Preface to Murder M Morris (good novels to read in english .txt) š
- Author: M Morris
Book online Ā«Preface to Murder M Morris (good novels to read in english .txt) šĀ». Author M Morris
āIāll get her bagged up and sent to the morgue,ā said Sarah.
āHow quickly do you think Roy will be able to do the post-mortem?ā asked Bridget. āDo you know if heās working this weekend?ā
Sarah regarded Bridgetās clumsy attempt to elicit further information about Sarahās knowledge of the pathologistās movements with faint amusement. āIām sure he can be persuaded to put in a few extra hours on your behalf. Roy never says no to a corpse. But why donāt you ask him yourself?ā
āI will,ā said Bridget. But first she had another job to do ā one that she dreaded even more than the prospect of attending a post-mortem. To notify the victimās next of kin.
3
Marston had once been a separate village located some two miles northeast of Oxford, but it was now encompassed by the ring road and subsumed into the wider city. Its name was said to derive from āMarsh Townā on account of the River Cherwellās habit of flooding the low-lying pasture land in winter. Not good for house insurance, Bridget supposed, but charming nonetheless.
The village was only a few minutesā drive from Dianeās house on St Margaretās Road, but as Bridget turned off the Marston Ferry Road she felt as if she were leaving the city far behind and entering a rural idyll surrounded by fields and farmland.
It had not always been this peaceful. From her time as a History undergraduate, Bridget knew that during the English Civil War, King Charles I had used Oxford as his capital, and when the Royalist stronghold fell to Oliver Cromwellās Parliamentary forces, the treaty of surrender of the city was negotiated and signed at a house on Mill Lane in Marston.
The old manor house that had witnessed that historic event was still standing, and was situated just a few doors away from the house that now belonged to Dianeās sister, Annabel Caldecott. The old stone cottage, one of a row of four, appeared very similar in age and style to Bridgetās own modest dwelling in Wolvercote. Both properties would have fitted comfortably inside the floorplan of Dianeās capacious Victorian villa with room to spare. The tiny front garden was abundantly planted and although it was still early in the season, was putting on a colourful show. Bridget was a very casual gardener, more inclined to admire other peopleās efforts than to make any herself, and couldnāt have named half the plants on display if her life depended on it, but she did recognise some tulips and hyacinths alongside the fading daffodils. Some large hydrangea bushes were just coming into bud and would no doubt put on a spectacular display when summer arrived. She pushed open the garden gate with a squeak, knocked on the wooden door of the cottage and waited.
There was no answer, and she was about to try phoning Annabelās mobile, when she heard the barking of a small dog. She looked up and saw Annabel returning from a walk.
āInspector Hart, what brings you here?ā Annabel was dressed as before, in long overcoat and boots. Her dog, a Jack Russell terrier with smooth white and brown fur and very muddy legs, trotted through the open gate to sniff at Bridget with great interest. When he looked as if he was about to jump up and plant his paws on Bridgetās coat, Annabel tugged on his lead. āDown, Oscar.ā The dog obeyed immediately, looking abashed. āIām so sorry. Iāve just taken him for a walk down the lane and around the field and thereās been so much rain recently itās all very muddy down there. Oscar canāt help but get covered in it.ā
āYes,ā said Bridget, eyeing Annabelās muddy boots.
āJust a moment,ā said Annabel, as if sheād only just remembered something. She reached into a deep coat pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag knotted at the top. Although Bridget applauded responsible dog owners who cleaned up after their pets, she preferred not to see the results. Annabel popped the poop bag into a grey wheelie bin and turned back to Bridget. āDid Diane send you?ā
āIn a manner of speaking,ā said Bridget. āDo you mind if we go inside?ā
āOh, no. Of course not.ā
Annabel fished a key from another pocket and opened the door. āWould you like to wait in the sitting room? Iāll just shut Oscar and his muddy paws in the kitchen.ā
Freed from his leash, the dog darted enthusiastically through the door at the end of the hallway and Annabel went to deal with him while Bridget let herself into the front room. The dogās dirty feet would be the least of Annabelās worries once Bridget had broken the news to her of her sisterās untimely death.
The sitting room was furnished in a homely style, maybe a little outdated, but comfortable and cheerful. A bookcase in one of the alcoves next to the fireplace was stacked with well-thumbed paperbacks, their spines cracked. Bridget recognised some bestselling thriller and crime writers, as well as a generous helping of classics including Dickens, Austen and Hardy. A Deadly Race: How Western Governments Collude in Sales of Arms to the Middle East was nowhere to be seen, but the coffee table was strewn with old copies of Gardenersā World and Your Dog magazines.
Assorted photographs in wooden frames adorned the mantelpiece. One holiday snapshot showed the two sisters looking relaxed and happy in wide-brimmed straw hats, somewhere hot and sunny. Another picture was of Annabel and her husband on their wedding day ā not a formal shot captured by a professional photographer, but one snapped on a pocket camera, the
Comments (0)