Free The Secret Life and Curious Death of Miss Jean Milne by Andrew Nicoll

the piles of dried twigs lying on the table and in the doorway, the poker, in its two parts, the broken rock at the cloakroom door, the garden secateurs, everything, minutely. And then, as if in answer to some far-off call that neither of us could hear, he broke off and bounded down the kitchen passage. Mr Trench had his Vesta case out again and he was lighting the kitchen lamps and then, with that done, he sat down at the table and began to disturb the piles of letters I had spent so long sorting.
    “You were right about the great amount of correspondence. Is there anything of interest?”
    “I’ve not had an opportunity to go through it all perfectly, sir,” I said.
    “Never mind. You’ve made a good start, Fraser. And now,” as if he was stopping to draw breath, “I noted the blood spots on the carpet of the third tread of the stair.”
    “Yes, that has been noted,” said Mr Sempill.
    “And, close by, more blood on the railings – with hair attached and further spots of blood on the wall at the foot of the stair, together with the blood smears on the finger plate on the hall door – that will have to be removed for forensic examination.”
    “All noted,” said Mr Sempill.
    “And, from where I’m sitting now, I see a towel by the sink, clearly stained as if by blood.”
    “Already noted. I discovered that myself, Trench. The culprit obviously washed blood off his hands.”
    “And that bit of paper on the floor.”
    “It’s a bit of paper, Trench. A bit of paper.”
    I got down on my knees and reached under the sink. “There’s blood on it, sir.”
    “Blood?”
    “Looks like finger marks, sir. Three finger marks.” I carried the scrap of paper to the kitchen table and I laid it down in front of Mr Trench, like a dog bringing game to his master. We all looked at it for a while, none of us saying anything. He was in the room with us. These were marks that he had made. This was the shape of his fingers. These were the fingers that held the poker. This was the hand that beat Jean Milne to death, and he had come into this kitchen and put his hand down on that little bit of paper, without thinking, without even noticing, and he stood at that sink and washed the blood away. But he left the paper. It was proof that he was there.
    “This could put a rope round somebody’s neck,” said Mr Sempill.
    “It might at that.” Mr Trench took a plain, greaseproof envelope from his pocket and very gently, with the tips of two fingers and being careful not to touch the blood, he tucked the scrap of paper inside. “We can have that down to Scotland Yard tomorrow, the day after at the latest. They have fingerprint men there who can do miracles.”
    He looked up from his work, smiling: “We’re making progress already, gents.”
    The Chief Constable was pleased too. “I promised them modern policing and modern, scientific method and, by God, that’s what they’re going to get.”
    “But we’re not done yet,” said Mr Trench. “The rooms upstairs.”
    “Entirely empty.”
    “Astonishing. A house this size would need at least three servants, gardens like that – with all that glass – a man and a boy, at least. And yet she lived in just these rooms, entirely alone. Let’s take a look anyway.”
    “The rooms have all been swept, as Mr Sempill ordered,” I said. “And the sweepings preserved for your examination.”
    “Did you discover anything?”
    “Dust and mouse droppings, sir.”
    We came out of the kitchen corridor and back into the hall. The carpet, with its odd, black stains soaked through it, was standing rolled and tied with string in the far corner of the room. Everything else was just as it had been. There were marks on the floorboards and each of us in turn was careful to avoid them as we passed on our way to the stair. The gaslight glinted back from her false hair where it lay against the skirting board, the cut cables of the telephone prodded the air. There was the gluey lump of blood