Read Online Help the Poor Struggler by Martha Grimes - Free Book Online

room that had housed so many guests, like a room full of ghosts. A log crumbled and the fire spurted up, one of the ghosts stirring the ashes.
    â€œIt’s the cape, I guess.”
    Jury had been avoiding this sudden plunge into the death of Angela Thorne. He nodded. “Constable Green recognized it.”
    â€œWhich puts me in the thick of it, doesn’t it?”
    â€œYou must have known the cape would be traced to you. Why’d you do it?”
    â€œYou mean, kill her?” Her equanimity was more disturbing than a screaming denial would have been.
    â€œI didn’t say you killed Angela Thorne. It would be stupid to do that and leave that sort of evidence behind. What happened?”
    â€œI was walking along the Cobb somewhere around ten or ten-thirty. I heard a dog barking. It sounded rather terrible, you know, panic-stricken. I followed the sound to the rocks and found her. I returned the dog; I couldn’t return Angela,” she said with some bitterness.
    â€œDid you know her?”
    Molly shook her head. “I think I saw her once or twice. I don’t actually know anyone.”
    â€œHow do you live?”
    Her smile was no more happy than her laughter. “I bolt the door, Superintendent.”
    â€œYou’ve lived here nearly a year. Why? Do you like the sea, then?”
    â€œNo. In a storm the waves crash over the walls; sometimes even drenching the cottages. Throwing up seaweed, rocks, whatever. It’s all so elemental.”
    â€œSo you found the body, covered her with your cape, took the dog to the Thorne cottage. Is that all?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBut you rang up the police anonymously. Why?”
    â€œI didn’t want to get involved, I suppose.”
    â€œThen why did you leave your cape? You must have been freezing.”
    â€œI have another one,” she said simply, as if that explained everything.
    â€œWhere did you live before?”
    â€œLondon, different places. No fixed address. No job. I’ve got some money still. I used to be a photographer. My doctor advised me to find some nice little seaside town. I was taking pictures of Lyme.”
    Jury looked at two fine photos above the mantel: the Lyme coast, the Marine Parade, with its lonely strollers.
    She left the couch and walked over to those pictures. “Don’t bother looking; I’m not much good anymore. The sea, the sea — it’s so elemental.” Her glass was empty, and she poured herself another double. “I drink too much, you’ve noticed.” She shrugged and went back to the mantel. The light from the fire suffused her face, sparked the strange dark gold eyes and gave her an almost daemonic look. He thought of the women of myths whom the ill-fated stranger — knight or country yokel — was constantly being warned to steer clear of.
    â€œHave you been reading the papers?” Jury asked. She shook her head. “Where were you earlier today?”
    â€œHere. I’m always here. Why?”
    â€œThere was a boy killed in Wynchcoombe. And two days ago, one killed in Dorchester. You didn’t know about the Dorchester business?”
    Her eyes had a drowned look. “My God, no. What are you saying — that there’s a mass-murderer running round the countryside?”
    â€œThere could be. Look, there’s no way you can avoid talking to police. You don’t want to go to the station. Then come along to the White Lion in the morning.” He was silent, looking at her, all sorts of sham comfort trying to form itself into words: it won’t be bad; Macalvie is a nice chap; there’ll only be the three of us. All of it lies. It would be bad; Macalvie was not a nice chap. And “only three of them” might as well be the whole Dorset police and Devon-Cornwall constabulary together, as far as Molly Singer was concerned.
    The silence waited on her. “Nine?” was all she said.
    â€œAll