Page 12 of Lies in Little Sutherland
It was narrow and enclosed, the space largely taken up by a row of pots with twigs sticking up out of the dirt, and by a bench resting against one honey-stoned wall.It might have been a pleasant place in the summer, with the sun shining, the flowers blooming, and the bees buzzing, but under the sullen November sky, it looked gloomy and deserted.
“Private,” Christopher commented, looking around at the high stone walls of the courtyard and the higher walls of the surrounding houses.
Yes, it was.No one would be able to see into this courtyard unless they made a real effort.“Let’s try the kitchen door.”
It was painted the same cheery robin’s egg blue as the front door and garden gate, and set into a corner of the courtyard.I draped Christopher’s handkerchief over the latch and pushed down on it.
The door resisted—it was a heavy, old thing—but eventually, with a groan, it opened.
We all three froze.However, when several seconds passed with no reaction from inside, we exchanged a look.The sound was loud enough that it should have roused some interest from within, if anyone was there.Yet there was no yell of outrage, nor the pitter-patter of approaching feet.
I gestured to Constance, who leaned forward, into the kitchen, and opened her mouth.“Morrison?”Her voice quavered.“Are you home?It’s Constance Peckham.”
“We could be wrong,” Christopher said softly as we waited for an answer.There was no need for him to spell out what we could be wrong about.We were both thinking the same thing, after all.Constance might not have caught on yet—she’s finer-minded than Christopher and I, or at least less distrustful—but we’d both seen enough dead bodies to recognize the signs.“She could have gone to church?—”
“The Methodist chapel, do you mean?”I shook my head.“It looked empty, Christopher.There was no singing, nor any sign of life.And surely it’s too late in the day for mass?—”
He nodded.“But she might have gone home with one of the other parishioners.Or whatever one would call an adherent of the Methodist faith.”
“Member?”I suggested.“Fellow worshiper?”
“Perhaps.Might she not have gone home with one of them after the service was over?For luncheon or companionship or something else?”
She might very well have done, of course.“Would she have left her kitchen door open, though?And the chapel was that way.”I pointed through the house, towards the front of the square.“Wouldn’t she have gone out the front?”
“Who knows?In a place like this—” Christopher gestured to the tiny hamlet with its picturesque cottages and fairytale look, “perhaps people leave their doors open all the time.Mum does too, at home.We only lock up at night.”
Yes, of course we did.Or at least we had done, at Beckwith Place.In London, Christopher and I both made certain that the flat was locked up tight whenever we went out, and Evans the commissionaire guarded the entrance to the building.
But that was London, and this was the Cotswolds.
On the other hand?—
“Beckwith Place is full of people,” I said.“Aunt Roz and Uncle Harold.Francis.Constance now, and you and me back then.If people started wandering in and out—people who didn’t belong—one of us would notice.This is a single woman who lives by herself, and not just that, but a single woman who left her last position in a bit of a hurry, as if something was wrong.Not to mention that her counterpart at Sutherland Hall was killed not three months ago.Don’t you think she would lock her door when she goes out?”
“She might not know about Hughes…” Christopher demurred.
No, she might not.Hughes had been asking about Morrison that weekend at Beckwith Place, but there was nothing to indicate that she had found her before her death.We hadn’t.
“Look,” I said, pointing.“There’s a keyhole.If someone took the trouble to install a lock, surely it must be for the purpose of locking the door, at least some of the time.”
“So what do you suggest we do, Pippa?”Christopher wanted to know.“I’m not walking in.Not with a constable a few yards away.”
No, of course not.“Call her again, Constance,” I said, and Constance rolled her eyes but did as I said.
There was no answer this time either, and by now Francis and his companion had caught up, and were standing in the courtyard behind us.
“What’s all this, then?”the constable wanted to know, looking from one to the other of us.
“The kitchen door was open,” I explained, hiding Christopher’s handkerchief behind my back.“But she’s not answering.”
“Went home with someone after chapel,” the constable said, “most likely.”
Christopher, who had suggested the same thing, gave me an arch look.I thought about sticking my tongue out, but reconsidered it.
“Do you think perhaps you ought to check?”
The constable stared at me.“This is someone’s home.I can’t just walk into it.”
