Read Online The Five Bells and Bladebone by Martha Grimes - Free Book Online
Authors: Martha Grimes
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removed to a stretcher.
The word dismantle seemed to throw Trueblood into further paroxysms of distress, but at least the noise from upstairs had stopped — the sound of furniture shoved about, of legs scraping hardwood — and the two uniformed police had come down, together with the fingerprint man. Dusting for fingerprints amongst the crystal and cloisonné had finally been given up in the circumstances, since it was highly unlikely that although Simon Lean might have been delivered here, he was killed here . . . .
. . . Although Pratt’s inspector seemed to want to make a great deal of that likelihood.
“He had nothing to do with it,” said Melrose Plant, who was sitting on the edge of the fauteuil, his chin resting on his hands, and his hands clasping the end of his walking stick.
MacAllister had his notebook out, and his smile was not friendly. He was one of those policemen who took an abundance of delight in his authority, unlike Charles Pratt, who did not necessarily believe the rest of the world was guilty until he himself proved it innocent. “And how do you know that?”
“Superintendent Jury and I were here when that secrétaire was opened.”
“But not when it was delivered, ” said MacAllister. “No reason the body couldn’t have been secreted somewhere in the shop and put in that chest there afterwards.” MacAllister was eyeing an old sea trunk.
“Not ‘chest,’ ” said Trueblood, “ secrétaire à abattant .” In his book, murder — even one on his own doorstop — appeared to take second place to educating purblind civil servants.
Charles Pratt did not hide his impatience. “I’d give it up, Mac. It would hardly seem worth the trouble to secrete a body in one piece of furniture and then move it to another.”
The writing surface had been carefully unhinged and the cabinet doors at the bottom removed after the position of the torso had been chalked in. The body of Simon Lean was lowered to the floor. To Simpson, Pratt said, “Very little blood.”
Simpson grunted. “Internal hemorrhaging, it must have been. I can’t tell precisely until I get him to the mortuary, but the thrust of the weapon — and it doesn’t look like the entry wound of a knife — appears to be upward. Longer than a knife, would be my guess.” He thought for a moment. “Sort of wound that could possibly be made with a sword or a dagger, possibly.”
Melrose Plant, who had been leaning on his walking stick, looked a little ashen. “This isn’t a sword stick, doctor. It’s a cosher. I don’t care much for sword sticks.”
Pratt smiled slightly and, seeing that Trueblood had put his head in his hands, said, “Something wrong?”
Through his splayed fingers, Trueblood answered caustically: “What could possibly be wrong?”
“It must have taken a hell of a lot of strength to shove the body in and up,” said MacAllister.
“Not necessarily,” said Pratt. “People under stress usually find what strength they need. Any ideas as to time of death?” asked Pratt.
The doctor shrugged. “Rigor’s already passed off in the face, the jaw, the hands. But not in the lower extremities.” He shrugged. “There’s the movement of air to be considered in that thing” — he nodded toward the secretary — “that might speed it up. And then there’s the stabbing itself — the violence of the death might speed up the rigor and make it pass off more quickly. Say, as a guess, thirteen, fourteen hours.” He stripped off the rubber gloves, put his instruments back, and asked dryly, “Could you deliver the corpse minus the coffin? Thanks.” He walked out.
Two attendants came in carrying a stretcher and a polyethylene sheet. Trueblood closed his eyes as they made their way down the narrow aisle, one leg of the stretcher scraping against a rosewood breakfront.
• • •
Constable Pluck, having given over his desk to Superintendent Pratt and his one-room station to the Northants
The word dismantle seemed to throw Trueblood into further paroxysms of distress, but at least the noise from upstairs had stopped — the sound of furniture shoved about, of legs scraping hardwood — and the two uniformed police had come down, together with the fingerprint man. Dusting for fingerprints amongst the crystal and cloisonné had finally been given up in the circumstances, since it was highly unlikely that although Simon Lean might have been delivered here, he was killed here . . . .
. . . Although Pratt’s inspector seemed to want to make a great deal of that likelihood.
“He had nothing to do with it,” said Melrose Plant, who was sitting on the edge of the fauteuil, his chin resting on his hands, and his hands clasping the end of his walking stick.
MacAllister had his notebook out, and his smile was not friendly. He was one of those policemen who took an abundance of delight in his authority, unlike Charles Pratt, who did not necessarily believe the rest of the world was guilty until he himself proved it innocent. “And how do you know that?”
“Superintendent Jury and I were here when that secrétaire was opened.”
“But not when it was delivered, ” said MacAllister. “No reason the body couldn’t have been secreted somewhere in the shop and put in that chest there afterwards.” MacAllister was eyeing an old sea trunk.
“Not ‘chest,’ ” said Trueblood, “ secrétaire à abattant .” In his book, murder — even one on his own doorstop — appeared to take second place to educating purblind civil servants.
Charles Pratt did not hide his impatience. “I’d give it up, Mac. It would hardly seem worth the trouble to secrete a body in one piece of furniture and then move it to another.”
The writing surface had been carefully unhinged and the cabinet doors at the bottom removed after the position of the torso had been chalked in. The body of Simon Lean was lowered to the floor. To Simpson, Pratt said, “Very little blood.”
Simpson grunted. “Internal hemorrhaging, it must have been. I can’t tell precisely until I get him to the mortuary, but the thrust of the weapon — and it doesn’t look like the entry wound of a knife — appears to be upward. Longer than a knife, would be my guess.” He thought for a moment. “Sort of wound that could possibly be made with a sword or a dagger, possibly.”
Melrose Plant, who had been leaning on his walking stick, looked a little ashen. “This isn’t a sword stick, doctor. It’s a cosher. I don’t care much for sword sticks.”
Pratt smiled slightly and, seeing that Trueblood had put his head in his hands, said, “Something wrong?”
Through his splayed fingers, Trueblood answered caustically: “What could possibly be wrong?”
“It must have taken a hell of a lot of strength to shove the body in and up,” said MacAllister.
“Not necessarily,” said Pratt. “People under stress usually find what strength they need. Any ideas as to time of death?” asked Pratt.
The doctor shrugged. “Rigor’s already passed off in the face, the jaw, the hands. But not in the lower extremities.” He shrugged. “There’s the movement of air to be considered in that thing” — he nodded toward the secretary — “that might speed it up. And then there’s the stabbing itself — the violence of the death might speed up the rigor and make it pass off more quickly. Say, as a guess, thirteen, fourteen hours.” He stripped off the rubber gloves, put his instruments back, and asked dryly, “Could you deliver the corpse minus the coffin? Thanks.” He walked out.
Two attendants came in carrying a stretcher and a polyethylene sheet. Trueblood closed his eyes as they made their way down the narrow aisle, one leg of the stretcher scraping against a rosewood breakfront.
• • •
Constable Pluck, having given over his desk to Superintendent Pratt and his one-room station to the Northants
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