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here?”
    “This,” the constable said officiously, “is the murder scene. An artist named Bullard has got himself killed.”

CHAPTER FIVE
    THE BODY ON THE LAWN
    Val Courtney came running across the lawn towards them.
    Miss Eaton was mildly surprised, even though some years had passed. At school, Val had been a gangling young girl; she had filled out now and her bones were well-fleshed. She wore a smart business suit.
    She arrived out of breath. “Belle?”
    “Yes. It appears that your little problem has been solved.”
    Val shivered. “Don’t say that...we’ll be ruined.”
    “Oh, I shouldn’t think so. There’s nothing like a nice juicy murder to bring in the cash customers.”
    Val turned to the uniformed officer and her voice was firm, almost bossy. “Let her through please, constable—she’s an old friend, staying with me.”
    The constable unfastened the chain and Miss Eaton drove her Fiat through and parked at the side of the house. She switched off the engine and got out, leaving Sherry in the car.
    “I’m so glad you’re here,” Val said. “I simply don’t know what I’m doing or how I’m going to cope. Reggie—my husband—is worried to death. Bullard upset everyone! He deserved to die—a most unpleasant person—but why did it have to happen here?” Her voice ended on a wailing note.
    Miss Eaton looked across the lawn to a group in front of the house. An area had been roped off. She saw two police detectives conversing behind a low canvas wall.
    Val noticed her gaze, and grimaced. “I suppose you’ll want to see...professional curiosity. I can’t face it.”
    But she walked with Miss Eaton towards the scene of the crime.
    As Miss Eaton approached, the doctor rose from beside the body sprawled on the grass. Uniformed men were searching among the shrubbery.
    The body lay half-hidden by shrubs, away from the oath leading from the car park to the front door of the house. It lay face down and she saw dried blood on the back of the head. In life he had been stout with a neat beard; in death, he seemed to have shrunk and appeared small and insignificant.
    A stick, looking like the bent branch of a tree with the bark removed, lay beside the body of George Bullard.
    The doctor said, “I don’t have any real doubt, Inspector. The victim was struck down from behind, and his murderer left the weapon here. Curious sort of thing—polished by handling, I’d say.”
    The Inspector was big and beefy, his hair streaked with grey. His blue serge suit was shiny with wear.
    He asked, “How long since he was killed?”
    “Last night, early morning. Roughly, about midnight.”
    “Well, I’d better start seeing people.” He addressed the other detective: “Constable, make sure the weapon goes to the lab, though I doubt there’ll be any prints.”
    “Aye, sir.” The detective-constable was a young man, a head taller, with a fresh face and ginger hair.
    The Inspector looked around and saw Val.
    “Mrs. Courtney, I’ll need a room where I can interview people. And a list of residents, staff and—er—artists.”
    “I’ll arrange that, Inspector.”
    He stared at Miss Eaton. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”
    Val said quickly, “I asked Isabel down to deal with Bullard—before he died, of course. He was making trouble and, obviously, I didn’t know he...this would happen. She’s just arrived.”
    Miss Eaton opened her handbag to take out a card, and the Inspector pounced on her bag.
    “What’s this? A gun?” He sounded annoyed. “Do you have a license to carry that?”
    Miss Eaton pulled out her Smith and Wesson. “Nope. Figured I didn’t need one.”
    The Inspector regarded her with disbelief. “You don’t know you need a license to carry a hand gun?”
    He took the gun from her and studied it closely. “A replica!”
    The constable covered his mouth with his hand.
    “It’s good for my image,” Miss Eaton said, and handed over a business card:
    EATON