A folded newspaper bearing Friday’s date stuck out from behind the cushions of the lounger.
He stood for a moment with his head back and his eyes closed. The only sounds were the twittering of birds and the distant hum of a mechanical saw. He went round the cottage to where Venetia’s car stood with its back to him, its front windows wound down. The boot wasn’t locked. He glanced inside; it was empty except for the spare tyre and a bag of tools.
He went round to the nearside front door of the car, opened it and stooped inside; the keys were in the ignition. On the rear window ledge lay some children’s comics and a rag doll. He knelt on the front seat, leaned over and glanced down–and there she was. Jammed into the space between the front and rear seats, facing him, her eyes closed. She lay on her back, in shirt and jeans, her knees drawn up. Her hair fell in disordered curls over her forehead. Her face was contused and contorted, with livid bruises, her lips swollen, her mouth wide open. Something had been rammed down her throat, some patterned stuff, brown and silky.
He remained staring down at her for several seconds, then he reached over and laid the back of his hand against her puffy, discoloured cheek. He drew a long quavering breath and got out of the car. He staggered over to the side of the cottage and stood leaning against the wall, his head in his hands. After a minute or two he roused himself and walked round to where Jane and the children still sat silent in the car.
They saw his face as he approached, white and shaken, his trembling, uncertain gait. They gazed dumbly out at him. He didn’t glance at the children but put his head in at the front window and without looking at Jane said in a low, unsteady voice, ‘You must take the children home at once and stay there with them.’ He put a hand up to his eyes. ‘There’s been an accident. I must ring the police.’
Jane said nothing but gave a single answering nod. She slid into the driver’s seat and switched on the engine. In the back the children had caught something of what he’d said. They sat in tremulous silence, their faces puzzled and uneasy.
Roy stepped back and watched as Jane turned the car and drove out through the gates, then he went slowly back to the cottage. All at once he began to shake violently. He couldn’t control the fierce tremors, he could scarcely discipline his fingers sufficiently to open the front door.
The phone stood on a small table in the sitting room. As he approached it the tremors increased. The receiver rattled against its rest as he tried to pick it up. Suddenly he began to cry. It was some minutes before he managed to dial the number and all the time the tears ran down his face.
Evening sunlight slanted in through the window of the kitchen at Foxwell Cottage. Detective Chief Inspector Kelsey stood leaning against the dresser. A big, solidly built man with a large face and craggy features; a freckled skin and shrewd green eyes, a head of thickly-springing carroty hair. At the table in the middle of the room Roy Franklin sat leaning forward, his arms crossed on the table top, his head resting on his arms.
Venetia’s body had gone off to the mortuary. Inside the cottage, upstairs and down, in the garden and on the common, men were busy searching, sifting, probing, examining.
Inquiries had been made at the neighbouring dwellings but no one had seen or heard anything unusual over the weekend, no one had noticed any car turning in through the cottage gates, no one had been seen hanging about the cottage or the common, behaving in any way suspiciously. The common was of no great size and was full of gorse bushes. As a consequence it was not in favour as a picnic spot or playground. Venetia had never been on close terms with any of the neighbours. Her acquaintance with them had always been pleasant enough but had never progressed beyond an exchange of minor civilities when their paths crossed.
Among the leaflets lying in the front hall of the cottage was one advertising a bazaar at a Cannonbridge church hall. A phone call to the organizers of the bazaar supplied the information that the leaflets had been delivered by Dorothy Pickard. A constable had been despatched to talk to Dorothy.
He had returned to say that she had pushed the leaflets in through the door of Foxwell Cottage at about ten o’clock on Saturday morning. She had seen no one about the place, had heard no sound from inside the dwelling. The cottage gates were standing open, fastened back, and she had left them as she had found them. She remembered noticing Mrs Franklin’s car parked at the far side of the cottage but she hadn’t gone near it.
In addition to delivering leaflets on Saturday Dorothy was also selling raffle tickets in aid of a charity. Mrs Franklin had often bought tickets from her so she rang the bell in order to speak to her. When there was no reply she walked round to the back door which stood propped open. She saw the sunlounger on the terrace, the table with the used jug and beakers. From this and from the fact that all the windows were open she judged that Mrs Franklin must be somewhere on the premises. She knocked loudly at the back door and when there was no answer she put her head in and called out, again without success. She looked down the garden but saw no one. She concluded that Mrs Franklin might have gone up to the little shop or walked across the fields to the farm for some eggs.
By the time the police arrived at the cottage Roy Franklin had drunk a couple of stiff whiskies from the sideboard and had managed to get some kind of grip on himself. He had immediately suggested to the police that the murder was clearly the work of a criminal psychopath, possibly someone from a local psychiatric institution–there were two in the area. The circumstances of the crime had at once prompted the same thought in the Chief Inspector. Both institutions were contacted by phone and officers were sent to begin inquiries.
Venetia had been wearing a certain amount of jewellery: a gold wristwatch, gold stud earrings, a gold chain round her neck. She also wore three rings, a diamond engagement ring, a wedding ring and the sapphire and diamond ring Franklin had given her after the birth of Simon. No attempt appeared to have been made to remove any of these items.
Nor, apparently, had there been any attempt to enter the cottage. There was no sign of disturbance nor, as far as Franklin could tell them, did anything appear to be missing. The cottage was well furnished and there were several ornaments and other items of value that could easily have been snatched up and thrust into a pocket. On the dressing table in Venetia’s bedroom was a jewel box containing several pieces of fair value. Inside the shoulder-bag on the chest of drawers was a wallet holding a sizeable sum of money, a chequebook and credit cards. Nothing apparently touched, nothing taken.
One of the buttons was missing from the shirt Venetia wore. The shirt was of fine cotton, striped in blue and white; the buttons were fancy, dark blue buttons of good quality, many-faceted. The missing button had been ripped from the shirt, tearing out a small piece of material. The search had so far failed to turn up the button.
According to Franklin he had called for the children, as arranged, at five o’clock on Friday afternoon. Venetia had given the children their tea on the terrace, as she often did in fine weather. He had exchanged a few words with her but they hadn’t stood about chatting; he knew that she was going away for the weekend. She hadn’t mentioned at what time she intended setting off but he had the impression that it would be as soon as she had tidied up and changed out of her shirt and jeans.
It had been agreed that he would take the children to school on Monday morning; Venetia would be back from her trip in time to pick them up at the school on Monday afternoon. This wasn’t the first time they had made such an arrangement.
When the children finished their tea they ran into the cottage to wash their hands and faces. He went inside and brought out their cases. Venetia fetched a tray from the kitchen and began to clear the tea-things. When the children came out they said goodbye to her and got into the car. He immediately drove off, leaving the gates open, fastened back, as they had been when he arrived. That was the last time he had seen Venetia alive. He had had no further contact of any kind with her.
He didn’t take the children straight to his flat. His wife Jane was at work and wouldn’t be in till around six. Jane had never met Venetia; she had never wanted to and the necessity had never arisen. It had always been he who had picked up the children. It had