A Spider on the Stairs Read Online Free PDF Page A

room, nearly as big as the old pedestal desk that sat squarely in the opposite corner. Mittlesdon’s heart rate eased a little upon seeing that the safe was still closed, but he did not relax entirely until he had opened the heavy door and seen his treasure still sitting securely within.
    So great was his relief that he began to think he had been mistaken in his earlier uneasy instinct, his nerves merely prey to the stress of the season. Still, he did not immediately turn to the unfinished work on his desk, but retraced his steps to the outer room.
    It was then, from this different angle, that he saw it, on the floor over by the windows. It was so unexpected, so out of place, that at first his mind refused to take it in. He walked slowly over as if in a dream and stood staring down at the dead body, not quite believing it. When at last the reality registered, he nearly swooned, and was forced to sit heavily in the nearest chair for a moment before rising shakily and going downstairs to ring the police.
    Gibbons was feeling useless, not a thing he was accustomed to at his job. It was more than a little irksome and—combined with hislack of sleep—was making him irritable, which he tried to hide from his colleagues.
    He and Brumby had stayed up into the wee hours, going over the crime-scene and lab reports exhaustively. Brumby had mentioned that the rest of the team would join them in the morning, but considering the season, Gibbons had been unprepared for their arrival before 8:00 A.M .; they had caught him in the midst of his first coffee of the day.
    They had driven up with a mobile unit, a quiet, serious group of people who listened expressionlessly to the briefing Brumby gave them, apparently soaking the information up like sponges, and then went about their work without further ado. They were a practiced, well-oiled team, and that did not really leave any place for Gibbons. He rather wished that Brumby would send him back to London, where he might pick up another case, one more suited to his abilities. But until that happened, he was left to kick his heels, watching other people work. It did not sit well with him.
    It was midmorning when Brumby got off an extended phone call and, looking around the room, his eyes lit on Gibbons and he beckoned him over.
    â€œI’ve had another call from Superintendent MacDonald,” he said, frowning. “He thinks he may have a second Ashdon killing.”
    Halfway across the room, Detective Inspector Howard looked around, startled.
    â€œA
second
murder?” he demanded, incredulous.
    Brumby’s lips thinned as he nodded. “If it’s true,” he said, “it would be a major breakthrough.”
    â€œOne that I’m damned if I know what to make of,” said Howard, coming over. “Two killings so close together would be a complete deviation from the pattern.”
    â€œWould you like me to go over and take a look, sir?” asked Gibbons, trying not to sound too eager.
    â€œYes,” muttered Brumby, clearly disconcerted by this chain ofevents. “Yes, Sergeant. I’ll come with you—Howard, you hold the fort here.”
    Howard nodded. “Do ring as soon as you know, sir,” he urged. “It would really be most extraordinary . . .”
    â€œI know,” said Brumby. “I’ll ring. Come along, Sergeant. Do you happen to know where Fossgate is?”
    Gibbons did.
    Superintendent MacDonald was no longer at the address he had given them, as a somewhat sheepish uniformed constable informed them when they arrived.
    â€œHe’s left Detective Constable Redfern inside with the witness,” he offered a little diffidently, as if acknowledging that Redfern was hardly a substitute for a detective superintendent.
    Brumby raised a brow, but Gibbons said genially, “Is Redfern the only other detective not down with flu?”
    The policeman sighed. “It seems like it, sir,” he