nasty wound on the back of her head. But we can’t say how it was caused. We don’t even know if it was the actual cause of death. That’s for the pathologist to determine.’
‘But you think it was a blow, don’t you? That killed her, I mean.’
‘I’d say it’s highly probable.’
Despite the lateness of the hour, neither Driver nor Hasted suggested they stay for a meal. Both men were hungry, but Hasted was anxious to get home as soon as the job permitted and Driver sensed his anxiety. They made a brief stop at Greenway’s house on the way back. The chief was not a patient invalid. He hated the enforced absence from his office, unable to believe that it could function satisfactorily without him. ‘I want to be kept fully informed,’ he had told Driver. ‘I want today’s news today, not tomorrow or the day after. The body may be shaky but the brain isn’t. So don’t hold out on me, Driver.’ And although at times it was inconvenient, Driver had done his best to comply.
Hasted waited outside in the car and considered the prospect of fatherhood for the second time. Neither he nor Sybil had firm opinions on names, although Sybil favoured ‘James’ for a boy and ‘Rosemary’ for a girl. Driver and Sybil’s sister Enid had agreed to be godparents; a decision on the third godparent would be decided later, dependent on the baby’s sex. Jason, who had developed a precocious aptitude for picking up adult expressions and mostly applying them correctly, said it did not matter to him a can of beans whether it was a boy or a girl, and gave the impression he would prefer neither. No doubt he saw the baby as a potential rival for his parents’ love and attention, which hitherto had been solely his.
Driver returned to the car with fresh information on the vehicle that had collided with his Rover. A woman who lived further down the road had heard the noise of the collision and had reached a window in time to see the Morris pass. ‘Edna Greenway says the woman is positive there were two people in front,’ Driver said. ‘Unfortunately she couldn’t describe them, although she thinks the driver was young and a man.’
‘We could have guessed that,’ Hasted said.
‘Yes. So we have two alternatives. Either chummy had an accomplice, or his companion was Elizabeth Doyle, alive and yet to be disposed of.’
‘If she were struggling with him it could explain the erratic driving,’ Hasted said.
‘True. All the same, I fancy the accomplice.’
The bishop made no reference to the murder in his sermon. He had taken as his text a passage from St Paul’s Epistle to the Romans—‘Let love be without dissimulation’—and murder did not fit readily into the substance he had prepared. Especially as he had not known of it until he arrived at the Vicarage. But when the congregation left the church after the service and gathered in little groups to chat, it was the murder, not the sermon, that was the main topic of conversation. Elizabeth Doyle had been a figure in the community. Not a popular figure, perhaps, but a figure nonetheless: President of the Women’s Institute, a member of the parish council, the representative for West Deering on the county housing committee. She would certainly be missed, as would her financial contributions to various local funds and causes.
Neither Andrew nor his father attended the service. They were not regular church-goers, and usually it had been Elizabeth’s bullying that had got them there. But most of West Deering and the neighbouring villages were there in force. No doubt the bishop was partly the attraction, but Frances suspected the murder had much to do with it. For herself, she had heard it from Sybil Hasted, when she had telephoned after breakfast to ask after Sybil’s condition. But how had others come by the news?
‘Straight from the horse’s mouth,’ Harvey Scott boomed when she asked him. ‘Patricia went over to the Manor yesterday evening to invite Andrew for
‘But you think it was a blow, don’t you? That killed her, I mean.’
‘I’d say it’s highly probable.’
Despite the lateness of the hour, neither Driver nor Hasted suggested they stay for a meal. Both men were hungry, but Hasted was anxious to get home as soon as the job permitted and Driver sensed his anxiety. They made a brief stop at Greenway’s house on the way back. The chief was not a patient invalid. He hated the enforced absence from his office, unable to believe that it could function satisfactorily without him. ‘I want to be kept fully informed,’ he had told Driver. ‘I want today’s news today, not tomorrow or the day after. The body may be shaky but the brain isn’t. So don’t hold out on me, Driver.’ And although at times it was inconvenient, Driver had done his best to comply.
Hasted waited outside in the car and considered the prospect of fatherhood for the second time. Neither he nor Sybil had firm opinions on names, although Sybil favoured ‘James’ for a boy and ‘Rosemary’ for a girl. Driver and Sybil’s sister Enid had agreed to be godparents; a decision on the third godparent would be decided later, dependent on the baby’s sex. Jason, who had developed a precocious aptitude for picking up adult expressions and mostly applying them correctly, said it did not matter to him a can of beans whether it was a boy or a girl, and gave the impression he would prefer neither. No doubt he saw the baby as a potential rival for his parents’ love and attention, which hitherto had been solely his.
Driver returned to the car with fresh information on the vehicle that had collided with his Rover. A woman who lived further down the road had heard the noise of the collision and had reached a window in time to see the Morris pass. ‘Edna Greenway says the woman is positive there were two people in front,’ Driver said. ‘Unfortunately she couldn’t describe them, although she thinks the driver was young and a man.’
‘We could have guessed that,’ Hasted said.
‘Yes. So we have two alternatives. Either chummy had an accomplice, or his companion was Elizabeth Doyle, alive and yet to be disposed of.’
‘If she were struggling with him it could explain the erratic driving,’ Hasted said.
‘True. All the same, I fancy the accomplice.’
The bishop made no reference to the murder in his sermon. He had taken as his text a passage from St Paul’s Epistle to the Romans—‘Let love be without dissimulation’—and murder did not fit readily into the substance he had prepared. Especially as he had not known of it until he arrived at the Vicarage. But when the congregation left the church after the service and gathered in little groups to chat, it was the murder, not the sermon, that was the main topic of conversation. Elizabeth Doyle had been a figure in the community. Not a popular figure, perhaps, but a figure nonetheless: President of the Women’s Institute, a member of the parish council, the representative for West Deering on the county housing committee. She would certainly be missed, as would her financial contributions to various local funds and causes.
Neither Andrew nor his father attended the service. They were not regular church-goers, and usually it had been Elizabeth’s bullying that had got them there. But most of West Deering and the neighbouring villages were there in force. No doubt the bishop was partly the attraction, but Frances suspected the murder had much to do with it. For herself, she had heard it from Sybil Hasted, when she had telephoned after breakfast to ask after Sybil’s condition. But how had others come by the news?
‘Straight from the horse’s mouth,’ Harvey Scott boomed when she asked him. ‘Patricia went over to the Manor yesterday evening to invite Andrew for
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