2003 - A Jarful of Angels by Babs Horton

Author:Babs Horton
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2003-06-07T16:00:00+00:00

Will climbed wearily up from the river bank, walked up the hill and turned left towards the rec, if there was still a rec after all this time. He was astounded by the sight that confronted him.

The walls of the Big House were overgrown with ivy and brambles and behind the walls the house was a charred shell, the roof had fallen in, inhabited by crows and magpies. The wrought-iron gates were intertwined with brambles, and a sign warned, KEEP OUT! It had once been a glorious house with a particularly fine garden. He had been invited to sit in the garden and take tea by Agnes Medlicott, the woman he had called the second witness.

He could still conjure up a picture of Agnes Medlicott in his mind. She had been an elderly woman, with thick coiled plaits flattened over her ears, a fashion rarely seen these days. He remembered thinking at the time that she must have been a strikingly handsome woman in her younger years. She was strong boned, with intelligent deep-brown eyes. Her nose was large and hooked but this did not detract from her looks. She had been out of the top drawer. She had explained to him that her late husband had been the local doctor years before. She’d moved abroad after his death but had come back about nine months earlier.

It had been one of the most stunning gardens he had ever seen. The lawns were mown to absolute perfection, the flowerbeds were carefully tended and the flowers were a riot of harmonious colours. He could remember the soothing sound of falling water from concealed fountains, the humming of contented bees.

At one side of the garden close to the wall bordering the river there had been a steep rockery, resplendent with morning glory, lobelia and periwinkle. There was a large pond with giant-sized goldfish, and in alcoves and shady corners were an assortment of exquisitely beautiful statues. He’d commented on them and she’d said, “Ah yes, all my dear children…they remind me of the good times.”

He’d been shocked by her words and had counted up the statues, there were well over twelve of them. Surely they weren’t all her daughters?

She must have noticed the puzzlement on his face because she’d smiled sadly and said, “Not my own children, Inspector. I’m afraid I wasn’t blessed with a family. I lost my only child.”

Will had looked at her closely and seen a slow ripple of grief pass across her features. Then she’d swiftly changed the subject.

“When my husband was alive, I ran a small school here, a sort of finishing school for young girls.”

“And the statues?”

“They were just a hobby of mine.”

“A hobby of yours?” he’d said astonished.

She could easily have made a very good living as a sculptor and he’d told her so.

She’d sighed softly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Outwardly, she gave the impression of supreme serenity, but he guessed that this belied a very great inner turmoil, a life unfulfilled. He

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