Read Online Blood Will Out by Jill Downie - Free Book Online Page A

Nicholas Nickleby , 1839, with the original etchings and frontispiece. Probably worth a bob or two.”
    â€œA bob or two?” Liz crouched down beside him.
    â€œA thousand pounds or two,” Moretti replied. “Until the place is cleared, we’ll have to keep a police guard on it. Word will get around.”
    â€œWow!” Liz looked at the books around them and picked up a leather-bound volume. “What’s this?” Moretti took it from her.
    â€œLooks like a book about James Gillray, with some very nice steel engravings — he drew satirical cartoons, Falla. He had eclectic tastes, our hermit.” Moretti gestured at a scattering of ancient Penguin paperbacks with their distinctive orange, black and white covers, the little penguin standing in a white oval alongside the titles. “Do we know if he left a will?”
    â€œJimmy didn’t mention it, but I don’t think that was a priority. Everything was left in place, except the rope. Jimmy took it back to Hospital Lane. He’d been cut down — the hermit, I mean — by the time I got here.” They both looked up at the exposed beam, surrounded by the pink batts of insulation.
    â€œWe’ll need to find out if there’s a will. The death will soon be reported in the Guernsey Press , and possibly some lawyer in town will come forward. Though he doesn’t seem to have been a lawyer type of person.
    â€œLet me tear myself away from these,” Moretti swept a hand over the books on the floor, “and take a look around. Not that there’s much else to look at.” He stood up, brushing the dust from his hands.
    There was indeed little else in the hermit’s hideaway. The place was lined with sturdily constructed bookcases that looked homemade, and the only attempt at decoration were the shards, bottles and pieces of driftwood placed on top of them. Some of the shards were arranged on the narrow ledge beneath the one small window in the roundhouse. On the floorboards were a couple of woven wool rugs that also looked homemade, the colours faded to a blur. There were blankets and a threadbare quilt on the truckle bed that could have been easily moved closer to the fire when necessary. An ancient hipbath stood close to the fireplace, a towel draped over the higher end. A camp stove, a kettle, a few pots and pans and pieces of cutlery on a trestle table alongside a loaf of bread and some cheese, an overripe banana and an orange, some canned goods, a packet of tea. Another table was loaded with magazines, and there was a battered armchair covered in a threadbare fabric Moretti remembered from his childhood, called moquette. There was a space left on one of the bookshelves for a small pile of neatly folded clothes, and there was a well-worn pair of felt slippers near the armchair.
    â€œWas he wearing boots, Falla, did you notice?”
    â€œYes, Guv, and an overcoat. One of the boots had fallen off.”
    â€œAs if he’d just come in. Hmmm.” Moretti looked up at the pink surface above him. “Interesting choice of ceiling material. Makes the place feel quite —” He paused.
    â€œCosy,” Falla supplied for him.
    â€œAlmost.” Moretti stood up. “I need to talk to the postman. Did you ask him to come in to the station to make a statement?”
    â€œYes, Guv. I told him it could wait until today, but he may have been in this morning. Want me to check if he’s been?”
    â€œGo ahead.”
    While Falla used her mobile, Moretti walked around the hermit’s hideaway. Cosy, yes, almost: a refuge for a man of some education and learning, and ample means, apparently, for the books that were his passion. For Moretti, sanctuary was in the sound of Sidney Bechet playing “Petite Fleur,” Miles Davis playing “Tempus Fugit,” Oscar Peterson playing anything.
    Why had Gus Dorey chosen to live this way? Had the world been for him too much, late