Murder in My Backyard by Ann Cleeves Read Free Book Online Page B

and the churchyard open or shut?”
    “Shut,” Max said. “ Definitely shut. When I saw that she was dead, I noticed the vicar coming from the green towards the church. I shouted to him for help, though I don’t know exactly what I expected him to do. It was so windy that he didn’t hear me. It was like one of those nightmares, you know, when you shout and no sound comes out. In the end I ran to fetch him. The catch on the gate is very stiff and it seemed to take hours to get it open. He didn’t realise that anything was wrong and just stood on the path smiling.”
    When Max stopped talking, there was another silence. Ramsay looked at them all again. They were shocked, of course, but still very self-composed. If anyone was lying, it would be hard to find out. Yet if anything the shut gate indicated that the murderer was a member of the household. Would someone who had just committed murder stop in his flight to fasten a difficult catch on the gate? Then he remembered Olive Kerr and made a mental note to ask which way she had come into the house.
    “Now,” Ramsay said. “ Tell me what you’re all doing here and what happened last night.”
    “We always stay with Alice on St. David’s night,” James Laidlaw said. “ It’s a family tradition. Her husband was Welsh, and she liked to entertain.”
    “You arrived yesterday?”
    James nodded. “Late in the afternoon.”
    “Did your aunt seem concerned, worried?”
    James hesitated. “ Not really. She was angry about a new development planned for the edge of the village, but that was nothing unusual. She was always fighting for some cause or another. I’m afraid she was rather a crank.”
    “No,” Judy said. “ That’s not true. She was well-read, intelligent, especially concerned about environmental problems.” She turned to Ramsay. “Alice was a scientist,” she told him, “ a chemist. She met her husband at Newcastle University, where they both worked. He was a historian and quite famous. You might have seen him on television. Alice may have dressed rather strangely and been a bit eccentric, but she was no fool.”
    “Perhaps you could explain about the new houses and what they had to do with Mrs. Parry,” Ramsay said.
    “Alice originally owned the land where the housing development is proposed,” Judy said. “She sold it to a builder on the understanding that it would be used for cheap starter homes for the village people. Then she found out that the development would be much bigger than she’d been led to believe and that he was going to build big executive homes for people prepared to commute into Newcastle. Of course the villagers are furious and think Alice sold out—though she let the land go to the builder for well under the market value.”
    “What is the name of the builder?” The interruption was gentle and she hardly paused.
    “Henshaw,” Judy said. “ Colin Henshaw.”
    Ramsay recognised the name immediately as the builder who owned the land behind his cottage. He said nothing, and Judy continued:
    “There was an action meeting in the hall yesterday afternoon. Alice went to it, and apparently it got very nasty. Later in the day she received a threatening letter. It really upset her.”
    “Were you at the meeting?” Ramsay interrupted again. “Can you tell me exactly what happened?”
    “No,” Judy said. “We didn’t arrive until it was all over. But one of your reporters went, didn’t she, James? She would be able to tell the inspector what went on.”
    “Yes,” James said absently, “though I’m not sure how reliable she is.”
    “What is her name?” Ramsay asked.
    “Raven,” James said. “ Mary Raven.”
    Ramsay turned to Judy. “ You mentioned a letter,” he said. “Could you tell me about that?”
    “It was delivered here some time after the meeting,” Judy said. “By hand, I suppose. But if Alice guessed who had made it, she didn’t say. It was anonymous. There was no handwriting, only words cut out