Page 53 of A Spell of Midlife Mayhem
Lydia hesitated. Her pose was tense, her brows had drawn close together, and a grimace contorted her face. She’d told me Ronald had been a regular visitor to Chirtlewood House for several weeks.
She wouldn’t want to see his body again.
‘I’ll take you,’ I volunteered.
Lydia’s relief was palpable. She sagged back, her hand pressed to her chest.
I led the inspector upstairs. Behind us, police officers asked questions of the others.
Inspector Pentecost asked me about what had happened, and I told her in as much detail as I could what I remembered as it had occurred.
‘Thank you,’ she replied.
The ambulance crew had stepped out into the passage. We went into the library.
‘Here he is,’ I said. ‘Mr Morris.’
The inspector crouched down beside Ronald’s body and examined the wound before she stood and scanned the bookshelves. ‘Where is that candlestick, usually?’
‘On that shelf.’ I pointed to a spot two or three metres from the desk. ‘There’s no chance it could have fallen on him.’
‘I agree. I will call for the pathologist. Please go downstairs and wait with the others.’
I cast one last look at Ronald, saying a silent goodbye to him. I hadn’t known him for more than a few days, and only spoken to him twice, but he had seemed an amiable man. He didn’t deserve a violent end like this.
I returned to the entrance hall and joined the others.
It was busy. Even more police had arrived, and everyone was being interviewed. A young officer approached me and asked for my statement. I repeated what I’d told the inspector, and then I recalled I hadn’t mentioned Elvis.
‘There was another guest upstairs about five minutes before the American lady screamed. A young man dressed like Elvis Presley.’
‘Who’s Elvis Presley?’ the young policeman asked. ‘A Youtuber?’
I inspected him. He looked like a kid. He still had acne, even.
‘A singer from decades ago.’
‘Right. Thanks for your statement. You’ll need to wait until the guv’nor says you can leave.’
Now it was my turn to ask. ‘Who’s the governor?’
‘The inspector. Please wait over there.’ He gestured.
The interviews were winding up. I joined Melissa and Penny, who were commiserating together. Penny appeared pale. Lydia joined us a couple of minutes later, her eyes moist and trails of tears on her cheeks. The visitors stood in another group, silent.
I peered over Lydia’s shoulder. In a far corner of the entrance hall, a freckled girl of about twelve stood, slouching, arms and head hanging, staring at us all. She hadn’t been there earlier. She wore a tatty plain dress or a nightgown. In addition to her bedraggled appearance, her face was grubby. I squinted. Her freckles weren’t freckles after all—they were spots. Measles spots.
Her gaze caught mine and she vanished. Another ghost?
I kept watch, but she didn’t return.
Outside, a constable put crime scene tape around the entrance to the house. Specialists arrived and went upstairs with various types of equipment.
After a while, the inspector came downstairs and told us we could all leave. We’d all given our phone numbers so the police could contact us if they wanted to ask more questions. They told Lydia they would notify her when the house could be reopened to visitors.
We chatted in the car park for a few minutes before heading off. I sat in the car for a few minutes. Going home didn’t seem right. I needed time alone to process everything, so I drove to Richmond Park, which I’d been told was wonderful for walking in, and went through the gate, looking for a car park.
It was still morning, and the temperature was rising. Broken clouds swept across the sky. It might be another beautiful day.
