Jones steepled his fingers under his chin. "But she must have taken the barbiturates first or she'd have struggled when the bridle was put on and there'd have been scratches on her face. If she was so doped up that she didn't bother to fight it, then why put it on at all?"
"Do what you told me to do and reason forwards. You want to kill a woman by making it look like suicide, but the neighbours are too close for comfort so you need a method of keeping her quiet in case the barbiturates aren't as effective as you hope. A belt and braces job in other words. You can't use tape or Elastoplast because it'll leave a mark on the skin, and you're canny enough not to use a gag in case bits of fabric are found in the mouth during the post mortem, so you pitch on something you can leave in place which has its own significance to the victim, and you trust to luck that the police will put it down as a macabre example of self-condemnation. Then you carry her to the bath, clasp your hands over hers while you slit each wrist, drop the knife to the floor and leave her to die, knowing that even if she does struggle back to consciousness, the bridle will prevent her calling for help."
Jones nodded. "It sounds feasible, but why bother with the bath and the Stanley knife at all? Why not simply overdose her on sleeping pills and kill her that way?"
"Because there weren't enough, presumably, and even if there were, they're very unreliable. Supposing Ruth had come back the next morning and found the old lady still alive. It might have been possible to pump her out and revive her. Plus, of course, Ophelia drowned herself which may have inspired the idea." He smiled self-consciously. "I've read the play to see if there are any clues in it and a blood-thirsty piece it is, too. There's no one left standing by the end."
"Did you find any clues?"
"No."
"I'm not surprised. It was written four hundred years ago." Jones tapped his pencil against his teeth. "I can't see that any of this makes much difference, frankly. You're still describing someone who knew her intimately, which is what we've believed from the start. The only new pieces of information are the discovery of the key and the absence of the diaries. I admit the key may mean that her murderer came in uninvited, but it still had to be someone very close to her or she'd have screamed her head off. And there's so much intimate detail involved-the Stanley knife, the sleeping pills, her yen for Shakespeare, the scold's bridle. Whoever it was probably even knew there were nettles and daisies in her garden and where to find them in the dark. And someone that close means the Blakeneys, the Lascelles women or Mr. and Mrs. Spede."
Cooper took the second fax from his notebook and spread it on the desk. "According to the fingerprint tests we made, bearing in mind I told the lab to get a move on so these results will have to be double-checked for accuracy, they've made tentative identifications on four of the prints in that house, excluding Mrs. Gillespie herself, Mrs. Spede, the Blakeneys, Mrs. and Miss Lascelles and now James Gillespie. The four are..." he ran his finger slowly down the page, "the Reverend Matthews, matched in ten points with print located on hall mirror; Mrs. Orloff, matched in sixteen points with print located on kitchen worktop and in fourteen points with print found on kitchen door; Mrs. Spencer, matched in twelve points with print on hall door; and, lastly, Mrs. Jane Marriott, matched in eighteen points with two prints on desk in library and one on stair newel post." He looked up. "Mrs. Orloff is her neighbour. Mrs. Spencer runs the local shop and Mrs. Marriott is the receptionist at the Fontwell surgery. What's interesting is that the Reverend Matthews, Mrs. Orloff and Mrs. Spencer all admitted quite happily that they had been inside the house in the week before Mrs. Gillespie died. Mrs. Marriott didn't. According to Jenkins who interviewed her when he was going door to door, she said she hadn't been near Cedar House for years."
With careless disregard for the restrictions placed on his movements by the Bournemouth police, Jack waited until Sarah had left for work then set off for Fontwell on the old bicycle that Geoffrey Freeling's next-of-kin had abandoned in the garage. His car was in the pound at Freemont Road and looked like remaining there indefinitely until a decision was reached on whether or not to prosecute him, but he was deeply suspicious about their motives for holding it. They had claimed it was material evidence, but he saw Keith's devious hand at work behind the Inspector. It's unreasonable to expect Dr. Blakeney to guard her husband for you, so deprive Jack of his wheels, and he may stay put. For once he was grateful to Smollett's lingering partiality for his wife.
Ruth was dead to the world upstairs, worn out by the mental and physical stress that had taken its toll of her all too meagre reserves the previous night, but he left a note on the kitchen table in case she woke up and panicked to find him gone: "You're quite safe with Hughes in the nick," it read, "but don't answer the door to anyone, just in case. Back soon, love Jack."
"Mrs. Marriott?" Cooper leant on the receptionist's counter in the empty surgery and held up his warrant card. "DS Cooper, Learmouth Police."
Jane smiled automatically. "How can I help you, Sergeant?"
"I'd like a word or two in private, if that's possible."
"It's private enough here for the moment," she said. "The only thing likely to disturb us is the telephone. Would you care for a cup of coffee?"
"Thank you. White, two sugars, please."
She busied herself with the kettle.
"We've had some interesting results from our fingerprint tests," said Cooper to her back. "One way and another the evidence points to quite a few people visiting Mrs. Gillespie before she died. You, for example."
Jane became very still suddenly. "I hoped you wouldn't find out," she admitted after a moment, plucking invisible fluff from her jumper. "And then, of course, you invited us all to give examples of our fingerprints. It was very difficult to know what to do then. Should I confess that I'd told a lie the first time or sit it out in the hopes I hadn't touched anything?"
"Why didn't you want us to know you'd been to Cedar House?"
"Because you'd have asked me my reason for going."
He nodded. "Which was?"
She turned back to the coffee cups and poured out the water. "It had nothing to do with Mathilda's death, Sergeant. It was a very private matter."
"I'm afraid that really won't do, Mrs. Marriott."
She pushed a cup across the counter and placed the sugar bowl and a spoon beside it. "Will you arrest me if I refuse to tell you?"
He chuckled good-humouredly. "Not immediately."
"When?"
He sidestepped the question. "If I say to you that, as long as what you tell me really does have no bearing on Mrs. Gillespie's death, it will go no further than these four walls, will you trust me enough to keep my word?" He held her gaze with his. "You've no idea of the sort of publicity you'll face if I have to take you in for questioning. Once the press have their teeth into you, they don't let go easily."
Jane's plump homely face took on a very bleak expression. "How Mathilda would adore this if she were still alive," she said. "She loved making trouble."
"You knew her well then."
"Too well."
"And you didn't like her?"
"I couldn't bear her. I tried to avoid her as far as I could but that wasn't very easy once I started working here, what with phone calls demanding a doctor's visit and requests for repeat prescriptions."
"Yet you went to see her?"
"I had to. I saw James coming out of her house the day before she died." She held a hand to her bosom. "It was such a shock. I thought he was in Hong Kong." She fell silent.
"Tell me about it," Cooper prompted gently.
"You wouldn't understand," said Jane with conviction. "You didn't know Mathilda."
Jack was in a very bad mood by the time he reached Cedar House. He hadn't ridden a bicycle in years, and four miles along rutted country lanes on something that should have been condemned to the scrap heap years ago had given him sore balls and the sort of trembling thighs that would have disgraced a nonagenarian. He abandoned the bicycle against a tree in the Cedar Housing Estate, vaulted the fence and ran lightly across the grass to the kitchen window. For reasons of his own, he had no intention of announcing his presence by approaching across the gravel or using the front doorbell.