Mitchell & Markby Village 09 A Touch of Mortality by Ann Granger

Author:Ann Granger [Granger, Ann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

"Anything been moved?"

"No, sir. The doctor had to touch him but he was clearly dead and it didn't involve actually turning him over or anything like that."

"How about his clothing? Any of that disarranged?''

Gwyneth Jones shook her head, her eyes curious. "Got something in mind, sir?"

"What?" Markby turned his head to look at her. "Oh, no. Just checking. How about his cap? That was there when you first saw him?"

Jones looked at Bodicote's cap which lay near his head. "Yes, sir. As far as I know—I mean, I haven't moved it." She raised her voice and called to one of two constables nearby, "Neither of you moved his cap, did you?"

They denied it.

"What's worrying you, sir?" Pearce asked quietly.

"Nothing. I like to get a clear picture. Talking of pictures, the photographer's been out and got shots of all this?"

Jones nodded.

Markby heaved a sigh. "Fine, you can tell the meat-wagon to take him away. I just wanted to see it as it was."

Jones asked hesitantly, doubt in her voice, "It does look like an accident, sir, doesn't it? Have I missed something?"

Before Markby could reply there was a shout. They all looked up.

Striding across the ground toward them was a woman, accompanied by a constable. She was a tall and rangily built person, clad in drab work clothes, grubby jacket, slacks and gumboots. She looked as if she'd been called from the farm herself. She was, however, made up in a hit or miss way, rather as though she'd dispensed with the use of a mirror. Scarlet lipstick was applied lopsidedly and mascara smudged above her eyes in two uneven patches.

"Maureen Sutton!" she announced as she came up. "What's this about Uncle Hector? I've had to drive thirty miles." At that point she saw the shape on the ground. "Is that him? Is that the old chap?" She sounded shaken.

"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Sutton," Gwyneth Jones said. "We will require a formal identification, but that can be done later, at the morgue."

"Might as well take a look now," Mrs. Sutton rallied. "Get it over with. What happened? Heart attack?''

"We don't know exactly, Mrs. Sutton. There will have to be a post-mortem. He may have slipped."

The sheet was turned back. Mrs. Sutton stared down silently. She nodded and the sheet was decorously replaced.

"Uncle Hector," she said. She searched in her pocket and drew out a grimy square of linen with which she rubbed at her face, smearing the mascara and lipstick even more. "Poor old bugger."

"Mrs. Sutton," Markby said gently, "we don't want to distress you with questions, but I wonder if you recognize that lump of rubble."

She gestured at the door. "He used it to prop that open."

"So it's in its normal position?"

"The rock? Yes, I suppose so. What's the matter with those nannies?"

Mrs. Sutton marched past them and into the goat-house. "Bloody hell!" she was heard to exclaim in a disgusted tone. She reappeared. "Couldn't you milk them?"

"We were more concerned with your uncle," Sergeant Jones protested. "And we're not goat experts.

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