Free A Medal For Murder by Frances Brody Page A

that M. Geerts interrupted his wife and Mr Milner.
Miss Jamieson and I were, I believe, the last guests to leave the theatre. We left by the stage door at about 11.30 p.m.
     
    I paused. What could I write here? ‘The rest you know.’ It seemed inadequate. If the inspector hoped for an account of who left the theatre when, he would be disappointed.
It began to rain as we left the theatre. In the stage door alley, I stepped into a shop doorway and there saw Mr Milner, a knife in his chest. Although I could see that he was dead, I felt for a pulse on his neck. Miss Jamieson went back to the theatre for help. Mr Milner’s motor was parked on the road atthe bottom of the alley, tyres slashed. I noticed a cufflink in the gutter.
Kate Shackleton
     
    By the time I had finished writing, the sun had risen. My intention was to dress and hurry home. But tiredness hit me. I dropped back into bed, like a stone hitting bottom. The faces that floated before my eyes as I fell asleep were Mr Milner’s, and Captain Wolfendale’s. They were younger, and wore military caps.

  
     
    Waking suddenly, I had no idea where I was. A dull, leaden sound reverberated in my skull. Then it came back to me. I was in Meriel Jamieson’s flat on St Clement’s Road, Harrogate. Light found its way through the low cellar window. The thudding was someone walking to and fro in the room above.
    Had Harrogate woken to the knowledge that a murder had been committed in her genteel town centre? Poor Rodney Milner. His father might have been a boorish bully, a lecher and a show-off, but it was a terrible end – to be found in a shop doorway with a knife through the heart.
    Outside, a street-seller wheeled his barrow across the cobbles, calling out his wares in a jumble of consonants I could not decipher. Bed springs creaked as I moved. The thin check curtains remained closed but I could see well enough. A cobalt-blue jug stood on the window sill, filled with wilting marigolds. Meriel had made an effort to turn this sad room, with its damp patches, into a cheerful refuge. The coconut mats formed stepping stones from the door to the chair by the stove. A crocheted blanket now covered the chaise longue.
    The stove had been poked into life. A battered kettle slowly gathered steam. Plates had been set to warm.
    As I swung out of bed, the memory of last night’s events slowed my movements. I shook off those thoughts. Soon I would get back to Leeds and visit the next person on Mr Moony’s list, a Mrs Taylor in Roundhay who had pawned a watch chain.
    A note lay on the table.
    Gone to buy eggs – M
.
     
    A sliver of Sunlight soap sat on the draining board, along with Meriel’s damp, well-worn towel. She must have washed and dressed very quietly. The shallow sink, with its single cold tap, was chipped and pock-marked, but spotlessly clean. I washed quickly, and used the dry corners of the towel.
    I had not unpacked last night. My fawn linen skirt came from the bag crumpled, but it would have to do. At least the cream blouse did not crease so easily and if today proved as warm as yesterday I would not need the costume jacket.
    I combed my hair, peering into the cracked mirror on the window sill, and pinched my cheeks which were paler than usual. Next to the dresser stood a tea chest, its lid half off, piled with skirts and blouses. So she kept her clothes in a tea chest. That would explain her faint whiff of Darjeeling. Another thought began to form, but was banished by loud knocking.
    At first I did not know where the sudden pounding came from. Then a shadow darkened the window. I put on my shoes without fastening them and clomped across to the door, turning the knob.
    A hefty policeman glared at me. ‘Miss Jamieson?’
    My heart thumped. Policemen do not batter the door on a Saturday morning at eight o’clock to tell you something to your advantage. Had there been an arrest?
    ‘No, constable. Miss Jamieson is not here.’
    ‘And you are?’ the constable