Anatomy of Murder Read Online Free PDF

out of her mind and nto the light. It was The Chariot, or at least something like it – it had run past her or run her over, or had she been swung up inside it to ride alongside a demon in a mask?

    Boyo barked, and the sound swept the dream pictures from her.

    ‘All right, all right, I know! The tea’s not ready and neither of us fed and there will be a dozen people to tell the future to before we can be just ourselves again.’

    She got the kettle on the fire, then twisted round with a grunt to where her pack of picture cards sat on her table. She spread them flat, let her fingers hover over them a moment and drew one out. The Chariot it was. The prince driving it, spear in one hand and the other on his hip, the golden horses surging on below.

    ‘Trials coming then, are they, Boyo?’ Jocasta said and rubbed her chin, then clambered heavily to her feet. The dog cocked its head on one side. ‘Same as every day in a dirty town then.’ She looked round her room. Her walls felt thin of a sudden, and the fire small. If The Chariot did come, how much of its turmoil turning would she stand before her sanctuary was all crumpled to nothing and she herself was back out in the gutter? Well, so turns the wheel. Let The Chariot come, for now she was warm again and the kettle was beginning to sing. ‘So let’s see what business we can make of living today, shall we?’

    The cards waited on the rough little table for their first visitors. Mrs Jocasta Bligh earned her bread plucking truth out of them with a patient hand, and a frown on her heavy face.

I.3

    ‘ L ET ME UNDERSTAND you correctly, Mr Palmer. You wish us to go and examine a corpse?’

    ‘Yes, madam.’ Mr Palmer had decided that a character such as Mrs Westerman was best approached with a mix of respect and hesitation. He had allowed himself to stumble over his words a little as he arrived. The important consideration was that Mrs Westerman should feel she was being humbly asked for help; that he was a supplicant, not that she was all but being given an order by a servant of her King. He should be careful to avoid waking her temper again. To Mr Crowther he hoped to offer a puzzle and see if flattery might draw him into usefulness.

    Placing his teacup on the side-table, Mr Palmer cleared his throat.

    The clock on the mantel of the drawing room in 24 Berkeley Square seemed very loud. The space was lit by three high windows looking out on to the Square, and could have easily contained a party of thirty. Small groups of gilded chairs and settees were scattered around it at discreet distances, the walls were decorated with classical, pastoral scenes and moulded garlands, of flowers and bows; large porcelain jars, richly patterned, stood sentinel in every available nook like fat footmen. There was a great deal of gilt in the scheme. Mr Palmer conjectured that Mr Owen Graves, a young gentleman plucked from obscurity by the convulsions of the House of Thornleigh, and thrust from scribbler to guardian of one of the great fortunes of the nation, had probably bought the house furnished, and possibly in hastefont>

    In dress and demeanour Mr Palmer’s hosts formed a distinct contrast to the room in which they sat. Mr Crowther’s thin figure was dressed in black and he could have passed for a parson. There were some stains, possibly chemical, around his cuffs, though otherwise his person was neat and gentleman-like, though his manner was dry enough to be offputting. Mrs Westerman was dressed like a countrywoman ‒ a rich and certainly handsome countrywoman, no doubt – but she was not polished and powdered to the degree usually seen in Town. She looked a great deal older than when Mr Palmer had first seen her; in her face and manner there was a weariness, a brittle quality. The peculiar sickness of her husband had no doubt caused a strain. She could not be above five and thirty, much his own age, and he knew he was still regarded by some in the Admiralty as a young man.