The Language of the Dead by Stephen Kelly Read Free Book Online Page B

to make at least a cursory search of Blackwell’s house, inside and out. Tomorrow they could return and make a more thorough exploration of the place.
    â€œI realize that this has been a trying day for you, Miss Blackwell,” he said. “But I’m afraid we have one more duty we must perform before we leave. Perhaps I can have Constable Harris make you a cup of tea?”
    Rivers shifted in his seat, as if uncomfortable and wanting to make his discomfort obvious. Again, he briefly looked at Lamb quizzically. He wondered why Lamb was treating the niece with such solicitousness. Instinctually, he felt certain that she was involved with her uncle’s murder.
    Lydia shook her head. “No—no, thank you.”
    â€œVery well,” Lamb said. “Sergeant Wallace and DI Rivers are going to search upstairs. They shouldn’t be too long. If I could justprevail upon you to wait here a bit longer, then we can all go to bed. Constable Harris will sit with you.”
    â€œWhere will you be, sir?” She couldn’t quite hide the wariness in her eyes.
    â€œOutside,” Lamb said without elucidating. “I’ll also be back shortly.”
    Wallace fetched Harris from his post outside the door. Harris removed his hat and sat in the chair that Wallace had occupied. Lydia sat with her hands between her knees, staring into the cold hearth. She sniffled.
    Lamb, Wallace, and Rivers went into the front yard, where they could speak without Lydia hearing them. “You two see to upstairs and I’ll have a look around outside,” Lamb said.
    â€œShe’s lying about Abbott,” Rivers said.
    â€œMaybe,” Lamb said.
    â€œNo maybe about it. She practically jumped out of her chair when you asked about him.”
    â€œWe’ll see,” Lamb said.
    Rivers and Wallace climbed a narrow, switchback staircase that led to a small landing on the second floor. The landing gave on to a short, narrow hall lit by a single bulb in the ceiling. Off the hall were two rooms, one to the right and one at the end.
    Wallace opened the door to the room on the right and shined his torch into it. It contained a small single bed upon which sat a wicker basket full of freshly washed women’s clothes—dresses, petticoats, and stockings. He found a switch on the wall and turned on the light, another bare bulb in the ceiling. The bed was neatly made, with a yellow blanket pulled over, then tucked beneath a single pillow. A narrow space existed between the foot of the bed and the wall opposite the door, and on this wall was a single window shrouded with a dark green wool blanket. Above the bed was a painting of red flowers arranged in a white vase. Near the foot of the bed, against the wall, was a bureau. On the bureau lay several combs and brushes; above the bureau a mirror was positioned on the wall.
    â€œLooks as if this is the niece’s room,” Wallace said.
    â€œRight,” Rivers said. “You have a look round and I’ll take the old man’s room.”
    Wallace searched Lydia Blackwell’s tiny bedroom thoroughly but found nothing interesting save a diary. He flipped through its pages but found they contained only notations of the weather and meals and an occasional passage describing a walk Lydia had taken in or around Quimby. He found no impassioned confessions of love, lust, anger, remorse, guilt, or the desire for revenge; no explication of fantasies and dreams, triumphs, or heartbreaks; nothing dear and intimate—not a single letter or photograph; not even a flower—pressed between the pages. As he closed the diary, he felt pity for Lydia Blackwell.
    In Will’s room, Rivers found a narrow bed against the left wall, next to a closet, and a squat wooden bureau against the right wall. The room’s whitewashed plastered walls were bare of ornament, and the top of the bureau contained only a razor and shaving cup. The mirror above the bureau was cracked