, but no.’
    â€˜Do sit down,’ said Charlotte graciously. She indicated the chair beside hers. ‘Now – how can we help you?’
    Thornhill sat down. He took his time answering. He was dressed in a tweed jacket and flannel trousers. The elbows of the jacket had been neatly patched with leather. Jill envisaged an adoring wife, industriously devoting one evening a week after supper to the family’s mending. She thought Thornhill might have seemed quite handsome if his expression had not been so supercilious; he looked, she decided, like a grammar-school master whose absolute control over the boys in his charge had gone to his head.
    At that moment, he glanced up: his eyes met hers. Quickly, she looked away. She took a sip of her drink. All this – her assessment of him and the meeting of their eyes – had taken no more than a couple of seconds.
    Thornhill turned to Charlotte. ‘As I said on the phone, Mrs Wemyss-Brown, some bones have been found in Templefields. There were a couple of other things found with them. We wondered whether you might be able to help us identify them.’
    â€˜I shall be delighted to give you all the help I can, Inspector. By the by, is there any reason why you’d prefer us not to treat this as a news story? It’s not top secret or anything, is it?’
    â€˜No – the workmen who found the bones must have spread the story by now.’
    Philip put down his drink. He sat up, took a shorthand pad from his jacket pocket and uncapped his fountain pen. For an instant, Jill glimpsed the Philip she had known all those years ago. Deep inside the plump and prosperous citizen there still lurked a cub reporter eager for glory.
    â€˜This afternoon, four of Mr George’s workmen were clearing out what appears to have been an old cesspit at the back of the former Rose in Hand inn.’ Thornhill cleared his throat: to Jill he sounded absurdly formal, as though he were in court. ‘They disturbed a box. Either inside it or near it were a few small bones. Luckily the foreman, Ted Evans, used to help his father who was the sexton at St John’s. He thought the bones might well belong to a baby. Dr Bayswater thinks he may be right.’
    For Jill, his words were like an incision reopening a wound. There was no escape from what had happened. Even this provincial policeman was in the conspiracy to remind her.
    â€˜Why just a few bones?’ she said, desperate to distract herself.
    He looked at her, and his face was cold and bleak. ‘Rats, Miss Francis. That’s the most likely explanation.’
    The thought of it made her feel ill. He shrugged, brushing aside her interruption.
    â€˜I should emphasise that all the indications are that the bones are very old,’ he went on. ‘The workmen also found a small silver brooch and a little bit of newspaper. I wondered if you could help me identify the newspaper, and also perhaps give me an idea of the history of the Rose in Hand.’
    â€˜A pleasure, Inspector,’ purred Charlotte.
    He was already taking two envelopes from an inside pocket. ‘I’m afraid the