Preface to Murder, M Morris [best selling autobiographies TXT] 📗

Roy was a very good cook. Bridget’s nosy half wanted to quiz Sarah further about the nature of their relationship and how it had developed since Christmas, but the reserved medical examiner was never the easiest person to talk to, especially about her private life, and now really didn’t seem like an appropriate time.

‘I’ll get her bagged up and sent to the morgue,’ said Sarah.

‘How quickly do you think Roy will be able to do the post-mortem?’ asked Bridget. ‘Do you know if he’s working this weekend?’

Sarah regarded Bridget’s clumsy attempt to elicit further information about Sarah’s knowledge of the pathologist’s movements with faint amusement. ‘I’m sure he can be persuaded to put in a few extra hours on your behalf. Roy never says no to a corpse. But why don’t you ask him yourself?’

‘I will,’ said Bridget. But first she had another job to do – one that she dreaded even more than the prospect of attending a post-mortem. To notify the victim’s next of kin.

3

Marston had once been a separate village located some two miles northeast of Oxford, but it was now encompassed by the ring road and subsumed into the wider city. Its name was said to derive from “Marsh Town” on account of the River Cherwell’s habit of flooding the low-lying pasture land in winter. Not good for house insurance, Bridget supposed, but charming nonetheless.

The village was only a few minutes’ drive from Diane’s house on St Margaret’s Road, but as Bridget turned off the Marston Ferry Road she felt as if she were leaving the city far behind and entering a rural idyll surrounded by fields and farmland.

It had not always been this peaceful. From her time as a History undergraduate, Bridget knew that during the English Civil War, King Charles I had used Oxford as his capital, and when the Royalist stronghold fell to Oliver Cromwell’s Parliamentary forces, the treaty of surrender of the city was negotiated and signed at a house on Mill Lane in Marston.

The old manor house that had witnessed that historic event was still standing, and was situated just a few doors away from the house that now belonged to Diane’s sister, Annabel Caldecott. The old stone cottage, one of a row of four, appeared very similar in age and style to Bridget’s own modest dwelling in Wolvercote. Both properties would have fitted comfortably inside the floorplan of Diane’s capacious Victorian villa with room to spare. The tiny front garden was abundantly planted and although it was still early in the season, was putting on a colourful show. Bridget was a very casual gardener, more inclined to admire other people’s efforts than to make any herself, and couldn’t have named half the plants on display if her life depended on it, but she did recognise some tulips and hyacinths alongside the fading daffodils. Some large hydrangea bushes were just coming into bud and would no doubt put on a spectacular display when summer arrived. She pushed open the garden gate with a squeak, knocked on the wooden door of the cottage and waited.

There was no answer, and she was about to try phoning Annabel’s mobile, when she heard the barking of a small dog. She looked up and saw Annabel returning from a walk.

‘Inspector Hart, what brings you here?’ Annabel was dressed as before, in long overcoat and boots. Her dog, a Jack Russell terrier with smooth white and brown fur and very muddy legs, trotted through the open gate to sniff at Bridget with great interest. When he looked as if he was about to jump up and plant his paws on Bridget’s coat, Annabel tugged on his lead. ‘Down, Oscar.’ The dog obeyed immediately, looking abashed. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve just taken him for a walk down the lane and around the field and there’s been so much rain recently it’s all very muddy down there. Oscar can’t help but get covered in it.’

‘Yes,’ said Bridget, eyeing Annabel’s muddy boots.

‘Just a moment,’ said Annabel, as if she’d only just remembered something. She reached into a deep coat pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag knotted at the top. Although Bridget applauded responsible dog owners who cleaned up after their pets, she preferred not to see the results. Annabel popped the poop bag into a grey wheelie bin and turned back to Bridget. ‘Did Diane send you?’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Bridget. ‘Do you mind if we go inside?’

‘Oh, no. Of course not.’

Annabel fished a key from another pocket and opened the door. ‘Would you like to wait in the sitting room? I’ll just shut Oscar and his muddy paws in the kitchen.’

Freed from his leash, the dog darted enthusiastically through the door at the end of the hallway and Annabel went to deal with him while Bridget let herself into the front room. The dog’s dirty feet would be the least of Annabel’s worries once Bridget had broken the news to her of her sister’s untimely death.

The sitting room was furnished in a homely style, maybe a little outdated, but comfortable and cheerful. A bookcase in one of the alcoves next to the fireplace was stacked with well-thumbed paperbacks, their spines cracked. Bridget recognised some bestselling thriller and crime writers, as well as a generous helping of classics including Dickens, Austen and Hardy. A Deadly Race: How Western Governments Collude in Sales of Arms to the Middle East was nowhere to be seen, but the coffee table was strewn with old copies of Gardeners’ World and Your Dog magazines.

Assorted photographs in wooden frames adorned the mantelpiece. One holiday snapshot showed the two sisters looking relaxed and happy in wide-brimmed straw hats, somewhere hot and sunny. Another picture was of Annabel and her husband on their wedding day – not a formal shot captured by a professional photographer, but one snapped on a pocket camera, the