Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [45]
“So whoever it was probably came along it one way or the other?”
“Yes sir, ’less they came through the garden, or from one o’ them other houses.”
“Did you look along the path? Ask anyone?”
“Yes, sir. Nobody saw anyone, but then if it were after dark, they likely wouldn’t. But there was tracks here an’ there in the earth, like a bicycle’d bin down very recent. Somebody of a fair weight, to judge by the depth o’ the marks.”
“Good work.”
“Thank you, sir.” He straightened his shoulders.
“No one seen a bicycle, by any chance?”
“Not yet, sir, but we’re still looking. There moight have bin someone out walking late—courtin’ couple, or someone with a dog. Never know.”
“Good. Don’t stop.” Perth turned back to Joseph, his voice lowered, his eyes anxious. “I understand this Mr. Blaine was one of the top scientists at the Establishment. This isn’t good, Captain Reavley.”
“You think it had to do with his work?” Joseph asked. Corcoran would miss Blaine appallingly if he was really one of his best men. Would it actually affect the invention he had spoken of, and the time in which it could be completed?
Perth chewed his lip. “Don’t know about that, sir. Could be German spies, an’ no doubt that’s what some folks’ll think. But seems a bit odd to me. Why the garden fork, eh? Looks more like a crime of opportunity, don’t you think?”
“You mean a German spy would be better organized?” Joseph asked. The morning air smelled of damp leaf mold and it was muddy underfoot, but there was nothing left to mark what had happened except the dark patch of blood pooling and soaking into the earth. Joseph looked at it, and thought he must arrange for somebody to come and perhaps lay a stonework path over it. It shouldn’t be left like this. There were plenty of men in the village who would do that, as a kindness, a mark of decency. Albie Nunn, Tucky’s father, or Bert Arnold. They were good with their hands. “Perhaps he was better organized,” he said aloud. “But he saw the fork, and used it precisely so we would think it was impulse, a passion of some sort.”
Perth looked sideways at him. “You’re getting clever at this, Captain Reavley. If that arm of yours don’t get really right, mebbe we could use you in the police force.”
Joseph had no idea if Perth was being sarcastic or not, and he could think of no sensible reply. He was painfully conscious that a young man had died here, suddenly and violently, and that someone, for whatever reason, had committed a crime that would surely mark him forever, too.
They walked slowly back up to the house. Perth spoke briefly to Lizzie Blaine, then took his leave. Joseph stayed another half hour to help her with some of the most immediate arrangements, simple things like informing the bank, her solicitor, and placing her notice of bereavement in the newspapers. Then he too left, but promising to return, and giving her his telephone number in case she needed him for anything.
Hallam Kerr had waited patiently in the lane, reading his Bible, as Perth had observed. He looked up, startled and unhappy, when Joseph reappeared, but he asked no questions, as if the entire visit fell within the realm of confidentiality, and in truth, Joseph had no wish to confide in him. They drove back in silence.
Hannah was waiting in the hall. She must have been listening for the car.
“You look terrible,” she said urgently as Joseph came in. “I’ll get you a cup of tea and something to eat. How about a boiled egg and some toast?”
He smiled in spite of the grief inside him. “I’m all right,” he assured her. “I did what I could to help Mrs. Blaine. There’s not a great deal, other than assist with a few practical things, and be there to sit beside her while she goes through the ordeal of telling people. I’m afraid it’s going to be very ugly. Because of Theo Blaine’s work, it is possible he was killed by a German spy.”
She frowned. “Isn’t that better than by somebody in the village, which would mean one of us, and that would be awful!”
“My dear,” he said gently, “he died in his own garden. Whoever killed