Page 13 of Lies in Little Sutherland
“You’re a constable.Of course you can.”
“Not without cause!”
“Isn’t this cause enough?”I gestured to the open door with one hand while the other still kept the pocket square behind my back.“The door was unlocked and she’s not responding to knocks and calls.What if something’s wrong?”
“Everyone’s door is unlocked in Upper Slaughter,” the constable said.
“Well, I’m concerned for her wellbeing.”I turned towards the kitchen, partly visible through the open door.“If you won’t check, then I will.”
His hand shot out and grabbed me by the arm.“You cannot walk into someone else’s house, Miss!”
“We’re acquainted,” I told him, twitching my sleeve out of his hand.
It was a lie, of course.Morrison had left her post by the time I visited the Dower House in May, so I had never met her.And the constable seemed to know it, because the way he eyed me was dubious in the extreme.I sighed.“Fine.I’ve never met the woman.But Constance grew up with her.”
I indicated Constance.“Morrison was Lady Peckham’s lady’s maid for twenty-three years,” I added.“Until she up and left without notice one day in April.It has taken us six months to track her down.”
The constable looked from me to Constance.She did her best to appear trustworthy.It oughtn’t to have been a problem, when everything I had just said was the truth, and when she had one of those open, friendly faces, but for some reason she looked extremely guilty.
The constable folded his arms across his chest.“If it has taken you six months to track her down, she clearly doesn’t want to be found.Give me one good reason why I should let you go in there.”
“Because something might be wrong,” I said.“Perhaps you’re right, and she went to chapel, and then she went somewhere with someone for fellowship afterwards, and left her kitchen door unlocked through it all.It’s not impossible.You might know better than I do whether that’s in character.I don’t know her, so I can’t say with certainty that she wouldn’t have done.But isn’t it also possible that the reason the door is open is that something has happened to her?”
If I were going to break into this cottage, with the purpose of silencing Morrison, I would do it through this door, in the privacy of this enclosed courtyard with its tall stone walls, where it would be less likely that anyone would see me than if I were fiddling with the front door in full view of everyone in the square.
The constable didn’t answer, and I added, persuasively, “What’s the harm in taking a look?If she isn’t here, she’ll never know that you went inside.And if she is, and something is wrong, you might save her life.”
I tried to look pleading as my hands worried each other in front of my stomach.Constance did the same, big eyes unblinking as she bit her lip.
Francis, of course, wasn’t unaffected by his fiancée’s plight.He asked, somewhat apologetically, “Would it hurt, old chap?If you don’t touch anything, no one would know that you’ve been inside.”
“We’ve motored all the way here from Wiltshire to make certain that she’s all right,” Christopher added, blue eyes limpid.
The constable sighed.“I suppose I might as well.You won’t give me any peace until I do, will you?”
It was clearly a rhetorical question, to which the answer was no, we wouldn’t.None of us said anything.If he flat out refused to go inside, I wasn’t sure what we’d do.It would be difficult to affect entrance without inviting a burglary charge after a flat out refusal.But I was also not prepared to drive back to Wiltshire without seeing with my own eyes that Morrison was either alive and well or dead, so he was right.I would nag him until he did it.
He sighed.“Wait here, please.”
“Of course,” I said piously, as if going into the cottage had never even entered my mind.Francis snorted.Christopher sniggered.Even Constance smirked.The constable looked from one to the others and shook his head.
“One minute.”
He turned to the open door and raised his voice.“Miss Morrison?It’s Constable Woodin.Are you at home?”
He got no more of an answer than Constance had done, and after a second, he squared his shoulders and stepped through the doorway.
We gathered in the opening and jostled for space as we peered into the kitchen of the cottage.
It was small and rustic, with a sink below the window to our right, and a small cooker further down the wall.On the other side of the door was a small table and two chairs.An open fireplace on the opposite wall provided heat in the winter months.Beside it were two apertures: a door to the front room, and a staircase that led to the first floor and, I assumed, a bedroom and bath.
“Cozy,” Constance commented.
“If you like rustic charm.”
She looked around.”I don’t mind it.”
Francis looked like he was taking mental notes.I had rather assumed that the two of them would remain at Beckwith Place after they got married.Francis was the eldest, and would inherit the place from Uncle Herbert eventually, I assumed, although that could be decades, so perhaps he would rather bring his wife to a home of their own while they waited.
