She frowned. "I think so. But couldn't she have used cotton wool or tissues to pad the gap while she put in the flowers?"
"Yes. But if she had, then something in that house would have had rust marks on it. We searched it from top to bottom. There was nothing. So what happened to the padding?"
Sarah closed her eyes and pictured the bathroom. "There was a sponge on the bathrack," she said, remembering. "Perhaps she used that and then washed it in the bath."
"It does have particles of rust on it," he admitted, "but then the bath was full of them. The sponge could have picked them up when it was soaked by the water." He pursed his lips in frustration. "Or, as you say, it could have been used as padding. We don't know, but what worries me is this: if she did it herself, then she must have sat at her dressing-table to do it. It's the only surface where we've discovered any sap." He made a vague gesture with his hand. "We picture it something like this. She placed the flowers on the dressing-table, sat down in front of the mirror and then set about arranging them in the framework on her head, but she wouldn't have discovered she needed padding until she was half-way round, at which point the natural thing to do would have been to reach for some Kleenex or some cotton wool, both of which were there in front of her. So why go to the bathroom for the sponge?" He fell silent for a moment or two. "If, however, someone else killed her and arranged the flowers after she was in the bath, then the sponge would have been the obvious thing to use. It's a far more logical scenario and would explain the absence of nettle rash on Mrs. Gillespie's hands and fingers."
"You said the pathologist's report mentioned nettle rash on her cheeks and temples," said Sarah apologetically. "But she'd have to have been alive for her skin to react to the stings."
"It was only slight," he amended. "The way I see it, her killer didn't wait till she was dead-you don't hang about when you're murdering someone-he or she shoved the nettles in while she was dying."
Sarah nodded. "It sounds plausible," she agreed, "except-" She didn't finish the sentence.
"Except what, Dr. Blakeney?"
"Why would anyone want to murder her?"
He shrugged. "Her daughter and her granddaughter had strong enough motives. According to the will, the estate is to be divided equally between the two of them. Mrs. Lascelles gets the money and Miss Lascelles gets Cedar House."
"Did they know?"
He nodded. "Mrs. Lascelles certainly did because she showed us where to find the will-Mrs. Gillespie was very methodical, kept all her papers and correspondence in neat files in a cabinet in the library-but whether Miss Lascelles knew the precise terms, I don't know. She claims her grandmother intended her to have everything and is very put out to discover she is only going to get the house." His face assumed a somewhat ironic expression. "She's a greedy young woman. There's not many seventeen-year-olds would turn their noses up at a windfall like that."
Sarah smiled slightly. "Presumably you've checked to find out where they were the night she died?"
He nodded again. "Mrs. Lascelles was at a concert in London with a friend; Miss Lascelles was thirty miles away under the watchful eye of a housemistress at school."
She forced another smile. "Which puts them out of the picture."
"Maybe, maybe not. I never set much store by alibis and someone had to get into Cedar House." He frowned. "Apart from Mrs. Spede and Mrs. Gillespie herself, the Lascelles women were the only other ones with keys."
"You're determined to make it murder," protested Sarah mildly.
He went on as if she hadn't spoken. "We've questioned everyone in the village. Mrs. Spede was at the pub with her husband and, as far as friends are concerned, we can't find anyone who was on calling terms with Mrs. Gillespie, let alone at around nine o'clock on a Saturday night in November." He shrugged. "In any case, her neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Orloff, say they would have heard the bell ringing if someone had come to her door. When Mrs. Gillespie sold them their part of the house, she simply had the bell moved from the kitchen, which is now theirs, to the corridor outside which remained hers. I tested it. They couldn't have missed it if it was rung that night."
Sarah caught his eye. "Then it seems fairly obvious that it must have been suicide."
"Not to me, Dr. Blakeney. In the first place, I intend to put those two alibis under a microscope and, in the second place, if Mrs. Gillespie's murderer was someone she knew, they could have tapped on the windows or the back door without the Orloffs hearing them." He closed his notebook and tucked it into his pocket. "We'll get them eventually. Probably through their fingerprints."
"You're going on with it then? I thought your boss had decided to drop it."
"We raised a number of fingerprints in that house which don't belong to Mrs. Gillespie or the three women who had keys. We'll be asking everyone in the village and outsiders like you, who knew her, to let us take prints for comparison purposes. I've persuaded the Chief to find out who else went in there before he draws a line under this one."
"You seem to be taking Mrs. Gillespie's death very personally."
"Policing's no different from any other job, Doctor. The higher up the ladder you are the better the pension at the end." His amiable face grew suddenly cynical. "But promotion has more to do with empire-building than ability, and to date my light has always been hidden under some other sod's bushel. I do take Mrs. Gillespie's death personally. It's my case."
Sarah found this bleakly amusing. She wondered how Mathilda would feel about a policeman benefiting from her death, assuming, of course, he could prove it was murder and then convict the murderer. She might have felt happier if she wasn't so convinced that he was going to score on both counts.
"Keith? It's Sarah. Sarah Blakeney. Has Jack been in touch with you, by any chance?" She toyed with the phone wire while she listened to the sound of Cooper's car fading into the distance. There were too many shadows in this hall, she thought.
"Not recently," said Keith Smollett's pleasant voice. "Should he have been?"
There was no point beating about the bush. "We had a row. I told him I wanted a divorce and he's gone off in a huff. He left a note saying I could contact him through you."
"Oh, good God, Sarah! Well, I can't act for both of you. Jack will have to find himself another solicitor."
"He's opted for you. I'm the one who has to find someone else."
"Bugger that," said Keith cheerfully. "You're my client, sweetheart. The only reason I've ever done anything for that lazy good-for-nothing is because you married him." He and Sarah had been friends from university days and there had been a time, before Jack entered the frame, when Keith had had designs on Sarah himself. Now, he was happily married with three strapping young sons, and only thought about her on the rare occasions when she telephoned.
"Yes, well, that's a side issue at the moment. The main issue is that I need to talk to him rather urgently. He's bound to contact you so will you let me know where he is as soon as he does. It's desperately important." She glanced towards the stairs, her face a pale glimmer in the reflected light from the kitchen. Far too many shadows.
"Will do."